{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_53571/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_53571","id":"gutenberg_53571","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53571","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Journalism/Media/Writing","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Poetry","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Catholic Church -- Periodicals"],"text":"The Catholic World\n\n           A Monthly Magazine of General Literature and Science\n\n                                Vol. XIX.\n\n                       April 1874 to September 1874\n\n                     The Catholic Publication House.\n\n                                 New York\n\n                                   1874\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nContents.\nThe Catholic World. Vol. XIX., No. 109.\u2014April, 1874.\n   The Principles Of Real Being. IV. Intrinsic Principles of Substance and\n   Suppositum.\n   On Hearing The \u201cO Salutaris Hostia.\u201d\n   On The Wing: A Southern Flight.\n   A National Or State Church.\n   The Captive Bird.\n   The Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil.\n      XIX.\n   Home Rule For Ireland.\n   Sonnet: Good Friday.\n   Grapes And Thorns. Chapter X. The Descent of Avernus.\n   A Looker\u2010Back. III. The Temple.\n   Was Origen A Heretic?\n   Social Shams.\n   To S. Joseph: On The Day Of My First Mass.\n   Odd Stories. VI.\u2014King Ruli.\n   Epigram. The Widow\u2019s Mites.\n   Old Versus New.\n   New Publications.\nThe Catholic World. Vol. XIX., No. 110.\u2014May, 1874.\n   The Coming Transit Of Venus.\n   The Veil Withdrawn.\n      I.\n      II.\n      III.\n   The Principles Of Real Being. V. Intrinsic Principles Of Complex\n   Beings.\n      Principles of substantial compounds.\n      Principles of accidental compounds.\n      Principles of attributes and properties.\n   The Butterfly.\n   The Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil.\n      XX.\n      XXI.\n   Fragment Of Early English Poetry.\n   Self\u2010Education.\n   On The Wing. A Southern Flight. II.\n   There Was No Room For Them In The Inn.\n   Antar And Zara; Or, \u201cThe Only True Lovers.\u201d I.\n   F. Louage\u2019s Philosophy.\n   Easter.\n   Grapes And Thorns. Chapter XI. A Harvest of Thorns.\n   Dante Gabriel Rosetti.\n   For Ever.\n   Visit To An Artist\u2019s Studio.\n   Visions.\n   A Word For Women.\n   New Publications.\nThe Catholic World. Vol. XIX., No. 111.\u2014June, 1874.\n   The Principles Of Real Being. VI. Principles of Nominal Realities.\n      Principles of possible being.\n      Principles of real relation.\n      Principles of real distinction.\n   Antar And Zara; Or, \u201cThe Only True Lovers.\u201d II.\n   The Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil. Concluded.\n      XXII.\n      XXIII.\n   Public Worship.\n   The Answered Prayer.\n   The Veil Withdrawn.\n      IV.\n      V.\n      VI.\n   On The Wing. A Southern Flight. III.\n   The Female Religious Of America.\n   Switzerland In 1873.\n   Epigram on Abraham Lincoln.\n   Grapes And Thorns. Chapter XII. A Taper Lighted, And A Taper Blown Out.\n   Material Faith.\n   A Glimpse of the Green Isle. I.\n   Cora.\n   Charles X. At Holyrood.\n   New Publications.\n   A Criticism.\nThe Catholic World. Vol. XIX., No. 112.\u2014July, 1874.\n   A Discussion With An Infidel.\n      I. Flippancy And Scholasticism.\n      II. Tergiversation And Jugglery.\n      III. Creation.\n   Dante\u2019s Purgatorio. Canto Fourteenth.\n   The Veil Withdrawn.\n      VII.\n      VIII.\n      IX.\n   Anglican Orders. I.\n      The Nag\u2019s Head Story.\n      The Lambeth Register.\n      Barlow\u2019s Status.\n   Grapes And Thorns. Chapter XIII.\n   The Jesuit Martyrs Of The Commune.\n   Antar And Zara; Or, \u201cThe Only True Lovers.\u201d III.\n   A Glimpse of the Green Isle. II.\n   One Corpus Christi.\n   Relatio Itineris In Marylandiam.\n   On The Wing. A Southern Flight. IV.\n   Switzerland In 1873.\n   Odd Stories. VII. The Philosophers Of The Dragon\u2019s Bower.\n   New Publications.\nThe Catholic World. Vol. XIX., No. 113.\u2014August, 1874.\n   Matter.\n   Antar And Zara; Or, \u201cThe Only True Lovers.\u201d IV.\n   The Veil Withdrawn.\n      X.\n      XI.\n      XII.\n   The Rock Of Rest.\n   Anglican Orders. II.\n   On The Wing. A Southern Flight. V.\n   A Discussion With An Infidel.\n   Who Will Remember?\n   Church Music.\n   Comparison Of Waves With Flowers.\n   A Glimpse of the Green Isle. III\u2014Concluded.\n   Grapes And Thorns. Chapter XIV\u2014Uprooting Thorns.\n   Madame Du Deffand.\n   Cain, What Hast Thou Done With Thy Brother?\n   The Legend Of Vallambrosa.\n   Odd Stories. VIII. Snifkin.\n   New Publications.\nThe Catholic World. Vol. XIX., No. 114.\u2014September, 1874.\n   Matter.\n   Antar And Zara; Or, \u201cThe Only True Lovers.\u201d V.\n   The Veil Withdrawn.\n      XIII.\n      XIV.\n      XV.\n   Pius VI.\n   Assunta Howard.\n   Church Music. Concluded.\n   A Week In Wordsworth\u2019s Haunts.\n   On The Wing. A Southern Flight. VI.\n   A Discussion With An Infidel.\n   Hymn Of The Flowers.\n   Kathleen Waring.\n   New Publications.\nFootnotes\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                               [Cover Page]\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nAnglican Orders,       467, 610.\nArtist\u2019s Studio, Visit to an,       273.\nAssunta Howard,       765.\n\nCain, What Hast thou Done with thy Brother?        698.\nCharles X. at Holyrood,       419.\nChurch Music,       654.\nComing Transit of Venus, The,       145.\nComparison of Waves with Flowers,       662.\nCraven\u2019s The Veil Withdrawn,       162, 333, 454, 597, 741.\n\nDante Gabriel Rosetti,       263.\nDeffand, Mme. du,       693.\nDiscussion with an Infidel, A,       433, 637, 823.\n\nEducation, Self,       198.\n\nFarm of Muiceron, The,       39, 187, 308.\nFather Louage\u2019s Philosophy,       231.\nFemale Religious of America, The,       362.\n\nGlimpse of the Green Isle, A,       408, 526, 663.\nGrapes and Thorns,       68, 247, 388, 480, 671.\n\nHello\u2019s Cain, What hast thou Done with thy Brother?       698.\nHome Rule for Ireland,       54.\n\nInfidel, A Discussion with an,       433, 637, 823.\nIreland, Home Rule for,       54.\n\nJesuit Martyrs of the Commune, The,       505.\n\nKathleen Waring,        843.\n\nLooker\u2010Back, A,       102.\n\nMadame du Deffand,       693.\nMatter,       578, 721.\nMusic, Church,       654, 785.\n\nNational, A, or State Church,       29.\n\nOdd Stories,       137, 570, 714.\nOld _versus_ New,       140.\nOn the Wing,       15, 209, 347, 541, 622, 807.\nOrigen: Was he a Heretic?       109.\n\nPhilosophy, F. Louage\u2019s,       231.\nPius VI.,       755.\nPrinciples of Real Being, The,        1, 173, 289.\nPublic Worship,       322.\n\nRelatio Itineris in Marylandiam,       537.\nRheil\u2019s The Farm of Muiceron,       39, 187, 308.\nRosetti, Dante Gabriel,       263.\n\nSelf\u2010Education,       198.\nSocial Shams,       125.\nSouthern Flight, A,       15, 209, 347, 541, 622, 807.\nSwitzerland in 1873,       375, 557.\n\nVeil Withdrawn, The,       162, 333, 454, 597, 741.\nVisit to an Artist\u2019s Studio,       273.\n\nWas Origen a Heretic?       109.\nWeek in Wordsworth\u2019s Haunts, A,       795.\nWord for Women, A,       277.\n\n\n\n\nPoetry.\n\n\nAnswered Prayer,       332.\nAntar and Zara,       226, 303, 521, 592, 735.\n\nButterfly, The,       186.\n\nCaptive Bird, The,       38.\nCora,       418.\n\nDante\u2019s Purgatorio,       450.\n\nEaster,        246.\nEpigram on Abraham Lincoln,       387.\nEpigram: The Widow\u2019s Mites,       139.\n\nFor Ever,       272.\nFragment of Early English Poetry,       197.\n\nHymn of the Flowers,       841.\n\nLegend of Vallambrosa, The,       710.\n\nMaterial Faith,       407.\n\nOne Corpus Christi,       536.\nOn Hearing the \u201cO Salutaris Hostia!\u201d       14.\n\nRock of Rest, The,       609.\n\nSonnet: Good Friday,       67.\n\nThere was no Room for Them at the Inn,       225.\nTo S. Joseph,       136.\n\nVisions,       276.\n\nWho Will Remember?       653.\n\n\n\n\nNew Publications.\n\n\nAdeline de Chazal,       860.\nAlexander the Great,       859.\nAmelia; or, The Triumph of Piety,       858.\nArchdall\u2019s Monasticon Hibernicum,       719.\n\nBaltimore Gun Club, The,       575.\nB\u00e9gin\u2019s La Sainte Ecriture et La Regle de Foi,       719.\nBellasius\u2019 Cherubini,       719.\nBlessed Margaret Mary Alacoque,       855.\nBuckley\u2019s Sermons, Lectures, etc.,       286.\n\nCastaniza\u2019s The Spiritual Conflict,       856.\nCatholic Church, The, in its Relations to Human Progress,       575.\nCatherine Hamilton,       432.\nCatherine of Genoa,       573.\nCherubini: Memorial Illustrative of his Life,       719.\nChildren of Mary,       576.\nChristian Cemetery in the XIXth Century, The,       573.\nChurch and the Empires, The,       859.\nCommonitory, The, of S. Vincent of Lerins,       719.\nComplete Pronouncing Gazetteer, A,       720.\nConferences on the Spiritual Life,       143.\nConsoling Thoughts of S. Francis of Sales,       286.\nConway\u2019s The Sacred Anthology,       574.\nCount de Montalembert\u2019s Letters to a School\u2010fellow,       281.\nCoxe\u2019s Catholics and Roman Catholics,       575.\nCurtius\u2019 History of Greece,       431.\n\nDeharbe\u2019s A Full Catechism,       718.\nDe Vere\u2019s Alexander the Great,       859.\nDialogues of S. Gregory,       575.\nDictionary of the English Language, A,       720.\nDr. Coxe\u2019s Claims to Apostolicity Reviewed,       281.\nDubois\u2019 Madame Agnes,       430.\n\nEcclesiastical Antiquities of London,       143.\nEssay Contributing to a Philosophy of Literature, An,       858.\n\nFairplay\u2019s Notes of the Wandering Jew,       144.\nFarm of Muiceron, The,       430.\nFavre, B. Peter, The Life of,       142.\nFrancis of Sales, S., Consoling Thoughts of,       286.\nFranco\u2019s Tigranes,       575.\nFrench Prisoner in Russia, The,       431.\nFull Catechism of the Catholic Religion, A,       718.\nFullerton\u2019s Rosemary,       860.\nFullerton\u2019s Short Stories,       860.\n\nGarside\u2019s B. Margaret Mary Alacoque,       855.\nGarside\u2019s The Helpers of Holy Souls,       860.\nGaume\u2019s The Christian Cemetery,       573.\nGlory and Sorrow,       432.\nGrapes and Thorns,       856.\nGregory, S., Dialogues of,       575.\n\nHedley\u2019s Who is Jesus Christ?       431.\nHelpers of Holy Souls, The,       860.\nHistory of Greece,       431.\nHodge\u2019s What is Darwinism?       429.\nHoly Places,       718.\n\nIn Six Months,       281.\n\nLancicius\u2019 Meditation,       431.\nLasserre\u2019s The Month of Mary of Our Lady of Lourdes,       718.\nLetter\u2010Books, The, of Sir Amias Poulet,       576.\nLetters to a School\u2010fellow,       281.\nLewis\u2019 Life of S. John of the Cross,       429.\nLife and Doctrine of S. Catherine of Genoa,       573.\nLife of B. Peter Favre, S.J.,       142.\nLife of S. Thomas of Villanova,       573.\n\nMcMullen\u2019s Snatches of Song,       287.\nMadame Agnes,       430.\nManning\u2019s Sin and its Consequences,       431.\nMay Papers,       432.\nMeditations for Every Day in the year,       431.\nMeditations on the Holy Eucharist,      287.\nMeline\u2019s In Six Months,      281.\nMonasticon Hibernicum,      719.\nMontagu\u2019s On Some Popular Errors,      573.\nMoriarty\u2019s The Catholic Church, etc.,      575.\nMorris\u2019 The Letter\u2010Books of Sir Amias Poulet,      576.\n\nNeptune Outward Bound, The,      860.\nNew Manual of the Sacred Heart, The,      431.\nNoel\u2019s The Red Flag, etc.,      144.\nNotes of the Wandering Jew,      144.\nNovena to Our Lady of Lourdes,      287.\n\nO\u2019Sullivan\u2019s School Hygiene,      576.\nOlmstead\u2019s De l\u2019Autorit\u00e9; ou, La Philosophie du Personnalisme. Lettre au\n            Rev. P\u00e8re J. F. Hecker, etc.,      717.\nOn Some Popular Errors, etc.,      573.\n\nParadise of God,      288.\nPersonal Reminiscences,      576.\nPhilippe\u2019s, Brother, Meditations,      287.\nPope, The, and the Emperor,      431.\nPride of Lexington, The,      142.\nPurbrick\u2019s May Papers,      432.\n\nRamsay\u2019s Bishop Grant,      855.\nRavignan\u2019s Conferences,      143.\nRed Flag, The, etc.,      144.\nReport of a Committee on a New Bellevue\u2010Hospital,      280.\nRheil\u2019s The Farm of Muiceron,      430.\nRivi\u00e8re\u2019s Holy Places,      718.\nRosemary,      860.\nRyan\u2019s Dr. Coxe\u2019s Claims,      281.\n\nSacred Anthology, The,      574.\nSchool Hygiene,      576.\nSelim, Pacha of Salonica,      432.\nSeton\u2019s The Pride of Lexington,      142.\nShort Stories,      860.\nSin and its Consequences,      431.\nSketches of Illustrious Soldiers,      719.\nSnatches of Song,      287.\nSpiritual Conflict and Conquest,      856.\nState Charities Aid Association,      280.\nSweeney\u2019s The Pope and the Emperor,      431.\nSylvia, and Other Dramas,      576.\n\nTheologia Moralis Novissimi Ecclesi\u00e6 Doctoris S. Alphonsi, in Compendium\n            Redacta, etc.,      576.\nThomas and Baldwin\u2019s Gazetteer,      720.\nThomas\u2019s Dictionary of Biography,      720.\nThomas Grant, First Bishop of Southwark,      855.\nThomas, S., of Villanova, Life of,      573.\nTigranes,      575.\nTrue to Trust,      281.\nTwelve Tales for the Young,      576.\n\nUniversit\u00e9 Laval: Sixi\u00e8me Centenaire de S. Thomas d\u2019Aquin \u00e0 S. Hyacinthe\n            et \u00e0 Quebec,      281.\n\nVerne\u2019s The Baltimore Gun Club,      575.\nVirtues of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, The,      288.\n\nWhat is Darwinism?      429.\nWho is Jesus Christ?      431.\nWilberforce\u2019s The Church and the Empires,      859.\nWilson\u2019s Illustrious Soldiers,      719.\nWood\u2019s Ecclesiastical Antiquities,      143.\nWorcester\u2019s Dictionary,      720.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XIX., NO. 109.\u2014APRIL, 1874.\n\n\n\n\nThe Principles Of Real Being. IV. Intrinsic Principles of Substance and\nSuppositum.\n\n\nWe have briefly shown in the preceding article that a complete being, to\nbe a substance and a suppositum, requires no positive addition to its\nthree intrinsic principles, but needs only to be left to itself. This is,\nin our opinion, an obvious truth. But as there are philosophers of high\nrepute who do not fully share the same opinion, and, on the other hand,\nthe notions of substance and of suppositum are both intimately connected\nwith some theological truths which cannot be well explained without a\ndistinct knowledge of what these two notions really imply, we deem it\nexpedient to enter into a closer examination of the subject, that we may\nbetter understand by the light of reason, and confirm by the weight of\nauthority, the traditional doctrine on substance and suppositum, their\nessential constitution, formal distinction, and supernatural separability.\n\nSubstance is very commonly described as \u201cthat which is in itself and by\nitself\u201d\u2014_quod in se et per se subsistit_. This definition exhibits the\n\u201cpredicamental\u201d substance\u2014that is, a substance ultimately complete, which\nis at the same time a suppositum also, according to Aristotle\u2019s\ncomprehensive conception of substance. And it is for this reason that such\na definition is made up of two members; of which the first\u2014viz., \u201cthat\nwhich exists in itself\u201d\u2014strictly applies to substance as such; whilst the\nsecond\u2014viz., \u201cthat which subsists by itself\u201d\u2014strictly refers to the\nsuppositum as such, and exhibits substance as possessing its own natural\nsubsistence or suppositality.\n\nPhilosophers, when speaking of things as existing in their natural state\nand condition, are wont to say indiscriminately that substance is a being\nwhich \u201cexists in itself,\u201d or a being which \u201csubsists by itself.\u201d This they\ncan do without any danger of error so long as they keep within the bounds\nof pure nature; since, in the natural order, anything that exists in\nitself subsists by itself, and _vice versa_. But natural things can, by\nsupernatural interference, be raised to a mode of existence transcending\ntheir natural condition, as we know by divine revelation; and in such a\ncase, the mode of substance and the mode of the suppositum must be, and\naccordingly are, most carefully distinguished from one another. Thus we\nknow by faith that in Christ our Lord there is the true substance of a\nhuman body and of a human soul; and nevertheless we know that his human\nnature does not subsist by itself, but by the Divine Person of the Word.\nThe obvious inference is that a nature which exists in itself does not\nnecessarily subsist by itself; in other terms, the formality of substance\nand the formality of the suppositum are entirely distinct from one\nanother, and the one can remain without the other. \u201cWhat makes substance\nto be essentially a substance,\u201d as Suarez remarks, \u201cis not its subsisting\n_actually_ by itself, but its having an essence to which subsistence is\nnaturally due\u2014viz., an essence which is of itself a sufficient principle\nof subsistence.\u201d(1) From this we learn that the words _per se esse_, or\n\u201cto subsist by itself,\u201d are inserted in the definition of substance, not\nto show what substance as such is, but only to point out what is naturally\ndue to substance\u2014viz., what accompanies it in its natural mode of\nexisting. Substance as such would therefore be sufficiently characterized\nby the words, \u201cthat which is in itself.\u201d\n\nLet us now inquire what is the legitimate meaning of these last words. A\nthing is said to exist in itself which not only has in itself what is\nneeded for its own sustentation, but is moreover actually unsustained by\nanything lying under it, while it is itself the first subject of all its\nappurtenances. Such is the legitimate and traditional meaning of the\nwords, \u201cto exist in itself.\u201d Hence substance may be legitimately defined\nas \u201ca being which by its intrinsic constitution has no need of being\nsupported by a subject, and which is not actually supported.\u201d\n\nA living author, however, in a valuable work to which I have no access at\nthis moment, and from which, therefore, I do not make any quotation\n_verbatim_, asserts that substance \u201cup to the present day\u201d has always been\nunderstood to mean \u201ca thing which by its intrinsic constitution has no\nneed of being supported by a subject,\u201d without taking into consideration\nits actual mode of existing. We shall presently show that this assertion\nis not true, and that this pretended definition is essentially incomplete.\nMeanwhile, let us observe that the precise difference between our\ndefinition and this new one consists in this only: that whilst the first\npresents substance as having _no actual support_, the second presents it\nas having _no need_ of actual support, whether it be supported, at least\nsupernaturally, or not. This difference, of course, would amount to\nnothing, and might be entirely overlooked, if things could not exist but\nin their natural condition; for anything which is in no need of support\nwill naturally exist unsupported. But as philosophy is the handmaid of\ntheology, we must remember that natural things can be raised to a\nsupernatural state, and thus change their mode of existing; and in such a\ncase the difference between the two said definitions may amount to much;\nbecause, if a thing which is naturally in no need of support be actually\nsupported, then, according to the first definition, that thing _thus\nactually supported_ would cease to exist as a substance, whilst, according\nto the second definition, it would still continue to exist as a substance,\nas it would still have no need of support. Hence the importance of\nascertaining which of the two definitions we are authorized to hold\naccording to the traditional doctrine of philosophers and theologians.\n\nAnd first, Aristotle, at the head of the peripatetic school which held its\nsway for centuries, defines substance to be _ultimum subjectum_\u2014\u201cthe last\nsubject\u201d\u2014that is, the undermost subject; by which he unquestionably means\nthat substance is something which not only lies underneath (_subjacet_),\nbut is moreover the \u201clast\u201d thing which lies underneath. In other terms,\nsubstance, according to Aristotle, must have nothing lying under it, and,\nwhile supporting all its appurtenances, is itself actually unsupported.\nHence it is, that quantity, for instance, though lying under some figure\nand supporting it, is no substance at all; for, though it is _a subject,_\nit is not the _undermost_.\n\nThis definition of the Greek philosopher has been universally accepted and\nmade use of by Christian as well as pagan philosophers of all times,\nthough many of them called _the first_ subject what Aristotle had called\n_the last_\u2014a change which does not affect the meaning of the definition,\nsince what is last in the analytic is first in the synthetic process. It\nis clear, therefore, that both Aristotle and his followers do not define\nsubstance simply as that which has _no need_ of support, but as that which\nis _actually unsupported_.\n\nS. John Damascene, in the fourth chapter of his _Dialectics_, defines\nsubstance to be \u201cthat which is in itself in such a manner as not to exist\nin anything else\u201d;(2) and after a few lines, \u201cSubstance,\u201d he says, \u201cis\nthat which has its existence in itself, and not in anything else\u201d;(3) and\nagain in another chapter of the same work, \u201cSubstance,\u201d he says, \u201cis\nanything which subsists by itself and has its own being, not in any other\nthing, but in itself.\u201d(4)\n\nAccording to these definitions, which are identical, substance is a thing\nwhich not only is able to support itself, but actually supports itself to\nthe exclusion of any other distinct supporter. This is quite manifest;\nfor, if substance, in the opinion of this great doctor and philosopher,\nhad been only a thing having _no need_ of support, how could he require so\npointedly and explicitly _the actual mode_ of existing in itself and not\nin anything else?\n\nS. Ambrose admits a notion of substance quite identical with that of\nAristotle and of all the ancients, and employs it even in speaking of God\nhimself. \u201cGod,\u201d says he, \u201cinasmuch as he remains in himself, and does not\nsubsist by extrinsic support, is called a substance.\u201d(5) God, of course,\ndoes not fall under the predicament of substance, as philosophers know;\nand yet the substantiality even of his nature, according to this holy\ndoctor, implies the actual absence of extrinsic sustentation.(6)\n\nS. Thomas, as we might expect, teaches the very same doctrine.\n\u201cSubstance,\u201d says he, \u201cis a thing whose quiddity requires to exist\nunsupported by anything else\u201d\u2014_cui convenit esse non in alio_;(7) and he\nadds that this formality (_esse non in alio_) is a mere negation; which is\nevident. And in another place, \u201c_Substance_,\u201d says he, \u201cdoes not differ\nfrom _being_ by any difference which would imply a new nature superadded\nto the being itself; but the name of substance is given to a thing in\norder to express its special mode of existing.\u201d(8) Two things, then, or\ntwo constituents, are needed, according to S. Thomas, that we may have a\nsubstance: a physical being and a special mode of existing. The physical\nbeing is a positive reality, a nature perfectly constituted, both\nmaterially and formally, whilst the special mode is a mere negation; but,\nthough a mere negation, is that which causes the thing to be a substance,\nas _the name of substance is given to the thing in order to express its\nspecial mode of existing_. Therefore the thing itself apart from such a\nspecial mode cannot be a substance, any more than a six\u2010pence apart from\nits rotundity can be a circle.\n\nToletus includes in his definition of substance both _the thing_ and _the\nspecial mode_ of existing. He says: \u201cThe first substance is a sensible\nnature which is not predicated of any subject nor exists in any\nsubject.\u201d(9)\n\nSuarez says even more explicitly, \u201cIt is not necessary for the _essence_\nof substance that it should have its own subsistence, but that it should\nhave the mode of substance.\u201d(10) We cannot, then, overlook, and much less\ndiscard, this special mode without destroying the _essential_ notion of\nsubstance as such. Now, he who defines substance to be simply a thing\nwhich has _no need_ of support overlooks and discards this special mode;\nhence he destroys the essential notion of substance as such.\n\nBalmes, in his _Fundamental Philosophy_, says: \u201cIn the notion of\nsubstance, two other notions are implied\u2014to wit, that of permanence and\nthat of non\u2010inherence. Non\u2010inherence is the true formal constituent of\nsubstance, and is a negation; it is grounded, however, on something\npositive\u2014that is, on the aptitude of the thing to exist in itself without\nthe need of being supported by another.\u201d(11) This passage establishes very\nclearly the common doctrine that the aptitude of a thing to exist without\nbeing supported is not the formal constituent of substance, but only the\nground on which the proper formal constituent of substance (non\u2010inherence)\nis conceived to be possible.\n\nFerraris, a modern Italian Thomist, in his course of philosophy, says\nexplicitly that substance is destroyed if its \u201cperseity\u201d\u2014_per se esse_\u2014be\ntaken away.(12) The word \u201cperseity\u201d stands here for the \u201cspecial mode\u201d of\nS. Thomas, the \u201cmode of substance\u201d of Suarez, the \u201cnon\u2010inherence\u201d of\nBalmes, etc.\n\nLiberatore has the following: \u201cGoing back to the notion of substance, we\nmay consider three things which are implied in it: the first, that it\nexists, not in any manner whatever, but in itself; the second, that it\nconsists of a determinate reality or essence, from which its determinate\nactive powers arise; the third, that it is in possession of itself\u2014_sui\njuris_\u2014with regard to its manner of existing. Of these three things, the\nfirst exhibits properly and precisely the notion of substance; the second\npresents the concept of nature; the third expresses the notion of\nsuppositum.\u201d(13)\n\nThe preceding quotations, to which others might be added, are more than\nsufficient, in our opinion, to refute the assertion that substance at all\ntimes was considered simply as a thing having _no need_ of support; for we\nhave seen that the most prominent philosophers and theologians of all\ntimes uniformly consider the actual negation of support as an essential\nprinciple of substance. Sanseverino, a very learned modern philosopher of\nthe Thomistic school, treating in his _Logic_ of the predicament of\nsubstance, establishes the fact that, according to the common teaching of\nthe scholastics, \u201cnot the essence of the thing, but its mode of existing,\nformally constitutes the predicament of substance.\u201d Although that special\nmode of existing is not implied in the essential concept of the thing,\n_inasmuch as it is a thing_, yet, according to the doctrine of the\nschoolmen, the same special mode is implied, as a formal constituent, in\nthe essential concept of the same thing, _inasmuch as it falls under the\npredicament of substance_; so that, in the constitution of substance, the\nessence of the thing is to be ranked as its material, and the special mode\nof existing as its formal, principle. And the learned writer sums up all\nthis doctrine in one general conclusion of Henry of Ghent, which runs\nthus: \u201cEvery predicament arises out of two constituents, of which one is\nthe thing which is to be put under the predicament, the other is its mode\nof being which determines the predicament, and by these same constituents\nare the predicaments distinguished from one another\u201d(14)\u2014a doctrine\nexplicitly taught by S. Thomas himself.(15) And here let us reflect that,\nif all the schoolmen, as Sanseverino with the authority of his\nphilosophical erudition declares, affirm that the mode of substance, the\nnon\u2010inherence, the negation of support, is an _essential_ constituent of\nsubstance as such, we are free to conclude that to affirm the contrary is\nto give a false notion of substance; while to say that philosophers have\nat all times, or at any time, taught the contrary, is to give a very false\nstatement of facts.\n\nThis may suffice to convince the student that the essential formality of\nsubstance as such is _the negation of actual support_. And now let us\ninquire what is the formal constituent of suppositum. Suppositum and\nsubstance, though not identical, are similarly constituted. The positive\nentity of both is the same, and the difference between them arises\nentirely from the different character of their negative formality, as we\nare going to explain. For the essence or nature of every created being is\nnaturally accompanied by two negations, of which neither is essential to\nit, while either of them, absolutely speaking, can be made to disappear.\nThe first is the negation of anything _underlying_ as a supporter and\nacting the part of a subject; and it is to this negation, as we have\nproved, that any complete nature formally owes its name and rank of\nsubstance. The second is the negation of anything _overlying_, so to say,\nand possessing itself of the created being in such a manner as to endue it\nwith an additional complement and a new subsistence; and it is to this\nnegation that a complete nature formally owes its name and rank of\nsuppositum. The complete nature, or the thing in question, when considered\napart from these two negations, does not, therefore, convey the idea\neither of substance or of suppositum, but exhibits a mere potency of being\neither or both; as it is evident that there cannot be a substance without\nthe formal constituent of substance, nor a suppositum without the formal\nconstituent of suppositum.\n\nThis doctrine, which is so simple and clear, and which fully explains the\ntrue meaning of those phrases, \u201cit exists in itself,\u201d and \u201cit subsists by\nitself,\u201d can be confirmed by what S. Thomas teaches on the subject. And\nsince we have already said enough in regard to the mode of substance, we\nshall give only what he says concerning subsistence or suppositality. That\nthe words _per se_\u2014\u201cby itself\u201d\u2014which strictly exhibit the formality of the\nsuppositum, are the expression of a _mere negation_, is admitted by S.\nThomas in a passage above mentioned. This would lead us immediately to\nconclude that the formal constituent of suppositum, in the judgment of the\nholy doctor, is a mere negation. But we may find a more perspicuous proof\nof this in those passages where he explains how the human nature in Christ\nsubsists without the human personality. The absence of the human\npersonality in Christ does not depend, says he, \u201con the absence of\nanything pertaining to the perfection of the human nature\u2014but on the\naddition of something that ranks above the human nature, to wit, on the\nunion of the human nature with a divine Person.\u201d(16) And again: \u201cThe\ndivine Person, by his union, prevented the human nature from having its\nown personality.\u201d(17) It is manifest from these two passages that,\naccording to S. Thomas, the absence of the human personality in Christ is\nto be accounted for by the _addition_ of something above the human nature,\nand not by the suppression or subtraction of any positive entity belonging\nto the human nature. If, then, the absence of the human personality\nentails no absence of positive reality, it is obvious that the human\npersonality is not a positive reality, but a real negation. Such is S.\nThomas\u2019s doctrine, endorsed by Scotus and many others.\n\nThere are, however, some philosophers and theologians, Suarez among\nothers, who consider personality as something positive; and we must\nbriefly discuss the grounds of their opinion.\n\nThey say that, if the human personality is nothing positive, human person\nwill be the same reality as human nature, and therefore the one will not\nbe really distinct from the other; and if so, the one cannot be assumed\nwithout the other. How, then, can we say that the Eternal Word assumed the\nhuman nature without the human person?\n\nWe reply that all negation which belongs to a real being is a _real_\nnegation, and constitutes a _real_ mode of being. Accordingly, although\nthe human personality is only a negation, the nature existing under that\nnegation _really_ differs from itself existing without that negation, no\nless than a body at rest really differs from itself in movement, although\nrest is only a negation of movement. And this suffices to show that the\nobjection is wholly grounded on the false supposition that nothing is real\nwhich is not positive.\n\nThey affirm that subsistence or suppositality gives the last complement to\nthe nature, as it terminates it and makes it subsistent. Hence\nsubsistence, as they infer, must add something positive to the nature;\nwhich it cannot do unless it be a positive reality.\n\nWe deny the assumption altogether. Subsistence, in fact, gives no\ncomplement whatever to the nature, but, on the contrary, presupposes the\ncomplete nature, which, when simply left to itself, cannot but be\nsubsistent by itself, and therefore is said to have its own subsistence.\nIt is not subsistence that causes the thing to subsist; it is the thing\nwhich abides by itself that, in consequence of this same abiding by\nitself, has subsistence, and is called subsistent; just in the same manner\nas it is not _rest_ that causes the body to be at rest, but _the concrete\nresting_; as rest is evidently the consequence of the resting. Hence this\nsecond objection, too, is based on a false assumption.\n\nAnother of their reasons is the following: In God, personality is a\npositive reality, therefore in creatures also; for the created person is a\nparticipation of divine person, which is a positive reality.\n\nWe do not see how this assertion can be true. In God there are three\nPersons, but neither of them is participated or communicated to creatures.\nIndeed, creatures bear in themselves a faint imitation of the three divine\nPersons, inasmuch as they involve three intrinsic principles in their\nconstitution, as we have explained in the preceding article; but these\nthree principles are not three persons. Yet, if divine personality were in\nany way communicable to creatures, creatures would subsist in three\npersons; for how could the personality of the Father be communicated in\nany degree without the personality of the Son and of the Holy Ghost being\ncommunicated in the same degree? Personality in God is a relative entity,\nand cannot be conceived without its correlative; and consequently, if the\nhuman personality were a participation of divine personality, it would be\nimpossible for man to be a single person; whence it appears that human\npersonality is not a communication of divine personality, and is not even\nanalogous to it. What we call a human person is nothing but a human\nindividual nature which is _sui juris_\u2014that is, not possessed by a\nsuperior being, but left to itself and free to dispose of its acts. It\ntherefore imitates, not the divine Persons, but the divine absolute Being,\ninasmuch as it is independent in disposing of everything according to his\nwill. Now, independence, even in God, implies the negation or absence of\nany necessary connection or conjunction with anything distinct from the\ndivine nature. It is but reasonable, then, to hold that the human nature\nalso exists free and independent by the very absence or negation of\npersonal union with a higher being. We remark, however, that such a\nnegation in God is a negation of imperfection, while in creatures an\nanalogous negation is a negation of a higher perfection, since it is the\nnegation of their union with a more perfect nature.\n\nIt has been argued, also, that to be a person is better than not to be a\nperson; whence it would follow that personality is a perfection. On the\nother hand, negations are not perfections; hence personality cannot be a\nnegation.\n\nTo this we answer that the proposition, \u201cto be a person is better than not\nto be a person,\u201d can be understood in two different manners. It may mean\nthat to have a nature which is capable of personality, and is naturally\npersonal, is better than to have a nature incapable of personality; and in\nthis sense the proposition is true, for it is certainly better to have the\nnature of man than the nature of an ox. This, however, would not show that\npersonality is a positive formality. But the same proposition might be\ntaken to mean that to have one\u2019s natural personality is better than to\nexist without it, in consequence of hypostatic union with a higher being;\nand in this sense, which is the sense of the objection, the proposition is\nevidently false. For the whole perfection of the human person is the\nperfection of its nature; so that human personality, instead of being a\nnew perfection, is only an exponent of the perfection and dignity of human\nnature, which is such that the same nature can naturally guide itself and\ncontrol its actions. We therefore concede that human personality is a\nformality _of a perfect nature_, but we cannot admit that it is _a\nperfection_ of itself. If human personality were a perfection of human\nnature, we would be compelled to say that human nature is less perfect in\nChrist than in all other men; for, though the Eternal Word assumed the\nwhole human nature, he did not assume that pretended perfection, human\npersonality. But S. Paul assures us that Christ\u2019s human nature \u201cis like\nours in all things, except sin.\u201d We cannot therefore suppose that the\nhuman nature is less perfect in him than in other men; and this leads us\nto the conclusion that human personality is not a positive perfection.\n\nSome have pretended that the mystery of the Incarnation would become quite\ninexplicable if the human person were nothing more than the human nature\nleft to itself. Their reason is that by the Incarnation the human nature\nis separated from the human person; which they deem to be impossible if\nthe person is nothing else than the nature alone.\n\nThis is, however, a manifest paralogism. If, in fact, the human person is\nthe human nature _left to itself_, the nature assumed by the Word will\ncertainly not be a human person, since it is clear that the nature thus\nassumed is _not left to itself_. This suffices to show the inconsistency\nof the objection. Let us add that it is not entirely correct to say that\nby the Incarnation the human nature is separated from the human person; it\nwould be more correct to say that the human nature is prevented from\nhaving that natural subsistence which would make it a human person.\n\nLastly, it has been said that, if the human nature which has been assumed\nby the Eternal Word was entirely complete, the union of the Word with it\ncould not be intimate and substantial. Hence, according to this reasoning,\nthere must have been something wanting in the human nature assumed, which\nsomething has been supplied by the hypostatic union.\n\nWe cannot but repeat, with S. Thomas, that the human nature assumed by the\nWord is absolutely perfect, and therefore exempt from any deficiency which\ncould have been supplied by the hypostatic union. And as for the reason\nalleged, we say that it is grounded on a false supposition. The union of\nthe Word with the human nature is not a conspiration of the divine and the\nhuman into oneness of _substance_, for the thing would be impossible; and\ntherefore it is not wholly correct to say that the union is _substantial_.\nThe proper term is _hypostatic_\u2014that is, _personal_; for, in fact, the\nhuman nature conspires with the divine Word into oneness of _person_, the\ntwo natures or substances remaining entirely distinct. Now, the oneness of\nperson is not obtained by supplying any deficiency in the human nature,\nbut by _adding_, as S. Thomas teaches, to the perfect human nature that\nwhich is above it\u2014that is, by the Word taking possession of it in his own\nperson.\n\nSuch are the principal reasons advanced by those who consider human\npersonality, and suppositality in general, as a positive mode. We think we\nhave answered them sufficiently.\n\nWe cannot better conclude this controversy than by inviting the same\nphilosophers to take cognizance of the following argument. The mode of\nsuppositum, as well as the mode of substance, is not an accidental but a\n_substantial_ mode, as all agree, and every one must admit. Now, no\nsubstantial mode can be positive; and therefore neither the mode of\nsuppositum nor the mode of substance can be positive. The minor of this\nsyllogism can be proved thus: Positive modes are nothing but positive\nactualities or affections of being; and unless they are mere relative\ndenominations (which is not the case with substantial modes), they must\nresult from the positive reception of some act in a real subject. This is\nan obvious truth, for nothing is actual but by some act; and all acts\nwhich are not essential to the first constitution of the being are\nreceived in the being already constituted as in a real subject. And since\nall acts thus received are accidental, hence all the positive modes\nintrinsic to the being must be accidental modes; and no substantial mode\ncan be positive. Therefore whatever is positive in the suppositum and in\nthe substance belongs to the _nature_ of the being which has the mode of\nsuppositum or of substance, whilst the _modes_ themselves are mere\nnegations.\n\nThis truth, however, should not be misunderstood. When we say that \u201cto be\nin itself\u201d or \u201cto be by itself\u201d is a mere negation, we do not refer to the\nverb \u201cto be\u201d; we only refer to the appendage \u201cin itself\u201d or \u201cby itself.\u201d\n_To be_ is positive, but belongs to the nature as such, as it is the\nessential complement of all being, whether substance and suppositum or\nnot. The negation consists, in the one case, in _not being sustained_ by\nan underlying supporter, and, in the other, in _not being taken possession\nof_ by an overlying superior being. Indeed, when we unite the verb _to be_\nwith either of the two negations, we unite the positive with the negative.\nBut the positive comes in as determinable, while the negative comes in as\ndeterminant. Hence the resultant determination or formality is only the\nactuality of a negation. Now, the actuality of a negation, though it is\nreal inasmuch as it is the affection of a positive being, yet it is\n_negative_; for all actuality is denominated by its formal principle, and\nsuch a principle, in our case, is a negation.\n\nA writer in a Catholic periodical has ventured to say that if the\nformality of substance (and the same would also apply to the suppositum)\nis negative, then substance \u201cwill consist merely in a negation.\u201d It is\nsurprising that a philosopher has not seen the absurdity of such a\nconclusion. Substance is not to be confounded with its formality. There\nare many positive things which involve a negation. In an empty pocket,\nemptiness is a negation; ignorance in the ignorant is a negation; and\nlimit in all things finite is a negation. Yet no one will say that an\nempty pocket, an ignorant pupil, or a finite being \u201cconsist merely in a\nnegation\u201d; and therefore, although the formality of substance is a\nnegation, it does not follow that substance is a mere negation.\n\nIt now remains for us to show that neither of the two aforesaid negations\nis essential to any created being, and that a created being can therefore,\nabsolutely speaking, exist, at least supernaturally, without either of\nthem. Our first proof is drawn from the fact that neither the one nor the\nother negation is reckoned among the essential constituents of created\nbeings. All complete nature, by common admission, consists \u201cof essence and\nexistence\u201d\u2014_ex essentia et esse_\u2014the existence being the formal complement\nof the essence, and the essence itself involving, as its principles, an\nact with its corresponding term, as the readers of our last article\nalready know. Accordingly, there is nothing essential in a complete being\nbesides its act, its term, and its complement; and therefore neither the\nmode of substance nor the mode of suppositum is essential to a complete\ncreated being.\n\nOur second proof is drawn from the notion of existence. \u201cTo exist strictly\nand simply,\u201d says Suarez, \u201cmeans only to have a formal entity in the order\nof nature; and therefore things existing are equally susceptible of the\nmode of being which consists in leaning on a supporter, and of the\nopposite mode which excludes all support.\u201d(18) This is a tangible truth;\nfor although a complete being possesses in its own constitution what is\nrequired for its own existence, yet it has nothing in its constitution\nwhich implies the necessity of existing in itself and by itself. It can\nindeed, and will naturally, be in itself without anything underlying as a\nsupporter, since it sufficiently supports itself on its own term; but it\ncontains nothing that would make impossible the sub\u2010introduction of a\nsupernatural supporter. And, again, a complete being can subsist by itself\nwithout further completion, since it is sufficiently complete by its\nformal complement; but it contains nothing which would exclude the\npossibility of its acquiring a further completion and a supernatural\nsubsistence.\n\nA third proof might be drawn from the fact that our own bodies exist\nindeed in themselves, but do not subsist by themselves, as their material\nnature is taken possession of by a spiritual being\u2014the soul\u2014and subsists\nby its subsistence. From this fact, which is alluded to in S. Athanasius\u2019\n_Symbol_ as an image of the assumption of the human nature by the Word, we\nmight show that suppositality can, even naturally, be supplanted by the\nunion of a lower with a higher nature. But we will not develop this proof,\nas it requires too long an explanation and many new considerations, which\ncannot be embodied in the present article.\n\nLast, but not least, it is evident that all negations which are not\nincluded in the essence of a thing can be supplanted by the position of\ntheir contrary. Hence the mode of substance and the mode of suppositum,\nwhich are negations, and are not included in the essence of created\nthings, can be supplanted by the intervention of a supernatural power.\n\nAs we must here keep within the bounds of philosophy, we abstain from\ndiscussing other cognate questions which can be safely answered only by a\ndirect appeal to dogmatic definitions and theological arguments. We may,\nhowever, state that the old scholastic theologians and the fathers of the\nchurch, both Greek and Latin, admitted that the mode of substance, as well\nas the mode of suppositum, can be made to disappear from the thing to\nwhich it naturally belongs in the manner above explained. For their common\ndoctrine on the mysteries of the Incarnation and of the Holy Eucharist is,\nthat the two mysteries are analogous to one another,(19) and admit of a\nparallel mode of reasoning for their explanation. The analogy more or less\nexplicitly pointed out by them involves the admission of a principle which\nmay be expressed in the following words: \u201cAs the whole human nature can\nexist in Christ _without the mode of human person_, which is excluded by\nthe hypostatic union of the Word with it, so can the whole sensible nature\n(_species_) of bread exist in the Holy Eucharist _without its mode of\nsubstance_, which is excluded by the substantive presence of Christ\u2019s body\nunder it.\u201d This traditional doctrine has been almost ignored in these\nlatter centuries by those who were anxious to explain everything according\nto a special system of natural philosophy, and who little by little formed\na new theory of the sacramental species; but the physical system on which\nthese theologians took their stand having given way, and their new theory\nhaving lost its plausibility, we are of opinion that instead of seeking\nfor new explanations, as some do, it is more prudent to fall back on\ntradition, and take into consideration the authorized teachings of our old\npolemic writers, of those especially who so valiantly fought against\nBerengarius and other heretics in behalf of the Eucharistic dogma.\n\nBefore we conclude, we wish to make a few remarks on some ambiguous\nexpressions which may be a source of error in speaking of substance and of\nsuppositum. We have said that Aristotle includes in his first category the\nsuppositum as well as the substance, and that for this reason the words,\n\u201cby itself,\u201d \u201cto support,\u201d \u201cto subsist,\u201d have been promiscuously applied\nto the substance as well as to the suppositum. This has been done not only\nin philosophy, but even in theology. Thus we read in good authors that the\ndivine Person of the Word \u201csupports\u201d or \u201csustains\u201d Christ\u2019s human nature.\nYet these words, as also \u201csustentation,\u201d when applied to subsistence, must\nhave a meaning which they have not when applied to substance; and it is\nplain that to employ the same words in both cases may give rise to serious\nmistakes. Some authors, besides overlooking the distinction to be made\nbetween \u201cexisting in itself\u201d\u2014_esse in se_\u2014and \u201csubsisting by itself\u201d\u2014_per\nse subsistere_\u2014confound also with one another their opposites\u2014viz., \u201cto\nexist in something else\u201d\u2014_esse in alio_\u2014and \u201cto subsist by something\nelse\u201d\u2014_per aliud subsistere_. Suarez, for instance, though usually very\naccurate in his expressions, says that \u201cthe mode of existing by itself and\nwithout dependence on any supporter has for its opposite to exist in\nsomething else;\u201d(20) which is not correct, for the divinity of Christ\nexists in his humanity, and nevertheless does not depend on it as a\nsupporter. It would be more correct to say that the mode of subsisting by\nitself has for its opposite to subsist by something else. And it is\nevident that to subsist _by_ something else is not the same as to exist\n_in_ it.\n\nTo get rid of all such ambiguous phrases, we observe that the word\n\u201csustentation,\u201d as compared with any created nature, can have three\ndifferent meanings, according as we apply it to the act, the term, or the\ncomplement of the created being.\n\nWhen sustentation is considered in connection with the act or the formal\nprinciple of a being, it means positive _conservation_; for all contingent\nbeing comes out of nothing by the positive production of an act, and needs\nto be kept out of nothing by the positive conservation of the same act, as\nwe know from special metaphysics.\n\nWhen sustentation is considered in connection with the intrinsic term of a\nbeing, it means _underlying_; and in this sense we say that substance\nsustains its accidents. This meaning of the word \u201csustentation\u201d is most\nconformable to its etymology; and thus, if anything is lying under any\nreality in that manner in which substance lies under its accidents, we\nshall say very properly that it _sustains_ that reality. In this sense,\nsustentation and support may be taken as synonymous.\n\nWhen sustentation is considered in connection with the formal complement\nof a being, it means _overlying_ in such a manner as to superinduce a new\ncomplement and a new subsistence. Such is the manner in which the Person\nof the Word sustains Christ\u2019s humanity. This kind of sustentation implies\nhypostatic union and super\u2010completion.\n\nWe might, therefore, divide sustentation into _conservative_,\n_substantive_, and _hypostatic_. The first is usually called\n_conservation_; the second might keep the name of _sustentation_; whilst\nthe third might perhaps be fitly styled _personalization_, as this word\nseems adequately to express the nature of personal sustentation.\n\nAs to the phrases, \u201cto be in itself\u201d and \u201cto be by itself,\u201d we have seen\nthat their distinction is most important. It may be useful to add that,\neven in God, to be in himself and to be by himself are to be distinguished\nby a distinction of reason indeed, but which is grounded on a real\nfoundation. God is essentially _a se_, _in se_, and _per se_\u2014that is, of\nhimself, in himself, and by himself. These three attributes are absolute,\nand belong to the divine nature as an absolute reality; but as in this\nabsolute reality there are intrinsic relations of personalities, we may\nreflect that, in this relative order, _to be of himself_ can be considered\nas owing especially to God the Father, who does not proceed from any other\nperson, but is himself the first principle of their procession; _to be in\nhimself_ can be considered as having a special reference to God the Son,\nin whom the whole entity of the Father is found as in the substantial term\nof his eternal generation; and, lastly, _to be by himself_ can be\nexplained by reference to the Holy Ghost, who is the essential complement\nof the Blessed Trinity, as that is said to be by itself which is\nultimately complete in its own entity.\n\nAccordingly, God, as existing essentially of himself\u2014_a se_\u2014has no need or\ncapability of conservation; as existing essentially in himself\u2014_in se_\u2014he\nhas no need or capability of sustentation; and as existing essentially by\nhimself\u2014_per se_\u2014he has no need or capability of super\u2010completion. But\nwith contingent beings the case is quite different. And first, contingent\nbeings are not \u201cof themselves,\u201d as they are from God; and for this reason\nthey have an essential need of conservation, as we have stated, so far as\ntheir essential act is concerned. Secondly, although they naturally exist\n\u201cin themselves,\u201d yet this their mode of existing is not the result of an\nessential necessity, but only of a natural ordination, which God can\nsupersede. They exist in themselves when the term of their own essence is\ntheir _undermost_ support; for then the whole essence supports itself in a\nnatural manner, and is a natural substance. Thirdly, although created\nbeings naturally \u201csubsist by themselves,\u201d yet this manner of existing is\nnot the consequence of an essential necessity, but only of a natural\nordination, which can be superseded by the Creator. They subsist by\nthemselves when the formal complement of their essence is their _ultimate_\ncomplement; for then the whole being is left to itself as a natural\nsuppositum.\n\nThese explanations will be of some assistance, we hope, to the\nphilosophical student in forming a correct judgment as to the formal\nconstituents of substance and suppositum, and as to the manner of speaking\nabout them with proper discrimination. We wish we had handled the subject\nin a better style and a less monotonous phraseology; but it was our duty\nto aim at preciseness rather than ornament. If there is any part of\nphilosophy in which precision is more necessary than in another, it is\nthat which treats of the principles of things; and if we succeed in\npresenting such principles in their true light, we shall deem it a\nsufficient apology for the dryness of our philosophical style.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nOn Hearing The \u201cO Salutaris Hostia.\u201d(21)\n\n\nSong of the soul, whose clearly ringing rhythm\n  Throbs through the sacred pile,\nAnd lengthened echoes swell thy solemn anthem\n  Past chancel, vault, and aisle,\nAn occult influence through thy numbers stealing,\n  A strange, mysterious spell,\nWakes in the longing heart a wondrous feeling,\n  A joy no tongue can tell;\nA dreamy peace, a sense of unseen glory,\n  Wells through thy thrilling praise,\nAnd calls a fairy vision up before me,\n  A dream of brighter days.\nI hear the seraphs\u2019 sweet\u2010tongued voices pleading,\n  The cherubim\u2019s accord,\nAnd see the sun\u2010robed shadows softly thridding\n  The gardens of the Lord.\nI linger on the sight, and growing weary\n  Of earthly dross and sin,\nSadly, yet hoping, like the wistful peri,\n  I long to enter in!\n\nThe rolling echoes peal\n  Whilst glorious above\nThe face of God smiles on the storied altar,\n  Well pleased, and rich with love.\nAnd through the living air and slumbrous music,\n  And through the chancel broad,\nThe Heart of Jesus glows in mystic splendor,\n  And lights us unto God!\n\n\n\n\nOn The Wing: A Southern Flight.\n\n\nWhat induced us to pick our way on foot from the railway carriage to the\nH\u00f4tel du Parc et Bordeaux, near eleven o\u2019clock at night, on our arrival at\nLyons, I cannot possibly conceive.\n\nIt was the 3d of January that we performed this unnecessary penance; and\nthe only explanation I can give is that we were all rather dazed by the\nlong journey from Paris, and had forgotten that of course there was\nwaiting at the station an omnibus to carry on the passengers. We had been\nsilent and sleepy for some hours, when the bright lights twinkling up and\ndown the heights of the city of Lyons, and across the bridges, and,\ncorruscating at the station, had roused us all up, and made us exclaim at\nthe fairy sight. I had seen it again and again; but I always look out\neagerly for the first peep at that tossed\u2010about town after night has\nclosed in, and I know none more brilliant and picturesque. I thought we\nall looked rather rueful as we entered the hotel, and that it suddenly\nstruck us we had come on foot, and might therefore look too economically\ninclined to suit the views of the buxom lady who advanced to meet us. I\nsaw her cast rather a doubtful eye to the rear; but her face brightened\nwhen she found we had at least been able to afford a porter to carry such\nluggage as we might want for one night. We had no valid reason to give in\nreply to her anxious enquiries as to why we had not availed ourselves of\nthe hotel omnibus; which very soon afterwards came rattling into the yard,\nquite empty, the guard and coachman viewing us indignantly. Madame,\nfinding we had nothing to say for ourselves, compassionately furnished\neach with a candle, and allowed us to gather together our scattered wits\nin sleep.\n\nThe \u201cwe\u201d consisted of brother Frank, sister Mary, and I; also of Ann, our\nmaid. I suppose I must describe the party. I wish I could draw them\ninstead. Frank is dressed all over in a gray tweed. I sometimes tell him\nhe looks like a gray parrot; but that is absurd, because he is so\nextremely taciturn, which gray parrots are not. He makes a capital\ncourier. He always knows what we poor women shall want, and how much we\ncan do, which is a great comfort to me; because, as Mary is delicate, and\nwe are travelling on her account, I should be so worried if Frank insisted\non doing fourteen hours of railroad per diem. He is such a good fellow\nthat he would never wish us to overtask ourselves. But then he is so\nstrong that I know it must seem very extraordinary to him that we should\nbe such poor creatures, and get tired out so soon. I sometimes wonder what\nhas made Frank so tender and gentle, and so considerate. Perhaps it is the\nbeing so much with Mary. She makes everybody gentle who comes near her.\nSomehow she seems to stroke everybody\u2019s fur the right way, no matter how\nruffled they were before. Poor Mary! she has for many years been a widow,\nafter a brief and unhappy married life, and having lost both her children,\na girl and a boy. She is the eldest of us three, but has a marvellous\nknack of looking the youngest and the brightest. She has been very\nbeautiful, and is so still in many ways. Now I come! But how shall I\ndescribe myself? The more I think of it, the more impossible I find it. As\nI am the relater of our adventures, I suppose my readers will form for\nthemselves some idea of what I am like. So I will only say that my name is\nJane, and that I am an old maid, but that I do not feel old. As to my\nlooks, I really do not know what to say. I am not _always_ altogether\ndissatisfied with them; but then, on the other hand, when I am inclined to\njudge them leniently, the unlucky feeling comes over me that it is solely\nowing to my hat, or the way my hair is done, or some fortuitous\ncircumstance upon which I cannot reckon as a permanency, and which may be\ngone before any one else has had the time to observe it. So that though I\nhave my lucky moments, I have little or no capital to go on. Now, Mary,\nwith her large, soft eyes, her exquisite mouth, and beautiful teeth,\nattracts strangers wherever she goes; although she is always insisting\nupon it she is quite an old woman. And now comes Ann. She is about my age,\nbut does not at all consider herself an old maid, and therefore always\ncontradicts me when I speak of myself in such disparaging terms. I\ngenerally say something in reply about the observation being six for me\nand half a dozen for herself. But this she does not like. Ann is a very\ngood girl, and a capital maid. She has pretty, fuzzy black hair, and\nbright though small black eyes; she has a very white skin, and a neat\nfigure. But she does not like travelling, and is especially disgusted when\nthe scenery is very bold and magnificent. Mountains are her abhorrence,\ndistant views her antipathy. This is far from being our first journey; and\nwhenever we have found ourselves in the railway carriage from Dover to\nLondon Bridge, Ann invariably remarks how lovely the country is as we dash\nthrough the flat green fields and monotonous cherry gardens of simple\nKent. And her admiration culminates when we pass any gentlemen\u2019s seats.\nThe absence of striking features, the unbroken, unaccidental horizon, the\nuniversal green, and the level lines, give Ann a sensation of peace and\nrepose; while I, who have something of an artist\u2019s soul, am feeling how\nvery difficult it would be to get an effective subject or a \u201cnice bit of\ncolor\u201d out of the platitudes of dear England\u2019s quiet homesteads.\n\nWe were off the next day by daylight, I feeling like a swallow flying\nsouth; and very soon we perceived in the clear air a warmer glow than any\nto be had the other side of Lyons. Even the desert region of La Crau\nseemed full of charms to me. The dim, gray expanse of thick\u2010lying stones\nthat Hercules persuaded by his prayers the angry Jove to shower down on\nthe Ligurians, broken only by thin tufts of mint and scant rosemary,\nthemselves also of a gray green, and leading on over thousands of acres to\nthe blue distant hills that were blushing into rosy hues when we crossed\nthe desert, were not without delightful \u201cpoints,\u201d which I could have\ntransferred to my sketch\u2010book had time allowed me. \u201cLa Belle Provence\u201d is\na very _journali\u00e8re_ beauty, and requires a bright sun to clothe her in\nsparkling jewels, and to dye her dress in blue and violet and rose\u2010madder,\nto be worthy of the name that centuries have agreed to give her. When\nthere are no lights, there is apt to be an air of desolation and\nbarrenness. Those hills, arrayed in many tints, give back the lights from\nrocky and unproductive cliffs; but down in the valleys, with the exception\nof La Crau, the culture is rich and varied. The first stunted olive\u2010trees\nas we approached Marseilles were welcome less on their own account\u2014for\nthey are miserable specimens\u2014than for the association of ideas connected\nwith their pallid leaves, and because they gave promise of the large ones\nthat would gladden our eyes further on.\n\nThe station of Hy\u00e8res is a few miles from the town. We had ordered a\ncarriage to meet us; and all the way Mary was looking out for the large\numbrella pine that she remembered so well years ago, when there was no\nrailway so far south. It had been the great landmark on the road from\nHy\u00e8res to Toulon. We measured our rides and walks in that direction by the\ngreat pine. There it stood, the same as ever, and brought back all Hy\u00e8res\nand the two winters spent there, besides other shorter visits, to our\nmemory with one rush. All else was changed. New houses had sprung up on\nall sides. Mme. Susanne\u2019s old tumble\u2010down hotel, where Mary had stopped\nfor a few days on her wedding\u2010tour, is changed into a magnificent building\nwith caryatides supporting the fa\u00e7ade like a Genoese palace; and the palms\non La Place des Palmiers, which I had known in their babyhood, have grown\nto a size that would not disgrace Arabia. The hotel we went to stands in\nwhat used to be Le Jardin Frassinet. It had been full of orange\u2010trees when\nwe first knew it, as had all the other gardens in the place. But one very\nsevere winter having greatly injured the trees, the inhabitants have given\nup the cultivation of oranges, and have planted peach\u2010trees instead, much\nto the detriment of the beauty of Hy\u00e8res. I found Mary, the day after our\narrival, gazing wistfully at a group of tall cypress and one palm\u2010tree\nthat had marked the boundary of the gardens belonging to the house where\nshe lived with her children the second time she came here. We missed her\nsoon afterwards, and refrained from following her, for we knew she wanted\nto visit alone the scenes of some joys and many sorrows long ago passed\naway\u2014so far as anything is really past which is worthy the name of joy or\nsorrow. She came back with her hands full of the little, dark, mottled\narum and its lance\u2010head leaves that grow so profusely on the hills and by\nthe roadside. They are of a dingy\u2010purple hue, shaded off into white; and\nwe exclaimed against them as she put them in a glass, alleging that they\nhad an unpleasant odor. \u201cI know they have,\u201d she answered; \u201cbut their\nquaint, twisted shape, and blossoms like the head of a snake, are so full\nof memories that I rather like the smell than otherwise.\u201d After that we\nlet her enjoy her arums alone, for we knew how much that meant. Doubtless\nshe had been wandering about, recalling visions of the past: the dead\u2014the\nlost, but not dead, that worse separation!\u2014and all the tangled maze of the\nyears that are gone. Mary\u2019s bouquet of arums was redeemed by a handful of\nthe sweet white alyssum; and these two flowers, with a few of the bold\u2010\nfaced, unflinching daisies of Provence, so unlike our modest northern\nflowers, were all the wild blossoms we could hope to find in January.\n\nWe could not leave Hy\u00e8res without performing a pilgrimage to Notre Dame de\nConsolation, the old church on a hill overlooking the coast. The ascent is\nmarked by the Way of the Cross rudely painted in small niches of masonry\nby the side of the road. When we were last here, there was a daily Mass\nsaid by a hermit\u2010priest. He had some years previously tried his vocation\nat the Carmelites\u2019, and had not succeeded. But the impulse to seek utter\nsolitude was too strong to be resisted; and for a long time he had lived\nin the surrounding mountains, a veritable hermit, subsisting upon the\npoorest fare, which was brought to him at regular intervals by the\npeasants. Whether he had erected a hut for himself, or lived in a cave, I\nnever learnt; but when the bishop of the diocese became aware of the fact,\nhe thought it to be regretted that a priest should not celebrate Mass, and\nproposed to him that he should live in one of the small rooms of the\ndeserted convent which is attached to the Church of Our Lady of\nConsolation, take care of the church, and say Mass. This offer he gladly\naccepted; and there he resided for some time. We used to go sometimes, on\na bright spring morning, to attend his Mass. Our breakfast was packed in a\nbasket, and hung to the pommel of my donkey\u2019s saddle, to be eaten\nafterwards on the top of the low, semi\u2010circular wall which encloses a\npiece of ground in front of the church. I always looked with a special\ninterest, not altogether unmingled with curiosity, at the slight, bent\nfigure of the priest, who could not be more than forty years of age, as he\nemerged from the door of the sacristy, and, with eyes so cast down that\nthey seemed closed, passed by us to the altar. Who shall say what had\ncalled up that deep thirst for utter solitude and silence which had driven\nhim to so extreme a life? Was it some calamity, or some crime, or only\u2014as\nis far more probable\u2014that strange instinct which is implanted in the\nnature of some men to flee their kind, and be alone with themselves\u2014an\ninstinct which possibly many have felt stirring within them at odd\nmoments, but which, when touched by divine grace, grows into a wonderful\nand exceptional vocation; once more common, in the early days of\nChristianity, when the whole world lay in pagan luxury and gilded vice,\nand which even our subduing, taming, commonplace civilization fails in\nsome rare cases to smother in the soul?\n\nWhat became of the hermit of Our Lady of Consolation I could never learn.\nPerhaps the solitude seemed incomplete when ladies could attend his Mass,\nand picnic afterwards on his premises. At any rate, he has been gone for\nmany years; and Mass is only said on certain feasts, when the peasantry\ncome in crowds, and bring flowers and offerings to the Madonna, as\nrepresented by a peculiarly ugly and dark\u2010colored wooden statue, which has\ngrown to be very precious to those who have obtained special favors in\nanswer to their prayers offered here. Many years ago, Mary, in her\nProtestant days, had brought a lace veil, the gift of a Russian prince,\nwho was leaving Hy\u00e8res with a sick wife, and who wanted prayers for their\nsafe journey; thereby producing a curious admixture of heretical,\nschismatical, and Catholic feeling which no doubt had each their separate\nvalue and acceptance before God, being all offered in simplicity and good\nfaith; for it was with no unwilling hands that, mounted on one of the\n_prie\u2010dieux_ in the church, she had arranged the veil over the statue, and\nthen knelt to say a prayer for the prince\u2019s intention.\n\nThe church is full of votive offerings. The walls are entirely covered\nfrom roof to floor. As many of them have been put up by sailors, they more\nor less have reference to the dangers of the deep. There is a model of a\nship hanging up near the entrance, probably because its larger copy was\nsaved from wreck. The pictures representing recovery from sickness or\npreservation from peril are often extremely grotesque, and might provoke a\nsmile were it not that they carry one\u2019s thoughts direct to the faith and\ngratitude they represent.\n\nI had often wandered through the deserted rooms and cells of the old\nconvent. There is no glass left in some of the windows; but the weather is\nkept out by the external wooden shutters which are universal in the south.\nThere is a lovely view from all sides. In front, the sea, with Les Isles\nd\u2019Or (the Golden Islands) hemming it in as if it were a large lake, save\nto the left, where it opens out into the wide ocean. These islands form\nsome of those originally called Les Larins, which name included the group\nbefore the coast of Cannes. And in most of them the first religious houses\nfor men were established by S. Honorius, though only one island, that on\nwhich he and all his monks were martyred by the Saracens, bears his name.\nLes Isles d\u2019Or, or Les Isles d\u2019Hy\u00e8res, as they are also called, are now\nbut sparsely inhabited. Years ago, \u201cwhen we were young,\u201d we had landed on\none of these islands, where stands a fort, and a few soldiers are\nstationed. There are also a half\u2010dozen of cottages, inhabited by fishermen\nand shepherds. We were a joyous band, and had sailed from the mainland in\nthe admiral\u2019s cutter, the French fleet riding at anchor off our coast. As\nwe scrambled up the sandy beach, and pushed our way through the tangled\nundergrowth of myrtle, heath, cytisus, and leutisca, we found ourselves\nface to face with the solitary sentinel pacing in front of the blind walls\nof the low but solid\u2010looking fort. His face broke into smiles, and, with a\nsaucy gleam in his dark eyes, he said to the foremost gentlemen of our\nparty, \u201cComment, Messieurs! vous nous en menez toutes ces belles dames?\nMais vous allez r\u00e9volutionner notre pauvre cur\u00e9.\u201d(22) We could find no\nremains of monastic houses on the islands; but there are traces of walls\nclose to the sea, on the mainland, which are said to be the remains of a\nconvent of nuns who met with a severe punishment for an ill\u2010timed jest.\nPossibly they were not all that as nuns they might have been. At any rate,\nthey seem to have found their life occasionally dull; and when the longing\nfor a little excitement became irrepressible, the abbess would toll the\ngreat bell of the convent, which by rights was never used save to ring the\nHours and the Angelus, or to summon the neighbors for aid when any of the\nfrequent panics about the landing of the marauding Saracens threatened the\nsafety of the Sisters. The jest had been played too often, and when at\nlength the oft\u2010expected Saracens really came, the poor nuns rang their\nbell in vain. No one appeared to the rescue, and the Saracens had it all\ntheir own way, and the convent was destroyed.\n\nThe sea must have encroached since those days, for the waters wash over\nthe scanty ruins, and I have picked my way along the foundations with\nlittle salt lakes lying between. Far to the left lie _Les Salines_, where\nthey evaporize the sea\u2010water in shallow square spaces, and thus obtain a\ncoarse gray salt. They say that sometimes flamingoes may be shot among\nthis marshy land; but I could never obtain one, though I know it abounds\nin wild fowl of every description. The deep orange\u2010colored boughs of the\nlarge willow\u2010trees give a peculiar charm to the distant landscape in the\nwinter when the leaves are off; and close upon the edge of the shore is a\nfine wood of umbrella pines, whereof three giants, standing apart from the\nrest, had been great favorites of ours. We had looked out eagerly on our\narrival for our three pines. Alas! one was missing. Years ago these three\nsolitary, magnificent trees had had a strange fascination for me. I wanted\nto find my way to where they stood; but it was beyond the marshes, and\nnear the _salines_. There was no direct road, and no one could tell me how\nto get there; not even the young French naval officers, who used to come\noften and spend the evening with us, and who must have landed not so very\nfar from where they stood. The craving to see my three pines face to face\ngrew, however, too strong to be resisted; and so one day I set off on\ndonkey\u2010back, taking Ann with me, and resolved that I would not return till\nI had accomplished my end. Great were our difficulties. We had to thread\nour way along narrow raised paths through the marshes, just wide enough\nfor our donkeys to tread; and as, of course, we dared not leave these\npaths, which did not wind, but turned at right angles, we as often seemed\nto be going away from the pines as the reverse. At one moment we were\npursued by a couple of savage dogs, who tore after us from the open yard\nof a farm\u2010house, and who were so very angry at our intrusion that escape\nalong our narrow way, and with our leisurely steeds, seemed questionable.\nAt length I found myself at the base of a high sand\u2010bank, on which the\nyellow sea\u2010thistle, with its glaucous leaves, found a scanty subsistence\nand a doubtful root\u2010hold. This I had to scramble up, while for every ten\ninches I made in advance I slid back six. At last I was at my long\u2010desired\ngoal, and my three giants were really magnificent to behold. It was on my\nfourth visit to Hy\u00e8res, with intervals of years between, that I\naccomplished this feat, and I had always looked at my pines the first\nthing in the morning, when the strip of sea between the mainland and the\nisles was still lying gray in the early light. Then, again, I watched for\nthe red glow of the setting sun on their smooth stems, painted, as it\nwere, in burnt sienna. Again, on moonlit nights I had looked for their\nbroad, deep black crests, falling like an ink\u2010spot on the silver sea. And\nnow at last, when they had almost become to me like some mystery, meaning\nmore than met the eye, I could throw my arms about them, and lay my hot\ncheek on their noble trunks.\n\nIt was not till then I knew how tired I was. I could not delay long with\nmy old friends. I do not remember anything about the getting home, save\nthat the dogs who had so guarded my garden of the Hesperides, and stood\nbetween me and the fulfilment of my desire, now that I had accomplished\nthe feat, let me return in silence. I was very weary; but I was thoroughly\ncontented and satisfied. And now one of my old friends was laid low! How\nhe came to his end I know not. But I felt that he had died, not that he\nhad been cut down; and for a moment a strange, weird melancholy stole over\nme at finding I had outlived a noble tree. It seemed as if I must be very\nold to have done that, and that it was hardly natural. I remember I asked\nmyself then, at the very time of my _culte_ of the pine\u2010trees, and I have\nrepeated the question since, whether there was not in my feelings\nsomething of that dim instinct which binds man in an obscure affinity with\nall nature, down to its lower strata and its primeval developments. As man\ncontains something of all in his own being, so must he have a sympathy\nwith all; for, as has been wisely said, man is a universe in himself, with\nanother universe to wait on him. Most people have a special attraction to\nsome race of animals. Some have a love for, and a power over, the horse\nand the dog greater than others; and this not always nor only as the\nresults of habit, but as a natural gift. Certain flowers have a peculiar\nattraction for many people, in preference to others equal in beauty and\nperfume. All these preferences may point to hidden laws of affinity, of\nwhich we know very little more than the bare fact that all in creation\nfinds its portion in each man, and that in his own single self he is\nchemical, vegetable, animal, and spiritual. I am afraid to say any more,\nlest my readers should think I believe we are in general descended from\nthe little open\u2010mouthed sea\u2010squirts called ascidians, but that I claim for\nmyself in particular some higher origin in the shape of a conifer great\u2010\ngrandfather. I assure them it is nothing of the kind. With regard to my\nsympathy with animals, of course, being an old maid, I ought to prefer\ncats and gray parrots. On the contrary, I prefer dogs, and Frank is the\nonly gray parrot I ever thought of loving.\n\nBefore leaving Hy\u00e8res, I made a sketch from the top of the hill (which in\nmy younger days, for want of knowing better, I used to call the mountain)\non which stand the picturesque ruins of the old ch\u00e2teau which formerly\nbelonged to the French branch of the huge family of Fox; who, varying\ntheir name, if not their nature, according to the sky under which they\nflourished, had taken root in England, France, and Germany in the old\nfeudal times. They possessed certainly a magnificent abode at Hy\u00e8res, and\nprobably kept all the neighborhood in awe. It is a glorious situation. It\noverlooks a long stretch of the road to Toulon as that winds through the\nfertile, well\u2010cultivated valley; and to the right rises the rocky summit\nof Le Coudon, the point of land that first strikes the sailor\u2019s eye as he\nleaves the coast of Africa, and which on exceptionally clear days is dimly\nvisible even from the coast itself. Next to it comes Le Phare Pharon, a\nlower mountain crowned by a fort. I know few views which combine such an\nexquisite variety of form and color as this. The small cork\u2010trees and the\nstunted oaks, equally beautiful, whether wearing their russet leaves\nthrough the brief winter, or almost matching the cork\u2010trees in dark\u2010green\nfoliage; the olives, here of a very respectable size, with their gnarled\ntrunks and fantastic shapes; and then the patches of vivid\u2010green corn,\nwinter peas, and the green artichokes; the undulation of the land,\nassuming every shade from deep violet to light red\u2014make altogether one of\nthe loveliest views I know anywhere. But then, I am bound to acknowledge\nthat there are not many such in the neighborhood of our much\u2010loved Hy\u00e8res,\nand that, on the whole, the simple little place has far less beauty to\nrecommend it than many of the towns along the Riviera. Its great merit for\ninvalids arises from the air being a good deal softer than at most of the\nsea\u2010coast resorts of the sick. Mary could sit out for hours in the open\nair at Hy\u00e8res, when at Cannes, and even at San Remo, she could only have\ndriven in a close carriage; for, in spite of the brilliant sunshine in\nthose places, the air is apt to be too exciting both for irritable lungs\nand susceptible nerves. One reason\u2014probably the principal reason\u2014for this\nis that Hy\u00e8res is three miles from the sea, and more in the mountains than\nare the towns of the Riviera generally.\n\nWe had a lovely afternoon journey from Hy\u00e8res to Cannes; passing numerous\nlittle bays and creeks where the blue waters lay in deep repose, or\nfringed with tiny wavelets that but kissed the shingly shore, and died in\na gleam of light. As you looked down on them from the railway\u2010carriage,\nyou felt you might have seen a mermaid combing her sea\u2010green hair, or a\ncupid astride a dolphin, as quite an expected vision. The intense blue sky\nand deeper blue sea, the various\u2010tinted rocks, and perhaps a solitary pine\nhanging over, and near by a group of the same, with their dense crowns of\never\u2010murmuring boughs, through which the evening air sings like the hum of\nwinged insects, were each so full of harmonious and yet gorgeous color\nthat they leave on the mind the impression of a Greek idyl, full of serene\nbeauty\u2014mere beauty, it may be\u2014but intense, placid, and eternal. There are\nscenes in nature that are like the forms in Greek art. They are one; and\nthey are typical. No wide view, albeit glorious, can produce this effect,\nhowever much it may appeal to the imagination. But a rock\u2010bound cove on\nthe Mediterranean, with its sparse vegetation and its depth of color, is\nas suggestive of thoughts beyond itself as is the pure grace of a Greek\nstatue. It belongs to another world than ours, and to a region of thought\nrarely lighted on in these times, and then by a few only. When I question\nmyself of the \u201cwhy,\u201d I am at a loss to answer. Perhaps it lies in the fact\nthat, to produce this abstract effect on the mind, the objects in nature\nmust be few, simple, and perfectly beautiful of their kind. Then they\nrecall Greek art, in which there is no multiplicity, no overlaying, but\nwhich represents as absolutely a pure idea as it is possible for art to\ndo. It is without subtlety, as it is without crowding. It can be felt\nbetter than described, for the feeling is too deep for words. Nothing in\nEnglish scenery, no accidental combination of beauty, has ever brought the\nGreek _geist_ before my mind. Never for a second, amid the birchen groves\nand flower\u2010fringed lanes of my own land, had I thought of old Greece and\nthe old Greek feeling. Pantheism would not be the natural religion of our\nnorthern skies. Never had I so strongly felt the tie between nature and\nart, and, as a necessary sequence, between nature and Grecian thought,\ntill I had wandered on the pale sands by the calm blue waters of the\ntideless sea. It is like a floating essence, too intangible for words. If\nI could express it, the expression would perforce be brief and veiled. I\nwould sing my idyl to a three\u2010stringed lute, or paint my white nymph\nagainst a whiter sky.\n\nIt was essential to Mary not to live close to the sea, therefore we\nengaged apartments at Cannes in one of the hotels situated among the\nhills, and full a mile and a half from the coast. It so happened that\nnearly all the people whom we met at the _table\u2010d\u2019h\u00f4te_ were English like\nourselves, or rather British, for some came from the Emerald Isle; and\namongst these a family of three charming girls, full of the spirit and\nhumor of the race. They had with them an elderly maid, who had been their\nnurse, and whose quaint sayings afforded us much amusement while we were\nthere. She had joined them only just before we arrived, bringing out the\nthird sister, who had shown symptoms of delicacy like the second, and both\nwere under the supreme care of the elder sister. Mrs. O\u2019Brien had managed\nher journey in foreign parts very cleverly, though making every inch of\nthe way under protest at the heathenish customs and abominable practices\nof these \u201cforeigners,\u201d as she deigned to call the French in their own\nland.\n\nIt had been with the greatest difficulty that she had, on leaving Ireland,\nbeen prevented from taking with her a large boxful of household stores,\nwhich, as she expressed it, would be such a comfort to \u201cthose poor\ndarlints, just starvin\u2019 in foreign parts, with nothing but kickshaws and\ngimcracks to keep the life in them.\u201d In spite of all the remonstrances of\nher master, she had actually succeeded in so far cheating the custom\u2010house\nthat she had smuggled \u201cjist a nice little hand of pork, salted down at\nhome,\u201d among the young ladies\u2019 linen. Norah flew into our room, amid fits\nof laughter, to show it to us, and to consult upon how we could possibly\nget it boiled. We could not insult the hotel by asking that it might\nappear at the _table\u2010d\u2019h\u00f4te_; and a hand of pork was rather a peculiar\ndish for three young ladies to keep up in their bedroom for private\neating. On the other hand, Mrs. O\u2019Brien would never recover it if her\neleemosynary offering were discarded. It ended in my explaining the state\nof the case, under seal of secrecy, to the landlady; and then we actually\nheld a supernumerary feast in our drawing\u2010room, at a late hour, all to\nshow Mrs. O\u2019Brien that her kindness was appreciated. We did not sleep\nparticularly well that night, and the rest was made into sandwiches and\neaten on our next excursion up the mountains.\n\nMary and Mrs. O\u2019Brien became great friends; for Mary\u2019s sympathetic nature\nand marvellous control of countenance at once drew the old lady out, and\nprevented her discovering how intensely amused her listener was. Amongst\nother topics, she was very eloquent upon the subject of the Prince of\nWales\u2019 recovery from his serious illness, declaring how she, \u201cas is a\nnurse myself, know well what a fine healthy man he must have been born\never to have got over the like of that. And now, sure, we must pray that\nnothing may happen to the blessed, darlint prince; for if he were to be\ntaken, the country would be just ruined, and nothing left us but the\nconstitution!\u201d\n\nShe would talk by the hour of her \u201cdarlint\u201d young ladies, sometimes\nblaming their conduct, sometimes extolling them to the skies.\nOccasionally, to tease her, they would pretend to walk lame, and tell her\nthat was all the fashion, and was called the Alexandra limp. \u201cOch! now,\nhoneys, you, with straight limbs as God has made you, mocking at the\ndarlint princess, as may be isn\u2019t lame at all. If I saw you mocking at me,\nas is no princess, but is blind, and me groping round the table, don\u2019t you\nthink, honeys, as I should feel it?\u201d Then turning to Mary: \u201cAh! your\nhonor, they was always as wild as a litter o\u2019 pigs on a windy day, good\nluck to them. I\u2019ve seen them all come into the world, bless their hearts,\none after the other, pretty nigh as fast as nature would let them. And a\nnice handful I\u2019ve had wid them, too, bringing the most of them up by hand\nlike a weaned calf. Children\u2019s stomachs is just like sponges. But if you\noverdo the binding, may be you\u2019ll give them obdurate bowels.\u201d Mary bore\neven this without a smile; but we all laughed together when the morning\nafter her arrival she found the nice little boy Celestin, who brought in\nthe lamp and the basket of wood, and helped in the house generally, and\nwho could not have been above fifteen, innocently aiding Marie, the\nhousemaid, in making the beds. She could not understand a word of French,\nand of course he knew no English; but she seized him by the collar, and\nejected him violently from the room, exclaiming, \u201cGet out o\u2019 that, you\nyoung varmint!\u201d and protesting that he should never touch one of her\n\u201cdarlints\u2019 sheets in this heathenish land, where they made no difference\nbetween a man and a woman, but put the men to make the beds and the women\nto tend the cattle.\u201d The end of it was that she took the bed\u2010making into\nher own hands, though she never got reconciled to the mattresses stuffed\nwith the outer sheaths of the Indian corn, or the pillows with wool. \u201cThat\npillow is as hard as a dog\u2019s head, and won\u2019t do for my young lady; and the\nother\u2019s as limp as a dead cat,\u201d she remarked aloud to herself one day that\nElina was going to bed early with a bad headache.\n\nBy degrees we became rather well acquainted with the other visitors at the\nhotel, which arose, no doubt, from the fact of our all being fellow\u2010\ncountrymen. For a long time Mary was the only married woman of the party;\nand with the exception of the three merry Irish girls, the ladies were all\nold maids like myself. Frank found Cannes rather slow, as he expressed it,\nand spent the greater part of the six weeks we were there in making\nexcursions in the neighborhood, stopping away three or four days at a\ntime. It was long before we got thoroughly comfortable with any of our\nfellow\u2010sojourners in a strange land. In the first place, we were the only\nCatholics, and most of the others were very decided Protestants, and so\nrather shunned us at first. Some of them especially objected to Mary, and\nseemed to think that her good looks and her accurate French pronunciation\nwere rather offensive than otherwise. It made no sort of difference to\nher, and I am sure she never even found it out. One day, as I was coming\ndown\u2010stairs, Miss Marygold was crossing the wide passage which went from\nthe entrance to the dining\u2010room door. As I passed her, she tossed her\nhead, and said, \u201cI have just met your sister, Miss Jane, going out for a\nwalk, and looking about five\u2010and\u2010twenty. I must say I think it must be\nvery _inconvenient_ not to show one\u2019s age better than that.\u201d \u201cAt any\nrate,\u201d said I, \u201cit is an inconvenience, Miss Marygold, that many would be\nhappy to share with her.\u201d And I swept along the wide passage lined with\noleanders, myrtle, and cypress in large pots, sat down to the piano in the\npublic _salon_, and dashed through the overture of \u201cRobert le Diable\u201d with\nmuch brilliancy of execution. I afterwards found out that both the Miss\nMarygolds strongly objected to a little red bow which Mary was apt to\nfasten in her hair when we went down to dinner. Their own _coiffures_\nresembled either a doll\u2019s apron stuck on the top of her head, or a small\n\u201cdress\u2010improver\u201d of stiff lace. I suppose they thought there was some\nvirtue in wearing what was at once ugly and ridiculous.\n\nNo one, on first arriving at Cannes, can form any idea of the exquisite\nbeauty that will be within their easy reach as soon as they get beyond the\nlong, straight street parallel with the flat coast. The town itself has no\npretensions to beauty, except from the picturesque, fortified old church,\nstanding high above the town, and whose mouldering walls assume so many\ndifferent tints against the dark\u2010violet background of the Estrelle; that\nbeautiful line of mountains that runs far out into the sea, and forms the\nmost prominent object of the scenery. The market is held down the one long\nstreet, where it opens on the small garden and esplanade by the shore.\nThis is planted with magnificent plane\u2010trees, and nothing can be more\npicturesque than the groups of peasant\u2010women, with their bright\u2010colored\nkerchiefs crossed over their shoulders, and their thick woollen skirts,\nsitting each at her little booth of cakes, or sweets, or household\nutensils, and especially the charming little crocks, pots, and pans of\nnative manufacture. At a short distance from Cannes, at Valory, there is a\nvery fine establishment of pottery works, well worthy of a visit. The\nnative clay produces the most beautiful colors; and as the numerous\nvisitors at Cannes have taken pains to supply the manufactory with very\ngood models taken from the antique and from some of the best specimens of\nMinton and Staffordshire china, the result is most satisfactory. We found\nthat they are in the habit of sending very large crates of garden\u2010vases,\nbesides smaller and more delicate articles, all over Europe. The road\nalong the coast towards Antibes is bordered by beautiful villas with\ngardens running down towards the sea, and generally laid out in terraces.\nEven now, in the month of January, they were full of roses, geraniums,\nageratum, and violets in bloom. Part of this picturesque spot is called\nCalifornia, on account of the bright yellow blossom of the mimosa, which,\nwhen fully out, is truly \u201ca dropping well of gold.\u201d The light, feathery\nflower covers the whole tree, and there is scarcely a leaf to be seen. The\nbeautiful eucalyptus, or blue gum\u2010tree, is much cultivated here. The\npeculiar variety of its foliage, the lower and older leaves being almost\nheart\u2010shaped, and the upper ones often a foot in length, and hardly two\ninches wide, makes it very remarkable. The lower leaves are of a blue\ngreen, shading off into deep bronze, and the new shoots are almost yellow.\nIt is quite recently that this beautiful tree has been transplanted from\nAustralia to Europe; but as it makes twenty feet in a year, there are\nalready magnificent specimens. It has a highly aromatic gum; and it is\nsupposed that in time it will greatly supersede the use of quinine, having\nmedicinal properties which resemble that invaluable remedy, while it will\nbe less expensive. When Mary is suffering from one of her neuralgic\nheadaches, nothing relieves her so much as steeping the long leaves of the\neucalyptus in hot water, and holding her head over the perfumed steam. A\nbranch hung near the bed is also, they say, conducive to sleep.\n\nThe beauties of the position of Cannes are far outdone by that of the\nlittle town of Cannet, distant about three miles, and built among the\nmountains, and where the air is softer. Nothing can exceed the loveliness\nof the view from the Place, shaded by splendid plane\u2010trees, of the half\u2010\ndeserted little town, or the same view seen from the terrace of the one\n_Pension_, where we found every preparation for receiving guests, but\nwhich was locked up and entirely empty. You overlook numerous orange\u2010\ngardens of the most vivid green, the starry blossoms and golden fruit\ngleaming amid the foliage. Then, far down the valley, and clothing an\namphitheatre of hills and mountains, are groves of olives, with their soft\nvelvet folds, mass overlapping mass of tender, dim green, shimmering all\nover with silver touches, as the air stirred the branches, and turned\nupwards the inner lining of the leaves\u2014after which all other foliage is\napt to look crude and hard. The blue sea lies beyond, and the sharp,\npurple outline of the Estrelle; while to the right the mountains fade off\nfurther and further, ending in snow\u2010capt heights.\n\nFrom amid the dense, soft shadows of the valley rise the old tower of the\nchurch and the picturesque cupolas of the strange Moorish villa where poor\nRachel, the famous French tragedian, breathed her last, and which is fast\nfalling to decay. It is no longer let to strangers; but we made our way\nthrough the tangled gardens and wilderness of orange\u2010trees. Everything\nlooked tumbling to pieces. The house itself is in ruin; and being painted\nin bright colors externally, and chiefly built of wood, at least in the\nornamental parts, it looks like the cast\u2010off decorations of a dismal\ntheatre. Two white pigeons were picking up the scattered grain in the\nlittle, untidy court. A few mutilated plaster figures of gods and\ngoddesses near the entrance added to the tawdry and unreal aspect of the\nwhole. It was as if the poor actress had selected it to die in for its\nscenic effect, and so had closed her life on a mute and deserted stage. I\nfancied I could see her lithe form and her sinuous glide (for she never\nseemed to walk like a common mortal) along the veranda. I could recall the\nintense passion of her matchless voice as she thrilled you through with\nthe words:\n\n\n    \u201cJe ne me verrai point pr\u00e9f\u00e9rer de rivale.\n    Enfin, tous tes conseils ne sont plus de saison:\n    Sers ma fureur, \u0152none, et non pas ma raison.\u201d\n\n\nAnd then she came here, alone, to die! As I turned away from the place, so\nbeautiful even in its desolation, I wondered if the rumor might be true\nwhich was prevalent at the time\u2014that her maid, a French Catholic, seeing\nher poor mistress in a state of coma just before her death, had dared to\nbaptize her\u2014and thus give us a large\u2010hearted hope for the woman and the\nJewess.\n\nWe drove through the narrow, sharp\u2010angled streets of the little town of\nCannet to the church in the valley. The streets were so narrow, and the\nturnings were so sharp, that it always seemed that our horses were in one\nstreet while we and the carriage were in another. Three little children,\nwith bright, dark eyes and tangled hair, hung over a wall, each with a\nrose in its mouth. They looked as if they would drop the flowers, and\nthemselves after, into our laps. The church was very clean and well cared\nfor; full of tawdry decorations, but fresh and neat, as if all were often\nrenewed by loving hearts, if not by cultivated taste. M. le Cur\u00e9 is very\nold, and has not sufficient help for the wants of so large a parish; and\nthere are no Sisters to teach the children. They seem a simple people; and\nif only there were a habitable house, what pleasure might be found in\nliving in this earthly paradise, and working amongst them!\n\nIt is said that the Englishman carries Bass\u2019 pale ale and Warren\u2019s\nblacking with him where\u2010ever he goes, to say nothing of Harvey\u2019s sauce. At\nany rate, he has established his own special amusements at Cannes, with no\napparent consciousness of their incongruity with the scene around them. Of\ncourse we took our share, though denouncing and protesting all the way at\nthe horrors of pigeon\u2010shooting. We drove over sandy lanes close to the\nshore, through groups of pine\u2010trees on either side; a glorious panorama of\nmountains and snow\u2010clad peaks beyond, the dark\u2010blue sea, and the purple\nEstrelle. There was a vulgar booth and a shed, and some rickety benches\nlike those at a country fair. We sat down, facing three boxes, in which\nthe innocent birds were concealed until the moment\u2014unknown, of course, to\nthe sportsman himself\u2014when, bursting open, the pigeons spread their wings\nat liberty, to be perchance instantly killed by a clever shot. I\nacknowledge that I tried not to look, and that my heart gave a spasmodic\nleap every time I heard the clap of the lid of the box and then the sharp\nshot. I looked at the pine\u2010trees and the far\u2010off mountains, with the many\u2010\ntinted, undulating middle distances, and tried to forget the coarseness\nand cruelty of the scene I was supposed to have come to as an amusement.\nThe nuts and the ginger\u2010bread were wanting, and Aunt Sally was\ndistinguished by her absence; but there was nevertheless a milder\nreflection of everything that might have graced this same kind of scene in\nEngland; and so the English gentleman of the XIXth century, brought by\nfortuitous circumstances into a new and exquisitely beautiful land, was\ndoing his best to make himself \u201cat home,\u201d and to inspire the natives and\nforeigners with his own tastes. I am fond of sport, though I am but an old\nmaid; but somehow this does not strike me as being sport in the true\nacceptation of the word. And I sat wondering how long it will be before my\nown brave countrymen, who are already addicted to _battues_, will build\none\u2010storied, round summer\u2010houses in their woods, painted inside with\narabesques, Cupids, Venus, and Diana, and having six or eight small\nwindows all round it; then, seated in a large gilt _fauteuil_, with a\nbottle of choice Chambertin by his side, he will languidly pop his short\ngun at the thrushes or the finches as they flutter from bough to bough\nbefore him; and so, at the end of a couple of hours, saunter home with a\nbagful of \u201cgame,\u201d wearied with the exertions of _la chasse au tire_, like\nthe gentlemen in France in the times of _La R\u00e9gence_.\n\nThe Duc de P. was there, and the Duc de C., and the Duke of H., and\nactually one of the men\u2014what may they be called?\u2014who preside over the\npigeon\u2010shooting at Hurlingham, and who had been got over to ensure\neverything being _en r\u00e8gle_. What more could any one want? I wondered to\nmyself whether the extraordinary beauty and sublime majesty of the\nsurrounding scene had anything to do with enhancing the pleasure of the\npigeon\u2010shooters; whether, in short, the successful slaughter of the poor\nbirds was rendered more enjoyable by the fact of its taking place under a\nsky and in a spot fraught with exquisite beauty; noble and serene, vast\nand varied.\n\nAnd if not, why did they not stop among the cockney flats of Hurlingham?\nWhen all was over and we returned home, I actually found myself semi\u2010\nconscious of a sort of pride that the best shot, in this decidedly trying\nproof of skill, was an Englishman! So much for the inconsistency of human,\nespecially of female, nature.\n\nWe are in the land of perfumes. Acres of roses, violets, and other scented\nflowers are cultivated solely for the perfume manufactories at Grasse, a\nfew miles from Cannes. Of course, this is not the time of year to benefit\nby this exceptional form of farming; but in the spring it must be lovely.\n\nWe are preparing to leave Cannes, and, as I write these lines, Frank\nsilently lays a sheet of paper by my side. And I see\u2014a Sonnet.\n\n\n    THE OLIVE\u2010TREE.\n\n    That dusky tree grows in a noted place\u2014\n    A garden on the rocky mountain\u2019s side,\n    O\u2019erlooking (in the evening of its pride)\n    The doom\u00e8d city of the chosen race.\n    There, as the swathing evening mists efface\n    Temple and fane, in sunset glory dyed,\n    And round the city walls the shadows glide,\n    Beneath the dappled gloom our hearts may trace\n    The ling\u2019ring footsteps of the Holy One.\n    Our Master walks alone; and who can know\n    All the deep myst\u2019ry of his awful woe,\n    As on the earth sinks God\u2019s eternal Son?\n    But ever shall the gray\u2010green olive\u2010tree\n    Recall the image of his agony.\n\n\n\n\nA National Or State Church.\n\n\nFifty\u2010three peers protested against the disestablishment of the Protestant\nChurch in Ireland, \u201cbecause it is impossible to place a church\ndisestablished and disendowed, and bound together only by the tie of a\nvoluntary association, on a footing of equality with the perfect\norganization of the Church of Rome.\u201d Mr. Disraeli had previously said the\nsame thing in the House of Commons: \u201cThe discipline, order, and government\nof the Roman Catholic Church are not voluntary. They are the creation of\nthe simple will of a sovereign pontiff\u201d (if he means Jesus Christ, the\nphrase is Catholic), \u201cand do not depend at all on the voluntary\nprinciple.... I maintain that as long as his Holiness the Pope possesses\nRome, the Roman Catholic religion, in whatever country it is found, is an\nestablishment.\u201d In fact, there is a great deal of truth in these remarks.\nHow, indeed, can undisciplined guerrillas contend against a well\u2010trained\narmy of veterans? How can a number of voluntary associations, like so many\ninsurance or stock companies, liable at any moment to disband, with no\ncohesive power, compete with a grand organization whose charter is divine,\nwhose officers are divinely appointed, and whose laws bind in conscience\nin spite of adverse imperial, royal, or republican legislation? The peers\nwere right; Mr. Disraeli is partially right. No sect or combination of\nsects can for any length of time, in a fair field, compete with the\nCatholic Church. Hence the cry of the sects in this country for state aid.\nThe Catholic Church never asked for it except as a matter of justice or\nrestitution. Whenever it was bestowed on her institutions, it was because\nthey deserved it. If much was given to her, it was because her hierarchy\nor her religious orders, inspired by divine zeal, had founded and\norganized charitable institutions while the sects were asleep, lacking\neven in sufficient philanthropy, not to say charity, to provide for the\nwants of their own suffering members. The Catholic Church built and\norganized her asylums, schools, and other institutions, tried to support\nthem, and did bravely support them, as she still does in this country, by\nthe voluntary contributions of generous Christians, before the state gave\nanything. The sects did very little. They were too indolent, too deficient\nin vitality, to do much. They begged from the state. They threw the burden\non the state; so that, whereas in Catholic times there were no state poor\u2010\nhouses, state asylums, or state charities, now they swarm. Protestantism\nis too cold a system to warm the hearts of men into life\u2010giving charity;\nso it depends, except in rare cases, on the state for the support of the\npoor and the orphans. The money is taken from the public treasury for the\nsupport of schools, asylums, and kindred institutions.(23) Such being the\ncase, who can blame Catholics for receiving a portion of their own taxes\nto help their own institutions, mainly supported on the voluntary system?\nAre not the frequenters of Catholic schools and the inmates of Catholic\ninstitutions the children and citizens of the state as well as others?\nWill the state educate or support as cheaply as the church has done, or\nmake as good citizens as she makes? If Catholic charitable institutions\nare abolished, if Catholic schools are broken up, how much will it\nannually cost the state for the building of new institutions and for their\nmaintenance? Are the Sisters of Charity as safe custodians of the morality\nof orphans as the spinsters and political hirelings of the state\ninstitutions? Are teachers and matrons who work primarily from a religious\nmotive as apt to discharge their duty faithfully as those who labor\nprimarily for the \u201cconsideration\u201d attached to their services? Well do the\ngentlemen who attack the Catholic Church know how futile it is for any\nsect to strive against her unless backed up by state aid; and hence,\nperhaps, the cry which has recently resounded throughout our country for a\nnational or state church\u2014a national Protestant church in opposition to the\nnever\u2010ceasing progress of Catholicity.\n\nThe late \u201cEvangelical Alliance\u201d publicly endorsed the cry of a national\nchurch. The Rev. W. H. Fremantle, M.A., of London, an ecclesiastical\nfunctionary of the national church of England, in \u201ca manner,\u201d as the\nreport in the _Tribune_ has it, \u201cquick and energetic, and, as he warmed to\nhis subject, eloquent to a degree which _elicited great applause_,\u201d on\nOctober 9, 1873, at a meeting of the \u201cAlliance,\u201d urged on his hearers the\nadvantages and necessity of having a national church, \u201cthe true ruling\nelders\u201d of which should be \u201cour statesmen, our judges, and our officers\nwho bear the supreme mandate of the whole Christian community.\u201d With\nlaconic pith, he said: \u201cThe Christian nation is a church.\u201d The applause\nelicited by his remarks was no doubt due to the fact that his auditors\nremembered how admirably the Christian \u201cstatesmen\u201d in Congress and our\nlate Vice\u2010President, some of our \u201cjudges,\u201d our \u201cEvangelical\u201d bankers and\nmerchants, represented the interests of the Alliance in their respective\navocations! The Rev. W. J. Menzies, of Edinburgh, emissary of the national\nchurch of Scotland, seconded and approved the doctrines of his\nEpiscopalian brother. In vain did a sturdy American, the Hon. J. L. M.\nCurry, LL.D., of Richmond, try to defend the American system and the\nprinciples of our Constitution against these well\u2010fed and well\u2010paid\ngentlemen. The rubicund foreigners of the church establishments of\nDenmark, Sweden, and Germany came to the rescue of their English and\nScottish brethren. They had preached to the \u201cAlliance\u201d in favor of the\ntithes, taxes, and intolerance of their own establishments, and were not\nwilling to allow Mr. Curry to oppose them. The very president of the\n\u201cAlliance,\u201d himself an American, was obliged to coerce the honorable\ngentleman into silence. His voice was drowned in an \u201cevangelical\u201d chorus\nof national churchmen. We are no longer, then, astonished to read that the\nRev. Dr. Stoughton, of England, was greeted in a Protestant Sunday\u2010school\nin this city with the anthem of \u201cGod save the Queen.\u201d It was not a\nreligious hymn, mark it well, but an anthem in praise of the head of a\nchurch establishment, who is more than pope, for she is _impeccable_ as\nwell as infallible, according to the axiom of English law that \u201cthe king\ncan do no wrong.\u201d No longer are we surprised to learn that the head of\nanother national church, the would\u2010be pope\u2010Emperor of Germany, gave the\n\u201cEvangelical Council\u201d his blessing; that several of our highest\nmagistrates, unless they are belied, have been secretly leagued against\nthe Catholic Church in favor of a state Protestantism. Newspapers of\nreputed rank have been continually striving to create a Protestant public\nspirit in the state, and thus, as it were, to prepare the way for an\nabsolute union of church and state on a Protestant basis. Indeed, we have\na national, or at least a state, church already; although it has so far\nbeen administered to us only in hom\u0153opathic doses. Have we not a state\nschool system with a Protestant Bible on its rostrum? Have we not\n\u201cJuvenile Asylums,\u201d \u201cSoldiers\u2019 and Sailors\u2019 Homes,\u201d state charitable\ninstitutions all controlled on the Protestant system, conducted to a great\nextent by Protestant clergymen? Are not the Bibles used in them\nProtestant? Are not the school\u2010books essentially sectarian in which such\nexpressions as \u201cgor\u2010bellied monks,\u201d the \u201cglorious Reformation,\u201d the \u201cgreat\nand saintly Martin Luther,\u201d are frequent? Have we not a Protestant Indian\npolicy and a Protestant \u201cFreedman\u2019s Bureau\u201d?\n\nIt is true you cannot call the colorless Protestantism of these\ninstitutions peculiarly Methodist, or peculiarly Episcopalian, or\npeculiarly Baptist; but it is nevertheless Protestantism. We have a name\nfor it. The late \u201cEvangelical Alliance\u201d gives it to us. The word\n\u201cEvangelicalism\u201d will express the Protestantism of our incipient national\nand state churches. We defy any impartial visitor to the so\u2010called \u201cnon\u2010\nsectarian\u201d state institutions to deny that their chief male officers,\nsuperintendents, guardians, and teachers have been chosen on account of\ntheir \u201cEvangelicalism.\u201d Every one that knows the inner working of our\nstate institutions for charitable purposes is aware that they are mere\npastures in which Evangelical ministers are retired on salaries of\nthousands a year taken from the state pocket.\n\nThe desire for having a state or national church is growing stronger.\nGerman imperialism, or pagan Roman C\u00e6sarism revived, has given an impetus\nto it in Europe, in order to create a foreign public opinion to sanction\nits own persecutions of the Catholic Church at home. Switzerland has been\nmoved by the pull of the German wire. Perhaps the same influence is at\nwork in our republic. Or is it that a certain class of the Protestant\nclergy, dreading starvation if left depending on the bounty of flocks that\nare losing their Christianity and its generous impulses, envious of the\nportly frames and plethoric purses of the foreigners of the European\nestablishments who lately visited our shores and banqueted at our expense,\nlong to draw nutriment from the bosom of an established mother, rather\nthan risk death from marasmus at the breasts of a dry and barren voluntary\nsystem? If this be the cause of the growing \u201cEvangelicalism\u201d of the sects,\nof their effort to combine for the purpose of giving us a national church,\nlet us devoutly pray that the next delegates from abroad will be as spare\nin person and purse as our own country parsons. For the sake of our\nrepublican institutions, may his divine and imperial majesty of Germany\nand her gracious ecclesiastical majesty of England send hither no more of\ntheir rotund and jocund functionaries, to make the hearts of our\nEvangelical clergymen yearn after the flesh\u2010pots of Egypt!\n\nOr can it be that the venerable heads of our \u201cEvangelical\u201d mayors,\ngovernors, and their compeers, returning in their senility, as is not\nuncommon with decaying brains, to their early loves, are striving to\nrestore the state establishments of the old Puritan colonies? The\nrecollection that all the original colonies except Catholic Maryland had a\nstate church has not yet died out among these \u201cEvangelical\u201d ancients. They\nremember that so late even as 1793 an attempt was made even in New York to\nsaddle an Episcopalian establishment on the back of our state, and this,\ntoo, at a time when the members of the Holland Reformed Churches were in\nthe proportion of fifteen to one Church\u2010of\u2010Englander! Perhaps Governor Dix\nhas an agreeable recollection of this beauteous trait in the character of\nhis sect. Perhaps he remembers how well she had battened on the flesh and\nblood of the Irish people for centuries, though her votaries were not one\u2010\ntwentieth part of the Irish population. In 1643, the \u201corthodox\u201d\nEpiscopalian colony of Virginia expelled two New England Puritan\nministers; while the New England Puritans, by way of \u201cEvangelical\u201d\nretaliation, sent back to Old England two professors of Anglicanism. The\npoor Quakers were driven out by all the colonies except Catholic Maryland.\nIndeed, even our modern \u201cEvangelicals\u201d had not the courtesy to invite them\nto their \u201cAlliance.\u201d In Virginia, the man who refused to have his child\nbaptized was fined two thousand pounds of tobacco. In the colonies of\nMassachusetts and New Haven, for a time only church members could exercise\nthe full powers of citizenship. The legislatures of the New England\ncolonies convoked even the church synods. These were truly \u201cEvangelical\u201d\ntimes, and after these do the \u201cEvangelicals\u201d hanker. So late even as 1779\ntithes were collected by law in some of the colonies. In fact, it was only\nin 1818 that the separation of church and state was effected in\nConnecticut. But in those days the Catholics were few, and nobody feared\nthem. If they had been as numerous and formidable then as they are now,\nthe disestablishment would never have been accomplished. These were the\nhalcyon days when, in the words of Rev. Mr. Fremantle, already quoted,\n\u201cthe Christian nation was a church,\u201d \u201cthe true ruling elders of which were\nstatesmen, judges, and officers who bore the supreme mandate of the whole\nChristian community.\u201d What a yearning there is for the return of those\ngood times when none but \u201cEvangelicals\u201d may hold office to defraud the\nrevenue, invest in Cr\u00e9dit Mobilier stock, or manage banking houses for the\npurpose of swindling credulous \u201cEvangelical\u201d depositors!\n\nIt is timely to warn all good citizens against the Protestant effort to\nrestore the state\u2010church system of the early colonies. The Rev. W. H.\nCampbell, D.D., of New Brunswick, at one session of the \u201cAlliance\u201d said:\n\u201cRevolution has everywhere borrowed the force of its political ideas from\nthe Protestants of the XVIth century.\u201d Never was language more correct.\nRebellion against lawful authority, the overthrow of legitimate\ngovernments, the subversion of civil society, the destruction of law and\norder in modern times, are all traceable to Protestant principles. Nor can\nyou ever tell where they will stop. As there is no fixity or certainty or\nunalterable code of doctrine or morals in Protestantism, a statesman can\nnever tell when its councils will be impelled by whim, fanaticism, or\nprejudice. There is no telling but that the Protestant assembly which to\u2010\nday favors the state to\u2010morrow will be in revolt against it. It has been\non the side of unbridled license, of the extreme of liberty; and, again,\nit has been the creature, the slave, the blind instrument of despotism. A\nstatesman always knows what to expect from the Catholic Church and her\nassemblies. Her principles are patent, her system plain, her doctrines\nunchanging, her secondary discipline modifiable according to law or\nnecessity, but only by the spiritual power. She is always conservative,\nnever revolutionary. She gives to C\u00e6sar what belongs to him, but no more.\nShe makes a reserve in her allegiance to the state: she reserves the\nrights of God, the rights of conscience. She must obey God rather than men\nwhen men try to alter or subvert God\u2019s revelation. If the state wishes to\npersecute her, it may begin at once. She has nothing to hide from the\nstate; and she will alter nothing of her doctrines. If the state dislikes\nher, at any rate she is an open foe. But Protestantism is a fickle\nsubject. Like the ancient pagans, she admits the supremacy of the state\nover her; admits that the church is only a voluntary corporation\nsubordinate to the state; yet practically she is never to be depended on.\nFickle by nature, the state can never tell when a fit of madness may seize\non her; when her imagination may be possessed by some idea subversive\nalike of good order and even of morality. We all know the history of the\nAnabaptists and Antinomians in Germany; the deeds of violence of the\nIndependents in England. Protestantism, like a wanton filly, carries the\nstate as a rider, but always at the risk of its neck. Let our statesmen,\nthen, beware of the attempt which is being made to give us, if not a\nnational, at least a state church. The threat has been made that when\nslavery was abolished, the next thing to undertake would be the\ndestruction of the Catholic Church by the establishment of a state church.\n\nIt is easy to show that a national church is essentially opposed to our\nAmerican principles, and that consequently all attempts to establish one\nare anti\u2010American. On this point many rationalists and infidels agree with\nCatholics, as they logically must when they argue from sound principles of\npure reason or of pure politics. The Catholic religion recognizes the\ncompetency of reason in its own sphere, and admits its logical inerrancy.\nAll the principles of the natural, political, metaphysical, or moral order\nknown with certainty even by those who do not believe in revelation at\nall, are the common property of the Catholic Church; for although she\ninsists on the subordination of reason to faith, she asserts emphatically\nthe autonomy of reason, and condemns those who would abridge its powers.\nHence true statesmen who judge our Federal or State constitutions from the\nviewing\u2010point of reason alone agree with Catholics in opposition to the\nso\u2010called \u201cEvangelicals,\u201d the chief of whom believe in \u201ctotal depravity,\u201d\nthe loss of free will, and unmerited damnation. The ablest lawyers in the\ncountry teach that the fundamental idea of our civil government is that\nthere shall be no interference of the state in church affairs. Absolute\nindependence of the church; no interference of the state in religious\nmatters\u2014such is the AMERICAN IDEA. It is expressly laid down in the first\namendment to the Constitution of the United States that Congress shall\nhave no power to legislate on religious questions. The ablest commentary\nperhaps ever written on the Constitution is the _Federalist_; some of the\nbest articles in which were written by Alexander Hamilton, whose son has\nrecently published them. The teaching of this great man is that the\nframers of the Constitution were especially anxious to eschew church\nestablishments or state religions in the policy of our republic. Indeed,\nsome of the leading authors of the Constitution were rationalists, and\nmore afraid of Protestant sectarian interference in state affairs than\nthey were of the Catholic Church, which in their days was not strong\nenough to be feared. \u201cOur theory is,\u201d writes Gerrit Smith, \u201cthat the\npeople shall enjoy absolute freedom in politics and religion.\u201d Of course\nthis freedom could not exist if we had a state church. Mr. Smith, whose\nintelligence and Americanism no one can dispute, in his celebrated letter\non the school question,(24) from which the above phrase is taken, adds: \u201cA\nlawyer than whom there is no abler in the land, and who is as eminent for\nintegrity as for ability, writes me: \u2018I am against the government\u2019s being\npermitted to do anything which can be entrusted to individuals under the\nequal regulation of general laws.\u2019 \u201d How few of the \u201cEvangelicals\u201d would\nbe willing to act on this correct interpretation of our Constitution? How\ncould they so easily give up the government pap that nourishes the\nMethodist preachers of the \u201cFreedman\u2019s Bureau\u201d and the \u201cIndian Bureau,\u201d\nnot to speak of the other countless branches of our hom\u0153opathic national\nchurch?\n\nThe attempt to establish a state church is also opposed to most of our\nState constitutions, and notably to that of New York. The first\nconstitution of this State was so essentially hostile to a church\nestablishment that it contained an article incapacitating any minister of\nthe Gospel from holding any office, civil or military. Tradition has it\nthat some Episcopalian minister, playing the political marplot in the\npreliminary convention, had so annoyed Mr. Jay that he had the article\ninserted. In 1846, this article was expunged; and ever since our State\nlegislature, our public offices, and even our judiciary, have been\nafflicted by ambitious, incompetent, sometimes even illiterate, and always\nbigoted, political preachers. They are always striving to inflict on us\nmore and more of their bigotry, while their acts show that one of their\nchief aims is to gratify the \u201cEvangelical\u201d appetite for power. We must\nespecially guard our State constitution from the treacherous assaults of\nthe sects. Even now their express provisions are violated or evaded.(25)\nThey are easily modified.(26) Some of them are not inconsistent with a\nchurch establishment, and may at any moment become the prey of\n\u201cEvangelical\u201d bigotry or fanaticism.\n\nCatholics are by conviction opposed to a change in the character of our\nFederal and State\u2014we speak of New York\u2014constitutions. They do not conflict\nwith the CATHOLIC IDEA. There is nothing in or out of the _Syllabus_ that\nis opposed to our system of government. This we shall now proceed to show.\nPius IX., on December 17, 1860, in an allocution condemned a proposition\nwhich begins with these words: \u201c_National churches may be established_.\u201d\nIt is number 37 in the _Syllabus_. We know that it will be objected to us\nthat the Pope also condemns the attempt to separate church and state in\ncountries in which they are by law united, and the abstract principle that\nthey ought to be separate. It is true that where church and state have\nbeen united, not by force, but by the nature of things and the sanction of\nlaws, it is condemnable to attack their union as iniquitous or improper;\nbut it is also true that it is not always obligatory or expedient on the\npart of the state, as such, to establish a church, build its institutions,\nand salary its clergy out of a common fund. The Roman pontiffs, in the\nheight of their temporal power, never compelled the Jews to build with\ntheir money Catholic churches and pay the salaries of Catholic priests.\nLet us historically examine the character of the union of church and state\nin the Catholic countries of Europe, and we shall find how just, fair, and\nhonorable such an union becomes. What was the title to most of the\nCatholic church property in Europe? None better. The barbarian baron or\nking, grateful to the priest, the monk, or the bishop who had civilized\nhim and taught him to save his soul, generously built a church or a\nmonastery and endowed it. Legacies, donations, free gifts\u2014these were the\nmeans by which the bishopric and monasteries grew rich. No title to\nproperty is better than this, which a thousand years had sanctioned. Of\ncourse every new donation increased the power of the church. The\ntemporalities of the church had natural influence in the state. The abbots\nand bishops were peers of the realm. The church lived on her own\nresources\u2014neither asked nor received anything from the state except\nprotection and liberty. Before the Reformation, this was the character of\nthe close union between the church and state. After the Reformation, when\nthe church had lost her power chiefly through the corrupting influence of\nthe kings and barons on the bishops and abbots, despite the protests and\nthe efforts of the popes, the politicians confiscated the church property.\nThis confiscation was simply robbery, for the church corporations, as well\nas individuals, had rights which the state was bound to respect. But it\nhappened, as it often happens, that wicked kings or mercenary and\nunprincipled politicians used the political machinery of the state legally\nto rob the church. They abused the right of eminent domain. Gov. Dix\nhimself, in his annual message for 1874, limits the exercise of this\nright. \u201cThe right,\u201d says he, \u201cof every individual to be secured in the\nundisturbed enjoyment of his property lies at the foundation of all\nresponsible government. It is, indeed, one of the primary objects for\nwhich governments are instituted. To this fundamental rule there is but\none proper exception. If private property is needed for public use, it may\nbe taken by making just compensation to the owner; but the use must be one\n_which is common to all_, or _which is indispensable to the accomplishment\nof some object of public necessity_. This right of eminent domain, as it\nis denominated, is an incident of sovereignty, and it is one of the most\narbitrary of all the powers of government.\u201d(27) It is unquestionably the\n\u201cmost arbitrary of all the powers of government,\u201d if we consider how many\nare the demagogues, political traders, and mercenary corruptionists who\nhelp to make the laws in parliaments, congresses, or State legislatures to\nregulate the property of respectable people; and how often the executive\npower in the state, be it imperial, regal, presidential, or gubernatorial,\nis wielded by despotic and corrupt hands. Imagine a parliament of\nCommunists using the right of eminent domain of the state against the\nlands and tenements owned by the Trinity Church corporation of New York;\nor an assembly of \u201cEvangelicals\u201d legislating in regard to Catholic church\nproperty! The state in France, for instance, during the Revolution\nstripped the church of her lawful possessions; Napoleon endeavored to\nbring order back to the Republic by re\u2010establishing the church. But it is\nplain that the salary allowed by his concordat in A.D. 1801 to the clergy,\nand the revenue allowed by the state for the maintenance of church\nedifices, was not a tithe of the interest accruing from the property\nstolen by the state from the church. The sum now allowed to support the\nCatholic clergy of France is, therefore, only a fraction of restitution\nmoney due to them by the state. So it is in other countries in which the\nstate, after confiscating the church property, salaries the clergy. The\nchurch in those countries does not get her due. She asks no favor from\nthem; she does not even get her rights. The propositions in the _Syllabus_\nreferring to the union of church and state must be explained in the light\nof these facts. The Catholic Church does not go to China or to Turkey, and\nsay to the governments of those countries: \u201cYou must establish me here;\nyou must build my temples and schools and asylums.\u201d No, she claims no\nright of eminent domain over the pockets of infidels; and even when she\nconverts them, she only asks their voluntary aid. All she asks is liberty\nto work and protection in her legitimate duties. She and her converts will\ndo the rest. This was all she asked of the Roman emperors; this she asked\nof the medi\u00e6val kings. If they gave her liberty and protection, she\nthanked them, blessed them, worked for them, and civilized them. If they\nrefused, still she blessed them and worked in spite of them; for she must\n\u201cobey God rather than men.\u201d She might with justice ask more than this in\nPrussia or England or Sweden; for there she might ask back her stolen\nproperty. But in this country she only asks a fair field and no favor.\nContrast her conduct with that of Protestantism. Protestantism goes to the\nstate begging on her knees; admitting the state\u2019s supremacy over her;\nconfessing that she is the humble servant of the king; and asks his\ngracious bounty. She will gladly sit on the foot of his throne as his\nslave, though a dangerous and treacherous one, if he will only smile on\nher, clothe and feed her. She will even stoop to become the receiver of\nstolen goods. Is it not so? Where is there a national Protestant church\nreally established that is not living on property stolen by the state from\nthe Catholic Church? Look to England and Scotland. Are not the Protestant\nestablishments in those lands the possessors of ill\u2010gotten goods\u2014of lands\nand churches iniquitously stolen from the Catholic Church? Surely the\northodox Catholic laity of the middle ages who gave these demesnes to the\nmonasteries and churches never intended that the king should turn them\nover to a heretical establishment. The Prussian establishment is a theft\nfrom beginning to end; for every one knows that the apostate head of the\nCatholic religious order which ruled the duchy of Brandenburg, and laid\nthe foundation of the Prussian power, had no right to transfer the\nproperty of his order to a Protestant clergy. Who could defend such a\nproceeding? Would our \u201cEvangelical\u201d brethren approve the conduct of a\nProtestant board of trustees or vestrymen who, on being converted, or a\nmajority of them being converted, to the Catholic faith, should by a trick\ntransfer the property of their congregation, their church, or college to\nthe Catholic authorities to be used for Catholic purposes? How, then, can\nthey approve the conduct of the English, German, and Scandinavian clergy\nwho have received the lands and buildings taken from the Catholics by\nviolence and regal usurpation? There is truly a very great difference\nbetween the Protestant and Catholic church establishments of Europe\u2014a\ndifference in origin, as well as in the manner of their continuance\u2014and\nthis difference is by no means flattering to the honesty or manliness of\nthe sects. Correctly, therefore, did we say that Catholic principles as\nwell as true American principles are opposed to a state church\nestablishment in this country, and that nothing in the _Syllabus_ condemns\nour system of government.\n\nIt is time, therefore, for all true American citizens to unite under the\nCatholic standard of opposition to national or state church\nestablishments. The rights of conscience, the rights of religion, are the\nrights of God. They are not national, but universal; that is, catholic. We\nare not willing to come back to the pagan _r\u00e9gime_ of Roman C\u00e6sarism, and\nadmit the ruler of the state or the state itself as supreme master of\nreligion as well as of politics. The \u201cEvangelical\u201d semi\u2010paganized\nProtestants of Germany may bow the knee to the modern C\u00e6sar, and admit him\nto be supreme pontiff; but they must keep their despotism at home. The\nSwiss \u201cEvangelicals\u201d may revive the ancient Spartan worship of the state,\nand assert its supremacy in spiritual matters; but they must keep their\nstatolatry from our shores. The true American, like the true Catholic,\nwill bow the knee to no idol, not even to the state, much as he may love\nit. He adores only his God. The state shall not interfere with his\nconscience, or dare to come between him and his God, no matter how much\nthese foreign \u201cEvangelical\u201d emissaries may wish it. He is Catholic, even\nwhen he least suspects it. He hates despotisms, as the Catholic Church\ndoes; he suspects that German \u201cEvangelicalism\u201d is only a livery stolen to\ncover unbelief, as the Catholic Church knows it to be. He suspects the\nsincerity of those foreign \u201cEvangelical\u201d emissaries and their native\nhypocritical associates who preach in favor of state\u2010church\nestablishments; he suspects them as traitors to American liberty or as\nseekers for notoriety or a full purse. When his suspicions have been\nclearly proven correct, he will turn from the sects in disgust, to love\nthe grand old church which can be controlled by no national or state\nlimits, and which has been battling all her lifetime against emperors and\nkings for the very principles of liberty that constitute the glory and the\ngreatness of our republic.\n\n\n\n\nThe Captive Bird.\n\n\nFrom the French of Marie Jenna.\n\nHe is all yours\u2014\u2019tis true\u2014for life or death,\n  The hollow of your hand contains his fate,\nYou have the power to still his dulcet breath\n  And make the grove he dwelt in desolate.\n\nYou hold him!\u2014He is weak and you are strong,\n  But pity may his liberty restore.\nLet him to shade and summer still belong,\n  It is so sweet to live\u2014with wings to soar!\n\n\n\n\nThe Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil.\n\n\nFrom The Revue Du Monde Catholique.\n\n\n\nXIX.\n\n\nNow, to quiet your mind\u2014for you must be as shocked as I am at all these\nhorrors\u2014we will speak, if you please, of our friend Jean\u2010Louis. On the\nafternoon of the day which proved the last for the innocent Barbette,\nJeannet, knowing that the wood\u2010cutters would be dismissed, and that\nconsequently he would have some leisure time, went off to the Luguets\u2019 to\nhave a little consoling conversation with good Solange. He kept no secrets\nfrom her, and expected great relief in recounting faithfully all that had\nhappened; but, on entering, he instantly perceived something new had\noccurred in the house. The men were out at work; Mme. Luguet was seated by\nthe fire, weeping bitterly; and Solange, sitting on a stool at her feet,\nwas speaking to her in an angelic voice of her desire to enter a convent.\nJeannet discreetly wished to withdraw.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t go,\u201d said Solange to him; \u201cisn\u2019t it so, mother? Jeannet will not\ndisturb us?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, dear; on the contrary, my child, I am happy to see you, Jean\u2010Louis.\nIs it true that you will be free to accompany Solange to Paris?\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas! Mme. Luguet,\u201d replied Jeannet, \u201cwhy should I not be free, having\nneither family nor friends, save only you and yours? The only roof that\nsheltered me from infancy is henceforward forbidden to me, without\ncounting that, before many hours, the only thing that I can call my own\u2014on\ncondition that God leaves it to me\u2014and that is my life, may be taken\nalso.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat has happened?\u201d asked Solange. \u201cYou speak in a quiet, serious tone\nthat frightens me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have done my duty, dear Solange, and often in this world, after\nperforming an act of conscience and justice, any consequence may be\nexpected.\u201d\n\nAnd he related that, having discovered the criminal dealings of Isidore\nwith the brigands of _La Martine_, he had been obliged to threaten the\nfuture husband of Jeannette, and give him warning that he must leave the\ncountry.\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d cried Solange, \u201cthat is just what I hoped; this fortunate event\ndivine Providence has allowed, that Jeannette might be saved. Rejoice,\nthen, Jeannet, instead of indulging in such gloomy ideas.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are very kind to think so,\u201d replied Jean\u2010Louis sadly; \u201cbut I,\nSolange, see things differently. Jeannette, already so irritated, will not\npardon me for saving her at the expense of Isidore, who is not the man to\nlet himself be crushed like a wolf caught in a snare. Much will be said\nagainst me; I will be rashly judged, and less than ever will I have the\nright to present myself at Muiceron. No, no; from that dear spot I am for\never separated. I have been already accused of jealousy; shall I expose\nmyself to Jeannette\u2019s reproaches that I have denounced Isidore to prevent\nher marriage?\u201d\n\n\u201cI acknowledge,\u201d said Solange, \u201cthat your reflections are just. The truth\nwill one day be known, but it will take time; I see it as well as you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI must expect the vengeance of the Perdreaux,\u201d continued Jean\u2010Louis, \u201cas\nwell as of their friends, whose violent passions I know, and who will not\nleave me in peaceable possession of their secrets. Michou has discharged\nthe workmen; apparently, they went off contented. But Isidore, meanwhile,\nreceived my letter; no doubt before this he has communicated it to his\ncut\u2010throat companions, and the easiest thing for all of them will be to\nget rid of me at the shortest notice.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy God!\u201d said Solange, \u201cwhy didn\u2019t you think of all that before writing\nthe letter? At least, you need not have signed it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought of all that,\u201d replied Jeannet, smiling; \u201cbut even if I had been\nsure of risking my life in saving Jeannette, I would not have stopped. Her\nfather and mother preserved my existence, Solange, and therefore it\nbelongs to them. And as for not signing such a letter, thank God! you\nthink so because you are a woman, that you love me, and that you feel I am\nin danger; but if you were in my place, you would think as I do.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy children,\u201d said Mme. Luguet, \u201cyou are both right. But my advice is\nthat just now you had better plan for the future than discuss the past.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell us what shall be done, mother,\u201d said Solange. \u201cIn the first place,\nJean\u2010Louis must not return to the wood to\u2010night; isn\u2019t that so?\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t think of such a thing,\u201d cried Jeannet, as he rose hastily from his\nchair. \u201cDid I come here to hide?\u201d\n\n\u201cBe still,\u201d said Solange with authority; \u201cdon\u2019t be so proud. We all know\nyou are brave, who, then, can accuse you of flying from danger? But\ncourage does not consist in throwing yourself headlong in the midst of it,\nbut in providing against it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will return,\u201d said Jeannet, \u201cMichou expects me.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will not return, my child,\u201d said Mme. Luguet. \u201cI will direct you for\none day; my age and friendship permit me. I order you to remain with us\nto\u2010night.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d said Jean\u2010Louis, \u201ctomorrow the danger will be still greater; and,\nmy good mother, you surely cannot count on keeping me a prisoner?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen you came in,\u201d said the good woman, \u201cSolange was asking my permission\nto leave home. It was very painful for me to decide, and I sought to gain\ntime from the good God\u2014a little time only, to become more courageous; for\nnever will I be so bold as to refuse to give my child to the Lord. Well,\nwhat you have just related makes me think the good God has directed all\nwith his own voice. My dear children, you will leave tomorrow.\u201d\n\nSolange threw herself on her knees, and laid her head on her mother\u2019s\nhands, which she kissed, weeping. Jean\u2010Louis turned pale. His courage,\nwhich prompted him to face the danger, and his desire to oblige his\nfriends, struggled violently in his heart.\n\n\u201cListen to me,\u201d said he. \u201cI gave my word to Solange that I would accompany\nher; but circumstances have changed since then. Cannot Pierre take my\nplace? They have gossiped about Solange and me, dear Mme. Luguet; what\nwill they say when they hear we have gone off together?\u201d\n\n\u201cPierre!\u201d cried Solange; \u201cbut he knows nothing, nor my father either. My\nmother alone has my secret; otherwise, it would be impossible for me to\nleave.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is true,\u201d said Mme. Luguet; \u201cmy men are good Christians, but not pious\nenough to understand Solange\u2019s wishes. However, with the blessing of God,\nI will manage them. It is decided that I will tell the father she has only\ngone for a fortnight, to see how she likes it; there will be a fuss at\nfirst, and then we will go to see her; and if, as I believe, the good God\nwill take her entirely to himself, then the sight of her happiness will\nsatisfy all our hearts.\u201d\n\nThus spoke that good Christian woman; and to the shame of many great\nladies of the city, who show themselves so unreasonable under similar\ncircumstances, I must say, with truth, she was not the only one in our\nvillage you might have heard speak in the same manner.\n\nJean\u2010Louis could urge no further objection. The public stage, which would\ncarry them to the nearest railway station, passed the Luguets\u2019 house every\nmorning at six o\u2019clock. At that time of year, it was still dark, and the\nmen, who rose at four, that they might go to the barn and comb the hemp,\nwent to bed very early in the evening. Pierre and his father entered and\nsupped, without anything being said before them, and Solange and her\nmother found themselves again alone with Jeannet as the village clock\nstruck eight.\n\nIt was then that Jeannet wrote the short note to Jacques Michou which we\nhave already read; he ran and placed it in the box in the suburbs of the\nvillage, and quickly returned, as Solange had told him she would be half\ndead with fear during his absence, and that she would pass the time on her\nknees, saying her rosary.\n\nYou see it was very evident the Lord and his angels watched over these\ngood people. At this very hour, when it would have been so easy to have\nattacked Jean\u2010Louis, he came and went through the wood, without incurring\nany risk, while the unfortunate Isidore uselessly committed a great crime.\n\nGood Mme. Luguet and her daughter remained up until late in the night,\nbusy making up Solange\u2019s little bundle, in praying, and often embracing\neach other, mingling their tender and holy kisses and tears. Jeannet aided\nthem to the best of his ability, admiring the courage of heart, which was\nworth more than that of the head and arms. Then the two women retired for\na little rest, and he, in his turn, ended by falling asleep in his chair.\n\nAt five o\u2019clock, Solange came herself to awaken him, and told him, in a\nlow voice, that she had made her poor mother promise the night before not\nto get up, and so she had just kissed her softly for the last time without\ndisturbing her sleep. At that instant could be seen the heroism of that\nholy soul in thus wishing to bear alone the weight of the sacrifice. Her\nface, without ceasing to be calm, was bathed in tears, and from time to\ntime she kissed a little crucifix suspended from her neck, in order to\nsustain her brave heart.\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d said she at last, \u201cit is time, Jeannet; let us say the Our Father\ntogether, and then we will leave.\u201d\n\n\u201cCourage, Solange,\u201d said Jean\u2010Louis, much moved; \u201cthe good God will bless\nyou.\u201d\n\nThey repeated the prayer, and went out noiselessly, and just then was\nheard the jingling of the bells on the horses of the country stage.\n\nSolange was well wrapped up in her black cloth cloak, with the hood drawn\ndown over her face. Jean\u2010Louis carried her little bundle, in which she had\nslipped two of Pierre\u2019s shirts; for the good Jeannet carried all his\nbaggage on his back\u2014to wit, a woollen vest, a blouse, and his plaid scarf.\nBut, as we have already seen, it was not his habit to think of himself.\n\nThey arrived safely at Paris that very day, rather late in the evening, to\nbe sure; and little did they dream of the great rumpus going on at that\nvery time in our poor neighborhood. All along the route the strong family\nresemblance between Solange and Jeannet made every one think them brother\nand sister; and by good luck, owing to the severity of the weather, none\nof the travellers in the coach belonged to the village or its environs, so\nthat they reached the station without the risk of being recognized.\n\nThe Sister\u2010Superior of the Sisters of Charity had been notified several\ndays before of the coming of Solange by our _cur\u00e9_, who was the good\nchild\u2019s confessor; but they had left home so suddenly, Jeannet was obliged\nto find a refuge for his companion the first night. Happily, in Paris all\nis at your service\u2014people and things\u2014where there is money, and our\nchildren were rich with Solange\u2019s savings; therefore, there was no\ndifficulty in finding respectable lodgings, where they passed the night in\ntwo beautiful rooms, well furnished, the like of which they had never\nthought existed, at least for their use.\n\nThe next day their first action was to go and hear Mass, after which,\nhaving inquired the way to the Convent of S. Vincent de Paul, which is\nsituated in a very pious quarter of the city, they went there with hearts\nrather saddened; and one hour later Jeannet found himself alone in the\nvast city.\n\nBut no one is alone in this world when he carries in his heart faith in\nthe Lord. All the children of God belong to one family, and feel in their\nsouls a fraternal tenderness for each other. Jeannet, on taking Solange to\nthe convent, found a mother in the good superioress, who received them\nboth. She made him relate his story to her in a few words, and, learning\nthat he was alone in the world and desirous of some engagement, she gave\nhim the address of a good priest who passed his life in aiding young\nworking\u2010men who, owing to unfortunate circumstances or lack of employment,\nran the risk of becoming dissipated from the want of a helping hand.\n\nHe was called Abb\u00e9 Lucas; and as he is now dead, and enjoying, I trust,\nthe celestial happiness well merited by his great devotion, I do not think\nit indelicate to tell his name.\n\nHe received Jeannet with great kindness, and the good boy soon won his\nheart with his frankness and amiability. The abb\u00e9 tried his hand, and\nseeing that he wrote well, and turned off a very good letter under\ndictation, advised him not to think of joining a regiment, as the\nconscription would be after him soon enough without his running to seek\nit. Therefore, he took him in his own house, and employed him with his\ncorrespondence, of which there was never any deficiency, owing to the\ngreat number of men who daily claimed his charitable assistance.\n\nThe arrangement was perfectly to Jeannet\u2019s taste, who applied himself to\nhis new occupation with joy and confidence; and you can well imagine that\nSolange was very happy, and redoubled her prayers that her dear school\u2010\nfellow might come as triumphantly out of his heart\u2010troubles as he had been\npreserved from the dangers that threatened his life.\n\nShe immediately wrote home, informing M. le Cur\u00e9 of all these little\nevents, but left it to his great wisdom to decide whether he should tell\nmore or less of everything to the Ragaud family, Michou, and M. le\nMarquis. This should make us thoroughly understand the true virtue of this\ngood child; for she had not been ignorant of the base insinuations made in\nrelation to her and Jean\u2010Louis, and what ugly conjectures would be based\nupon their departure, Pierre joining with the rest, at least at the first\nnews. These things go straight to the heart of a good, honest girl, and\nSolange, being of a quick, nervous temperament, had suffered martyrdom\nfrom all this gossip without speaking of it, except to God. It was to him,\nthen, that she remitted the care of her full justification, as she knew\nmany persons would not have believed anything she might have said. This\nbeautiful tranquillity of soul is not an ordinary thing, and our _cur\u00e9_\njudged rightly that it proceeded from great holiness, as in the end he did\nnot fail to speak of it, with profit to his hearers, in his Sunday\nsermons.\n\nThis excellent pastor, who had been careful to keep clear of the whole\naffair before the downfall of the Perdreaux, contenting himself with\npraying and awaiting the good pleasure of the Lord, reappeared like an\nangel of consolation when nothing was left but tears to wipe away, hatreds\nto calm, simpletons to make hold their tongues, and truths to make known.\nIt was wonderful to see how he forgot his great age and infirmities to\nfulfil his task, which was not the easiest in the world.\n\nWith the ch\u00e2teau it was quickly done. In a conversation of two hours with\nM. le Marquis, who was a man of great good sense\u2014except in what touched\nhis political hopes\u2014he made the scales fall from his eyes, and decided his\ndeparture; and as, after all the villany of the Perdreaux, our master\u2019s\nfortune had not suffered as much as might have been expected\u2014as it was\nvery great, and could have stood a much larger rent\u2014our good pastor\nreserved his pity and real work for a corner of the country where it was\ninfinitely more needed.\n\nYou can guess that I wish to speak of Muiceron. There truly sorrow, shame,\nand unhappiness were at their height.\n\nSo many blows at once had crushed the Ragauds, who no longer dared go out,\nand remained at home, devoured with grief. The old farmer, struck on the\ntender side of his pet sin, which was vanity, thought really that heaven\nand earth had fallen upon his shoulders, and that he should only leave his\nhome for the cemetery. Pierrette, long accustomed to receive implicitly\nher husband\u2019s opinions, thought also nothing wiser could be done; and as\nfor Jeannette, overwhelmed with grief to see herself abandoned by all her\nfriends at the same time, although apparently the strongest, it looked as\nthough she would go the first to the grave, so plainly did her pallor and\nhollow eyes show the ravages of internal grief.\n\nAll the joy and life of rural labor had disappeared from around this\nhouse, formerly so happy. The door was closed, the shutters also, save one\nor two in the back rooms, where these poor people kept themselves hidden,\nafraid to speak, as they knew one subject of conversation was alone\npossible, and just then no one would approach it. The passers\u2010by, seeing\nthe house shut up, and not supposing all the inhabitants were dead, ended\nby feeling uneasy as they passed the buildings, but not one ventured to\ninquire about them, not even Ragaud\u2019s most intimate acquaintances. It is\nonly truth to add that these, understanding well the sorrow that reigned\nwithin those silent walls, acted thus from respect, and not from\nindifference.\n\nBig Marion went twice a week to the market in Val\u2010Saint, to buy provisions\nneeded for immediate use, and returned at a gallop, to shut herself up\nwith her master\u2019s family.\n\nSince Muiceron had belonged to the Ragauds, it was certainly the first\ntime any food had been cooked but the beef and poultry raised and killed\non the place. Poor Pierrette, like all good housekeepers, had always\nprided herself upon supplying the table with the fruit of her labors; for\nwith us, a farmer\u2019s wife who buys even a pound of butter or loaf of bread\npasses, with good reason, for a spendthrift; but, alas! self\u2010love was no\nlonger thought of, and La Ragaude cared little what was said of her\nmanagement, after she knew tongues could wag about affairs of much greater\nimportance. Poor woman! she must have been fearfully depressed. Judge how\nthe chickens ran wild, scratching up the gravel during the day, and\nperching on the trees, stiff with snow, during the night, at the risk of\nfreezing. The pig, so fat it could no longer stand on its legs\u2014as for a\nfortnight its true place would have been in the salt\u2010tub\u2014continued\nuselessly to eat his allowance. The hens that recommenced to lay deposited\ntheir eggs at random, without any one taking the trouble to go after them,\nnotwithstanding the little _coricoco_ of warning, which showed that they\nnever failed to cluck at the right time most faithfully. But Marion could\nnot see after everything; and besides, as she had always been very stupid\nduring the time that all were well and happy at Muiceron, she became more\nand more stupid and bewildered after affairs went so badly.\n\nSuch was the miserable condition in which our _cur\u00e9_ found his old friends\non the first visit which he made them, about two weeks after Barbette\u2019s\nfuneral, with the sole object of raising them from the deep despondency\ninto which they had fallen since the terrible shock.\n\nPierrette received him in the big parlor, which was very dark, as the\nshutters were closed, and for a quarter of an hour he could get nothing\nout of her but sobs; then Ragaud came in, looking thin and miserable, as\nmuch from want of air and exercise as from shame; and finally Jeannette,\nwho, with a remnant of her old pride, tried to keep from weeping, but was\nnearly suffocated in the effort.\n\n\u201cMy children,\u201d said the dear, good man, \u201cGod tries those whom he loves,\nand I certainly do not approve of your shutting yourselves up in this\nmanner, so as to avoid the society of your neighbors and friends, on\naccount of a sentiment which doubtless you think good, but which I call\nhonor ill placed\u2014that is to say, wicked pride, to speak frankly.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas!\u201d said Pierrette, \u201cwho wishes to speak to us now?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhom have you offended?\u201d replied the _cur\u00e9_. \u201cAnd why has the esteem in\nwhich you have long been held diminished?\u201d\n\n\u201cMonsieur,\u201d said Ragaud, \u201cmy daughter was on the point of marrying a\nrevolutionist and an assassin. That is enough to kill a family like ours.\u201d\n\n\u201cI acknowledge,\u201d said the _cur\u00e9_ quietly, \u201cyou could have made a better\nchoice; but, in reality, since all has ended without your playing any\nother part in this unfortunate affair than that of victims, I do not see\nwhy you should hide yourselves from the eyes of the world as though you\nwere criminals.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs for me,\u201d said Ragaud, \u201cI can never reappear again in public, and\nsupport the looks and words of the people around, who certainly despise\nus.\u201d\n\n\u201cRagaud,\u201d replied the _cur\u00e9_, \u201cwhen a man\u2019s shoe hurts him, he usually\nsits down by the roadside, and looks to see whether it is a thorn or a\nflint that causes the pain; then he takes it out, and all is over. But if,\ninstead of that, he continues walking, his foot would swell, the wound\nwould inflame, and the cure would no longer be easy. Do you understand\nme?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all,\u201d said Ragaud.\n\n\u201cNor I either,\u201d added Pierrette, still continuing to weep.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said M. le Cur\u00e9, \u201cit means that a wise man like you who fears\nanything of that kind should seek after the cause, to see if by chance it\nwould not be as easy to drive such an idea out of his head as to take a\nthorn out of a shoe. And, between ourselves, it is precisely your case.\nFar from despising you, each and every one in the neighborhood only feels\nfor you compassion, sympathy, and kindness, which they would willingly\nshow in words and actions. I am constantly asked about you, and all desire\nyou to return to the common life. They do not come to disturb you, through\npure discretion; but for which, your house would be well filled. But as\nlong as you live like wolves in their den, the pain increases in your\nheart, and soon it will be with you as with the man, wounded in the foot,\nwho will continue to walk\u2014you cannot be cured.\u201d\n\n\u201cM. le Cur\u00e9 is right,\u201d said Jeanne; \u201cwe must reappear, dear father.\u201d\n\n\u201cWithout counting,\u201d resumed the pastor, \u201cthat you are not acting as\nChristians when you show so much pride. A Sunday has passed, and you were\nnot seen at Mass, and nevertheless it is an obligation. Do you, then,\nintend to neglect your religious duties?\u201d\n\n\u201cI would go to church if no one were there,\u201d said Ragaud.\n\n\u201cIs it you, my friend, whom I hear speak thus?\u201d replied the _cur\u00e9_ sadly.\n\u201cSo you prefer the esteem of men to the blessing of God? And you,\nPierrette, whom I have always known as such a good parishioner, have you\nthe same miserable ideas?\u201d\n\nThe Ragauds lowered their heads without replying. They felt they were\nwrong, especially for the bad example given their daughter. Little Jeanne,\non her side, came to a resolute decision.\n\n\u201cFather and mother,\u201d said she, \u201cM. le Cur\u00e9 makes me understand all my\nsins; for it is on my account you are thus borne down with grief. I, then,\nmust be the first to trample pride under foot. Well, then, I will go to\nVal\u2010Saint on Sunday, and assist at Mass and Vespers in our usual place.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou shall not go alone, my poor child,\u201d said Pierrette.\n\n\u201cThat is right,\u201d said the _cur\u00e9_; \u201cI expected as much. As for you, my dear\nRagaud, as I know you to be truly honorable, you will not, I suppose,\nallow these two women to bravely fulfil their duty, and leave you behind?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will see; I can\u2019t promise any thing,\u201d answered Ragaud.\n\n\u201cI count upon you,\u201d said the _cur\u00e9_, pretending to take these words as an\nengagement, \u201cand I beg that you will come after Mass and dine with me;\nGermaine will have a nice dish of larks, which will not be much expense,\nas in this snowy weather they only cost five cents a dozen.\u201d\n\n\u201cMonsieur,\u201d said Ragaud, who felt greatly relieved by this pleasant\nconversation, which he very much needed, \u201ccommence by taking supper with\nme this evening; it will be a charitable deed to stay with people who are\nso unhappy.\u201d\n\n\u201cWillingly,\u201d replied the _cur\u00e9_; \u201cbut with these closed shutters and cold\nrooms, that make me think of a tomb, I will not have any appetite. You\nmust change all that, and let in some light. Come, madame, show us if you\nstill can turn a spoon in the sauce\u2010pan.\u201d\n\nPierrette could not repress a pleased smile at this apostrophe, and all\nher old occupations and favorite habits came back to her at the\nremembrancer, which tickled her heart. Just as in nursery\u2010tales a wicked\nfairy enchants a house for a time, and suddenly a good one comes, and with\na wave of her wand changes affairs; at Muiceron, which appeared desolate\nand dead, the words of the _cur\u00e9_ restored the old life and animation\nwhich were so pleasant to behold in the former prosperous days. Ragaud\nmade a great fire to drive out the close, damp smell; Pierrette threw open\nthe shutters with a quick hand, and, seeing her garden ruined by the\npoultry, she blushed from shame, and grumbled aloud at her neglect. That\nwas a true sign that her courage had returned. During this time, Jeannette\nand Marion got out the linen for the table, wiped the dishes, gray with\ndust, and prepared the _fricass\u00e9e_, which consisted, for this meal, of a\nragout of wild rabbits that M. le Cur\u00e9 looked at with a mischievous\ntwinkle in his eye, as he knew well this game could only be the result of\npoaching.\n\n\u201cThere,\u201d said he, trying to the best of his ability to cheer up his poor\nfriends, \u201cis a dish which does you honor, Mme. Ragaud, and that will be\nperfectly delicious if you will put a glass of white wine in the sauce.\nBut if you will let me give you a word of advice, don\u2019t feed those little\nanimals with cabbage.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d said Pierrette, astonished, thinking that M. le Cur\u00e9 mistook\nthe game for a tame rabbit.\n\n\u201cOh! yes,\u201d said he, \u201cthat animal smells of cabbage, unless I have lost the\nsense of smelling; and it spoils the taste very much.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, monsieur,\u201d answered Pierrette, half offended, \u201cthis is a wild\nrabbit, caught in the wood of La Sange.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot possible!\u201d cried M. le Cur\u00e9, feigning great astonishment. \u201cAnd since\nwhen has the farm of Muiceron, which I have always seen the best supplied\nin the country with poultry, sheep, pigeons, and all other productions,\nbeen reduced to buy game stolen from its master for food?\u201d\n\n\u201cMarion bought it,\u201d said Pierrette; \u201cthe poor girl goes after provisions,\nand don\u2019t look far; she brings back what she finds, without thinking of\nevil.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo Marion is mistress of the house now?\u201d said the _cur\u00e9_. \u201cMy dear\nfriends,\u201d he added, \u201cthis is a little incident which carries a great moral\nwith it. I wish no further evidence to prove to you how much your grief,\njust at the bottom, is hurtful and wrong in reality. When I came in,\nPierrette, I was pained at the disordered appearance of everything around.\nIn a little while Muiceron will resemble the estate of an idle, lazy man\nwho lets the ground lie fallow. What an example for the neighborhood, who\nlooked upon you as models! Come, come, you must change all this, my good\nchildren. Commence your work; there is enough to do. I bet, Ragaud, your\nhorses have not been curried for two weeks?\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas! monsieur, you are half right\u2014not curried as they should be,\u201d\nanswered Ragaud in a penitent tone.\n\n\u201cI must have lost more than six dozen eggs,\u201d said Pierrette, looking down.\n\n\u201cI know nothing about the eggs,\u201d resumed M. le Cur\u00e9; \u201cbut as for your\nchickens, who have not had a grain of food but the gravel they have\nscratched, they are so lean I wouldn\u2019t eat one of them if you gave it to\nme.\u201d\n\nThese reproaches piqued the self\u2010respect of our good people more than any\nnumber of long and learned speeches uttered in a severe tone. Pierrette\nwas deeply contrite for her faults. On setting the table, she could not\nkeep from the eyes of M. le Cur\u00e9, who spied everything designedly, the\nsix\u2010pound loaf of white bread which Marion had that very morning brought\nhome from the baker\u2019s. This loaf, that was long and split in the middle,\nwas not the least in the world like the bread made in the house, and\nproved that Pierrette had not kneaded the dough for a long time. Our\n_cur\u00e9_ would not let the bread pass unnoticed any more than the rabbit\u2010\nstew, said it was dry and tasteless\u2014which was true\u2014and seized this\nopportunity also to make his friends promise to resume their ordinary\ntrain of life.\n\nThe supper was not very gay, it must be acknowledged, but passed off\nquietly, and thus this visit of the _cur\u00e9_, which was followed by many\nothers, began to bring back peace in those hearts so crushed with sorrow.\n\nThe following Sunday, Jeannette, according to her promise, went to Val\u2010\nSaint, accompanied by her parents. She appeared neither too proud nor too\nsubdued, but just between the two\u2014that is to say, she moved along with a\nlook of perfect modesty, which won every one\u2019s respect, and made all the\nhats come off as she approached the church. Unfortunately, it is too true\nthat human nature is apt to rejoice over the misfortunes of others. It is\nas though each one said, at the sight of a thwack received by his\nneighbor, \u201cSo much the more on his back, so much the less on mine.\u201d And I\ndo not conceal from you that the people of Val\u2010Saint were not exempt from\nthis culpable weakness. On this very occasion even they were disposed to\nbe severe; for, in fact, the Ragauds\u2019 misfortunes were a little their own\nfault; and each one observed that if the parents had not been too proud\nand ambitious of making their daughter a young lady, she would not have\nbeen exposed to choose for husband a scoundrel whom they thought a\ngentleman. However, sincere pity replaced every other sentiment when they\nsaw this afflicted family reappear in broad daylight in such an humble\nattitude; and poor Ragaud, who had made a violent effort to come,\ngradually recovered his ease at the sight of the kind faces that\nsurrounded him. During the Mass, his old heart recovered its balance while\npraying to God. He felt that affliction is a good means of becoming\nbetter, because it draws the soul to its Creator, whom we are too often\ntempted to forget in the days of uninterrupted happiness; and when the\ndivine office was ended, he could without difficulty stop in the village\nsquare, and shake hands with several of his friends.\n\nThen they went to the pastoral residence, where the _cur\u00e9_ received them\njoyfully, and they ate with relish the dish of larks, which was done to a\nturn. At the dessert, the Ragauds looked like people restored to life, so\nmuch balm had that genial morning infused into their blood. Jeannette\nalone did not share the general happiness, and her bitter sadness, which\ncould not be disguised, in spite of the care she took to smile and speak\nat the right time, was visible to all. It must be said to her praise that\nher vanity, which had been so crushed, was the least wound of her heart;\nshe felt there another so much deeper, so much more painful, nothing, she\nthought, could ever cure it.\n\nWhere was Jean\u2010Louis? What had become of that brother she had driven out\nso roughly and unjustly? Her great seclusion since the terrible event had\nprevented her hearing a single word about him, and she dared not question\nany one.\n\nAs for the Ragauds, father and mother, they never mentioned him either,\nbut for another reason. Ignorant that Jeannette had turned the poor boy\nout of the house, they were still firmly convinced of his jealousy; and as\nthey believed him to be employed on some farm in the neighborhood, they\nwere very much incensed at his prolonged absence, which, in view of the\npresent circumstances, appeared the act of an ungrateful and hard heart.\n\nM. le Cur\u00e9, who knew all, and had Solange\u2019s letter in his pocket,\ndesignedly prolonged the grief of Jeannette and the mistake of the\nRagauds, in order that the lesson might be duly profitable to all.\n\n\u201cYou see,\u201d said he, \u201ceverything has happened as I foresaw. Fearing to\ndisplease you, I did not invite any one to our little entertainment; but\nunderstand well, my children, if I had had fifty vacant places at my\ntable, I would have had great difficulty in choosing my guests; so many\nwould have desired the pleasure of dining with you, I would have been\nafraid of exciting jealousy.\u201d\n\n\u201cM. le Cur\u00e9,\u201d said Ragaud, \u201cI thank you, and hope that your kindness was\nnot mistaken. I speak the truth when I say that, but for you, I would have\ndied rather than ever again have shown my face in public.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, now that it is all over, let us talk of our friends,\u201d replied the\n_cur\u00e9_. \u201cAre you not curious to hear some news?\u201d\n\nNo one replied; the tender chord was again touched.\n\n\u201cI do not conceal the fact,\u201d said Ragaud, \u201cthat more than one of those so\u2010\ncalled _friends_ have pained us by their neglect.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us be just,\u201d said the _cur\u00e9_; \u201cdo you forget that your house was so\ntightly closed no one dared knock at the door? I even hesitated to visit\nyou, and yet you cannot doubt my affection for you. Why, then, should\nothers have been bolder?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d said Ragaud, \u201cany one that wished could easily have found his way\nin. You had no difficulty, dear monsieur.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat I grant, but I was in the country. Do you know how many of your best\nfriends are here yet? In the first place, the whole of the ch\u00e2teau are in\nParis.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I know it,\u201d said Jeanne. \u201cMy godmother did not bid me good\u2010by.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe was very sick, my daughter; you must not ill\u2010judge her.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd Michou?\u201d asked Ragaud.\n\n\u201cMichou was at Mass, directly behind you,\u201d said the _cur\u00e9_; \u201cand if he did\nnot show himself, it was from delicacy; but he is not far off, and will\ncome at the first signal.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd Solange?\u201d asked Jeanne, in such a low tone she scarcely could be\nheard. That was the name the _cur\u00e9_ was waiting for. He looked at Jeanne\nin a serious manner.\n\n\u201cSolange,\u201d said he, \u201cleft also on that unfortunate day, and knew nothing\nof it. She, Jeanne Ragaud, was your most faithful friend, and is so still.\nYou have calumniated her, my daughter. I know it; but I hope you have\nsincerely repented; above all, when you hear that she is now at the\nnovitiate of the Sisters of Charity.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! is it possible?\u201d cried she, clasping her hands. \u201cDear Solange! how\nunjust I have been to her!\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you not been unjust to others also, my child?\u201d asked the _cur\u00e9_ with\ngentleness. \u201cConfess it, Jeannette; you should do so from a sense of\njustice.\u201d\n\nJeannette hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears. The question\nhad pierced her soul.\n\n\u201cM. le Cur\u00e9,\u201d said Pierrette, \u201cI know of whom you wish to speak; but he, I\nbelieve, has not left the country, and his conduct, therefore, is scarcely\nexcusable.\u201d\n\n\u201cAsk your daughter,\u201d replied the _cur\u00e9_; \u201cshe, undoubtedly, can answer\nthat question.\u201d\n\nAnd as Jeannette could not speak on account of her tears, he continued:\n\n\u201cWhat could he do, poor boy! but disappear when the only roof that could\nshelter him refused to receive him. He is no longer here, Mme. Ragaud,\nthat child who loved you so dearly, and who had proved it so well. An\ninconsiderate word has driven him from your arms, and, having no other\nresource in this world, he is going to become a soldier, doubtless in the\nhope of dying honorably in fighting for his country.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever did I drive off Jean\u2010Louis, monsieur,\u201d said good Pierrette; \u201cno,\nnever, I can truly swear.\u201d\n\n\u201cNor I,\u201d said Ragaud; \u201cand at this very moment I am ready to redeem him\nfrom the conscription.\u201d\n\n\u201cHowever, he is gone,\u201d replied the _cur\u00e9_; \u201cand he, like Solange, did not\nknow you were in trouble.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d cried Jeanne, falling on her knees, \u201cI did it all. Heaven has justly\npunished me. Tell me where he is, M. le Cur\u00e9; he will not refuse to pardon\nme, I am so unhappy.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did you do?\u201d asked Pierrette. \u201cAlas! all this worry has turned the\npoor child\u2019s head. Of what do you wish to accuse yourself, my daughter?\u201d\n\nOld Ragaud, who was not easily moved, approached the little thing and\nplaced his hand on her head. He was very much affected to see her thus,\nkneeling and weeping, in the posture of a guilty person. He looked at M.\nle Cur\u00e9, who looked at Jeannette, and Pierrette looked at all three.\n\nThen that young girl did something very touching and unusual. She wiped\nher eyes, and, without rising, commenced in a sweet, low voice the true\nconfession of all her past conduct, not sparing herself, as was right and\njust, and yet neither showing excitement nor too great bitterness against\nherself, which was the mark of sincere repentance. As she spoke, her face\nregained its color, and her eyes shone with holy joy; for the Lord, who\nsaw her laudable intention, rewarded her with great interior relief for\ndoing what for many others would have been the greatest mortification.\nWhen she had finished, she remained with her hands clasped, and her head\nbent low, before her parents and M. le Cur\u00e9; but no person broke the\nsilence. Of the three witnesses of this affecting scene, two wept behind\ntheir handkerchiefs, and the third, wishing to preserve his gravity as\npastor, was too much moved to articulate a word.\n\n\u201cFather,\u201d continued Jeannette in the same humble and firm tone, \u201cjudge me,\nnow that you know how guilty I am. It is to you I speak, in presence of my\nmother and M. le Cur\u00e9, and I am ready to submit to whatever punishment you\nmay inflict upon me. I have deprived you of a son who made you happy, that\nyou might keep a daughter who has only drawn misery and sorrow on your\nhouse. But that daughter is still capable of loving you; let her remain\nwith you, that she may make reparation for her sins. I know I do not\ndeserve it,\u201d added she after a moment\u2019s silence.\n\n\u201cMy daughter,\u201d said M. le Cur\u00e9, \u201cyou have done well. Rise; the good God\npardons you, and your parents also, very certainly.\u201d\n\n\u201cO my poor darling! most surely,\u201d said Pierrette, pressing her child to\nher breast.\n\n\u201cAnd you, Ragaud, will you not embrace your daughter?\u201d asked M. le Cur\u00e9.\n\nThe good farmer, you may well think, had no desire to be severe. He kissed\nJeannette with great tenderness, and made her sit down by him. But his\nheart was much troubled; now that he understood his injustice towards\nJean\u2010Louis, and his rash judgment, and remembering how easy it would have\nbeen for him to have prevented his departure by speaking a friendly word\nat the right time, he reproached himself as bitterly as Jeannette had\ndone; and if his paternal dignity had not prevented him from humiliating\nhimself before his child, he would have been tempted to confess in his\nturn.\n\n\u201cM. le Cur\u00e9,\u201d said he, \u201cif God one day will let us know where Jean\u2010Louis\nis, do you think he would consent to return?\u201d\n\n\u201cHem!\u201d said the _cur\u00e9_, \u201che is proud; that remains to be seen....\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I would beg him so hard,\u201d replied Jeanne.\n\n\u201cIn the first place, my child, we must put our hands on him; and there is\nthe difficulty. Jeannet is not a boy to change his resolution like a\nweathercock that turns to every wind. And if he has enlisted, you will\nhave to run after his regiment.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor child!\u201d said Ragaud, \u201che don\u2019t know that he has a little fortune\nstowed away in a safe place, and that it increases every year. If it\nshould cost three thousand francs, I will redeem him, no matter where, no\nmatter when.\u201d\n\n\u201cFather,\u201d said Jeanne, \u201cbefore leaving M. le Cur\u00e9, let me ask you one\nfavor in his presence.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak, my child, I promise it to you in advance,\u201d answered the good man.\n\n\u201cThat you will never speak to me of marriage,\u201d replied the little thing in\na firm voice, \u201cand that you will let me assist my mother in all her labors\nin the fields.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd when mademoiselle comes back?\u201d asked the _cur\u00e9_, with a spice of\nmischief.\n\n\u201cOh! I understand too well that my place is no longer at the ch\u00e2teau; all\nour troubles have come from my having lived there too long,\u201d said she.\n\n\u201cJeanne Ragaud,\u201d said M. le Cur\u00e9, \u201calways think so, and conform your\nconduct to your words; and if you will persevere in your resolution, in\nthe name of the Lord I promise you that these trials will pass, and that\nyou will yet have many happy days.\u201d\n\nM. le Cur\u00e9 pronounced these words in such a serious tone they all three\nfelt wonderfully comforted. We can truly say that this Sunday was one of\nthe happiest days in the life of the Ragauds. They went back to Muiceron\nwith courage and peace in their souls, and on the next day each one set to\nwork to repair the damage that two weeks of discouragement and gloom had\nintroduced into that poor forlorn house.\n\nThe days passed rapidly between work and household duties faithfully\naccomplished. Gradually the remembrance of the recent misfortunes lost its\nbitterness, and they were even able to speak of them sometimes to Jacques\nMichou, who came frequently to visit his friends. As the police sought in\nvain for Isidore, people ended by letting him drop; and, as always\nhappens, each one having resumed his usual course of affairs, they came to\nthe conclusion that perhaps he was not so guilty as had seemed at first\nsight; so that, but for their ignorance as to the fate of Jean\u2010Louis, one\nmonth after the catastrophe the Ragauds appeared as happy and tranquil as\nbefore.\n\nM. le Cur\u00e9 was not so ignorant, being kept fully informed by Jean\u2010Louis,\nwho wrote to him regularly, but left to his wisdom to confide what he\nchose to the family at Muiceron. He preferred to keep a strict silence,\nfor the very good reason that he wished to prove, by a long trial, the\nsincerity of Jeannette\u2019s conversion. Thank God! on that side there was\nnothing to apprehend. Solange, with her great charity of soul, had not\nbeen mistaken in thinking Jeannette\u2019s head weaker than her heart.\n\nMisfortune had so purified and strengthened the little creature, Jean\u2010\nLouis would have loved her more than ever, could he have seen her thus\nchanged; for although nothing is perfect in this world, I can truly say,\nwithout exaggeration, she was now as near perfection as could be expected\nof anything human.\n\nPierrette, who at first wished to spare her little hands, so unaccustomed\nto work, did not wish her to undertake any of the heavier labor; but\nJeannette was so quick and ready, the hardest and most difficult tasks\nwere always accomplished by the time her mother came to give directions.\nShe was the first at the stables in the morning, which she never left\nuntil all was in order, the fresh milk placed aside, and the cream taken\noff that of the evening before; on churning days she prepared the wheels\nof the machine, which would afterwards be turned by Marion. It was she\nalso who measured the ashes for the lye used in the big wash the fifteenth\nof every month; and every week gave out the flour, half wheat, half rye,\nfor the family bread. So great was her zeal she even wished to knead the\ndough, and put the loaves in the oven, which is terribly hard work; but\nthis time Pierrette showed her authority, and declared she would sooner\ngive up baking at home than see her daughter wear herself out at the\nkneading\u2010trough like a baker\u2019s son\u2010in\u2010law.\n\nFrom time to time, M. le Cur\u00e9 visited Muiceron at unusual hours, so that\nhis appearance would be entirely unexpected, and always found Jeannette\nbusy with her household labors, or, if it was late in the day, seated by\nthe window, mending the clothes and linen of the family.\n\nHer dress was always very simple, even on Sunday, and you may well think\nthat mademoiselle\u2019s beautiful dresses were left hanging in the closet\nwithout being even looked at occasionally. For another girl it would have\nbeen advisable economy to make some use of them by altering the style, so\nas to fit them for the farm; but Jeannette was too rich for any one to\naccuse her of extravagance for not using them, and it was every way better\nshe should not reappear in costumes that would recall a time which,\nalthough passed, still left a painful memory.\n\nShe generally wore a serge skirt, striped in black and white, with a\nwoollen basque which corresponded; and her Indian neckerchief from Rouen,\ncovered with little bouquets of bright flowers, crossed in front, under\nher apron, was in no way more pretentious or coquettish than that of her\nmother Pierrette.\n\nShe even wore the cap of our country\u2010girls, which consists of a head\u2010piece\nof linen, with long ends of lawn, which they cross above the head on the\ndays they wish to appear very fine. Coquettes know how to make themselves\nvery elegant by adding embroidery and lace; but Jeanne Ragaud, who could\nhave bought out a mercer\u2019s shop, thought no longer of beautifying herself,\nmuch less her cap. Thus dressed, she looked more like a quiet little\noutdoor sister of some convent than the sole heiress of a large estate.\nShe was told so sometimes, which highly delighted her, as she wished to\nappear in everything totally different from what she had been.\n\nIt needed a little courage to act thus before the eyes of the whole\ncommune. Jeannette knew that after being called for ten years the vainest,\nsilliest little peacock in the country, she was now looked upon as an\nexaggerated devotee; and, what was worse, some said she had thrown herself\ninto the arms of the good God because her marriage had been broken off.\n\n\u201cWait and see,\u201d said the busy tongues; \u201conly let her dear Perdreau come\nback, and all the fine dresses will be taken from the hooks, as before his\ndeparture.\u201d\n\nFor they were persuaded she adored him, and that she still preserved, in\nthe bottom of her heart, a tender remembrance, mingled with regret, which\nonly waited an opportunity to show itself. Now, one\u2019s nature is not\nchanged, no matter how great is the desire to correct it, and you know\nthat Jeannette was passionate and excitable. She therefore had much to\nsuffer, and did suffer in silence, thinking that all these mortifications\nwould aid her to expiate her sins, and to merit from the good God the\nfavor of Jean\u2010Louis\u2019 return, which now was the sole object of all her\nthoughts, desires, and prayers.\n\nTo see again the friend of her childhood; to soothe together the declining\nyears of her old parents; to converse with him as in old times; to resume\nthe gentle friendship, which now was so ardently desired by her poor\nlittle heart; to ask his pardon; and to make him so happy that he would\nforget the past\u2014this was what this repentant, loving child thought of by\nday, and dreamt of all night, waking or sleeping. As her conversion had\nnot deprived her of penetration, she quickly guessed that the good _cur\u00e9_\nknew every movement of Jean\u2010Louis from A to Z; and it was amusing to see\nthe way in which she would turn and turn again her questions, in the most\ninnocent manner, so as to obtain some enlightenment on the subject. But\nour _cur\u00e9_ read this young soul like an open book, and, although he\nadmired all that the Lord was working in it for her good, pursued the\ntrial, and, under the manner of an old grandfather, kind\u2010hearted and\ntender, did not allow her to gain from him one foot of ground. However,\noccasionally he pretended to be surprised, taken by storm. It was when he\nwould see the little thing sadder than usual, and ready to be discouraged.\nThen he would loose the string two or three inches\u2014that is to say, he\nwould say a word here and there, to make it appear he would speak openly\nat his next visit; and when that day came, he played the part of a person\nvery much astonished that anything was expected from him.\n\nHowever, like everything else, this had to come to an end. Half through\npity, half through wisdom, the dear _cur\u00e9_ thought\u2014as he said himself\u2014that\nif the bow was too much bent, it would break; so one morning, having\nfinished his Mass and eaten his frugal breakfast, he went to Muiceron,\nwith the intention of conversing seriously with the Ragauds, and telling\nthem all that he knew of good Jean\u2010Louis.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nHome Rule For Ireland.\n\n\nThe term Home Rule as applied to British politics, in its local\nsignification, has been a very unfamiliar one to American readers until\nquite recently, and even yet it is not generally recognized as the watch\u2010\nword of a powerful and growing political party in and outside of the\nEnglish Parliament, which has its headquarters in Ireland, and numerous\nramifications extending throughout the principal cities and towns of\nEngland, Wales, and Scotland. In its leading features and designs this new\norganization may be said to be in fact the revival by another generation\nof the one formerly founded and led by O\u2019Connell, and, like its prototype,\nis established for the purpose of effecting by constitutional means the\nabrogation of the treaty of union between Great Britain and Ireland, which\nwas so delusively concocted and ratified, in the name of those countries,\nat the close of the last century; and the consequent reconstruction of the\nIrish Parliament on a footing of equality with that of England.\n\nIt is by no means what might be called a revolutionary movement, for it\nseeks neither to pull down nor destroy, by force or conspiracy, those\nbulwarks which society has raised for its own protection against lawless\nand unscrupulous demagogues; its object is simply to restore, as far as\ndesirable and practicable, the old order of things, and to redress, even\nat this late day, an act of flagrant wrong and injustice done three\u2010\nquarters of a century ago to a long misgoverned people, by restoring to\nthem the right and power to regulate their own domestic affairs, subject,\nof course, to the authority of the common sovereign of the United\nKingdoms.\n\nThe history of the treaty and acts of legislative union between Great\nBritain and Ireland, and of the motives which conduced to the formation of\nthe conspiracy against the independence of an entire nation; of the plots\nformed in the fertile brain of Mr. Pitt against the civil and religious\nliberties of the sister kingdom, and but too successfully carried out by\nCastlereagh, Cooke, and other officials in Dublin, has never been\nsufficiently studied, even in this country, where every measure affecting\nthe freedom of mankind, in what part of Christendom soever, possesses\npeculiar interest. This defective knowledge of a subject comparatively\nmodern may be attributed partly to the fact that we Americans have been\ntoo much in the habit of looking at foreign politics through English\nspectacles, and in part because there seems to be a principle in human\nnature which inclines us to ignore, if not despise, the sufferings of the\nneedy and unfortunate. Vanquished nations are regarded generally as are\npoor relations whom no one cares to know or acknowledge.\n\nAnd yet the circumstances which eventually led to the destruction of the\nIrish Parliament were almost contemporary with, and to a certain degree\ngrew out of, our own Revolution. The causes that effected the severance of\nthe North American colonies from the mother country, and facilitated the\nconsummation of our aspirations for independence, operated, paradoxical as\nit may seem, to bind Ireland firmer in the chains of alien thraldom, as\nwell as to extinguish the last spark of her freedom.\n\nIt is generally conceded that the Irish Parliament, from its inception in\nthe XIVth century till 1782, was not only not the legitimate legislative\nrepresentative of even a moiety of the people of that country, but was\nactually a very efficient instrument in the hands of their enemies. At\nfirst it was merely an irregular gathering of the nobles and chief men of\nthe \u201cPale\u201d\u2014a term applied for hundreds of years after the invasion to four\nor five counties on the eastern and southeastern sea\u2010board, over which the\nAnglo\u2010Normans held sway. Whenever a raid on the native chieftains was\nprojected, or a scheme of spoliation to be adopted, it had long been the\ncustom of the lord deputy, or other representative of English authority,\nto summon the heads of Anglo\u2010Irish houses and a few of the principal\nburghers of the larger towns and cities within his jurisdiction, to meet\nhim at Dublin, Drogheda, or Kilkenny, and, having given the motley\ngathering the sonorous title of parliament, to demand the enactment of new\nstatutes against the \u201cIrish enemy,\u201d or to extort fresh levies of men and\nmoney for his incursions into the interior.\n\nGradually, however, those erratic assemblies began to assume form and\nregularity, and even to display a certain independence of action\ndistasteful to the governing power. As English conquest in Ireland\ngradually widened its sphere, particularly in Leinster and Munster, the\nnumber of members who attended those sessions increased; and as the\ndescendants of the invaders, having lost the attachment of their\nforefathers to England, naturally evinced a desire to legislate for\nthemselves, it was thought desirable in London to nip in the bud a flower\nwhich might insensibly expand into national independence. Accordingly, in\nthe reign of the seventh Henry, the Irish Parliament being still weak and\nyielding, a bill was passed by it acknowledging the dependence of that\nbody on the king of England and his council. This act, called after its\noriginator, Poynings, most effectually repressed the aspirations of the\nonly representative body in the kingdom, and produced the desired results.\nBut as if this were not enough, we find subsequently, in the reign of\nWilliam and Mary especially, instances of the English Parliament\nlegislating directly for Ireland; and in the sixth of George I. there was\npassed a declaratory act which, if any vestiges of freedom or manhood yet\nremained in the Irish Parliament, most effectually destroyed them. These\nefforts, thus made from time to time to destroy the liberty and efficiency\nof the Parliament, naturally disgusted a great many of its members who had\nthe least spark of self\u2010respect or personal honor left, and drove them\nfrom the nation\u2019s councils; those who remained being almost without\nexception government officials or newly\u2010arrived and needy adventurers,\nignorant of the character, wants, and wishes of the people, who hoped, by\nthe display of extraordinary zeal and sycophancy, to push their fortunes\nand find favor in the eyes of the Castle authorities. It is not\nsurprising, then, that a body composed of such elements should have\nunhesitatingly voted away the royalty of the ancient kingdom to Henry\nVIII., whose predecessors never claimed a higher title than that of lord;\nthat at the bidding of the same monster, it officially and almost\nunanimously declared for the Reformation, and with equal alacrity, in the\nreign of his daughter Mary, explicitly repudiated everything it had done a\nfew years previously.\n\nYet it still bore the semblance of a national legislature; and, gradually\nyielding to the influence of a growing public opinion, some good men,\nCatholics as well as Protestants, were again to be found among its members\nin the subsequent reigns, until that of William III., when, by an\nunconstitutional law of the English Parliament, the former were for ever\nexcluded, and never during its existence was one of that proscribed faith\nallowed to sit on its benches. From this reign also may be dated the many\ncruel penal enactments, over one hundred in number, which disgraced its\nstatute\u2010books; though, to do its members justice, they never went so far\nin ferocity and ingenuity as did their brethren of London at the same\nperiod and even long previously.\n\nBut though four\u2010fifths of the people were disfranchised and their co\u2010\nreligionists denied a seat in the Parliament, that body was again\ngradually approaching the assertion of its right of self\u2010legislation. A\nnew generation had sprung up during the later half of the XVIIIth century\nwho knew not William of Orange nor the bitter anti\u2010Irish prejudices that\ncharacterized his followers. The bold, incisive, and satirical writings of\nSwift, the learned disquisitions of Molyneux, and the homely but vigorous\nappeals of Lucas, had not been without their effect on the young students\nof Trinity and other colleges, fresh from the study of the lessons of\nhuman liberty so frequently found in classic lore; and the consequence was\nthat when they entered the Parliament as members, confident in their\nposition as gentlemen of fortune, and self\u2010reliant, not only from their\naristocratic connections, but from their innate sense of mental\nsuperiority, language began to be heard and applauded which, for elegance,\ngrace, and manliness, had never been equalled in that hall before. The\noutbreak of our Revolution, the broad principles of justice and humanity\nlaid down in the speeches and writings of our ancestors, and the trumpet\u2010\ntoned Declaration of Independence occurring at the same time, gave an\nimpetus and a clarity of ideas on questions of government which, up to\nthat time, had assumed neither form nor consistency.\n\nThe first symptoms of active agitation for their political rights may be\nsaid to have sprung up at this period among the Irish of all conditions\nand creeds, but more especially in Ulster and the cities of Dublin, Cork,\nand Limerick\u2014the homes of manufactures and the centres of produce,\nexports, etc. Their grievances were of two classes: restriction on foreign\ntrade, and parliamentary dependence and corruption. Under the first head,\nit was charged, and with great truth, that Irish merchants were prohibited\nby English laws from trading with France, Spain, Portugal, Holland, many\nof the West India Islands, and the whole of Asia, for the purpose of\nbenefiting their rivals in England; thus utterly crippling the\nmanufacturing interests of the country, and completely stopping the\nexportation to these markets of farm products, of which she had even then\na superabundant supply. This limitation of commerce had long been not only\nthe principal cause of the impoverishment of the nation, but a fruitful\nsource of clamor and popular discontent, which had invariably been\nunheeded by the dominant power as long as it was able to repress them by\nthe strong arm. At length, however, a change was about to take place. Soon\nafter our War of Independence broke out and the French alliance was\ncemented, England was obliged to withdraw from Ireland nearly the whole of\nher military and naval forces, thus leaving the latter undefended by\neither regulars or militia, and at any moment open to attack from the\nallies. Indeed, Paul Jones several times appeared on the coast, and in\n1779\u201080 the Franco\u2010Spanish fleets were absolute masters of the Channel.\nThe people, kept in a constant state of alarm, at last determined to arm\nfor mutual protection; and thus was originated that short\u2010lived but\nremarkable body of citizen soldiery known as the Irish Volunteers.\n\nThe movement began in Belfast in August, 1778, and before two years\nelapsed it had spread over the whole country, and counted on its muster\u2010\nrolls nearly one hundred thousand men, fully armed and equipped at their\nown expense. Noblemen, judges, magistrates, and prominent members of\nParliament were proud to serve in the Volunteers as company or field\nofficers; and Lord Charlemont, one of the most accomplished and liberal\nmembers of his order, accepted the office of commander\u2010in\u2010chief.\n\nThe external security of the island having thus been amply provided for,\nattention was naturally turned to internal evils. Various meetings of\nVolunteers were held in the several counties, and strong resolutions\npassed in favor of the freedom of foreign trade. The Castle authorities\nwere not in a position to resist a demand so made; the Irish Parliament,\nled by such men as Grattan, Flood, and other nationalists, voted in favor\nof the immediate emancipation of commerce; and the British premier, Lord\nNorth, in December, 1779, submitted three propositions to the English\nParliament to permit the export of glass and woollens from Ireland, and\npermission for her to trade with the American colonies, Africa, and the\nWest Indies. During the following February, a bill embodying these\nprovisions was introduced by the ministry, and passed with little\nopposition.\n\nThis point gained, the Volunteers set to work to free the Irish Parliament\nitself from all dependence on the London Privy Council and the Parliament\nof the sister kingdom. In April, 1780, Grattan moved his Declaration of\nRights, which avowed, among other truths, \u201cthat his most excellent\nmajesty, by and with the consent of the lords and commons of Ireland, are\nthe only power competent to enact the laws to bind Ireland.\u201d This\nresolution was, however, opposed on technical grounds, and withdrawn.\nDuring the following year, Mr. Yelverton asked leave to bring in a bill\nvirtually repealing Poynings\u2019 law, which was granted by a vote of 167\nagainst 37, though later in the session Flood\u2019s motion of a similar\npurport was defeated by a majority of 72. The people, who had anxiously\nwatched the action of their representatives, were now in a ferment of\nexcitement, and numerous meetings of civilians and Volunteers were held\nthroughout the provinces, the most noteworthy of which was the convention\nof the Ulster Volunteers at Dungannon, February 15, 1782. This powerful\nassembly passed a series of manly resolutions in favor of the right of the\nsubject to bear arms, to express his opinions freely on political affairs,\nand to worship God according to the dictates of his conscience; but the\none most to the point read as follows: \u201c_Resolved_, unanimously, That a\nclaim of any body of men other than the king, lords, and commons of\nIreland to make laws to bind this kingdom is unconstitutional, illegal,\nand a grievance.\u201d This was followed up by like meetings in the other\nsections of the country, at which similar resolutions were adopted. A few\ndays after there was a change of ministry in England, and of course a\nchange of policy. Messages were sent in the name of the king to both\nParliaments, ordering them to take into their most serious consideration\n\u201cthe discontents and jealousies prevailing among his loyal subjects of\nIreland, in order to such a final adjustment as may give mutual\nsatisfaction to both kingdoms.\u201d The answer of the Irish Parliament to this\ndemand met with no opposition on the question of its adoption, though it\ndeclared emphatically \u201cthat there is no body of men competent to make laws\nto bind this nation except the king, lords, and commons of Ireland; nor\nany other parliament which hath any authority or power of any sort\nwhatever in this country save only the Parliament of Ireland.\u201d There was\nno mistaking or avoiding this expression of public opinion, endorsed as it\nhad been by a national army able and willing to second their demands; so\nin May, 1782, the act of sixth George I. was repealed in the English\nParliament, and the old objectionable law of Poynings simultaneously\nsuffered a similar fate in that of Ireland.\n\nIrish trade was now free, and Irish legislation independent at least of\nalien dictation; but another great task lay before the Volunteers, which\nunless accomplished, their well\u2010won victories were likely to prove barren\nindeed. This was the purification of their own House of Commons, and the\nright of representation for the people at large. That the popular branch\nof the legislature wanted reformation badly may be judged from the\n_status_ of its members as given by contemporary writers. Only seventy\u2010two\nof them were returned by vote; one hundred and thirty\u2010three sat for\n\u201cnomination\u201d or \u201cclose\u201d boroughs, absolutely controlled by a few peers;\nninety\u2010five were similarly sent to the Parliament by about fifty\ncommoners; so that, out of the three hundred members of the house, two\nhundred and twenty\u2010eight were wholly and solely dependent for their seats\non less than half their own number. When we consider, also, that of those\ncreatures at least one\u2010half were officials, pensioners, or expectants of\npensions and government favors, we can well imagine how little reliance\ncould be placed on their integrity or honesty in a struggle between a\nhostile, inimical power and the people; and it must also be remembered\nthat at that time neither the right of representation nor of suffrage was\nallowed to the Catholics, who comprised seventy or eighty per cent. of the\nentire population.\n\nThe Volunteers, therefore, set to work to do for their countrymen what\nfifty years afterwards was at least partially effected by the Emancipation\nand Reform Acts for the United Kingdoms. They again held meetings, passed\nresolutions, and even called a national convention to meet in Dublin\nduring the Parliamentary session of 1783\u20104. One hundred and sixty\ndelegates accordingly met in the Rotunda amid the general congratulations\nof the citizens and the high hopes of the nation. But, alas! this sanguine\nconfidence in the manliness and liberality of the delegates soon received\na shock so rude that its effects were felt in the most remote parts of the\nisland, and carried with them gloom and dismay to the masses of the\npeople.\n\nThe Volunteers were an essentially, and it might be said an exclusively,\nProtestant organization from the beginning, but it was earnestly supported\nby the Catholics from a feeling that unrestricted trade and legislative\nindependence were national boons of the first importance, as well as from\nan apparently well\u2010founded trust that, these being obtained, the\nabrogation of the penal laws and the right of representation would\nspeedily follow. They could not believe that an influential but very small\nminority, seeking liberty for themselves, would persistently deny it to\nthe large majority of their countrymen. They were now about to be\nundeceived. One of the very first resolutions passed at the convention\nread as follows: \u201c_Resolved_, That the _Protestant_ inhabitants of this\ncountry are required by the statute law to carry arms and to learn the use\nof them,\u201d etc.; and, lest any doubt should remain of the bigotry and\nnarrow\u2010mindedness which pervaded the representatives of the Volunteers,\nthe plan of reform, as drawn up by Flood and subsequently adopted, was\nmade to read thus: \u201cThat every _Protestant_ freeholder or leaseholder,\npossessing a freehold or leasehold for a certain term of years of forty\nshillings\u2019 value, resident in any city or borough, should be entitled to\nvote at the election of a member for the same.\u201d\n\nThe limitation of the right to bear arms and to vote to Protestants only\nwas the destruction of the moral as well as physical power of the\nVolunteers, and a death\u2010blow to the longings and aspirations of the\npatriotic Catholics. It was more than a blunder, it was a crime\u2014a piece of\nrank, selfish hypocrisy, which ill became men who had the words of freemen\non their lips, but, it appears, the feelings of tyrants in their hearts.\nIn vain did the Irish Catholics protest in a series of resolutions; in\nvain did the Earl of Bristol, then Protestant Bishop of Derry, vehemently\nadvocate the claims of the people to something like religious and social\nequality. The convention was deaf to all remonstrance and entreaty, and\nblindly rushed to its own destruction.\n\nIt had taken the only step that could have gratified its enemies, and, by\nthrowing away the friendship and support of the vast majority of the\npopulation, it left itself exposed and naked to the attacks and\nmachinations of the Castle authorities. Pending the American war, England\nlooked with fear and anxiety on that large body of armed men that could at\nany time, and with little risk, sever the connection between the two\ncountries, for she was powerless to resist them; yet, when somewhat\nrecovered from her humiliating defeats in her quondam colonies, she turned\nall her attention and used all her art to destroy not only the Volunteers,\nbut the Parliament that had recognized and fostered them. She was\ndetermined, if possible, that such a dreaded contingency should not occur\nagain. The convention, as we have seen, had rejected the moderate demands\nof the Catholics, many of whom, despairing of justice in that quarter,\nnaturally looked to the government for some modification of their\ndisabilities; while the Parliament, always under official control, took\nadvantage of the occasion to sow division and discord among its members.\nWhen Flood, fresh from the Rotunda, moved for leave to bring in a reform\nbill embodying the plans of the convention, it was refused by a majority\nof eighty in a total vote of two hundred and thirty\u2010four.\n\nThe history of Ireland from this time till the close of the century could\nwell be blotted out, for the sake of human nature, from the annals of the\nrace. The Volunteers, who ought not only to have been the defenders of the\ncountry from foreign enemies, but the protectors of the civil rights of\ntheir countrymen at home, after the scornful rejection of their claims by\nParliament and the adjournment of their convention, ceased to be either\nfeared or respected. Many of their most prominent officers went over to\nthe government, others of more advanced views joined the secret society\nknown as the United Irishmen. The English authorities, having thus\nsucceeded in their first project even beyond their expectations, applied\nthemselves with extraordinary industry to carry out the second. Agrarian\noutrages became more frequent; \u201cPeep\u2010o\u2019\u2010day boys\u201d and \u201cDefenders\u201d\nterrified the peaceful farmers of one or other side; Orangemen were petted\nand armed, while Catholic bishops and priests were deluded with false\npromises; the royal grant to Maynooth College was increased at the same\ntime that martial law was proclaimed in the most peaceful Catholic\ndistricts; and churches were being burned to the ground unrestrictedly by\nthose who wore the king\u2019s livery. At the general election, which took\nplace in 1790, the most scandalous means were adopted to secure a\nthoroughly subservient majority in the lower house; and, lest this should\nnot be sufficient, new peers were created through corrupt influence, in\norder that the lords might not offer any opposition to the behests of the\nCastle.\n\nIt is difficult to imagine the scenes of outrage, rapine, private revenge,\nand general consternation which grew out of a persistence in so wily and\nnefarious a policy. Supported secretly by the authorities, the Orangemen\nbecame utterly regardless of the lives of their Catholic neighbors; while\nthey, with a choice only between the oppression of an armed faction of\nbigots on one side, and the tender mercies of English law on the other,\nnaturally inclined to the latter as the lesser of two evils, and began to\nlong for imperial protection. There were many, however, who joined the\nUnited Irishmen, and here again arose another division. That society was a\nsworn secret organization, and, as such, the hierarchy and the priesthood\nwere bound to condemn it, no matter how much they may have sympathized\nwith its aims, and to denounce all who were in its ranks.\n\nBut notwithstanding the state of fear, confusion, and disruption to which\nthe country was reduced, the English officials still feared to bring\nbefore the Parliament the question of a union. A blow must first be struck\nthat would drive terror into the hearts of the whole people; so terrible\nand sanguinary that even the greatest lover of his country\u2019s independence\nwould, it was hoped, gladly desire peace and order, even at the price of\nBritish connection. This was done in 1798. The United Irishmen proposed to\nresort to armed insurrection and an appeal for French support, but as yet\nhad committed no overt act of treason. The government, which had all along\nbeen cognizant of their schemes and movements, resolved to anticipate them\nby driving the country into premature rebellion; its tactics differing,\nhowever, in various localities. To Wexford, always a very peaceful,\nCatholic county, where there were very few United Irishmen, they sent the\ninfamous North Cork militia, whose cruelty was only surpassed by their\nabject cowardice. These miscreants were to a man Orangemen, and their line\nof march to the town of Wexford, for miles on both sides, was marked by\nthe ruins of burned chapels and the corpses of slaughtered peasantry. It\nwas only then that the people of that country rose up in arms, seeking\n\u201cthe wild justice of revenge,\u201d and waged on the murdrous brood a war\nwhich, for bravery and decisiveness during the time it lasted, has few\nparallels in modern history. In Dublin, the chiefs of the intended\ninsurrection were suddenly seized, imprisoned, and many of them finally\nexecuted. The Presbyterians of Ulster, the originators of the United\nsystem, were hurried into untimely outbreaks by the knowledge of the\ndiscovery of their designs, and, after three or four detached efforts at\nrebellion, were easily put down by the militia and regular troops. Then\ncame the judicial murders, drum\u2010head courts\u2010martial, torture and death. No\nman, no matter how innocent, considered himself safe, and no woman was\nfree from insult and outrage. The spirit of the government seemed to be\ninfused into all its officials from the highest judge on the bench to the\nlowest constable, and that spirit was one of terrorism and slaughter.\n\nIreland was now prostrate, defenceless, and bleeding from every artery and\nvein, and this was considered a fitting time to rob her of her Parliament,\nand snatch from her enervated grasp the last remnant of her independence.\nThe measure was introduced into both Parliaments almost simultaneously, at\nfirst with doubtful success, but afterwards carried with little\ndifficulty, except the expenditure of enormous sums by the government in\nbribing and pensioning members. The most alluring prospects were held out\nto the Catholics to induce them to support the measure out of\nParliament\u2014they had no voice inside of it\u2014but, to their credit be it said,\nnot even a moiety of them were deceived by such treacherous proposals.\nThey were assured that, after the union, English capital would flow free\nas water into the country; that protection for their persons and property\nagainst Orange fanatics would be fully guaranteed; and that many of the\nmore oppressive clauses in the penal code would be repealed\u2014all of which,\nit is unnecessary to say, were conveniently forgotten by Pitt and his\nsuccessors once the abominable bargain had been closed. The act of union\npassed the Irish House of Commons June 7, 1800, and the House of Lords on\nthe 13th of the same month, to take effect on the 1st of January\nfollowing.\n\nThe deed was at last accomplished, and Ireland, deceived, betrayed, and\ndejected, sank down into the lethargy of despair till once more aroused to\naction by the magnificent genius of the great agitator, O\u2019Connell. For a\nlong time he dared not hope or ask for a repeal of the union, but confined\nhimself to the removal of Catholic disabilities, as the operation of the\nnefarious penal laws was elegantly called; though occasionally, in his\nmore comprehensive speeches, he alluded to the future possibility of such\na demand. Emancipation gained, the Reform Bill carried, and the tithe,\npoor law, and other questions of minor importance more or less\nsatisfactorily disposed of, O\u2019Connell turned his serious attention to the\nrestoration of the Irish Parliament.\n\nHe initiated the movement in 1840, but for some time with very little\nappearance of making it in any sense a national one. The people were\nsupine, and those who should have been their leaders rested content with\ncomparative religious equality and the friendship of the Whigs, who, when\nin power, were always generous of petty offices to the poor relations and\ndependants of those who could influence elections in their favor. But the\ngreat Liberator, though he had nearly reached that term of threescore and\nten allotted as the span of man\u2019s life, was still full of vigor and\ndetermination. He travelled through every part of Ireland, arousing the\ndormant, reassuring the timid, arguing with the disputatious, and hurling\nhis anathemas against those who, from cowardice or venality, refused to\njoin in the crusade against English influence in Ireland. His success was\nmore than wonderful. The hierarchy unanimously declared in favor of\n\u201crepeal,\u201d the priesthood almost without exception became his warmest and\nmost efficient supporters, and of course the mass of the people, always on\nthe right side when properly led, greeted him everywhere with the wildest\napplause. Money poured in from all sides to help the national cause; not\nIreland and the British Islands alone contributing their quota, but the\ncontinent of Europe and the ever\u2010generous people of America lavishly\nadvanced funds for the purpose of aiding the people in obtaining self\u2010\ngovernment.\n\nThen came the year 1843\u2014the year of the monster meetings at central and\ntime\u2010honored localities, such as Mallow, Tara, Mullaghmast, and Clontarf,\nwhere assembled countless thousands of well\u2010dressed, well\u2010conducted, and\nunarmed peasantry, to listen to the voice of their champion and his co\u2010\nlaborers, and to demand in peaceful terms the restoration of their filched\nlegislative rights.\n\nThe British government was decidedly alarmed, and with good cause. It\ntried to stem the torrent of popular opinion by the most extravagant\ndistribution of patronage, by landlord intimidation, the denunciations of\na venal press, and even by intrigues at the court of Rome; but all to no\neffect. Rendered desperate, it even projected a general massacre at\nClontarf; but this savage project was defeated by the judicious conduct of\nthe repeal leaders. Next it evoked the terrors of the law; for in Ireland,\nunlike most free or partially free countries, the law has actual terrors\nfor the good, but very little for the wicked. O\u2019Connell and eight of his\nassociates, including his son John, three editors, and two Catholic\npriests, were arrested, indicted for \u201cconspiracy,\u201d tried, and all, on the\n30th of May, 1844, were sentenced to imprisonment, with the exception of\nF. Tierney, who had died before the trial. The effect on the country was\nthe reverse of what was expected. O\u2019Connell\u2019s popularity, if possible,\nincreased, the repealers became more numerous, and several Protestant\ngentlemen of fortune and influence, who had hitherto held aloof, joined\nthe association. But when three months had elapsed, and the decision of\nthe packed Dublin jury and the rulings of the stipendiary English judges\nwere set aside by the House of Lords, led by Brougham, the enthusiasm of\nthe people knew no bounds.\n\nThese indeed were the halcyon days of Ireland. Never were her people so\nnumerous, prosperous, and contented, so full of thankfulness for the\npresent and hope in the future. Of the nine millions of her population, at\nleast two\u2010thirds were active repealers or in sympathy with their cause. No\nnation, in fact, was ever more unanimous on any public question than were\nthe Irish of the years 1844\u20105, and never was the country so free from\ncrime of every degree. Much of this enviable condition was to be\nattributed to the oft\u2010repeated admonition of O\u2019Connell, that \u201che who\ncommits a crime gives strength to the enemy\u201d; more, perhaps, to the\nunceasing admonitions and personal presence of the priesthood at the\nmonster gatherings; but most, we think, to the workings of F. Mathew\u2019s\nbeneficent projects. It was a fortunate coincidence that the Apostle of\nTemperance and the great Liberator were contemporaries. For the one\nteetotaler the first could show, the other could point out an ardent\nrepealer.\n\nBut a change was impending that, amid the sunshine and gladness of the\nhour, was undreamt of\u2014a change that was to spread woe and desolation over\nthe face of the fair island. Famine, gaunt and hideous famine, with her\nattendants, pestilence and death, was knocking at the door, and would not\nbe denied admittance.\n\nThe first symptoms of the failure of the potato crop, then almost\nexclusively the food of five or six millions of people, appeared as early\nas 1845, and, though it created much alarm and distress in certain\nneighborhoods, was not of so widespread a nature as to excite general\nanxiety till the close of that year and the beginning of the next.\nO\u2019Connell, the mayors and corporations of the large cities, and many other\nprominent persons, lay and clerical, having exhausted all the resources of\nprivate charity, strenuously but vainly urged on the government the\nnecessity of taking some steps to save the lives of the people. They\nrepresented, and truly, that the grain crop alone of the country was\nsufficient to feed twice the number of inhabitants, and asked that its\nexportation might be prohibited; that a large portion of the imperial\nrevenue was raised in Ireland, and suggested that a portion of it might be\nexpended there on useful public works, and thus afford employment to the\nfamishing and needy; that a great part of the lands then unproductive\nmight be reclaimed with benefit to the holders, and proposed that the\ngovernment ought to loan money to the landlords for that purpose, to bear\ninterest, become a first lien on the land, and to be repaid at the\nexpiration of a certain number of years. Their appeals were answered by\ncoercion and arms acts, and by the repeal of the Corn Laws, by which the\nIrish producer, who was obliged to sell his cereals in English markets in\norder to pay his rent, found himself undersold by importers from the great\ngrain\u2010producing countries, like Russia and the United States. In truth,\nEngland did not want to stay the famine, for it was her best and only ally\nagainst the repeal movement; and the \u201cprovidential visitation,\u201d as it was\nblasphemously called by her politicians and clerical demagogues, was\nallowed to take its course. Thus unchecked, the dire destroyer swept on\nfrom county to county during the years 1846\u20107\u20108\u20109, till the island, so\nfair to view in 1844, became almost a deserted graveyard, and its\ninhabitants who had neither sunk beneath its curse nor fled the country\nbecame a nation of paupers. It is now proven by trustworthy statistics\nthat during those five years over one million fled for ever from their\nhomes, and that at least a million and a third perished on their own soil,\namid plenty, from want of food and the ravages of the fatal typhus!\n\nNo wonder, then, that the great repeal organization drooped, quarrelled,\nand finally ended a lingering and impotent existence a few years after.\nThe bone and sinew of the land, who had given vitality and strength to its\nlabors, were either far across the Atlantic or rotting in pauper\u2010graves.\nNo wonder, also, that its great founder and chief, overburdened with\nyears, but more by national misfortunes, should have sickened at the\nsights around him, and, fleeing from the ills he could not cure, should\nhave died on a foreign soil, far from his beloved fatherland.\n\nBut though the famine had mortally wounded the repeal movement, its demise\nwas hastened by dissensions among the leaders themselves. In 1846, in a\ndiscussion on the expediency of the use of moral force solely as a means\nof obtaining national redress of grievances, hot and personal remarks fell\nfrom the lips of the speakers on both sides; great excitement was created\namong the audience, and finally O\u2019Brien and many of the ablest and most\nactive of the repeal writers and speakers withdrew, and formed what was\ncalled the Confederation or \u201cYoung Ireland\u201d party. Though thoroughly\nhonest, high\u2010toned, and brilliant as orators and journalists, the Young\nIrelanders could never win any appreciable amount of popular support; and\nthough up to February, 1848, when the French Revolution threw Europe into\na ferment of excitement, they never contemplated armed resistance, the\npeople generally looked upon them with suspicion, and refused their co\u2010\noperation. In the summer of that year, however, they did make an attempt\nat revolution, and, as might have been expected, miserably failed. Thus\nthe \u201cAssociation\u201d and the \u201cConfederation\u201d disappeared almost at the same\ntime; and now that a quarter of a century has passed, and a new generation\nhas come to the front, we find the principles and aims of the original\norganization revivified and incorporated into what is called the \u201cHome\nRule League.\u201d\n\nIn its demands, this association is more moderate than was O\u2019Connell. He\nwanted repeal of the treaty and act of union, pure and simple, and the\nrestoration of the national legislature as it was in 1782, with the\nemancipation and other kindred acts superadded. The Home Rulers, if we may\njudge from the resolutions passed at a very large conference held lately\nin Dublin, only ask for a parliament to regulate their domestic affairs,\nleaving to the British imperial Parliament full power and authority over\nall matters concerning the entire empire, or, in other words, placing\nIreland in the same position with regard to the law\u2010making power as that\nnow held by Canada, except the right of Ireland to send a proportional\nnumber of members to the imperial assembly. The success of such a scheme\nin Ireland would naturally lead to the restoration of the old Scotch\nParliament, and possibly to imperial representation for Canada and other\ntrans\u2010marine colonies of Great Britain. Hence the widespread interest it\nhas excited throughout the empire.\n\nThe objections to the home\u2010rule plan, as far as we can gather them from\nthe English and Tory Irish press\u2014for the politicians have carefully\navoided its discussion\u2014are principally three:\n\nI. The confusion and possible conflict of authority which might arise from\nhaving two co\u2010ordinate legislative assemblies under the same government.\n\nII. That the people of Ireland are unable to govern themselves, and, as\nthe last Parliament was lost by the corruption and venality of its\nmembers, a restored one would be open to the same deleterious influences.\n\nIII. That as the Catholics, from their numbers, would necessarily have a\nmajority in the Commons, the rights of property and the guaranteed\nprivileges of their Protestant fellow\u2010subjects would be in danger.\n\nIV. That the granting of legislative power would be only a step to\ncomplete independence.\n\nTo these objections it is answered, first, that as the advocates of home\nrule merely require power to regulate affairs purely domestic, and not\ntouch on those within the jurisdiction of an imperial Parliament, there\nwould be little possibility of a collision of the two bodies; secondly,\nthey admit the premises, but deny the conclusion regarding the probability\nof bribery and corruption, for the conditions are altered. The rotten and\npresentation boroughs, from whence the tools of the Castle sprung, have\nbeen swept away by the Reform Bill, and landlord influence has received a\ndecided check by the adoption of the ballot. They further allege that the\nCatholics now, particularly since the Encumbered Estates Act was passed,\nare the most numerous body of landholders in the kingdom, and are\nconsequently conservative, and would be exceeding jealous of any agrarian\nlaw that might be proposed; that the late Church Disestablishment and Land\nActs have done away with many of the causes of quarrel between Catholics\nand Protestants growing out of tithes, endowments, etc.; and triumphantly\npoint to the numerous Protestant gentlemen, many of whom are clergymen,\nwho have joined their movement. As to the idea of total separation, they\nvery properly retort that if Ireland will not rest satisfied with the\nconcession of her just demands, it is not likely that she will be more\nloyal to the crown as long as they are withheld.\n\nThis repeal movement, in another shape, like its predecessor, had a very\nobscure birth and a small christening. About three years ago, a few\ngentlemen met in a private room in the city of Dublin to chat over\npolitical affairs, amongst whom was Isaac Butt, a member of Parliament,\nand a lawyer of large experience and great eminence in his profession, who\nsuggested the outlines of the present plan of operation. Like most hardy\nplants, its growth was at first slow, but it has recently sprung up a\nhale, hearty tree, with boughs overshadowing all classes and creeds at\nhome, and roots extending through the sister island and its dependencies.\nFrom the first the leadership has been accorded to Butt, who, though by no\nmeans a man of the gigantic calibre of O\u2019Connell, is still a very\ncompetent political guide and an energetic organizer. Though a Protestant\nand a great favorite with the more liberal sectarians, he seems to enjoy\nthe confidence and friendship of many of the Catholic bishops and a large\nnumber of the priesthood, particularly those of the venerable Archbishop\nMcHale, whose name we find appended prominently to the call for the late\nconference in the capital. With Butt are such men as Sir John Gray, Mr.\nMitchell\u2010Henry Sullivan, Dease, Major O\u2019Reilly, Digby, Synan, Murphy,\nBlennerhassett, the O\u2019Connor Don, and other prominent laymen; while the\nCatholic clergy in great numbers, headed by Dean O\u2019Brien, of Limerick, are\nactive sympathizers. The Home Rulers count in their ranks in Ireland alone\nabout sixty members of Parliament, besides nearly half that number\nrepresenting English constituencies. Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, one of the\nmost profound and the best organizing minds that Ireland has produced for\nmany generations, is, it is said, about to return from Australia, and\nagain enter the British Parliament as the representative of an Irish\nconstituency. Duffy is a Catholic, a man of varied and remarkable\nexperience in public affairs, and would be a most valuable acquisition to\nthe nationalists in council or Parliament.\n\nThe movement, as we have stated, is not merely confined to Ireland. It is\nnearly as popular and has almost as many supporters in England and\nScotland; and in every liberal newspaper published in those countries that\nreaches us we find reports of numerous meetings in the principal towns and\ncities, and even villages, of Great Britain. The English Catholic press\nparticularly favor it, and this adds greatly to its strength. A late\nnumber of the London _Tablet_ says in reference to the home\u2010rule\nconference: \u201cWe can all know at present what is demanded under the name of\nhome rule; and we may frankly say at once that we have been agreeably\nimpressed by the moderation and evident thoughtfulness which have presided\nover the preparation and adoption of the various resolutions that embody\nthe proposed home\u2010rule constitution. It is superfluous to say that there\nis not a trace of revolution about them.... What, however, is not\nsuperfluous to say is that the new programme of the Home Rulers appears to\nus to have discarded with discrimination almost everything which could\nprejudice their cause, and to have retained almost everything calculated\nto render their project acceptable to the British public and imperial\nParliament.\u201d\n\nThe _Weekly Register_, on the same subject, makes the following sensible\nremarks:\n\n\n    \u201cFrom Tuesday to Friday, both inclusive, hundreds of Irishmen from\n    the north and from the south, from the east and from the west,\n    Protestants and Catholics, alumni of Maynooth and of Trinity\n    College, met in the Rotunda to discuss the expediency of demanding\n    of the imperial Parliament such a modification of the act of\n    legislative union as will allow the people of Ireland to manage\n    their purely domestic concerns without in the least interfering\n    with matters of an imperial character; and during these memorable\n    four days, as we have already observed, the most admirable temper\n    was manifested and the most perfect order maintained, or rather\n    observed; for the chairman had throughout only to listen like\n    others and put the question. The principal, if not the sole,\n    ground of difference of opinion was the constitution of the\n    domestic Parliament. To some members of the conference the House\n    of Lords seemed a difficulty. Undoubtedly there cannot be in these\n    realms any Parliament without a House of Lords, and there ought\n    not to be. Equally certain is it that differences\u2014serious\n    differences\u2014will sometimes arise between the Irish peers and the\n    Irish commons. But does nothing of the sort ever occur in the\n    imperial Parliament? Yet, notwithstanding the dissensions,\n    occasionally of a very violent character, that happen between the\n    Houses at Westminster, the constitution works and the business of\n    the empire is done, not always in the best fashion, we admit, but\n    still so to keep the vessel of state well afloat.\u201d\n\n\nMany of the bishops and clergy in England, also, are warm sympathizers, if\nnot active advocates, of the proposed repeal, as the following extract\nfrom a recent letter of the Rt. Rev. Dr. Turner, late Bishop of Salford,\nwill in part demonstrate. With regard to home rule, writes that prelate,\n\u201cit seems to me that some measure of home rule for Ireland is certain. It\nis but a question of time and amount. Parliament will, sooner or later, be\nobliged to grant it, if only for the despatch of imperial business. A\nstrong feeling prevails in favor of large powers of local and municipal\nself\u2010government even in England, and the extension of this principle must\ninevitably come to Ireland.\u201d\n\nWe cannot but agree with the good bishop in his views of the necessity of\nsome change in the parliamentary system of the United Kingdoms, at least\nas far as Ireland is concerned, and trust, sincerely trust, that his\npredictions will be justified by events, and that very quickly. With a\nhome government, a denominational plan of education, and a fostering\npublic opinion for ability and native genius, which would surely follow,\nthat long\u2010suffering but faithful island might in the near future equal, or\neven excel, the glories that shone around her in her first ages of\nChristianity.\n\n\n\n\nSonnet: Good Friday.\n\n\nBehold the highest Good! there on the cross\n\u2019Tis pictured on a canvas so sublime\nThat God\u2019s own thought, conceived before all time,\nIs fitly told; the universe at loss\nTo fathom it, its mighty forces toss\nIn darkened struggles that do wildly chime\nIn thund\u2019rous mutt\u2019rings with the monstrous crime\nThat man conceives; yet all the varied dross\nOf nature\u2019s agitations but compose\nThe adjuncts to that central Form, where God,\nEnthroned in pain, all suffering doth enclose\nIn one brief day, that never might be trod\nA path more hard than that did interpose\n\u2019Twixt Pilate\u2019s hall and Calvary\u2019s blood\u2010stained sod.\n\n\n\n\nGrapes And Thorns. Chapter X. The Descent of Avernus.\n\n\nBy The Author Of \u201cThe House of Yorke.\u201d\n\nIt was Annette who told Miss Pembroke the result of the trial, taking it\non herself as a sort of mission. Without saying a word on the subject to\neach other, perhaps without defining it clearly in their own minds, they\nhad yet acted on an impression that she was to be treated with peculiar\ndelicacy and tenderness in the matter.\n\nAs young Mrs. Gerald came down the street toward her mother\u2010in\u2010law\u2019s home,\nshe saw Miss Pembroke approaching her slowly from the opposite direction,\na child at either side. She was just coming from her school, and these two\nlittle ones lived in the neighborhood, and were privileged to walk home\nwith their teacher, each holding in its little hands, for warmth, a fold\nof her large sable cloak.\n\nIt was a still, frosty day, with a sparkling depth of cloudless blue\noverhead, and a spotless carpet of newly\u2010fallen snow, white as swan\u2019s\u2010\ndown, underneath. But the mid\u2010air, rosy now with sunset, imparted a tinge\nof violet to the sky and a soft blush to the earth. Sleighs, with their\ngay bells, flew to and fro, the drivers muffled to the eyes from the\nstinging cold; and the planks of the sidewalk crackled under the steps\nthat trod them.\n\n\u201cWhat a motherly look she has!\u201d Annette Gerald said to herself, as she\nstood waiting at the gate, and watching her friend.\n\nHonora had quite a matronly appearance, indeed, in the thick furs she\nalways wore in winter. She was fond of warmth, and scarcely quick enough\nin her motions to resist the cold of a northern climate by means of\nexercise alone, and the cap, muff, boa, and mantle made her look like a\nJuno exiled to the court of Odin. The cold melancholy of her expression,\nthe face as untouched with color as a white camellia, was in keeping with\nthe fancy.\n\nShe did not hasten when she saw a visitor waiting for her, nor give any\nsmile or word of welcome. If there was a sign of emotion, it was in the\nslight gesture with which she detached herself from her two little\nattendants, who, for the first time, missed the leave\u2010taking they prized\nso much. They had been wont to be stroked on the cheeks, with a gentle\n\u201cGood\u2010by\u201d; and, running, hand in hand, down the street, to turn at the\nfirst corner, and see their teacher wave her hand to them as she stood on\nthe piazza.\n\n\u201cMy dear Annette, why did you not go in, instead of freezing here in the\nsnow?\u201d she said, and seemed too much occupied in opening the gate to be\nable to look in her friend\u2019s face, though her disengaged hand held that of\nher visitor closely.\n\n\u201cOh! I never feel the cold in this still weather,\u201d Annette said lightly.\n\u201cBesides, I do not like to enter alone a deserted house. There is no one\nhere but the servant. Mamma Gerald is with us, and we persuaded her to\nstay to dinner. I wish you would go up too.\u201d\n\nThey had entered the house. Miss Pembroke paused a moment at the foot of\nthe stairs, then led the way up to her chamber. Evidently she knew that\nthere were tidings for her, and suspected that they were not good. \u201cI\nshall not dine at home to\u2010day,\u201d she said, catching sight of the servant.\n\nBut she did not, apparently, mean to go out, for she deliberately removed\nher wrappings, and put them away; then seated herself beside her friend,\nand looked at her with an expression that bade her speak out her errand,\nwhatever it might be.\n\n\u201cIt has gone as badly as it could,\u201d Annette said quickly.\n\n\u201cHe is, then, found guilty?\u201d Miss Pembroke asked, without the slightest\nsign of emotion.\n\nAnnette nodded. \u201cHe is convicted on circumstantial evidence. It is as\nplain as such evidence can be, but not plain enough to shake my hope, at\nleast, of his innocence. Lawrence is utterly disgusted and indignant with\nthe whole affair. He says he would at any time head a party to rescue Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger. He felt so angry that he wouldn\u2019t stay at home after coming up\nto tell us, but started off again somewhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs he sentenced?\u201d Miss Pembroke asked, speaking with some difficulty.\n\n\u201cYes!\u201d And since the eyes fixed on her still waited for more, Mrs. Gerald\nadded: \u201cThere is a year solitary.\u201d\n\nHonora\u2019s eyes opened a little wider. \u201cA year solitary?\u201d she repeated.\n\n\u201cWhy, yes, dear. You know it is the custom to give a year of solitary\nimprisonment before....\u201d\n\nMiss Pembroke put her hand up, and seemed to clear some mist from before\nher eyes. \u201cBefore what?\u201d she asked in a confused way.\n\n\u201cDear Honora!\u201d exclaimed her friend, \u201cneed I say what?\u201d And then started\nup with a little cry; for Miss Pembroke, without a word or sign of\nwarning, had slipped out of her chair, and fallen heavily to the floor.\n\nIt is not necessary to make an outcry because a lady has fainted, unless\nthere is no person of sense present. Annette Gerald did what was needful\nwithout calling for help, and her efforts were soon rewarded. The cold\nhand she held suddenly became warm and moist as the recoiling wave of life\nrushed back, and in a few minutes Miss Pembroke was able to rise from the\nfloor, and go to the sofa. Annette sat by her in silence, now and then\ntouching her hand or her hair with caressing fingers, and waited for her\nto speak.\n\nIf she had to wait some time, it was not because her friend had not\nreturned to full consciousness. Miss Pembroke was too strong and healthy\nto creep back to life, even after so violent and unaccustomed an attack.\nIt was, perhaps, the first time she had ever fainted, and she was left\nalmost ignorant of what had happened to her; but of the cause she was not\na moment in doubt. It came back clearly on the first wave of returning\nconsciousness. She lay with her eyes closed, and strove to set her mind in\norder again, and set it so firmly that this terrible and entirely\nunexpected fact should not again derange its action. She had not once\nanticipated such a conclusion. Her thoughts had occupied themselves with\nthe horrors of the accusation, and the worst result she had looked for was\nthat, though the prisoner would doubtless be acquitted, he would not be\nable to shake off the disgrace of having been suspected, and would go out\ninto life branded with an ineffaceable mark\u2014a mark which his name would\nbear even in her own mind. She had said to herself that, pity him as she\nmight, she desired never to see him again, not because she believed him\ncapable of any great crime, but because his image would always be\nassociated with painful recollections, and because his dignity had been\nsoiled by such circumstances and associations. Now, however, he was\npresented to her mind in quite a new light, more pitiful, yet with a pity\nfar more shrinking and remote from its object. In this woman, confidence\nin, and obedience to, authority was an instinct; and as she contemplated\nthe decision of the law against Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger, she began to look on him\nsomewhat as a Catholic looks upon those whom the anathema of the church\nhas separated from the fellowship of the faithful, \u201cso that they are not\nso much as to say to them, God speed you.\u201d A silent and awful distance\ngrew up between them.\n\nAfter a while, she sat up, and began calmly to put her hair and dress in\norder.\n\n\u201cIt is very terrible, Annette, and we may as well try to put it quite out\nof our minds,\u201d she said. \u201cWe can do nothing, that I see, but pray for his\nconversion. I thank you for coming alone to tell me of this, for I would\nnot have had any other person see me so much affected by the news. People\nimagine things and tell them as facts, and there are many who are capable\nof believing that I had loved Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger. I never did.\u201d\n\nThere were times when Honora Pembroke\u2019s soft eyes could give a look that\nwas almost dazzling in its firm and open clearness; and as she pronounced\nthese last words, she looked into her companion\u2019s face with such a glance.\n\nMrs. Gerald rose and walked somewhat impatiently to the window. She had\nhoped and expected to startle Honora into some generous expression of\ninterest in Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger, and to win from her some word of pity and\nkindness which, repeated to him, would be like a drop of cooling water in\nhis fiery trial.\n\n\u201cI am sure I should never imagine you capable of having an affection for\nany one whom the whole world does not approve,\u201d she said rather pointedly,\nhaving snatched the curtain up and looked out, then dropped it again. \u201cIf\nyou can put the subject out of your mind, and remember Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger only\nwhen you are praying for the heathen, so much the better for your\ntranquillity. I am not so happily constituted. I cannot dismiss the\nthought of friends because it troubles me, nor because some person, or\nmany persons, may believe something against them.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat would you have me do?\u201d Miss Pembroke asked rather loftily, yet with\nsigns of trouble in her face.\n\n\u201cNothing, my dear, except that you put on your bonnet and come home to\ndinner with me,\u201d Annette replied, assuming a careless tone.\n\nMiss Pembroke hesitated, then refused. It would be certainly more sensible\nto go if she could, but she felt herself a little weak and trembling yet,\nand disinclined to talk. The best distraction for her would be such as she\ncould find in reading or in prayer, if distraction were needed. She felt,\nmoreover, the coldness that had come over her friend\u2019s manner more than\nAnnette was aware, and for a moment, perhaps, wrung by a cruel distrust of\nherself, envied her that independence of mind and ardor of feeling which\ncould at need strengthen her to face any difficulty, and which rendered\nher capable of holding firmly her own opinions and belief in spite of\nopposition. Miss Pembroke seemed to herself in that instant weak and puny,\nnot because she did nothing for Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger, but because, had she seen\nthe possibility or propriety of her doing anything, she would have lacked\nthe courage. It was a relief to her, therefore, to find herself alone,\nthough, at the same time, she would gladly have had the support and\nstrength which her friend\u2019s presence could so well impart to one in\ntrouble.\n\nThe door closed, and she looked from the window and saw her visitor walk\nbriskly away without glancing back.\n\n\u201cI wish I had some one,\u201d she murmured, dropping the curtain from her hand,\nand looking about the room as if to find some suggestion of help. \u201cI am\ncertainly very much alone in the world. Mother Chevreuse is gone; I cannot\ngo to F. Chevreuse about this; and the others jar a little with me.\u201d\n\nAnd then, like a ray of soft and tender light coming unexpectedly to show\nthe path through a dark place, came the thought of Sister Cecilia and her\ngentle companions. They had asked her to come to them, if they could ever\nbe of any use to her, and Sister Cecilia particularly had spoken to her\nwith an affectionate earnestness which was now joyfully remembered. \u201cI\ncannot hope to be to you what Mother Chevreuse was, but I would be glad if\nI could in a little, even, supply her loss to you. Come to me, if you ever\nwish to, quite freely. You will never find me wanting in sympathy or\naffection.\u201d\n\nAnd she had scarcely been to them at all!\n\nShe dressed herself hastily, and called a carriage. It was too late to\nwalk there, for already the sun was down; and it was nearly two miles to\nthe convent.\n\nThe sharp air and brisk motion were restorative. They brought a color to\nher face, and sent new life through her weakened frame. Besides, when one\nfeels helpless and distressed, rapid motion gives a relieving impression\nthat one is doing and accomplishing something, while, at the same time, it\nsaves the necessity of effort.\n\nSister Cecilia was in her own room, writing letters, her little desk drawn\nclose to the window for the light. She looked out when she heard the\ncarriage, and beckoned Miss Pembroke to come up\u2010stairs then hurried to\nmeet her half way. She had guessed her visitor\u2019s motive in coming, and it\nneeded but a glance into her face to confirm the thought.\n\n\u201cCome into my chamber, dear,\u201d she said. \u201cIt is the pleasantest room in the\nhouse at this hour. See what a view I have of the city and the western\nsky. I sit here to write my letters, and every moment have to leave off to\nadmire the beautiful world outside. It is a sort of dissipation with me,\nthis hour of sunset. This arm\u2010chair is for you. It is my visitor\u2019s chair.\nI should feel quite like a sybarite if I were to sit in it.\u201d\n\nShe seated Honora by the window, drew up her own chair opposite her, and\nwent on talking cheerfully.\n\n\u201cI sometimes think that all the earth needs to make it heaven is the\nvisible presence of our Lord and his saints. It would require no physical\nchange. Of course I include the absence of sin. There is so much beauty\nhere, so much that we never notice, so much that is everyday, yet\nmiraculous for all that. Look at that sky! Did you ever see such a rich\nair? It needs the cold purity of the snow to keep it from seeming\nexcessive.\u201d\n\nA long, narrow cloud had stretched itself across the west, and, drawing to\nits bosom the light of the sun, now hidden behind the hills, reflected it\nin a crimson flood over the earth. Through this warm effulgence fell,\ndelicately penetrating, the golden beams of the full moon, changing the\ncrimson of the air to a deep\u2010opal color, and putting faint splashes of\ngilding here and there beside the rosy reflections.\n\n\u201cHow the earth draws it in!\u201d said the nun dreamily. \u201cIt never wastes the\nbeauties of the sky. It hoards them up, and gives them out long after in\nmarbles and precious stones. Did it ever occur to you to wonder how those\nbright things could grow in the dark underground? I used to think of it in\nItaly, where I first saw what marbles can be. I remember my eyes and my\nmind wandering to that as I knelt before the Confession of S. Matthew the\nEvangelist, in Santa Maria Maggiore, where the walls of the atrium glow\nwith marbles; and the lesson I learned from it was this: that even though\npains and sorrows of every kind should intervene between us and the joy of\nlife as thickly as the clay, and rock, and turf had intervened between the\nsunshine of heaven and the dark place where those marbles took form and\ncolor, we could yet, if we had real faith, be conscious of all the glory\nand joy taking place overhead, and reproduce them for ourselves down in\nthe dark, and make that beauty more enduring because we were in the dark.\nAt the sunny surface, the brightness slips off and shadows succeed; but\nthat solid jewel in the depths is indestructible. My dear\u201d\u2014she turned to\nher companion with a soft suddenness which warmed but did not startle\u2014\u201cdo\nyou remember S. Paul\u2019s recommendation, \u2018always rejoice\u2019? It is possible.\nAnd now tell me why you do not.\u201d\n\nHer eyes, beaming with religious enthusiasm and tenderest human affection,\nsearched frankly the pale face before her, and her hand was laid lightly\non Miss Pembroke\u2019s arm. No reserve nor timidity could stand before her.\nThey melted like snowflakes beneath the heavenly summer of her glances.\nHonora told freely and simply what had distressed her.\n\nHow sweet is the friendship of one true woman for another!\u2014sweeter than\nlove, for it is untroubled, and has something of the calmness of heaven;\ndeeper than love, for it is the sympathy of true natures which reflect\neach the entire being of the other; less selfish than love, for it asks no\nmerging of another into itself; nobler than love, for it allows its object\nto have other sources of happiness than those it can furnish; more\nenduring than love, for it is a life, and not a flame.\n\n\u201cBut can you not see, my dear,\u201d the nun said presently, \u201cthat it would\nhave been better if you had not had any friendly intercourse with him,\neven though this terrible thing had never happened? The injunction not to\nbe unequally yoked with one another refers, I think, to all ties as well\nas to marriage. The gulf is too wide between the Christian and the Jew to\nbe bridged over for familiar friendship. It is too wide for anything but\nprayers to cross. Once admit any intercourse with unbelievers, and you\nperil your faith; and, besides, you cannot set a barrier firmly anywhere\nwhen the first one is down. I have heard it said that this Jew loved you,\nand even fancied it possible that you would marry him.\u201d\n\n\u201cPeople ought not to say such things!\u201d exclaimed Miss Pembroke, blushing\ndeeply.\n\n\u201cPeople ought not to have the chance to say such things, my dear girl,\u201d\nreplied the nun. \u201cIt was offering you an insult when he offered you his\nhand.\u201d\n\n\u201cO dear Sister! is not that too severe?\u201d expostulated Honora. \u201cSetting\naside what has happened since, should I not recollect, when a man makes me\nsuch an offer, what his intention is, and how the subject looks to him?\nAnd cannot I refuse him, and see that it is impossible for me to do\notherwise, yet feel kindly toward him, and wish him well, and believe that\nhe has meant to show me both affection and respect?\u201d\n\n\u201cHonora,\u201d said the Sister, \u201cif any man had struck your mother, then turned\nto offer you his hand, would you not have recoiled from him in disgust and\nindignation?\u201d\n\n\u201cSurely I would!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd is your God and Saviour less dear and sacred to you than your\nmother?\u201d the other pursued. \u201cCan you allow your thoughts to dwell with\nkindness and complacency on one who blasphemes the crucified Redeemer, and\ncalls him an impostor? Because you have not heard this man talk against\nyour faith, you forget what he must think of it. I tell you they mock at\nhim, these Jews, and they call us idolaters. And what could he think of\nyou, when, knowing that you adore Christ as God, he asked you to be the\nwife of one who would laugh, if he did not rave, when he saw you making\nthe sign of the cross? He must have thought your faith so weak that he\ncould in time make you renounce it. And the reason why he thought so was\nbecause he saw you receiving him in a friendly way, as if friendship were\npossible between you. I speak of what he was. What he is, we have nothing\nto do with.\u201d\n\nMiss Pembroke\u2019s eyes were down\u2010cast. \u201cWhen you place the subject in that\nlight, I am forced to think myself all in the wrong,\u201d she said. \u201cBut most\npeople do not think in that clear, positive way. They act on an inherited\nmotive, and their beliefs are moss grown, as it were.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey have no faith,\u201d was the quick reply.\n\nHonora was silent a moment, then said, with some hesitation: \u201cI am always\nafraid of being uncharitable and illiberal, and perhaps I err the other\nway.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear, it is easy to make a mistake there, and very dangerous too,\u201d the\nSister replied with decision. \u201cWhat is charity? You must first love God\nwith all your heart; and if you do that, you will be very shy of the\nenemies of God. You cannot serve two masters. As to liberality, there is\nno greater snare. It is not liberal to squander the bounty and honor of\nGod; it is not ours to spend. It is not liberal to praise those whom he\ncondemns, and bless those whom he curses. It is not liberal to love those\nwho refuse to acknowledge and obey him, and to contradict what he has\nclearly said. Or if these things are liberal, then liberality is one of\nthe worst of vices, and one of the most futile too. Why, if I were to\ndesire the reputation of being generous, and, having nothing of my own,\nshould take what is not mine and give it away, I have stolen, it is true,\nand I have obtained a reputation that I do not deserve, but, also, I have\nenriched some one; whereas, if I put my hand into the treasury of God, and\ntry to bestow on another what he has denied, the hand comes out empty. I\nhave insulted the Almighty, and have not benefited any one. Do not suffer\nyourself to be deceived by sounding phrases. What are these people who\ntalk so much of liberality? Are they liberal of what is theirs to give?\nFar from it. Do they give away all they have to the poor? Do they forgive\ntheir enemies? Do they give up their pride and vanity, and spend their\nlives in laboring for the needy? Quite the contrary. They are lavish only\nof what is not theirs to give. It has been reserved for those whom they\ncall bigots to show an ardent and unsparing liberality in sacrificing\ntheir private feelings, their wealth, their comfort, their reputation,\ntheir lives even, for the glory of God and the saving of souls. There is\nthe true liberality, my dear, and all other is a snare.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish I could shut myself up with God, and get into the right path\nagain. I am all wrong.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not come here and make a retreat?\u201d the Sister asked.\n\nIt was so precisely and unexpectedly what she needed that Honora clasped\nher hands, with an exclamation of delight. \u201cThe very thing! Yet I had not\nthought of it. When may I come? Very soon? It was surely an inspiration,\nmy coming here to\u2010night.\u201d\n\nImmediately her troubles began to lift themselves away, as fogs begin to\nrise from the earth even before the sun is above the horizon. The\ncertainty of approaching peace conferred a peace in the present. She was\ngoing to place herself in the hands of Him who can perform the impossible.\n\nSister Cecilia had supplied her need perfectly. Hers was not one of those\nimpassioned natures which need to be, soothed and caressed into quiet. A\ncertain vein of gentle self\u2010sufficiency, and a habit of contentment with\nlife as she found it, prevented this. She wanted light more than warmth.\n\nIt was already dark when they went down\u2010stairs, and since, from economy,\nthe nuns did not have their entries lighted, the two had to go hand\u2010in\u2010\nhand, groping their way carefully, till they came to a turn in the lower\npassage; and there, from the open door of the chapel at the further end, a\nsoft ray of light shone out from the single lamp that burned before the\naltar. By daylight both chapel and altar showed poor enough; but in the\nevening, and seen alone by this small golden flame, the imperfections were\neither transformed or hidden. Dimly seen, the long folds of drapery all\nabout gave a sense of seclusion and tenderness; one seemed to be hiding\nunder the mantle of the Lord; and the beautiful mystery of the burning\nlamp made wonders seem possible. Kneeling there alone, one could fancy all\nthe beautiful legends being acted over again.\n\nSister Cecilia and Honora, still hand\u2010in\u2010hand, knelt in the entry the\nmoment they saw that light.\n\n\u201cYou remember the chalice of the bees?\u201d whispered the nun.\n\n\u201cI never come here in the evening, and see that bright little place in the\ndarkness, but I think of that sweetest of stories. And I would not be\nsurprised to hear a buzzing of bees all about the sanctuary, and see the\nbusy little creatures building up a chalice of fine wax, as clear as an\nalabaster vase with a light inside.\u201d\n\nThey walked slowly and noiselessly by the door, and, as they passed it,\nsaw beside the altar what looked almost like another lamp, or like that\nilluminated vase the Sister had fancied. It was the face of Anita, which\nreflected the light, her dark dress rendering her form almost invisible.\nThat face and the two folded hands shone softly, with a fixed lustre, out\nof the shadows. No breath nor motion seemed to stir them. The eyes fixed\non the tabernacle, the lips slightly parted where the last vocal prayer\nhad escaped, she knelt there in a trance of adoration. But one could see,\neven through that brightening halo and sustaining peace, that a great\nchange had taken place in the girl during the last few weeks. Her face was\nworn quite thin; and the large eyes, that had been like dewy violets\nbending ever toward the earth, burned now with a lustre that never comes\nfrom aught but pain.\n\n\u201cHow the innocent have to suffer for the sins of the guilty!\u201d sighed the\nnun, as she led her visitor away. \u201cThat child has received a blow from\nwhich I am afraid she will never recover. She is like a broken flower that\nlives a little while when it is put in water. Her conscience is at rest;\nshe does not say now that she is sorry for having had anything to do with\nthat trial; she does not complain in any way. She seems simply broken. And\nhere she comes now! She has heard our steps, and is afraid she has stayed\ntoo long in the chapel.\u201d\n\nThe young girl came swiftly along the passage, and held out her hands to\nMiss Pembroke. \u201cI knew you were here,\u201d she said, \u201cand I was waiting to\nhear you come down. Mother told me I might come and say good\u2010by to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you have not yet said a word of welcome,\u201d Miss Pembroke replied,\ntrying to speak cheerfully.\n\n\u201cOh! yes, when I saw you come, I welcomed you in my own mind,\u201d she\nreplied, without smiling.\n\nHonora waited an instant, but Anita seemed to have nothing to say except\nthe good\u2010by she had come for. \u201cOur whispering did not disturb your\nprayers?\u201d she asked, wishing to detain her a little longer.\n\n\u201cOh! no.\u201d She glanced up at Sister Cecilia, as a child, when doubtful and\nlost, looks into its mother\u2019s face, then dropped her eyes dreamily. \u201cI do\nnot say any prayer but \u2018amen.\u2019 Nothing else comes. I kneel down, thinking\nto repeat, perhaps, the rosary, and I am only silent a while, and then I\nsay amen. It is as well, I suppose.\u201d\n\nHonora kissed the child\u2019s thin cheek tenderly. \u201cGood\u2010by, dear,\u201d she\nwhispered softly. \u201cSay one amen for me to\u2010night.\u201d\n\nShe went out into the still and sparkling night, and was driven rapidly\nhomeward. On her way, she passed the prison, and, looking up, saw over the\nhigh wall a light shining redly through the long row of grated windows. It\nwas a painful sight, but no longer unendurable. \u201cNo prayer but amen,\u201d she\nrepeated. \u201cWhat does it matter by what road we go, so long as we reach\nheaven at last; whether it be in peaceful ways, or through sin and\nsuffering?\u201d\n\nAnother carriage drew up at the gate as she reached home, and Mrs. Gerald\ndescended from it, having just returned from Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s.\n\n\u201cUpon my word, young woman!\u201d Annette\u2019s voice called out from a pile of\nfurs in the carriage. \u201cWe have been saying our good\u2010nights in whispers,\nand hushing the very sleigh\u2010bells, so as not to disturb your slumbers; and\nhere you are out driving.\u201d\n\nHer bright and cheerful voice broke strangely into Honora\u2019s mood. Was\nthere, then, anything in the world to laugh about, anything that could\npossibly excite a jest?\n\n\u201cGood\u2010night, Mother Gerald!\u201d the young woman added. \u201cDon\u2019t stand there\ntaking cold. And if you do not see Honora in the house to\u2010night, make up\nyour mind that I have carried her off with me, as I shall try to. Come\nhere, my dear, and give an account of yourself. Where have you been?\u201d\n\nAs Honora reached the carriage door, young Mrs. Gerald leaned out and\ncaught both her hands. \u201cCome with me to find Lawrence,\u201d she whispered\nhurriedly. \u201cHe has not been home yet, but he will go for you.\u201d\n\nThough recoiling from the errand, Miss Pembroke would not refuse it. She\nstepped into the carriage, and suffered herself to be driven away. It was\nthe first time such a service had ever been demanded of her. \u201cWhere is he?\nDo you know?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cOh! yes. He is only playing billiards,\u201d the young wife answered, and a\nsharp sigh seemed to cut the sentences apart. \u201cIt is the first time for a\nlong while, and I want to break it up in the beginning. John went down and\ntold him that his mother was dining with us, but Lawrence paid no\nattention.\u201d\n\nShe leaned back a little while without saying a word as they sped over the\nsmooth snow. \u201cIt seems a shame to drag you into such an affair, Honora,\u201d\nshe said presently; \u201cand I had not thought of it till I saw you, and then\nit came like a flash that you could help me. What I want of you is to\nwrite on a card that you and I are waiting for him. John will carry it in\nto him, and he will recognize your writing.\u201d\n\nThe horses were drawn up before a large marble hotel, lighted from\nbasement to attic. The shops underneath were all closed; but from three\nbroad lower windows a bright light shone around the heavy lowered\ncurtains, and in the stillness they could hear the faint click of\nbilliard\u2010balls. There was no sound of voices from inside, and it was\nimpossible to know if the players were few or many.\n\nHonora wrote hastily, by the moonlight, as she was bid, \u201cAnnette and I are\nwaiting for you,\u201d and John took the card.\n\n\u201cWhy doesn\u2019t he go to this door?\u201d she asked, seeing the man disappear\naround a corner of the house.\n\n\u201cYou child!\u201d said her friend compassionately; \u201care you so innocent as to\nsuppose that any one can walk into one of those places when he pleases?\nThese charming _r\u00e9unions_ are held with locked doors, and one has to have\nthe password to go in.\u201d\n\nHonora was silent with indignation. To her mind, Lawrence could not do his\nwife a greater injury than in allowing her to become acquainted with such\nplaces, and she was half disposed to be vexed with Annette for not leaving\nhim to himself, and refusing to be drawn into any objectionable scenes and\nassociations.\n\nAnnette divined the last thought, and replied to it.\n\n\u201cIt is impossible for a wife to be scrupulous as to the means by which she\nshall withdraw her husband from danger,\u201d she said with quiet coldness.\n\u201cThey are one. If he is soiled, she cannot be quite clean, except in\nintention, unless she is very selfish; and then her intention is not good,\nwhich is worse yet. Of course she should be careful not to draw others\ninto her affairs.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must know far better than I, Annette,\u201d her friend said quickly,\nfeeling as though she must have spoken her thought. \u201cAt all events, you\ncannot be called selfish. And, indeed, if the angels of heaven were over\u2010\nscrupulous with regard to their associations, we should lack their\nguardianship.\u201d\n\nHere John appeared, walking briskly round the corner of the hotel, and\nimmediately after Lawrence Gerald came to the carriage\u2010door.\n\n\u201cYou here, Honora!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cWhat could have induced you?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe had better not ask each other questions,\u201d she replied coldly. \u201cIt is\nlate. Will you come home with us?\u201d\n\nShe drew back into a corner, and made room for him, with an air almost of\ndisgust; for the moonlight showed his face flushed with drinking, and, as\nhe spoke, a strong odor of brandy had been wafted into her face.\n\nHe was too much confused for anything but simple obedience, and in rather\na stumbling way took the seat assigned him.\n\n\u201cHonora has been driving this evening, and is sleepy and chilly,\u201d his wife\nmade haste to say in explanation, inwardly resenting her friend\u2019s\n_hauteur_, and regretting having brought her. \u201cShe is going home to stay\nall night with us. I am sure you did not know how late it is.\u201d\n\nShe furtively picked up his hat, that had fallen off, went on talking\nlightly, to cover his silence or prevent his saying anything senseless,\nand tried in every way to screen him from the scorn that she had exposed\nhim to. He leaned back in the carriage, and took no notice of her. The\npresence of Honora Pembroke had confounded him, and he had just sense\nenough left to know that he could not keep too quiet. What had stirred her\nto interfere in his affairs he could not guess, for Annette had always so\nscreened him that it never occurred to him she could have asked her friend\nto come. Had he known, it would have fared hard with his wife. He had,\nhowever, prudence and temper enough to keep him from making any\ndisagreeable demonstration. John was at hand when they reached home, and,\nas the ladies went hastily up the steps and into the house, they were not\nsupposed to be aware that it was his arm which enabled Mr. Gerald to go in\nwithout falling. Then Mrs. Ferrier stood in the open drawing\u2010room door,\nand, under cover of her welcome to Honora, he managed to get up stairs\nunnoticed, fortunately for all.\n\nFor the truce between Annette\u2019s husband and her mother was over, and their\nintercourse was assuming a more unpleasant character than ever. Now, it\nwas nearly always Lawrence who was the aggressor. Even when Mrs. Ferrier\nshowed a disposition to conciliate, he found something irritating in her\nvery good\u2010nature. Partial as his mother was, she was moved to expostulate\nwith him after witnessing two or three of these scenes.\n\n\u201cYou ought to recollect her good intention, Lawrence, and try to overlook\nher manner,\u201d she said. \u201cI know well she does not show very good taste\nalways; but you cannot criticise a woman in her own house.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am seldom allowed to forget that it is her house,\u201d returned the son\nrather sulkily.\n\n\u201cAt least, my dear, do not provoke her into reminding you of that,\u201d Mrs.\nGerald urged.\n\nLawrence wished to stand well with his mother, and had, indeed, improved\nin his behavior toward her in proportion as he had grown more impatient\nwith Mrs. Ferrier. He seemed now to regret having answered her\nunpleasantly. \u201cIf you knew, mother, all the little annoyances I have to\nbear from her, you wouldn\u2019t blame me so much,\u201d he said coaxingly. \u201cWith\nother frets, she has a habit of asking any of us who may be going out\nwhere we are going, and when we are coming back; and Annette has humored\nher in that till she thinks she has a right to know. Teddy always tells\nher, too; but then he tells lies. That makes no difference, though, to\nher. Well, I have broken her of asking me when I am alone; but if Annette\nis with me, she asks her. Can\u2019t you imagine, mother, that it would get to\nbe irritating after a while? It makes me so nervous sometimes that I have\nreally skulked out of the house slyly, as if I had no right to go. And\nthen, when I come in, she will say, \u2018Why, where have you been, Lawrence? I\ndidn\u2019t hear you go out.\u2019 If a door opens anywhere, she goes to see who is\nabout. I believe if I should get up in the middle of the night, and try to\ncreep out of the house without being heard, I should see her head poked\nout of the chamber\u2010door before I\u2019d got half\u2010way down\u2010stairs. Then she\npeers and finds out everything. Annette and I had a bottle of champagne\nthe other night in our room, and the next morning she spied out the\nbottle, and spoke of it. I suppose she heard the cork pop when I drew it.\nYou never looked after me half so closely when I was a little boy, always\nin mischief, as she does now I am a man. She knows what my clothes cost,\nevery rag of them, and how many clean collars and handkerchiefs I have in\nthe week.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am sure she need not trouble herself about how much your clothes cost,\nsince you pay for them yourself,\u201d Mrs. Gerald said, her face very red.\n\u201cAnd if she grudges you clean collars, send your linen home, and I will\nhave it washed there.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! she has no such thought,\u201d Lawrence made haste to say. \u201cShe doesn\u2019t\nmean to be cross about any of these things, but only prying. She wants to\noverlook everybody and everything in the house, and it annoys me. I only\ntell you so that you may not wonder if I do speak out now and then about\nsome small thing. Then what do you think she has proposed about my going\ninto business?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d Mrs. Gerald said uneasily.\n\n\u201cShe has selected a partner for me.\u201d\n\nHis mother waited for an explanation.\n\n\u201cAnd who should it be but John!\u201d\n\n\u201cJohn who?\u201d asked Mrs. Gerald wonderingly, trying to recollect some\nnotable person of that name among her youthful acquaintances.\n\n\u201cWhy, I do not know that he has any other name. The big English fellow who\nlets you in here, and waits at dinner, and opens and shuts the carriage\u2010\ndoor.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! you do not mean the footman?\u201d Mrs. Gerald cried.\n\nHer son laughed bitterly. \u201cI asked her if he was to open the shop\u2010door,\nand carry parcels, and if he would have the same sort of cockade on his\nhat, and she got quite angry about it. She says he has saved a good deal\nof money, and means to go into business, and she thinks I couldn\u2019t have a\nbetter partner. What do you think of it, mother?\u201d\n\nMrs. Gerald leaned back in her chair, and put her hand up to her face,\nhalf hiding a blush of vexation.\n\nShe was not willing to tell Lawrence all she thought of the matter. \u201cWhat\ndoes Annette say?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cAnnette vetoed the proposal up and down. I\u2019ve heard nothing of it for a\nweek or more. I only told you because you seem to think me too difficult.\u201d\n\nMrs. Gerald sighed. She had hoped to see her son busy and contented after\nhis marriage, and she found him only more idle and dissatisfied than\nbefore. With the partiality of a mother, she tried still to find him\nunfortunate instead of blameworthy, and, rather than see any fault in him,\nlooked only at his difficulties, refusing to recollect how easily he could\nnow overcome them all. She fancied erroneously that to suggest to him that\nhis trials had a good deal of brightness to relieve them, would be to show\na lack of sympathy and tenderness, and that the best way to comfort him\nwas to let him see that his annoyances showed in her eyes as misfortunes.\nIt was a mistake which, in her over\u2010sensitive affection, she had always\nmade with him.\n\nHis wife acted otherwise. \u201cThere is no use in anticipating evil,\nLawrence,\u201d she said. \u201cPerhaps that may be the means of bringing it about.\nFortune loves a smiling countenance. As to mamma\u2019s plans and wishes with\nregard to John, the best way for us is to assume that it is impossible she\nshould ever regard him as anything but a servant. And, indeed,\u201d she\nconcluded with dignity, \u201cI think she never can do otherwise.\u201d\n\nBut this assumption did not prevent young Mr. Gerald from going privately\nto F. Chevreuse, and begging him to interfere and try to bring her mother\nto reason; and perhaps Mrs. Ferrier was never so near being in open revolt\nagainst her pastor as when he undertook to show her that there were\ncertain social distinctions which it was her duty to recognize and\nrespect.\n\n\u201cI think, F. Chevreuse,\u201d she said stiffly, \u201cthat a priest might do better\nthan encourage pride and haughtiness.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe could scarcely do worse than encourage them,\u201d he replied calmly; \u201cand\nit is precisely against these sins that I would put you on your guard.\nPersons are never more in danger of falling into them than when they are\ncomplaining of the pride of others, and trying to reform what they\nconceive to be the abuses of society and the world. The only reformer whom\nI respect, and who is in a thoroughly safe way, is that one who strives to\nreform and perfect himself. When he is perfect, then he can begin to\ncorrect the faults of others. Moreover, the established customs and\ndistinctions of society have often a good foundation, and are not lightly\nto be set aside. What would you say if your chambermaid should insist on\nsitting down to dinner with you and driving out with you?\u201d\n\nMrs. Ferrier found herself unprepared to answer. Indeed, no lady could be\nmore peremptory and exacting than she was with all her servants except\nJohn. She was not yet ready to explain that her generalities all had\nreference to one exceptional case.\n\n\u201cBut John is not at all a common servant,\u201d she ventured to say. \u201cHe never\nlived out but once before, and then it was with a very grand family in\nEngland; and he wouldn\u2019t have come here with us, only that he wanted to\nlook round a while before setting up business. I had to coax him to come,\nand give him the very highest wages. And Annette did all she could to\npersuade him.\u201d\n\n\u201cJohn is an excellent man, I am sure,\u201d F. Chevreuse replied. \u201cI hope he\nwill succeed in whatever good work he attempts. But we were speaking of\nyour daughter\u2019s husband. My advice is that he return to the office where\nhe was before, and remain there till something better presents itself. I\ndo not approve of any large and showy enterprise for him. It would not\nsuit him. In that office his salary would be enough to render him quite\nindependent, and leave him a little to lay up.\u201d\n\n\u201cLay up!\u201d repeated Mrs. Ferrier, with an incredulous circumflex.\n\n\u201cHe will put one\u2010half his income into his wife\u2019s hands, and she can do as\nshe will with it,\u201d F. Chevreuse replied. \u201cAnnette has spoken to me about\nit, and it is his own proposal. She will put the money in bank every\nmonth. What he keeps will be his own affair, and what she takes will be a\nsmall fund for the future, and will relieve a little that painful feeling\nhe must have in living here without paying anything. It is decidedly the\nbest that can be done at present. Besides,\u201d he added, seeing objection\ngathering in her face, \u201cit may save you something. The young man is not to\nblame that he is not rich, and he is quite ready to take his wife home to\nhis own mother, and Annette is quite willing to go, if necessary. They\nmight live there very happily and pleasantly; but as, in that case,\nLawrence would be the one on whom all the expense would fall, I presume\nyou would make your daughter an allowance which would place her on an\nequality with him.\u201d\n\nMrs. Ferrier was forced to consent. Nothing was further from her wish than\nto be separated from her daughter, not only because she was more than\nusually solicitous for Annette\u2019s happiness, and wished to assure herself\nconstantly that her husband did not neglect her, but because she had an\nalmost insane desire to watch Lawrence in every way. Nothing so piques the\ncuriosity of a meddlesome person as to see any manifestation of a desire\nto baffle their searching. The annoyance naturally felt and often shown by\none who finds himself suspiciously observed is always taken by such\npersons as a proof that there is something wrong which he is desirous to\nconceal. Moreover, John had let fall a word of advice which she was not\ndisposed to disregard.\n\nShe had been complaining of her son\u2010in\u2010law.\n\n\u201cYou had better let him pretty much alone, ma\u2019am,\u201d the man replied.\n\u201cYou\u2019ll never drive him to being a sober fellow, nor industrious. Scolding\ndoesn\u2019t mend broken china. I have a plan in my mind for them which I will\ntell you after a while, when the right time comes. He wouldn\u2019t thank me\nfor it now; but by\u2010and\u2010by, if he doesn\u2019t drink himself to death first, he\nmay think my advice is worth listening to.\u201d\n\nJohn had a quiet, laconic way which sometimes impressed others besides his\nmistress, and she did not venture to oppose him openly, nor even to insist\non hearing what his mysterious plan might be.\n\nIt was, altogether, a miserable state of affairs, one of those situations\nalmost more unbearable than circumstances of affliction, for the cares\nwere mean, the annoyances and mortifications petty; and the mind, which is\nennobled by great trials, was cramped and lowered by the constant presence\nof small troubles which it would fain disregard, but could not. For, after\nall, these small troubles were the signs of a great one threatening. It\nwas plain that Lawrence Gerald, if not stopped, was going to kill himself\nwith drinking. His frame was too delicately organized to bear the\nalternate fierce heats and wretched depressions to which he was subjecting\nit, and more than one sharp attack of illness had given warning that he\nwas exhausting his vitality.\n\nF. Chevreuse came upon him suddenly one day when he was suffering from one\nof these attacks. The priest had called at Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s, and, learning\nthat Lawrence was in his room, too unwell to go out, went up\u2010stairs to him\nsomewhat against Annette\u2019s wish.\n\n\u201cI will take the responsibility,\u201d he said laughingly. \u201cThe boy wants me to\nwake him up; you women are too gentle. You are petting him to death. No,\nmy lady, I do not want your company. I can find my own way.\u201d\n\nAnd accordingly Lawrence opened his eyes a few minutes later to see F.\nChevreuse standing by the sofa where he lay in all the misery of a\ncomplete physical and mental prostration.\n\nThe priest drew a chair close to him, taking no notice of the evident\ndisinclination of the young man to his society. \u201cNow, my boy,\u201d he said,\nlaying a hand on the invalid\u2019s shrinking arm, \u201care you dosing yourself up\nto go through the same bad business again? What has come over you? Come!\ncome! Wake up, and be a man. You are too good to throw away in this\nfashion.\u201d\n\nThe young man turned his face away with a faint moan of utter\ndiscouragement. \u201cI am not worth bothering about. I\u2019ve played my stake in\nlife, and lost, and what is left is good for nothing. Besides, if I tried,\nI shouldn\u2019t succeed. Why do you trouble yourself about me? I tell you that\nwhat there is left of me isn\u2019t worth saving.\u201d\n\nHe spoke with bitter impatience, and made a gesture as if he would have\nsent his visitor away.\n\nF. Chevreuse was not so easily to be dismissed.\n\n\u201cThe devil thinks differently,\u201d he remarked, without stirring. \u201cHe is\nfighting hard for you. Rouse yourself, and join with those who are\nfighting against him! You have an idea that, because you have made\nmistakes and committed sins, you must lay down your arms. Nonsense! There\nare all the lives of the saints against you. Some of them never began to\ntry till they found themselves on the brink of destruction. You fancy,\ntoo, that because you and your family have had misfortunes, and because\nyou have not been very successful in trying to become a rich man, you must\nstand humbly aside for cleverer men, and ask no favors. You\u2019re all wrong.\nGod made you, and put you into the world, just as he has the rest of us,\nand you have a right to the light and air, and to repair your mistakes and\nrepent of your sins, without troubling yourself too much about what people\nsay and think, and to do the best you can in worldly affairs without being\nhumbled or ashamed if you can\u2019t fill your pocket with money quite as\nreadily as some can. Let the money go, but don\u2019t let your manliness go,\nand don\u2019t throw away your soul. You are talking nonsense when you say that\nyou are worthless. Respect yourself, and compel others to respect you,\nLawrence. Nerve yourself, call up your good resolutions, and ask God to\nhelp you. Despair is a crime!\u201d\n\nThe young man put his arm up, and covered his face with it, as though to\nhide an emotion he was ashamed of; or, perhaps, because the light hurt his\neyes. \u201cIf I could forget everything, and sleep for a month without waking,\nI don\u2019t know but I could begin again and try to do better,\u201d he said\nfaintly. \u201cBut there is no life in me now for anything.\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse rose immediately. \u201cRest, then, if that is what you need,\u201d he\nsaid kindly. \u201cRest, and forget everything painful. If any tormenting\nthought comes, say a little prayer, and tell it to begone. Don\u2019t drink any\nliquor to quiet your mind. Let Annette get you some gentle sedative. I\u2019ll\ntell her to keep everybody away from you, and let you lie here six months,\nif you want to. But when you are better, come to see me.\u201d\n\nHe was standing, ready to go, but waited for an answer. There was none. He\nspoke more earnestly.\n\n\u201cYou know well it is for the best, Lawrence; and I want you to promise to\ncome to me when you are able to go out, before you go to see any one\nelse.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I will. I promise you.\u201d\n\nBut the promise was given, apparently, only to get rid of the subject, and\nF. Chevreuse went away feeling that he had accomplished nothing.\n\nAnnette went directly to her husband, somewhat timid as to the reception\nshe might meet with; but if he was displeased at having had a visitor, he\ndid not seem to hold her responsible. He took the glass containing the\nopiate from her hand, and set it down beside him. \u201cAfter a while,\u201d he\nsaid. \u201cAnd now I am going to lock every one out of the room, and try to go\nto sleep. If I want anything, I will ring.\u201d\n\nShe began to make some little arrangements for his comfort, but,\nperceiving that they irritated him, desisted, and left him to himself. As\nshe went along the passage, she heard the lock click behind her. Oddly\nenough, this little rudeness gave her a feeling of pleasure, for it showed\nthat he felt at home there, and claimed a right to all that was hers.\n\n\u201cIf only he will sleep!\u201d she thought.\n\nHe did not sleep. His first act was to throw away the opiate she had\nbrought. \u201cSome such dose as they give to teething babies, I suppose,\u201d he\nmuttered. Then he seated himself on the sofa, and, clasping his hands over\nhis head, as if to still the bursting pain there, remained buried in\nthought. One could see that he was trying to study out some problem in his\nmind, but that difficulties presented themselves. More than once his eyes\nwandered to a little writing\u2010desk opposite him, and fixed themselves\nthere. \u201cIt would remove the only obstacle,\u201d he said; \u201cand yet how can I?\nThat would be going over it all again. Now I am not to blame, but only\nunfortunate; but if I do that....\u201d\n\nIt was pitiable to see a young face so distorted by pain of mind and body,\nand to see also that the pain was stinging him into still more angry\nrevolt.\n\nHe began pacing up and down the room, and, in his doubt and distress,\nseized upon one of those strange modes of solving the question in his mind\nwhich, trivial as they are, most persons have at some time in their lives\nhad recourse to.\n\n\u201cIf there is an odd number of squares in the carpet from corner to corner\nof the room, I will do it,\u201d he said, and began to count them. The number\nwas odd. But, apparently, he wished to make assurance doubly sure, for he\nnext counted the stucco ornaments on the ceiling. \u201cOdd again! Now for the\nthird trial.\u201d He glanced about in search of the object which was to decide\nhis fate, and spied a large patriarchal fly that had crawled out of its\nwinter hiding\u2010place, and was clumsily trying its wings.\n\n\u201cIf he can fly over that cord, I will go,\u201d he said; and since this was the\nlast trial, and the poor insect seemed to him something like himself at\nthat moment, he watched with breathless interest its efforts to surmount\nthe great obstacle of the curtain\u2010cord that lay in its path. The little\ncreature attempted to crawl over, but, losing its balance, tumbled off and\nlay helplessly on its back. The young man set it carefully and tenderly on\nits feet once more. \u201cNow do your best,\u201d he said. \u201cYou and I have made a\nfailure, but we will try once again.\u201d\n\nInspired, it would seem, by this encouragement, the fly put out its wings,\ngathered all its energies, and flew over the cord, tumbling ignominiously\non its back again at the other side.\n\nLawrence Gerald did not give himself the trouble to assist again his\nfallen friend, but went promptly to pull the bell\u2010tassel. He had thrown\noff all responsibility, and, choosing to see in these trivial chances the\nwill and guidance of some intelligence wiser than his own, resolved\ninstantly on following where they pointed.\n\n\u201cI dare say I shall stumble like that clumsy fly, but I shall succeed in\nthe end. At all events, I will try. I can\u2019t and won\u2019t stay here any\nlonger. It is torment for me, and I don\u2019t do any one else any good.\u201d He\nseemed to be arguing with some invisible companion. \u201cThey will be better\nwithout me. Besides, it was not I who decided. I left it to chance. If it\nwas....\u201d\n\nHis wife entering interrupted the soliloquy. She found him lying down, as\nshe had left him, but with a color in his face that would have looked like\nreturning health, if it had not been a little too deep.\n\nHe stretched his hand out, and drew her to the footstool by his side.\n\u201cNow, Ninon,\u201d he said coaxingly, \u201cI want you to be a good girl, and\narrange something for me so that I shall not be annoyed by questions nor\nopposition. It\u2019s nothing but a whim; but no matter for that. I want to go\nto New York for a day or two, by myself, you know, and I must start to\u2010\nnight. I\u2019m not going to do any harm, I promise you. I feel a good deal\nbetter, and I believe the little journey will cure me. The train starts at\neight o\u2019clock, and it is now five. It won\u2019t take me half an hour to get\nready. Will you manage it for me, and keep the others off my shoulders?\u201d\n\nShe consented promptly and quietly, asking no questions. If he should\nchoose to tell her anything, it was well; if not, it was the same. She\nknew the meaning of this coaxing tenderness too well to presume upon it.\nIt meant simply that she could be useful to him.\n\n\u201cWhat is he going to New York for?\u201d demanded Mrs. Ferrier, when Annette\nmade the announcement down\u2010stairs.\n\n\u201cMamma, you must not expect me to tell all my husband\u2019s business,\u201d the\nyoung woman answered rather loftily.\n\nPoor Annette did not wish to acknowledge that she knew no more of her\nhusband\u2019s affairs or motives than her mother did.\n\n\u201cThen he will want his dinner earlier?\u201d was the next question, Mrs.\nFerrier having, by an effort, restrained her inclination to make any\nfurther complaints.\n\nNo; all he wanted was luncheon, and his wife had ordered that to be\ncarried up\u2010stairs.\n\n\u201cI suppose I am not allowed to ask how long he will be gone?\u201d remarked the\nmother.\n\n\u201cOh! certainly, mamma; but that is not quite settled,\u201d Annette said\npleasantly. \u201cIt depends on circumstances. A few days, probably, will be\nthe most.\u201d\n\nWhen Annette went up\u2010stairs again, her husband was dressed for his\njourney. A valise, locked and strapped, lay on the sofa at his elbow, and\nhis wrappings were strewn about. She observed that the oak writing\u2010desk,\nthat had not been opened for months, to her knowledge, had been opened\nnow. The key was in the lock, and the lid was slightly raised. She\nnoticed, too, that a little inner cover had been torn out, and lay on the\ncarpet, broken in two.\n\n\u201cThe carriage will be round in a few minutes,\u201d she said. \u201cI thought you\nwould want plenty of time to buy your ticket and get a good seat.\u201d\n\nHe merely nodded in reply, but looked at her wistfully, as if touched by\nher ready compliance with his wishes, and desirous to see if any pain or\ndispleasure were hidden under her quietness.\n\nBut he detected no sign of any such feelings. She was merely examining his\nfur gloves, to make sure that the buttons were on, looking narrowly to the\nstrap of his cloak, busying herself in the most commonplace manner with\nhis preparations.\n\n\u201cShall I go to the station with you?\u201d she asked carelessly.\n\n\u201cI wish you would.\u201d His tone was quite earnest.\n\nAnnette had arranged it so that they went down\u2010stairs while her mother was\nat dinner; and though the dining\u2010room door had been left ajar, before Mrs.\nFerrier had time to leave her seat or call out, the two had left the\nhouse, and were driving through the clear starlight.\n\n\u201cAnnette,\u201d her husband said suddenly, \u201cI\u2019ve been thinking that if I had a\nboy, I would bring him up very strictly. No matter how much I might wish\nto indulge him, I would resist the wish. He should be taught to control\nhimself from fear, if he had no other motive. He should be made hardy, and\nhealthy, and active. I wouldn\u2019t allow him much time to dream and think of\nhimself; he should be kept busy; and I would never let him depend on any\none, or sit still and fancy that some great fortune were going to drop\ninto his hands without any effort on his part.\u201d\n\nMrs. Gerald was silent, astonished by this unexpected lecture, of which\nshe quite well understood the meaning. He would have no child of his\nbrought up as he had been. But why should he speak of it now?\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s too much liberty and recklessness among young men,\u201d he went on.\n\u201cThey have too much their own way. Parents ought to see what misery it\nwill lead to. If they don\u2019t care for what the child may make them suffer,\nthey ought to recollect what the child has got to suffer when at last it\nwakes up to life as it is, and finds itself with ruinous tastes and\nhabits, and not one right idea of anything. I am inclined to believe that\nit would be better for half the children in the world if they were brought\nup and trained by the state instead of by their own parents.\u201d\n\nThey had reached the station, and he stepped slowly out of the carriage.\nHis wife ventured to ask how long he would stay away.\n\n\u201cOh! I\u2019ve nothing to do in New York,\u201d he said carelessly. \u201cI shall not\nstay there more than two or three days.\u201d\n\nHe leaned into the carriage, and took her hands. In the darkness she could\nnot see his face, though the light from outside shone in her own; but his\nvoice was tender and regretful, even solemn. \u201cGood\u2010by, dear,\u201d he said.\n\u201cYou have been only too good to me. May God reward you!\u201d\n\nHe bent to kiss the hands he held, then hurried away before she had\nrecovered herself sufficiently to speak.\n\n\u201cWhat a good\u2010by it was!\u201d she thought with a startled heart. \u201cOne would\nthink he were never coming back again.\u201d\n\nHe did come back, though, and sooner than he was expected. He appeared at\nthe door the next evening, nearly falling in, indeed, so that John had to\nsteady him. Annette had run out of the drawing\u2010room on hearing the\nservant\u2019s exclamation, but, at sight of her husband in such a state, was\nabout to turn back in disgust.\n\n\u201cIt isn\u2019t liquor, ma\u2019am,\u201d John said. \u201cSomething\u2019s the matter with him. I\ntold you yesterday that he wasn\u2019t fit to go away. Just push that chair\nthis way for him to sit down in, and bring him a glass of wine.\u201d\n\n\u201cI had to come back,\u201d the young man said. \u201cI was sicker than I thought,\nand not able to go on. I don\u2019t know how I reached Crichton; and just now,\nwalking up from the station, the cold wind on my forehead made me dizzy. I\nthought I should feel better to walk. Don\u2019t be frightened, Annette. I can\ngo up\u2010stairs now.\u201d\n\nHe had every symptom of fever, and before morning had grown so much worse\nthat a doctor was sent for, though much against his will.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t believe in doctors,\u201d he protested. \u201cMy mother always cured me\nwhen I was sick without sending for a doctor. It\u2019s all guess\u2010work. They\nonly know what you tell them, and they sit and stare at you, and ask you\nquestions when you don\u2019t want to speak a word. I hate to have a doctor\nlook at me.\u201d\n\nMr. Gerald was indeed a very difficult patient for both doctor and nurse,\nirritable beyond expression, and nervous to the verge of delirium. At\nfirst no one was allowed near him but his mother. Then he found her tender\nsadness depressing, and insisted on having his wife in her place. Finally\nhe begged John to take care of him.\n\n\u201cKeep the women away, if you don\u2019t want me to lose my senses,\u201d he said to\nthe man. \u201cThey start and turn pale or red every time I cough or speak in\nmy sleep; and even when they pretend not to notice, I know they are\nwatching me all the time. I don\u2019t dare to groan, or sigh, or rave, though\nit would sometimes do me good. I want somebody by me who doesn\u2019t care\nwhether I live or die, but who just does what I ask him to. Let Louis open\nthe door and sit up in the dicky. It\u2019s what he was made for. He\u2019s far more\nof a footman than you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wouldn\u2019t give either of you your salt as footman,\u201d John retorted,\nsmiling grimly. But he did not refuse to assume the post of nurse, and,\nhaving undertaken it, rendered himself so useful and unobtrusive that the\nothers all gave way to him, and the sick man had no disposition to change\nagain. He seemed a rather hard, dry man, but he was patient, and showed\nnone of that obtrusive attention which is sometimes more troublesome to an\ninvalid than neglect. If Lawrence groaned and tossed about, the attendant\ntook no notice of him; if he said, \u201cJohn, don\u2019t leave me alone a minute,\u201d\nthe man would sit by his side all night, as untired, apparently, as a man\nof wood.\n\nSo three nights passed, and still the invalid grew worse.\n\n\u201cWouldn\u2019t you like to have me read some prayers to you, sir?\u201d the watcher\nasked one night. \u201cThey might quiet you.\u201d\n\nLawrence broke out impatiently:\n\n\u201cDo you think I am going to die? I am not. That is what the women are all\ncrying about. Mrs. Ferrier came in to\u2010day, and told me she was having\nMasses said for me, and sprinkled me with holy water till I was drenched.\nAnd Bettie, when she sat here to\u2010day while you were away, rattled her\nbeads and cried all the time, till I told her to get out of the room.\nThat\u2019s the way with some people. The minute a fellow is sick, they try\ntheir best to scare him to death. Why don\u2019t you offer to read the paper to\nme, or tell me an amusing story? Give me the opiate now.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe doctor said you were not to take another till twelve o\u2019clock,\u201d the\nattendant said.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t care for the doctor\u2019s orders. Give it to me now. I know best what\nI need.\u201d\n\n\u201cI believe you do,\u201d John said quietly, and gave him the opiate.\n\nBut in spite of care, and of a determination to recover, the illness grew\nupon him, till finally the physicians intimated that if he had any\nreligious preparations to make, they had better not be delayed any longer,\nfor his strength was rapidly wasting, and they could not promise that the\nresult would not be fatal.\n\nMrs. Ferrier went in great distress to F. Chevreuse.\n\n\u201cWhat shall we do?\u201d she asked. \u201cAfter having refused to see a priest, and\nflown into a rage whenever we mentioned the subject, at last he is willing\nto have one. But he will see no one but F. O\u2019Donovan; and F. O\u2019Donovan is\nlaid up with gout, so that he cannot move hand or foot. I went out to him\nto\u2010day, and I thought that if he could possibly be wrapped up and brought\nin in a carriage, I would ask him; but, father, I couldn\u2019t have the face\nto speak of it. The doctor doesn\u2019t allow him to stir out of his room. Even\nMrs. Gerald sees that it can\u2019t be done. I\u2019ve begged Lawrence to listen to\nreason, but he is so set that if he had asked to have the Pope himself,\nhe\u2019d be mad if we didn\u2019t send a messenger to Rome. I could send to L\u2014\u2014 for\na priest, but that might be too late. He is failing very much. I do wish\nyou\u2019d go once again, father.\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse had already been twice, and had been denied admittance in\nterms anything but respectful.\n\n\u201cCertainly I will go,\u201d he said. \u201cI should have come up this evening, if I\nhad not been sent for. Poor Lawrence! I cannot understand why he should\nhave such a prejudice against me.\u201d\n\nIt was early twilight when they reached the house, and, as they entered,\nthe lamps burned with a faint ray, as if they, like all sounds and sights\nin that place, had been muffled.\n\n\u201cYou go right up and tell him there\u2019s no one to be got but me,\u201d F.\nChevreuse said.\n\nBut Mrs. Ferrier shrank back. \u201cHe never will consent if I ask him.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnnette, then.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe won\u2019t allow Annette near him,\u201d the mother sighed.\n\n\u201cJohn,\u201d said the priest, \u201cwill you go up and tell Mr. Gerald that I am\nhere to see him?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wouldn\u2019t venture to, sir,\u201d John answered. \u201cI don\u2019t believe it\u2019s of any\nuse; and if you\u2019d take my advice, sir....\u201d\n\nEven Mrs. Ferrier was scandalized by the man\u2019s presumption, and faltered\nout an \u201cO John!\u201d\n\n\u201cI will go myself,\u201d F. Chevreuse interrupted. \u201cStay down here, all you\npeople, and say the rosary for my success. Say it with all your hearts.\nAnd don\u2019t come up\u2010stairs till you are called.\u201d\n\nAs he went up, a door near the landing softly opened, and in it stood the\nyoung wife with a face so woful and deathlike that tears would have seemed\njoyful in comparison. She said not a word, but stood and looked at the\npriest in a kind of terror.\n\n\u201cMy poor child!\u201d he said pityingly, \u201cwhy do you stay here alone, killing\nyourself with grief? Go and stay with your mother and Honora till I come\ndown.\u201d\n\nShe made that painful effort to speak which shows that the mouth and\nthroat are dry, and, when words came, they were but a whisper. \u201cO father!\u201d\nshe said, \u201cdon\u2019t go in there if you have any human weakness left in you!\nYou have to be an angel and not a man to hear my husband\u2019s confession.\nFind some one else for him. He will not speak to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever fear, child!\u201d he answered firmly. \u201cI may have human weakness, but I\nhave the strength of God to help me resist it.\u201d\n\nShe watched him as he softly opened the door of the chamber where her\nhusband lay, heard the faint cry that greeted him: \u201cNot you! not you!\u201d\nthen the door closed, and she was alone again.\n\nThe priest approached the bed, and spoke with gentleness, yet with\nauthority: \u201cF. O\u2019Donovan is too sick to come; and if you wait for another\nto be sent for, it will be too late. Think of your soul, and let\neverything else go. In a few hours you may be in the presence of God,\nlistening to your eternal doom. What will you care then, my poor boy, who\nhelped you to loosen from your conscience the sins you have committed in\nthis miserable world? It cannot be because you hate me so much, this\nunwillingness. Is it because your sins have been so great? There is no sin\nthat I have not heard confessed, I think; and the greater it was, the\ngreater was my comfort and thankfulness that at last it was forgiven.\nCome, now, I am putting on my stole. Ask the help of God and of our\nBlessed Mother, and forget who I am. Remember only what I am\u2014the minister\nof the merciful God\u2014and that I have no feeling, no thought, no wish, but\nto save you.\u201d\n\nThe bed\u2010curtains made a still deeper shade in that shadowed room, and out\nfrom the dimness the face of the sick man gleamed white and wild.\n\n\u201cI cannot!\u201d he said. \u201cYou would not want to hear me if you knew. You would\nnever give me absolution. You do not know what my sins are.\u201d\n\nThe priest seated himself by the bedside, and took in his strong, magnetic\nhand the thin and shaking hand of the penitent. \u201cNo matter what you may\ntell me, you cannot surprise me,\u201d he said. \u201cThough you should have\ncommitted sacrilege and every crime, I cannot, if I would, refuse you\nabsolution. And I would not wish to. I have only pity and love for you.\nTell me all now, as if you were telling your own soul. Have no fear.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo priest ever before heard such a confession!\u201d The words came faintly.\n\u201cYou do not know.\u201d\n\n\u201cConfess, in the name of God!\u201d repeated the priest. \u201cThe flames of hell\nare harder to bear than any anger of mine can be. God has sent me hither,\nand I have only to obey him, and listen to your confession, whatever it\nmay be. It is not my choice nor yours. We are both commanded.\u201d\n\n\u201cPromise me that I shall have absolution! Promise me that you will forgive\nme!\u201d prayed the young man, clinging to the hand that he had at first\nshrunk from. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean to do what I have done, and I have suffered\nthe torments of the damned for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no right to refuse absolution when you are penitent,\u201d was the\nanswer. \u201cThe person who repents and confesses has a right to absolution.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will give it to me, no matter what I may tell you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo matter what you may tell me,\u201d repeated the priest. \u201cThe mercy of God\nis mighty. Though you should hem yourself in with sins as with a wall of\nmountains, he can overlook them. Though you should sink in the lowest\ndepths of sin, his hand can reach you. A sinner cannot be moved to call on\nthe name of the Lord, unless the Lord should move him and have the\nmerciful answer ready. I have blessed you. How long is it since your last\nconfession?\u201d\n\nThe sick man half raised himself, and pointed across the room.\n\n\u201cThere is a crucifix on the table,\u201d he said. \u201cGo and kneel before that,\nand ask God to strengthen you for a hard trial. Then, if you come back to\nme, I will confess.\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse started up, and stood one instant erect and rigid, with his\nface upraised. Then he crossed the room, knelt before the crucifix, and\nheld it to his breast during a moment of wordless prayer. As a sigh\nreached him through the stillness of the chamber, he laid the crucifix\ndown, and returned to the bedside.\n\n\u201cIn the name of God, confess, and have no fear,\u201d he said gently. \u201cHave no\nfear!\u201d\n\nThe penitent lay with his face half turned to the pillow, and the bed was\ntrembling under him; but he no longer refused to speak.\n\nTo the company down\u2010stairs it seemed a very long interview. Mrs. Ferrier,\nMrs. Gerald, and Miss Pembroke, kneeling together in the little sitting\u2010\nroom near the foot of the stairs, with the door open, had said the rosary,\ntrying not to let their thoughts wander; then, sitting silent, had\nlistened for a descending step, breathing each her own prayer now and\nthen. Their greatest trouble was over. Evidently F. Chevreuse had overcome\nLawrence Gerald\u2019s unwillingness to confess to him; and the three women, so\ndifferent in all else, united in the one ardent belief that the prayer of\nfaith would save the sick man, and that, when his conscience should be\nquite disburdened, and his soul enlightened by the comforts and\nexhortations which such a man as F. Chevreuse could offer, his body would\nfeel the effects of that inward healing, and throw off its burden too.\n\nIn an adjoining room sat Louis Ferrier, biting his nails, having been\nforbidden by his mother to seek distraction in more cheerful scenes. He\nwatched the women while they knelt, and even drew a little nearer to\nlisten to their low\u2010voiced prayer, but lacked the piety to join them. He\nwas both annoyed and frightened by the gloomy circumstances in which he\nfound himself, and, like most men of slack religious belief and practice,\nfelt more safe to have pious women by him in times of danger.\n\nJohn had taken his place on a low stool underneath the stairs, and had an\nalmost grotesque appearance of being at the same time hiding and alert.\nWith his head advanced, and his neck twisted, he stared steadfastly up the\nstairway at the door within which the priest had disappeared.\n\nFor nearly an hour there was no sound but the small ticking of a clock and\nthe occasional dropping of a coal in the grate. Then all the waiting ones\nstarted and looked out eagerly; for the chamber\u2010door opened, and F.\nChevreuse came out.\n\nOne only did not lift her face to read what tidings might be written in\nthe face of him who came forth from the sick\u2010chamber. Kneeling, almost\nprostrate on the floor, Annette Gerald still remained where F. Chevreuse\nhad left her. She did not look up even when he paused by her side, and she\nfelt that he was blessing her, but only bowed still lower before him.\n\n\u201cTake comfort, my child,\u201d he said. \u201cYou have no reason to despair.\u201d\n\nShe looked up quickly into his face, with an almost incredulous hope in\nher eyes.\n\nHe was pale, but some illumination not of earth floated about him, so that\nshe could easily have believed she saw him upborne in air with the\nbuoyancy of a spirit. The heavenly calm of his expression could not be\ndescribed; yet it was the calm of one who, reposing on the bosom of God,\nis yet aware of infinite sin and suffering in the world. It was such a\nlook as one might imagine an angel guardian to wear\u2014heavenly peace shorn\nof heavenly delight.\n\nHe motioned her to rise, and she obeyed him. She would not then have\nhesitated, whatever he had bade her do. His imposing calm pressed her\nfears and doubts to a perfect quiet. There was nothing possible but\nobedience.\n\n\u201cGo to your husband, and see if he wants anything,\u201d he said. \u201cLet him be\nvery quiet, and he may sleep. To\u2010morrow morning I shall bring him the\nViaticum; but I think he will recover.\u201d\n\nShe went toward the chamber, and he descended the stairs. John, bending\nforward eagerly, caught sight of his face, and drew quickly back again,\nblessing himself. \u201cThe man is a saint!\u201d he muttered, and took good care to\nkeep himself out of sight.\n\nF. Chevreuse was met in the sitting\u2010room door by Mrs. Gerald, and the\nother two pressed close behind her; and when they saw him, it was as\nthough a soft and gentle light had shone into their troubled faces.\n\n\u201cYou are afraid that so long an interview has exhausted him,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\nhas not. The body is seldom any worse for attending to the affairs of the\nsoul, and a tranquil mind is the best rest. Annette is with him now, and,\nif left undisturbed, I think he will sleep. Pray for him, and do not lose\ncourage. God bless you! Good\u2010night.\u201d\n\nNot one of them uttered a word. The questions they would have asked, and\nthe invitation they would have given the priest to remain with them, died\non their lips. Evidently he did not mean to enter the room, and they felt\nthat his doing so was a favor for him to offer, not for them to ask.\n\nThey glanced at each other as he went away, and Honora Pembroke smiled.\n\u201cHe looks as though he were gazing at heaven through the gate of\nmartyrdom,\u201d she said.\n\nBut the next morning, after seeing Gerald, he stopped a few minutes to\ntalk with the family, and still they found that indefinable air of\nloftiness lingering about him, imposing a certain distance, at the same\ntime that it increased their reverence and affection for him. The\nfamiliar, frequently jesting, sometimes peremptory F. Chevreuse seemed to\nhave gone away for ever; but how beautiful was the substitute he had left,\nand how like him in all that was loftiest!\n\nLawrence was better that morning, and gained steadily day by day. Nothing\ncould exceed the care and tenderness with which F. Chevreuse watched over\nhis recovery. He came every morning and evening, he treated him with the\naffection of a father, and seemed to have charged himself with the young\nman\u2019s future.\n\n\u201cI think you should let him and Annette go to Europe for a year,\u201d he said\nto Mrs. Ferrier. \u201cIt would be better for him to break off entirely from\nold associations, and have an entire change for a while. His health has\nnot been good for some time, and his nerves are worn. The journey would\nrestore him, and afterward we will see what can be done. I am not sure\nthat it is well for him to live here. When a person is going to change his\nlife very much, it is often wiser to change his place of abode also. The\nobstacles to improvement are fewer among strangers.\u201d\n\nThe young man received this proposal to go abroad rather doubtfully. He\nwould not go away till spring, and was not sure that he would go then. As\nhe grew better in health, indeed, he withdrew himself more and more from\nthe priest, and showed an uneasiness in his society which not all F.\nChevreuse\u2019s kindness could overcome.\n\n\u201cYou must not shun me, Lawrence,\u201d the priest said to him one day when they\nwere alone. \u201cYou have done that too long, and it is not well. Try to look\non me as very firmly your friend. Let me advise you sometimes, and be sure\nthat I shall always have your good in view.\u201d\n\nLawrence had been very nervous and irritable that day, and was in no mood\nto bear expostulation. \u201cYou can\u2019t be my friend,\u201d he replied with\nsuppressed vehemence. \u201cYou can only be my master. You can only own me body\nand soul.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is a mistake,\u201d was the quiet answer. \u201cI do not own you any more than\nI do others.\u201d\n\nBut he patiently forbore to press the question then.\n\n\u201cEncourage him to come to me whenever you think I can benefit him,\u201d he\nsaid to Annette. \u201cYou can tell best. He has not quite recovered his\nspirits yet, and it will do no good for me to urge him. Make everything as\ncheerful as you can for him. It sometimes happens that people get up from\nsickness in this depressed state of mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes!\u201d she replied, looking down.\n\nShe also had grown shy of F. Chevreuse, and seemed willing to keep out of\nhis sight.\n\nBut to others she was perhaps rather more gay than they had known her for\nsome time. Her mother found her at once kinder and more exacting, and\ncomplained that they seemed now to have become strangers.\n\n\u201cAnd how nervous you have grown, Annette!\u201d she said. \u201cYou crush everything\nyou take hold of.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat have I crushed, mamma?\u201d asked the daughter, with a light laugh.\n\u201cHave I made havoc among your bonnets or wine\u2010glasses?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt isn\u2019t that,\u201d Mrs. Ferrier said fretfully. \u201cYou squeeze people\u2019s hands,\ninstead of touching them. Look at that baby\u2019s arm!\u201d They were entertaining\na baby visitor.\n\nAnnette Gerald looked as she was bid and saw the prints of her fingers on\nthe soft little arm she had held unconsciously, and caught an only half\u2010\nsubsided quiver of the baby lip as the little one looked at her, all ready\nto cry with pain.\n\nEvery woman knows at once how she atoned for her fault, by what caresses,\nand petting, and protestations of sorrow, and how those faint red marks\nwere bemoaned as if they had been the stripes of a martyr.\n\n\u201cIf you touch any one\u2019s arm, you pinch it,\u201d the elder lady went on. \u201cAnd\nyou take hold of your shawl and your gloves and your handkerchief as if\nsomebody were going to pull them away from you. I\u2019ve seen your nails white\nwhen you held the evening paper to read, you gripped it so; and as to\ntaking glasses and cups at the table, I always expect to see them fly to\npieces in your hands.\u201d\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t she an awful woman?\u201d says Mrs. Annette to the baby, holding it high\nand looking up into its rosy, smiling face. \u201cIsn\u2019t Annette a frightfully\nmuscular and dangerous person, you pink of perfection? What shall we do\nwith her? She pinches little swan\u2019s\u2010down arms, and makes angelic babies\npucker up their lips with grief, and sets tears swimming in their blue\nviolets of eyes. We must do something dreadful to her. We must forgive\nher; and that is very terrible. There is nothing so crushing, baby, as to\nbe forgiven very much.\u201d\n\nAnd then, after one more toss, the infant was let suddenly and softly\ndown, like a lapful of roses, over the face of its friend, and for an\ninstant Annette Gerald\u2019s eyes were hidden in its neck.\n\n\u201cCome and have a game of chess, Annette,\u201d her husband called out across\nthe room.\n\n\u201cYes, dear!\u201d she responded brightly; and, setting the child down, went to\nhim at once, a red color in her cheeks.\n\n\u201cWhy do some people always notice such little things,\u201d he said frowningly,\n\u201cand, instead of attending to themselves, watch how people take hold of\ncups and saucers, and all that nonsense, and fancy that some wonderful\nchance hangs on your eating butter with your bread, or preferring cheese?\u201d\n\nAnnette was engaged in placing the men, and did not look in her husband\u2019s\nface as she answered in a gentle, soothing voice:\n\n\u201cIt is rather annoying sometimes, but I find the best way is to treat the\nwhole jestingly. If one shows vexation, it looks serious. But you can\nridicule a person out of hanging mountains by threads.\u201d\n\nHe was going to answer, when something made him notice her face. The color\nwas still bright there, but the cheeks were hollow, and dark circles had\nsunk beneath her eyes.\n\n\u201cWhy, you are not looking well,\u201d he said, only just aware of the fact.\n\u201cAre you sick? Did you get worn out taking care of me?\u201d\n\nShe waited an instant till the others, who were leaving the room, should\nbe out of sight, then leaned across the table, careless that her sleeve\nswept away the two armies she had just placed, and took her husband\u2019s hand\nin hers, and bowed her cheek to it with a sob.\n\n\u201cO Lawrence! Lawrence!\u201d she whispered.\n\nHe made a motion to draw his hand away, but let it remain. \u201cMy God! what\nis the matter with you?\u201d he exclaimed.\n\nShe leaned back instantly, and made an effort to control herself. \u201cIt must\nbe that I am not well. Don\u2019t mind me. And now, you will have to place your\nown men, and give me the first move.\u201d\n\nHe placed the men, and appeared to be thinking pitifully of his wife as he\nglanced now and then into her face. \u201cIt seems selfish of me not to have\ntaken better care of you, Annette,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cOh! you needed care yourself,\u201d she replied lightly. \u201cDon\u2019t imagine that I\nam sick, though. It is nothing. You didn\u2019t marry me to take care of me,\nyou know, and I am not very exacting.\u201d\n\nShe would have caught back the last words, if she could, before it was too\nlate. They escaped her unawares, and were a remembered, rather than a\npresent, bitterness.\n\nHe blushed faintly. \u201cWhatever I married you for, I have no desire to\nexchange you now for any one else,\u201d he said, moving a pawn sideways\ninstead of forward. \u201cIf you were ever so poor, I wouldn\u2019t want a rich girl\nin your place. But then, you know, I\u2019m not sentimental. I never was much\nso, and it\u2019s all over now. I\u2019m thirty years old, and I feel a hundred. I\ncan\u2019t remember being young. I can\u2019t remember being twenty years of age. I\nwish to God I could!\u201d he burst forth.\n\nHis wife made a careful move, and said, \u201cI have a presentiment that I\nshall give you check in three moves more. Look out for your queen.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy only romance,\u201d he went on, \u201cwas about Honora. I thought that I could\ndo and be anything, if she would only care about me. What a stately,\nfloating creature she always was! I used to think she looked as if she\ncould walk on clouds and not fall through. Yes,\u201d he sighed, \u201cthat is where\nshe belongs\u2014among the clouds. I never blamed her for not having me; she\nwas too good. I never was worthy of such a woman.\u201d\n\nSlowly, while he spoke, the bright blood had deepened in his wife\u2019s face,\nand swept over her forehead. Had he been less preoccupied, he would have\nseen the slight, haughty movement with which she drew herself up. It was\nonly when he had waited a moment for her to move that he glanced up and\nmet her eyes fixed on him with an expression very like indignant scorn.\n\n\u201cBy what strange contradiction is it, I wonder,\u201d she said coldly, \u201cthat\nthe woman who does most for a man, and is most merciful and charitable\ntoward him, is never too good for him, while the one who scorns him, and\nwill not come a step off her pedestal to save him, is always the ideal\nwoman in his eyes?\u201d\n\nBitter tears of utter grief and mortification welled up and wet her\neyelashes. \u201cIn another world,\u201d she said, \u201cwhen the faults and mistakes of\nthis are set right, you may think yourself worthy of the companionship of\nHonora Pembroke, and of any union and closeness of affection which that\nlife may know. And then she may be given to you. And, Lawrence, if she\nwould and could consent to take you now, I would not refuse to give you\nup. At this moment, if, without any wrong, I could see her enter the room,\nand hold out her hand to you, and tell you that she was ready to take what\nshe had refused, and be to you all that you could wish\u2014if it could be\nright that it should happen so, I would not utter one word of objection. I\nwould leave you to her without a moment\u2019s hesitation.\u201d\n\nWhile she spoke, his hand had played tremblingly with the chessmen before\nhim. \u201cSo you give me up too,\u201d he said in a low voice.\n\nHer proud face softened. She looked at him, and recollected herself and\nhim, and pity sprang up again and effaced indignation. \u201cI do not give you\nup, Lawrence,\u201d she said gently. \u201cI cannot and have no wish to; I only\nspoke of what I would do in circumstances which cannot take place. You had\ninsulted me, without intending to, I know, and it was but natural that I\nshould retort. You know that I would not leave you, nor give you up on any\nprovocation. If you should leave me, I should follow you, because I should\nfeel sure that you would sooner or later need me. We are one. You are\nmine; and I always stand by my own.\u201d\n\nHe looked at her with an expression at once penetrating and shrinking.\n\u201cYou would stand by me, Annette, whatever should happen?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cCertainly!\u201d she replied, but did not meet his eyes. \u201cThere is no\nimaginable circumstance which could make me desert you. And now, what of\nthis game? To your queen!\u201d\n\nHe made a motion to save his queen, then pushed the board aside. \u201cI cannot\nplay,\u201d he said; \u201cI cannot confine my mind to it. Sing me something. It is\nlong since I have heard you sing.\u201d\n\nHe threw himself into a deeply\u2010cushioned chair, and leaned his head on his\nhands while she sang to him\u2014knowing, how well! that a cheerful song would\nnot cheer him nor a pious song soothe\u2014of\n\n\n    \u201cWaters that flow\n      With a lullaby sound,\n    From a spring but a very few\n      Feet under ground\u2014\n    From a spring that is not very\n      Far under ground.\u201d\n\n\nShe was a magical singer, surely; and the still, cold melancholy of her\ntones was the very spirit and essence of death; and, like death, it\npierced to the heart. She sang:\n\n\n    \u201cAnd, oh! let it never\n      Be foolishly said\n    That my room it is gloomy,\n      And narrow my bed.\n    For man never slept\n      In a different bed;\n    And to sleep, you must slumber\n      In just such a bed.\u201d\n\n\nShe turned quickly at a sound behind her, and saw that her husband had\nburied his face in the cushions of the chair, and was trembling violently.\nShe went to him, but there was no comfort to give nor to receive. Death\nalone could bring release for him and for her. She could only surround him\nwith her arms while he sobbed with the terrible hysterical sobbing of a\nman utterly broken down, and let him feel that he was not alone and\nunpitied.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know what ails me,\u201d he said at length, trying to control himself.\n\u201cDon\u2019t mind me, Annette. My nerves seem to be all unstrung. It must be\nthat fever.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! don\u2019t, Lawrence; please don\u2019t!\u201d she said faintly.\n\nHe became silent all at once, and it seemed as though a chill had passed\nover him. She sighed drearily, and smoothed his hair with her hand. \u201cTrust\nyour wife,\u201d she said. \u201cI am by you always.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are not afraid of me?\u201d He seemed to ask the question with a kind of\nterror.\n\n\u201cMy poor Lawrence! no. I do not fear you as much as you do me. Don\u2019t have\nsuch fancies.\u201d\n\nShe did not explain in what confessional she had learned his secret; in\nwhat troubled sleep wherein the unwary tongue speaks; in what more\ntroubled waking, when the eyes and actions speak; or in what sudden\nsuspicion and enlightenment, coming she knew not whence. She told nothing,\nand he asked nothing, only leaned on her bosom, and wept again as though\nall his manhood had departed.\n\n\u201cO Annette!\u201d he said, \u201cI dreamed last night that I was a little boy, and\nthat I stood by my mother while she brushed my hair into curls round her\nfinger. I thought I had been away a long distance, and come back again,\nand I stood quite still, and remembered another childhood before I took\nthat journey. I was so glad to be back\u2014as glad as I should be now if I\ncould go back. Some way I could see that my hair was golden, and that my\nmother smiled as she brushed it, though I did not look at her. Such dreams\nare always coming to me now. As soon as I go to sleep, I am a child that\nhas been away and is solemnly glad to be back again. And then I wake, and\nam in hell!\u201d\n\nShe went on smoothing his hair steadily.\n\n\u201cSome time soon the dream will come true,\u201d she said. \u201cDo the best you can.\nDo justice to the wronged. Come away with me, and we will hide ourselves\nsomewhere in the world, and try to find peace for the days that are left.\nAnd by\u2010and\u2010by, Lawrence, will come the day when we shall both be as little\nchildren again, and all our terrible burdens will slip off. You must do\njustice to the wronged.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn some way, yes!\u201d he said. \u201cI have tried to think. He must be saved. But\nI cannot go away. Do you remember ever having been afraid to go up\u2010stairs\nin the dark, of having felt sure that there was some one behind just ready\nto grasp you, till you screamed out in terror? It would be like that with\nme. If once I turn my back on this place, my life will become a crazy\nflight.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe world is wide,\u201d she urged, \u201cand there are safe places enough in it.\nBesides, money can buy anything; and _he_ has forgiven you. _He_ will\nscreen you.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy mother!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cWho will screen and save her? I will not\ndestroy her, Annette. No, everybody in the world may perish first. I never\nwill destroy my mother. I have done harm enough.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe will die in prison,\u201d she whispered. \u201cHe has sent to Germany for help,\nand it did him no good. He has demanded a new trial, and there was not\nenough to justify them in granting it. He is in a net from which there\nseems to be no escape. They say that he will die.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou want to make me crazy!\u201d her husband cried out, pushing her fiercely\nfrom him. \u201cGo away! You are worse than the rest.\u201d\n\nThere was no way but to yield to him. \u201cWell, well, Lawrence! I will try to\nthink of some other means.\u201d\n\nThe season had reached early spring, and one tempestuous evening in March,\nas F. Chevreuse sat at home, making up some church accounts, feeling quite\nsure that he should not be interrupted, he heard the street\u2010door softly\nopen and shut, then a tap at the door of the room.\n\n\u201cStrange that Jane should leave that street\u2010door unlocked!\u201d he thought,\nand at the same moment heard the servant coming up\u2010stairs from the\nkitchen. Her quick ear had caught the sound, and she, too, was wondering\nhow she could have omitted to fasten the house up.\n\nThe door of F. Chevreuse\u2019s sitting\u2010room was quickly opened, and shut again\nin Jane\u2019s face, and a woman stood inside. It was Annette Gerald, wrapped\nin a large waterproof cape, with the hood over her head.\n\n\u201cSend Jane away!\u201d she said hurriedly. \u201cDon\u2019t let her in here! Don\u2019t let\nher see me!\u201d\n\nHere Jane opened the door and put her head in, eyeing curiously the\nvisitor, whose back was turned to her. \u201cI\u2019m sure I shut the door and\nbolted it, father,\u201d she began, and took a step into the room. \u201cI....\u201d\n\n\u201cNo matter! I\u2019ll see to it,\u201d the priest said, waving her away.\n\n\u201cOh! well, only I\u2019m sure I locked it. And perhaps you\u2019d like to have this\nlamp....\u201d\n\n\u201cJane!\u201d he exclaimed, standing up, \u201cwhen I dismiss you, you are to go.\u201d\n\nJane retired, grumbling.\n\n\u201cShe will listen at the door,\u201d his visitor said.\n\nF. Chevreuse flung the door open, and discovered his domestic lingering\nabout the head of the stairs, affecting to examine an imaginary hole in\nthe carpet.\n\n\u201cOnce for all, Jane,\u201d he said, \u201cif you wish to remain in my house, you\nmust not presume, nor show any curiosity about my affairs, nor the affairs\nof those who come to me. Go down into the kitchen, and shut the door, and\nstay there.\u201d\n\nJane, albeit not very subordinate, was completely awed by a display of\nauthority such as she had never seen before. She did not venture to resist\nnor complain, but returned without delay to her own place.\n\nF. Chevreuse waited till he heard the kitchen\u2010door close with somewhat\nunnecessary force, then returned to his visitor.\n\n\u201cWhat has brought you out to\u2010night?\u201d he asked in a low voice.\n\n\u201cLet me get my breath!\u201d She was almost gasping. \u201cJane gave me such a\nfright that my heart is in my mouth.\u201d\n\nHe set a chair for her, and seated himself near, waiting till she should\nbe able to speak. \u201cYou had better shake the snow off your cloak,\u201d he said.\n\nShe made a gesture of impatient refusal.\n\nThe rude mantle had slipped aside, and revealed a strangely contrasting\ntoilet beneath. There was a shining of lustrous pale\u2010green silk with\ndelicately\u2010wrought laces, a glimmer of emeralds and diamonds, and glimpses\nof pink roses set in bunches of green grass.\n\n\u201cI have been to the prison,\u201d she whispered.\n\nF. Chevreuse frowned, and dropped his eyes.\n\n\u201cThe man is a fool!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cHe will not be saved. I had bought\none of the guard. It was the hour for supper, and the man let me in, and\npromised that for ten minutes I might do as I pleased, and he would see\nand know nothing. I went into the corridor, and found the cell\u2010door\nunlocked. Everything was ready, was perfect; for the storm would prevent\nany loungers from coming about the prison or the guard\u2010room, and would\ngive an excuse to any one who wanted to muffle up and cover their face. I\nhad a large cloak all ready. But he would not go. He will not fly as\nthough he were guilty, he said.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did you say to him?\u201d the priest inquired, without looking up.\n\n\u201cI told him that he could save himself, and prove his innocence afterward.\nI said that may be the real criminal would some day confess, and then he\ncould come out before the world more than justified. I said that we loved\nand pitied him, and were unhappy at the thought of him there, and would do\nanything for him. He was to be secreted in our house till a way could be\ngot for him to escape. I had left the carriage just round the corner, and\nJohn would have thought that it was Lawrence who got in with me. Mamma and\nLouis have gone to the President\u2019s dinner, and Gerald was to watch and let\nus in, and afterward come out again with me. But, no; the stubborn\nsimpleton would not be saved. I went on my knees to him, and he was like a\nrock. Then the watchman knocked at the door, and I had to run. The other\nguard were coming in from their supper, and, if I hadn\u2019t hid behind a\ndoor, they would have seen me face to face. Oh! why did he not consent?\u201d\n\nShe wrung her hands slowly till the jewels on them twinkled in the lamp\u2010\nlight.\n\nF. Chevreuse still sat with his eyes downcast. \u201cMy poor child!\u201d he said,\n\u201cyour pity for this man has led you into an almost fatal error. Never\nattempt such a thing again. It is not for you to cast yourself under the\nwheels of Juggernaut. I command you to try no such experiment again. Pray\nto God. That is all that you can do.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I know that now,\u201d she answered despairingly. \u201cI am utterly helpless.\nIt is your turn. You must save him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat can I do?\u201d he asked wonderingly. \u201cI have tried all I could, but in\nvain, as you know. I have left no stone unturned, and the only good result\nI can see is a probability that the sentence will not be executed to the\nutmost, and that in time something may happen to bring his innocence to\nlight.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn time!\u201d she repeated. \u201cHave you seen the man? Why, I did not know him\ntill he spoke. He will not live. No, there must be no delay. What you must\ndo is this: You must go to the authorities, and say that you know who the\ntrue criminal is, but cannot tell, at least not now, and that Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger is innocent.\u201d\n\nThe priest looked in her face with a gaze of calm surprise. \u201cYou mistake,\u201d\nhe said. \u201cI do not know who the criminal is. If I did know, I should\nimmediately go to the authorities, and denounce him.\u201d\n\nShe looked him steadfastly in the face, but his calmness baffled her. He\nshowed only a cool and dignified surprise.\n\n\u201cOh! these men,\u201d she muttered. \u201cI feel as if I were being ground between\nstones.\u201d\n\nShe stood, and the shining folds of her dress, that had been gathered up\nin her arms, dropped about her, and lay on the floor.\n\n\u201cHave you been walking through the snow in a ball\u2010dress?\u201d the priest\nasked. \u201cHave you anything to protect your feet?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I have fur shoes, and my carriage is near by,\u201d she said absently, and\nseemed to be considering what to do next.\n\n\u201cGo home now, my child, and try to put all this wild work out of your\nmind,\u201d F. Chevreuse said with emotion. \u201cPerform your own duty simply and\nin the fear of God, and do not try to take the burden of others on those\nshoulders of yours. Go home and warm yourself well, or you will be sick.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I am not going home,\u201d she said, her glance caught by the sparkling of\na bracelet on her arm. \u201cTo\u2010night is a dinner and ball given to the\nPresident, you know; and since he is going away to\u2010morrow it couldn\u2019t be\nput off. It must be time I was there, and I have to go home after\nLawrence.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! you will go to a dinner and ball to\u2010night?\u201d exclaimed the priest.\n\u201cYou feel yourself fit for company?\u201d\n\nShe smiled faintly. \u201cI shall doubtless be the gayest of the gay. There is\nnot much danger of my feeling sleepy.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, women are wonderful beings,\u201d remarked F. Chevreuse to himself.\n\nThe young woman drew her wrappings about her, and gathered up again her\nflowing skirts, looking to see that no stain had fallen on them; and, in\narranging her toilet for a new scene, she appeared to arrange her mind\nalso. A gentle tranquillity settled upon her face, and her head was\nslightly lifted, as though she were already the centre of observation to a\nbrilliant throng.\n\n\u201cBut you are looking very pale,\u201d the priest objected.\n\n\u201cThat always mends itself,\u201d she answered carelessly. \u201cWhen I have need of\ncolor, it usually comes.\u201d\n\nSome way, in this firm self\u2010control, he found her more pitiful than in any\nabandonment of sorrow. She accepted the situation uncomplainingly, since\nshe could do no more, and steeled herself to bear what she must.\n\n\u201cGod bless you!\u201d he said, when she was ready to go.\n\nHer face stirred a little at the words. It seemed that she would rather\nnot listen to anything of serious kindness then. Yet at the door she\nhesitated, and turned back. For once it was necessary that she should\nspeak.\n\n\u201cI have no difficulty about company or anything but silence and darkness,\u201d\nshe said hurriedly, looking down. \u201cI like a crowd, though I am always on\nthe lookout for something to be said I will not wish to hear. When he and\nI are alone, I turn cold and creeping, for fear he should speak; and I\nkeep close and cling to him, lest, if I should get a little way off, I\nshould grow afraid of him. If we were to be separated for one week, I\nthink we would never again dare to approach each other. But recollect\u201d\u2014she\nlifted her eyes for one quick glance\u2014\u201cI have told you nothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly not,\u201d he replied gravely.\n\nIn a moment she had gone out, and was running through the flying snow to\nfind her carriage, left in the next street to baffle some possible\nwatcher.\n\nYoung Mrs. Gerald was quite right in saying that she should probably be\nthe gayest of the gay that night; and if any other person appeared to\nenjoy the scene more than herself, it was, perhaps, her husband.\n\n\u201cA very happy couple,\u201d remarked a sympathizing friend to Mrs. Ferrier.\n\n\u201cOh! yes,\u201d the mother sighed, nodding her head. \u201cHe is always gay when he\nis doing no good, and as glum as a spade when he is behaving himself. I\nwas in hopes that his sickness would sober him, but he is wilder than\never. You should see him drive my horses!\u201d\n\nHer son\u2010in\u2010law, passing by at that moment, caught the last words, and\nimmediately joined the two ladies. \u201cI know that Mrs. Ferrier is\ncomplaining of me,\u201d he said gaily. \u201cShe will never forgive me for putting\nher precious bays out of breath. But the truth is, I am trying to save\ntheir lives; for they are so fat now that you could drive them to death at\nsix miles an hour.\u201d\n\n\u201cO Lawrence!\u201d Annette said at his elbow\u2014she was always hovering near when\nhe spoke with her mother\u2014\u201cthey say that Strauss, the composer, you know,\nis really coming to America next year, and will lead his own waltzes at\nthe concerts.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd, by the way, Ninon,\u201d said her husband, \u201cis that the Strauss who\nalways was? I have had a waltz\u2010writing, violin\u2010playing Strauss in my mind\never since I was born, and he had lived ages before, and was something\nlike Mephistopheles, to my fancy. Perhaps he is the Wandering Jew.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeaking of Jews\u2014\u201d began Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s companion.\n\nAnd here Annette drew her husband away, hanging on his arm, smiling and\nwhispering to him, the brightest, prettiest woman in the room.\n\n\u201cAnd yet last night he was off somewhere, and she sat up for him till a\nquarter before two o\u2019clock,\u201d Mrs. Ferrier said, looking after them. \u201cI\nlooked to see what time it was when I heard him come in. It is wearing her\nout. I shall not allow her to do it again.\u201d\n\nIt was easier for Mrs. Ferrier to say what should not be than to find\nherself obeyed, for the next night her daughter again kept vigil. \u201cAll I\nask of you, mamma, is to let me attend to my own business,\u201d she said\ndecidedly.\n\nSo \u201cmamma\u201d toiled up\u2010stairs to bed, and the daughter lowered the lights,\ntook out her rosary, and began her nightly task of fighting away thought,\nand trying to fix her mind on the future.\n\nAfter an hour or two, John, the footman, put his head in at the door.\n\u201cYou\u2019d a great deal better go to bed, ma\u2019am, and leave me to let Mr.\nGerald in,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ve something that will keep me up to\u2010night, and\nit\u2019s a pity two should lose their rest. It is past twelve now.\u201d\n\nShe felt faint and weary, and sleep was beginning to steal over her. \u201cI\nbelieve I will go, then,\u201d she said. \u201cI have not slept for three nights.\u201d\n\nShe went, with a dragging step, over the bright carpet roses. \u201cWhat would\nbecome of him if I were to break up?\u201d she thought.\n\nWhen she had gone, the man put out the hall gas, opened the doors of the\nvestibule, and set himself to wait. He meant to have speech of Mr. Gerald\nthat night without Mr. Gerald\u2019s wife for a witness or any likelihood of\nother interruption.\n\nAbout one o\u2019clock he heard unsteady steps on the sidewalk, and, as he went\nto the door, Lawrence Gerald came reeling up the steps, and almost fell\ninto his arms.\n\n\u201cCome into the sitting\u2010room, sir, and lie down on the sofa. It will be\neasier than going up\u2010stairs,\u201d he said.\n\nWhen he had been drinking, the young man was easy to lead, and he now\nsubmitted readily, and was in a few minutes in a deep sleep.\n\nJohn locked the street\u2010door, shut the door of the sitting\u2010room behind him,\nand, seating himself, waited for the sleeper to wake.\n\nA nervous man might have grown uneasy during that watch. There is\nsomething not always pleasant in hearing one\u2019s own breathing, and the\nfaint occasional sounds in floor and wall, and at one\u2019s elbow, even,\nwhich, in the stillness of night, seem like the movements of unseen beings\ndrawing near. Besides, there is a terror in the thought that we are going\nto terrify another.\n\nBut this man was not nervous. He was made of wholesome though rough\nmaterial, and he had a strong will. He had been waiting for others to act,\nand had waited in vain, and now he had made up his mind that it was for\nhim to act. Justice was strong in him, where he had the ability to\nperceive what was just, and he would no longer see the innocent suffer for\nthe guilty. Besides, he reflected, there was no one else who could speak.\nSelf\u2010defence, or the defence of one dearly loved, or a yet more sacred\nmotive, sealed the lips of all who knew. His lips were not sealed, and\njustice commanded him to speak.\n\nThree o\u2019clock came and went, and still the young man slept. The other sat\nand studied him, noting how slight and elegant was his form, how fine the\nhands and feet, how daintily he was dressed and cared for.\n\nJohn was stout and heavy, a man of delf, and the size of his boots had\nonce provoked from Lawrence a very provoking quotation:\n\n\n    \u201cWhat dread hand formed thy dread feet?\u201d\n\n\nand more than once the young man had mockingly pushed his two white hands\ninto one of John\u2019s gloves.\n\nThis sleeper\u2019s hair was glossy, scented, as soft as floss, and curled in\nmany a wilful ring; John\u2019s was coarse and straight, and he wisely wore it\nclosely cropped. Lawrence Gerald\u2019s face was delicately smooth; the lines\nmelted harmoniously into each other; his brows were finely drawn; the\nteeth, that showed through his parted lips, were pearly white; and as he\nlay with closed eyes, the lashes made two exquisitely curved shadows on\nhis cheeks. John\u2019s face was plain, he had no eyebrows nor eyelashes to\nspeak of, his eyes were more for use than ornament, and his nose went\nabout its business straight from end to end, stopping rather bluntly, and\nutterly ignoring that delicate curve which made this man\u2019s profile so\nperfect.\n\nThis man? This drunkard, rather, John thought; this spendthrift, and\ngambler, and robber. This murderer!\n\nThe nerves of the serving\u2010man stiffened; and if he had felt any relenting,\nit was over. The insolent daintiness before him stirred all his\nbitterness. It was for such men as this that humbler honest folks were to\nbow and serve, and women\u2019s hearts to break!\n\nIt must be nearly four o\u2019clock, he thought, and glanced round at the\nclock. Looking back again, he met Lawrence Gerald\u2019s eyes fixed on him\nsteadily, and he returned the look with as immovable a stare. In that\ninstant the meaning of each leaped out of his face as clearly as lightning\nfrom a cloud. Young Gerald\u2019s eyes began to shrink in their depths, and\nstill the other held them; he drew slowly back on the sofa, cowering, but\nunable to turn away.\n\nAnd here John\u2019s eyes released him, for another object drew them up to the\nmirror that hung over the sofa. Reflected there he saw that the door was\npartly open, and Annette Gerald\u2019s white face looking in. She came swiftly\ngliding toward them, silent as a ghost, and melted, rather than fell, on\nto her knees before her husband, between him and the other. Her arms and\nbosom hid him from that relentless gaze which told that all was known, and\nher own face turned and received it instead, firmly and almost defiantly.\n\n\u201cWell, John?\u201d she said. \u201cSpeak out what you have to say.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis can\u2019t go on any longer, ma\u2019am,\u201d he whispered; \u201cand I should think\nyou would have the sense to see that. If you\u2019re willing to let an innocent\nman suffer for him, even that won\u2019t serve you long, for he will betray\nhimself yet. You must go.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, we will go!\u201d she replied hurriedly. \u201cIt is the only thing to\ndo. We will go right away.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will give you three weeks to get out of danger,\u201d he went on; \u201cor, if\nthat isn\u2019t enough, a month. But you mustn\u2019t lose a day. I won\u2019t see that\nman down in the prison die for nothing. After the four weeks from to\u2010\nmorrow morning are up, I shall go to F. Chevreuse with a paper that your\nhusband will write. He may tell his own story, and make what excuses he\ncan for himself, and it shall be for everybody to read. F. Chevreuse will\ncarry the paper to the judges, and take that man out of prison. That is\nall I\u2019ve got to say,\u201d he concluded. \u201cFour weeks from to\u2010morrow morning!\u201d\n\nAnnette made no further reply, only watched the man out of the room, and\nlocked the door after him. Then she returned to her husband, and, for the\nfirst time since she had entered the room, looked in his face. He was\nlying back with his eyes closed, as though from faintness. She brought him\na glass of wine, knelt by his side while he drank it, then took his hand\nin hers.\n\n\u201cThere is no other way, Lawrence,\u201d she said.\n\nHe was sitting up now, but kept his eyes closed, as if he could not meet\nher glance, or could not endure to look upon the light. He answered her\nquietly, \u201cYes, it is the only way.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd now,\u201d she continued, \u201csince there is no time to lose, you will tell\nme the whole, and I will write it down. You can sign it afterward.\u201d\n\nHe nodded, but did not speak. The blow had fallen, and its first effect\nwas crushing.\n\nShe brought a writing\u2010table close to the sofa, and seated herself before\nit. As she arranged the paper, pens, and ink, heavy tears rolled down her\nface, and sigh after sigh struggled up from her heart; but she did not\nsuffer them to impede her work\u2014scarcely seemed, indeed, conscious of them.\nEverything was arranged carefully and rapidly. \u201cNow, Lawrence!\u201d she said,\nand seemed to catch her breath with the words.\n\nHe started, and opened his eyes; and when he saw her, with eyes uplifted,\nmaking the sign of the cross on her forehead and bosom, he knelt by her\nside, and, bowing his head, blessed himself also with the sacred sign.\n\nThen he began his confession, and she wrote it as it fell from his lips.\nIf now and then a tear, not quickly enough brushed away, fell on the\npaper, it only left its record of a wife\u2019s grief and love, but did not\nblot out a word of the clear writing.\n\nWhen the last word had been written, and the name signed, a long ray of\nwhite morning light had pierced through a chink in the shutter, and lay\nacross the red lamp\u2010light.\n\nAnnette Gerald took the pen from her husband\u2019s hand. \u201cMy poor Lawrence!\u201d\nshe said, \u201cyou and I have got to be saints now. There is no medium for us.\nPleasure, ease, all hope of earthly peace\u2014they are far behind us. We must\ngo out into the world and do penance, and wait for death.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnnette,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201clet me go alone! Give me up now, and live your\nown life here. I will never come near you again.\u201d\n\nShe shook her head. \u201cThat is impossible. The only consolation I can have\nis to stay with you and give you what little help I can. You could not\nlive without me, Lawrence. Don\u2019t speak of it. I shall stand by you.\u201d\n\nShe opened the shutters and the window, and let the fresh morning light\ninto the close room and over their feverish faces.\n\nThe town was waking up to a bright sunshiny day, its many smokes curling\nupward into the blue, its beautiful vesture of snow still clinging here\nand there, all its busy life beginning to stir joyfully again. They stood\nbefore the window a minute looking out, the same thought in both their\nminds. Then the wife leaned forward. \u201cGood\u2010by, Crichton!\u201d she said, and\ntook her husband\u2019s hand. \u201cCome, Lawrence! we have no time to lose. The\nsword has been set over the gate.\u201d\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nA Looker\u2010Back. III. The Temple.\n\n\n            \u201cThose bricky towers,\n    The which on Themme\u2019s brode aged back do ride,\n    Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers:\n    There whilom wont the Templar Knights to bide.\u201d\n\n\nPerhaps there is no place in London that appeals to so many instincts of\nthe soul as the Temple. Religion, valor, romance, and literature have all\nlent enchantment to the place. Built and inhabited by the Knights\nTemplars, the resort of kings and nobles of highest lineage, the home of\ngenerations of law\u2010students and literary men like Burke, Johnson,\nGoldsmith, and Lamb, and associated with Shakespeare and many a romance,\nwho could enter its quiet alleys, and ramble about its courts and gardens,\nwithout being stirred to the depths of his soul? Fact and fiction are here\nso mingled together that one is unable to disentangle them, and the\nvisitor says, as he roams about: Here was the place of Lamb\u2019s \u201ckindly\nengendure\u201d; yonder Eldon lived; up in that third story was Arthur\nPendennis\u2019 sick\u2010chamber, where his mother and Laura went to nurse him; in\nthat court were Goldsmith\u2019s chambers, where he loved to sit and watch the\nrooks; and in those gardens walked Sir Roger de Coverley, discussing the\nbelles, with patches and hoops, strolling across the green once used by\nthe Red\u2010Cross Knights for martial exercises; and yonder is the ancient\nchurch, patterned after that of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem.\n\nThe church must be visited first, for it is the most beautiful and perfect\nin existence that belonged to the Knights Templars, and stood next in rank\nto their temple in the Holy City. Within half a century it has been\nrestored to something of its ancient glory, and is substantially the same\nas when consecrated by Heraclius, Patriarch of Jerusalem, in the year\n1185. The entrance is a beautiful Norman arch, deeply recessed, with\nelaborately wrought mouldings, and columns between which are figures of\nsaintly forms, some with rolls in their hands, and some in the attitude of\nprayer. These stone faces at the entrance of churches are a wonderful\ncheck to worldly thoughts. They communicate something of their own\nsolemnity and ineffable calmness. Through this door\u2010way used to pass the\nvaliant knights of the cross who came here with their banner\u2014the glorious\n_Beau\u2010seant_\u2014to have their swords blessed on the altar before departing\nfor\n\n\n                \u201cThose holy fields\n    Over whose acres walked those blessed feet\n    Which, fourteen hundred years ago were nail\u2019d\n    For our advantage on the bitter cross.\u201d\n\n\nThis is the entrance to the Round Church. A circular tower rests on six\nclustered columns of marble, each composed of four shafts, which run into\neach other at base and capital so as to form but one. And around these is\na circular aisle. Six pointed arches spring from these beautiful pillars,\nabove which is an arcade of Norman arches so interlaced as to form a\ncombination of round and pointed arches\u2014a fine example of the transition\nto the Gothic style of architecture. Parker says this Round Church is one\nof the best authenticated instances of the earliest use of the pointed\narch in England, though the choir of Canterbury Cathedral is usually\nconsidered so. Over this arcade are six clerestory windows, between which\nrise slender shafts that support the groined ribs of the roof.\n\nAt the sides of the circular aisle are sedilia formed of masonry\nprojecting from the wall, with slightly arched recesses, in the spandrels\nof which are grotesque faces in _alto\u2010relievo_, carven in stone, each of\nwhich has an extraordinary character of its own, and is well worth\nstudying. Some are distorted with pain; some look up appealingly; here the\ntongue protrudes and the eyeballs are glaring; there is a look of\nunutterable horror; one sets his teeth hard as an unclean animal bites his\near; another shows two fang\u2010like teeth, while a vicious\u2010looking creature\nis gnawing the corner of his mouth, and the furrowed brow expresses awful\nagony; here is one with his long tongue run out sideways; there is another\nbellowing with his mouth wide open, the nostrils dilated and the forehead\nall puckered up; some have ultra\u2010Roman noses, some sharp, and others flat\nand broad, as if reflected from a convex surface. One grins and shows all\nhis teeth broad and uniform. The sexton says these faces are supposed to\ndepict the tortures of the suffering souls in purgatory. Grotesque as most\nof them are, there is a certain awful solemnity, even in the most hideous,\nthat is impressive. Thank God! a few are calm and serene, with their crown\nof sorrow on their heads. An arcade, similarly decorated, has been found\nin the ruined Temple Church at Acre, and at the famous Castel Pellegrino,\nerected by the early Templars to command the shore\u2010road from Acre to\nJerusalem.\n\nThe first thing that strikes the attention on entering this solemn church\nis the group of old Crusaders lying on the pavement with their legs\ncrossed, in token that they had served in the Holy Land.\n\n\n    \u201cThe knights are dust,\n    And their good swords are rust,\n    Their souls are with the saints, we trust.\u201d\n\n\nThese are not effigies of the Knights Templars\u2014for they do not wear the\nmantle of that order\u2014but knights associated with them in defence of the\nHoly Land. One of them represents William Marshall, Earl of Pembroke, and\nProtector of England during the minority of Henry III., one of the\ngreatest warriors and statesmen of the middle ages. Matthew Paris\ndescribes his burial here in 1219. Here he lies, carven in stone, clad\nfrom head to foot in armor of chain\u2010mail, in the act of sheathing his\nsword. His legs are crossed, for he had borne the cross of Prince Henry,\neldest son of Henry II., to Jerusalem. On his feet are spurs, and at his\nside a shield with the lion rampant of the Marshalls. This stout\u2010hearted\nsupporter of the Plantagenets was one of the council appointed by Richard\nC\u0153ur de Lion to govern the kingdom during his absence. It was he, together\nwith Americ, Master of the Temple, who at last induced King John to sign\nthe Magna Charta, and he accompanied the king to Runnymede.\n\nHe it was, too, that, while protector in the next reign, offered pardon to\nthe disaffected barons, and confirmed the Magna Charta. He also extended\nits benefits to Ireland, and commanded the sheriffs to read it publicly at\nthe county courts, and enforce its exact observance.\n\nIt was this same Earl of Pembroke whom Shakespeare represents pleading so\neloquently for the enfranchisement of the unfortunate Prince Arthur:\n\n\n      \u201cIf what in rest you have, in right you hold,\n    Why then your fears (which, as they say, attend\n    The steps of wrong), should move you to mew up\n    Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days\n    With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth\n    The rich advantage of good exercise?\n    That the time\u2019s enemies may not have this\n    To grace occasions, let it be our suit\n    That you have bid us ask his liberty:\n    Which for our goods we do no further ask,\n    Than whereupon our weal, on you depending,\n    Counts it your weal, he have his liberty.\u201d\n\n\nThis great statesman was a benefactor to the Templars, and, when he died,\nhis body was borne here in state and buried with great pomp on Ascension\nDay, 1219.\n\nHere, too, are the monumental effigies of his sons\u2014William Marshall, the\nyounger, one of the bold barons of Runnymede, to whom we are indebted for\nthe Magna Charta; and Gilbert Marshall, \u201cthe flower of the chivalry of\nthat time,\u201d who married a Scotch princess, and went to the defence of the\nsacred tomb.\n\nAlthough the elder Marshall was just enough to extend the benefits of the\nMagna Charta to Ireland, we are told that, during his campaign in that\ncountry, he seized the lands of the Bishop of Fernes, and kept them, in\nspite of a sentence of excommunication. After the earl\u2019s death, the bishop\ncame to London, and laid the case before the king, who, alarmed for the\nweal of his old guardian\u2019s soul, accompanied the bishop to his tomb.\n\nMatthew Paris says that, as they stood by it, the bishop solemnly\napostrophized the departed earl: \u201cO William! who lyest here interred and\nheld fast by the chain of excommunication, if those lands which thou hast\nunjustly taken from my church be rendered back to me by the king, or by\nyour heir, or by any of your family, and if due satisfaction be made for\nthe loss and injury I have sustained, I grant you absolution; but if not,\nI confirm my previous sentence, so that, enveloped in your sins, you stand\nfor evermore condemned to hell!\u201d\n\nHowever alarmed the king might have appeared about his guardian\u2019s soul,\nrestitution was not made, and the stout old bishop, who seems to have been\nsoundly orthodox as to the temporal rights of the church, denounced the\nearl and his race in right Scriptural phrase: \u201cHis name shall be rooted\nout in one generation; and his sons shall be deprived of the blessing,\n_Increase and multiply_. Some of them shall die a miserable death; their\ninheritance shall be scattered; and this thou, O king! shalt behold in thy\nlife\u2010time; yea, in the days of thy flourishing youth.\u201d\n\nThis fearful prophecy was fulfilled in a remarkable manner. The five sons\nof the protector died one after another without issue in the reign of\nHenry III., and the family became extinct.\n\nThere are eight of these monumental effigies lying in the centre of the\nRound Church. It is to them Butler refers in his _Hudibras_, speaking of\nthe profanation of the place by the lawyers of his time and their clients\u2014\n\n\n    \u201cThat ply in the Temple under trees,\n    Or walk the Round with knights of the posts\n    About the crossed\u2010legged knights, their hosts.\u201d\n\n\nIn the round walk of this church there is on one side a coped tombstone,\nin the style of the XIIth century, of a prismatic, coffin\u2010like shape. On\nthe other side\n\n\n    \u201cYou see a warrior carven in stone\n    Lying in yon dim aisle alone,\n    A warrior with his shield of pride\n    Cleaving humbly to his side,\n    And hands in resignation prest\n    Palm to palm on his tranquil breast.\u201d\n\n\nThis is Lord Robert de Ros, another of the bold barons of Runnymede\u2014a\nknight whose career was one long romance. Beautiful in person, the\nsuccessful wooer of the Princess Isabella of Scotland, and \u201cone of those\nmilitary enthusiasts whose exploits form the connecting link between fact\nand fiction, between history and the fairy tale,\u201d one cannot look at his\nfigure here without interest and emotion.\n\n\n    \u201cO death! made proud with pure and princely beauty.\u201d\n\n\nIn fact, there is a wonderful air of mystery and romance about the whole\nof this solemn church. Here the young aspirant to knighthood used to come\nto keep his long vigil before the altar, and here gathered the Crusaders\nbefore setting off for the tomb of Christ. And chief among them the\nvaliant Templars, in their long, flowing mantles, \u201cwhose stainless white\ntheir hearts belied not,\u201d with the mystic cross upon their breasts, which\nPope Eugenius had authorized them to wear.\n\n\n    \u201cAnd on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore,\n    The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,\n    For whose sweet sake that glorious badge he bore,\n    And dead (as living) ever him adored.\n    Upon his shield the like was also scor\u2019d,\n    For sovereign hope which in his helpe he had;\n    Right faithful true he was in deed and word;\n    But of his cheer did seem too solemn sad,\n    Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.\u201d\n\n\nWe can never believe that, as a body, the early Templars were not worthy\nof their white garments. A bishop of Acre, who frequently accompanied them\non their military expeditions, said of them: \u201cLions they are in war,\ngentle in the convent, fierce soldiers in the field, hermits and monks in\nreligion; to the enemies of Christ ferocious and inexorable, but to\nChristians kind and gracious. They carry before them to battle a banner,\nhalf black and white, which they call _Beau\u2010seant_\u2014that is to say, in the\nGallic tongue, _Bien\u2010seant_, because they are fair and favorable to the\nfriends of Christ, but black and terrible to his enemies.\u201d\n\nWhile this vision of the past was crossing the inward eye, a strain of\nmusic, as of some holy chant, came floating softly out from some inner\nrecess, sweetly adding to the enchantment. It was only the choir\npractising in the vestry, but it was just far enough away to give a\ncertain mystery and softness to their psalmody that was delightful at that\nvesper hour. One needs a service for such memories, and alone in this\nrotunda of the Templars, where\n\n\n    \u201cWatching and fast, and prayer, and penance,\n      And sternly nursed affections,\u201d\n\n\nonce heavenward soared, the pilgrim knelt awhile in the dim round aisle to\nsay a _Requiescant_ for those that once worshipped here according to God\u2019s\nappointed ordinances, and then went his way\u2014_in pace_.\n\nThe next day brought him back to complete his survey. Churches like this,\nin imitation of that of the Holy Sepulchre, were frequently built in the\ntime of the Crusades. The Milanese built one in their city after returning\nfrom the holy war. Peter Adornes made three journeys from Flanders to\nJerusalem to obtain an exact copy of the Holy Sepulchre for the church at\nBruges; and at Abbeville, the beautiful Church of the Holy Sepulchre was\nbuilt on the very spot where Godfrey of Bouillon and the Crusaders\nassembled before going to Palestine. In it was built a tomb before which\nthe solemn Office of the Holy Sepulchre was celebrated annually. Sometimes\nthe Crusaders brought back with them some of the dust of the Holy City. At\nPisa, and in Sicily, there were cemeteries filled with that sacred soil.\nIt seemed less repulsive to lie for ever down in dust perhaps the\nSaviour\u2019s feet had trod.\n\nThe London temple has therefore something of the sacred character of the\nOrient about it; that is, the Rotunda. And it was dedicated to that holy\nOriental maiden whom all nations unite in calling Blessed. The following\ninscription is over the door of entrance:\n\n\u201cOn the 10th of February, in the year from the Incarnation of our Lord\n1185, this church was consecrated in honor of the Blessed Mary, by the\nLord Heraclius, by the grace of God Patriarch of the Church of the\nResurrection, who hath granted an indulgence of fifty days to those yearly\nseeking it.\u201d\n\nHeraclius had come to Europe to preach the Third Crusade. In Paris he was\nthe first to officiate at Notre Dame. His special mission to England was\nto induce Henry II. to fulfil his vow of going to the succor of the Holy\nLand by way of penance for the murder of Thomas \u00e0 Becket. Finding his\nefforts in vain, the patriarch at last said to the king: \u201cHitherto thou\nhast reigned gloriously, but hereafter thou shalt be forsaken of Him whom\nthou at this time forsakest. Think on him, what he hath given to thee, and\nwhat thou hast yielded to him again; how first thou wert false to the King\nof France, and, after, slew that holy man, Thomas of Canterbury, and,\nlastly, thou forsakest the protection of Christ\u2019s faith.\u201d The king, vexed\nat such frankness, said: \u201cThough all the men of my land were one body, and\nspake with one mouth, they durst not speak to me such words.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo wonder,\u201d replied the patriarch, \u201cfor they love thine and not thee;\nthat is to mean, they love thy goods temporal, and fear thee for loss of\npromotion, but they love not thy soul.\u201d And so saying, he bowed his head\nbefore the king, and continued: \u201cDo by me right as thou didst by that holy\nman, Thomas of Canterbury; for I had rather be slain of thee than of the\nSaracens, for thou art worse than any Saracen.\u201d\n\nThe king, restraining himself, said: \u201cI may not wend out of my land, for\nmine own sons will rise up against me when I were absent.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo wonder,\u201d responded the patriarch, \u201cfor of the devil they come, and to\nthe devil they shall go;\u201d and so departed, as Abbot Brompton records, \u201cin\ngreat ire.\u201d\n\nIn the wall of the Round Church is a winding staircase of stone leading to\nthe triforium. Part way up it opens into what is called \u201cthe penitential\ncell\u201d\u2014a recess in the thick wall four feet and a half long, and two and a\nhalf wide, with two squints to admit air and light, and enable the\npenitent to witness the divine service. It would seem, however much an\nactive knight might chafe in such restricted quarters, as if he had much\nto console and support him in looking down into such a church. In the\ntriforium are gathered together monuments that were formerly scattered\nabout the church. Among them is a tablet to Edmundus Gibbon, an ancestor\nof the historian, who died in 1679.\n\nThe Round Church opens by three lofty arches into the rectangular church,\nconsisting of a nave and two aisles, formed by clustered pillars of\nmarble, supporting a groined vault covered with rich arabesques. This\nchurch is a beautiful specimen of the early English style. The lawyers of\nCromwell\u2019s time whitewashed the pillars, and did all they could to obscure\nthe beauty of the building; but now it is restored to somewhat of its\nformer richness. It is paved with tiles bearing the arms of the Outer and\nInner Temple, and on its triple lancet windows are emblazoned the arms of\nthe Templars\u2014the lamb and flag and the ruby cross. That red cross, in the\nvery church where it gleamed seven hundred years ago, says volumes to the\nheart. Where are the Knights Templars now to assume it again, and go to\nthe rescue of the Holy City, bereft of its sovereign lord? Do we not need\na new S. Bernard to preach a new crusade in behalf of the captive daughter\nof Zion, that she may be delivered from the ungodly oppressor, and her\nanointed one set free?\n\nIt was an old English prelate\u2014S. Anselm\u2014who said: \u201cGod loves nothing in\nthe world better than the liberty of his church.... He does not wish a\nservant for his spouse.\u201d\n\nThis rectangular church was consecrated in 1240, in presence of the king\nand a vast number of nobles. In one corner is a beautiful old marble\npiscina, lately brought to light, where the priest, before the holy\noblation, purified the hands that were to touch the Body of the Lord.\n\nOn a terrace to the north of the church is Goldsmith\u2019s grave, marked by a\ncoped stone. On one side is graven: \u201cHere lies Oliver Goldsmith\u201d; and on\nthe other: \u201cBorn 10 Nov., 1728. Died 4 April, 1774.\u201d The row of houses\nclose by is marked \u201cGoldsmith\u2019s Buildings.\u201d Perhaps on this very terrace\nhe walked up and down in his bloom\u2010colored coat, dreading to have the bill\nsent in. There are Johnson\u2019s buildings also. And in Inner Temple Lane,\nLamb lived at No. 4, which \u201clooks out on Hare Court, with three trees and\na pump,\u201d where he used to drink when he was \u201ca young Rechabite of six\nyears\u201d of age. As he says, \u201cit is worth something to have been born in\nsuch a place.\u201d It was here the spirit of the past was infused into his\nmind, moulding it in antique fashion, and planting the germs of the quaint\nconceits and humorous fancies that so delight us all, and giving him a\nlove for the old dramatists which we have all learned to share in.\n\nOf course every one goes to drink at the fountain which Lamb, when a boy,\nused to make rise and fall, to the astonishment of the other urchins,\n\u201cwho, nothing able to guess at its recondite machinery, were almost\ntempted to hail its wondrous work as magic.\u201d Miss Landon thus celebrates\nit:\n\n\n    \u201cThe fountain\u2019s low singing is heard on the wind,\n    Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind,\n    Some to grieve, some to gladden; around them they cast\n    The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the past.\n    Away in the distance is heard the vast sound.\n    From the streets of the city that compass it round,\n    Like the echo of fountains, or ocean\u2019s deep call;\n    Yet that fountain\u2019s low singing is heard over all.\u201d\n\n\nAnd yonder are the sun\u2010dials, on which Lamb so sweetly moralizes\u2014the\ninscriptions no longer half effaced, but bright with the gilding of 1872.\n\u201c_Pereunt et imputantur_\u201d; \u201c_Discite justitiam moniti_\u201d; \u201c_Vestigia __\nnulla retrorsum_\u201d; and \u201cTime and tide tarry for no man,\u201d are some of the\nmottoes on them. It is rather a disappointment to find them looking so new\nand fresh, as if no longer \u201ccoeval with the time they measure.\u201d There is\nsomething wonderfully poetical about a sun\u2010dial, which derives its\nrevelations of time\u2019s flight \u201cimmediately from heaven, holding\ncorrespondence with the fountain of light.\u201d It has a kind of relationship\nto nature, and is, therefore, the very thing to have in gardens and groves\nand green fields \u201cfor sweet plants and flowers to spring up by, for the\nbirds to apportion their silver warblings by, for flocks to pasture and be\nled to fold by.\u201d It has a \u201cheart\u2010language\u201d not heard from a clock, with\n\u201cits solemn dulness of communication.\u201d When we give up modern artificial\nlife, and return to our primitive relationship with nature, we shall only\nmeasure the flight of time by a sun\u2010dial, or an hour\u2010glass, or the opening\nand shutting of flowers.\n\nIt is delightful wandering around the Temple gardens, with their shrubbery\nand flowers and fountains, and especially along the terrace overlooking\nthe Thames. Here one naturally looks around for the old benchers of Lamb\u2019s\ntime, half expecting to be greeted by the pensive gentility of Samuel\nSalt, or the quadrate person of Thomas Coventry, coming along with \u201cstep\nmassy and elephantine, his face square as the lion\u2019s, his gait peremptory\nand path\u2010keeping,\u201d the terror of children, who flee before him as from an\n\u201cElisha bear.\u201d One can also \u201cfancy good Sir Roger de Coverley and Mr.\nSpectator, with his short face, pacing up and down the road, or dear\nOliver Goldsmith in the summer\u2010house, perhaps meditating about the next\n_Citizen of the World_, or the new suit that Mr. Filby, the tailor, is\nfashioning for him, or the dunning letter that Mr. Newbury has sent.\nTreading heavily on the gravel, and rolling majestically along in a snuff\u2010\ncolored suit and a wig that sadly wants the barber\u2019s powder and irons, one\nsees the great doctor, with Boswell behind him, a little the worse for the\nport\u2010wine they have been taking at the Mitre, to ask Goldsmith to come\nhome and take a dish of tea with Mrs. Williams.\u201d\n\nIt is in the Temple gardens that Shakespeare makes York and Lancaster\npluck the red and white roses which became the badges of their rival\nhouses. It is here _Plantagenet_ says:\n\n\n      \u201cLet him that is a true\u2010born gentleman,\n    And stands upon the honor of his birth,\n    If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,\n    From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.\u201d\n\n    _Somerset._\u2014\u201cLet him that is no coward, nor no flatterer,\n    But dare maintain the party of the truth,\n    Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.\u201d\n\n    _Warwick._\u2014\u201cAnd here I prophesy\u2014this brawl to\u2010day.\n    Grown to this faction in the Temple garden,\n    Shall send, between the red rose and the white,\n    A thousand souls to death and deadly night.\u201d\n\n\nThere are no red or white roses blooming here now, but quantities of\nchrysanthemums grow along the paths under the elms and lime\u2010trees. An\nenormous basket, overrun with ivy, handle and all, stands near the old\nElizabethan Hall where Shakespeare\u2019s _Twelfth Night_ was performed during\nthe author\u2019s lifetime, and where the benchers of the Middle Temple now\ndine off long oaken tables in the light of emblazoned windows, and beneath\nthe eyes of kings depicted by Vandyck and other great painters.\n\nA company of volunteers are drilling on the green, perhaps in the same\nplace where the Knights Templars had their military exercises; children\nare playing in the gravelled walks; and groups of gentlemen and ladies,\nand here a lone pilgrim, are sauntering about, enjoying the calm bright\nevening and the view of the Thames, with little steamers rushing up and\ndown among all sorts of craft; and beyond, the great city with its\ncountless spires, the bells of which seem to be all ringing. Perhaps the\ncheerful notes of that psalm come from S. Clement\u2019s in the Strand, which\nDr. Johnson used to frequent\u2014notes that will sound as cheerfully when we\nare no more as they do now over the tombs of past generations who likewise\nhave paced up and down this terrace listening to them.\n\n\n    \u201cThe boat, and the barge, and the wave have grown red,\n    And the sunset has crimsoned the boughs overhead;\n    But the lamps are now shining, the colors are gone,\n    And the garden lies shadowy, silent, and lone.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nWas Origen A Heretic?\n\n\nOrigin has been pronounced by the verdict of ages a genius of the first\norder. But on this man there has also been pronounced another verdict of\nstill greater importance: \u201cNo one has surpassed him either in good or in\nevil\u201d\u2014_Ubi bene nemo melius, ubi male nemo pejus_. Terrible words on a man\nwho was the wonder of his age, and an uncompromising father of the church!\nWe propose to set forth in this article some of the reasons tending to\nprove that this sentence is an unjust one, and that Origen was a faithful\nchild of the church\u2014faithful, too, at a time when fidelity was tried by\nthe fire, the sword, or the cold, damp dungeon. We bring forward the\nreasons of our opinion, suppressing none of the accusations that have been\nbrought against this great man at sundry times, but refuting them by\narguments which are at least extremely probable, and have convinced some\nvery eminent scholars.\n\nThe orthodoxy of Origen is presumptively established from the pure sources\nfrom which he received the rudiments of the Christian faith, from the\nsoundness of the doctrines he is known to have taught during his public\nministry, from his saintly associations, from his undoubted works, and\nfrom his heroic virtues.\n\nBorn in the bosom of the church, of noble and virtuous parents, in the\nyear 185, he drank in with the nutriment of his infancy the pure and\nsaving doctrines of Christianity. As his powers of reason expanded, the\nbeauty and splendor of the new but persecuted religion were laid open\nbefore him by S. Leonides, his father, whose celebrity as a philosopher\nwas only equalled by his proficiency in profane and sacred sciences. Under\nsuch fostering care and parental cultivation, Origen received the most\ncareful training, the wisest instructions, and most virtuous examples. So\ndeeply did this pious and excellently versed man plant the germs of\nCatholic truth in the heart of his eldest son that the most flattering\npromises of Roman governors, the most subtle reasonings of philosophers,\nwere alike unable to entice him into the paths of error at an age when the\npassions are strongest and the glittering tinsel of worldly honors exerts\nso powerful an influence on the mind. S. Leonides, aware of the necessity\nand value of religious education in youth, took every precaution to instil\nvirtue into the heart while profane learning entered into the mind. Each\nday he required Origen to commit to memory certain parts of the Old and\nNew Testaments, and, after their recital and an invocation of the Holy\nGhost, he explained the sense of the Scripture. A plant reared in such\nsoil, and impregnated with an atmosphere so holy, must be beautiful to the\nsight in its maturity. Advanced in the liberal arts to a degree far beyond\nhis years, Origen made those studies only accessories to a more complete\nattainment of sacred knowledge. His progress in the sciences was only\nrivalled by his increase in piety. What a deep root religion had taken in\nhis nature may be known from his burning ardor to win the glorious crown\nof martyrdom when the bloody persecution of Septimius Severus raged with\nunequalled fury in his native city, Alexandria. Among its victims was his\nfather. Deprived of the boon of losing his life for Christ in his company,\nhe wrote letters of encouragement and exhortation that S. Leonides would\nendure his torments heroically, looking only to the future life and its\nincorruptible inheritance. It was painful for Leonides to leave behind him\nseven orphan children; but, to alleviate his sorrows in this direction,\nOrigen, upon whom he looked as a living tabernacle of the Holy Spirit,\nsent him words of cheer: \u201cBe sure, dear father, that on our account you do\nnot alter your mind\u201d; and in another part of the same letter we read words\nwhich appear almost incredible coming from one so young: \u201cHave confidence,\nfather; leave all for Jesus Christ; he will be your reward.\u201d S. Leonides\nwas beheaded, his property confiscated, according to the laws, and Origen,\nat seventeen years of age, found himself and the rest of his family\nreduced from abundance to poverty for the sake of Christ. Next to dying in\nthe faith, there is no greater blessing than to have been born in it. From\na martyr and a bishop(28) Origen learned the rudiments of the faith, and\nit grew with his growth and strengthened with his strength. Those who had\ncharge of his education at the most critical juncture were still more\neminent in letters and sanctity than Leonides.\n\nHe was placed under Titus Flavius Clemens, generally known as S. Clement\nof Alexandria, whom S. Jerome(29) considered \u201cthe most learned of our\nauthors,\u201d and who, Theodoret believed,(30) \u201csurpassed all others in the\nextent of his learning.\u201d The erudition of Flavius Clement found in Origen\na worthy receptacle, and the Christian morality taught in his lectures and\npractised in his life were truly reflected in the rising glory of the\nEast. Clement, drinking from the crystal fountain of truth that issued\nfrom the evangelist Mark, who had made, by the order of the prince of the\napostles, Alexandria his apostolic seat, imbibed its saving waters in all\ntheir purity. In his _Stromata_, as well as on the authority of Eusebius,\nwe learn that the immediate successors of the apostles, preservers of the\ntrue doctrine of S. James, S. John, S. Paul, were still in existence and\nteaching the Gospel in its entirety. \u201cThey have lived down to our times,\u201d\nsays Clement,(31) \u201cand scattered in our hearts the seed of truth which\nthey had received of their predecessors, the apostles.\u201d It was from this\nbeautiful and fertile garden that Origen culled the flowers of\nChristianity that ornamented his soul, that bloom in his luminous works,\nthat preserve their fragrance and throw around sacred studies an\nimperishable lustre. While Origen was pursuing his studies under Clement,\nhe did not fail to engraft upon himself the holiness and sanctity of his\nteacher\u2014the _Pedagogue_ of the master was transformed into the life of the\nscholar. The holy practices running through the _Pedagogue_, its\ninculcation of austere morals and inexhaustible charity, became to Origen,\nthrough his long and arduous career, hand\u2010posts pointing to solid\ngrandeur, durable happiness, and supreme good.\n\nOn leaving this famous catechetical school, he perfected himself under\nAmmonius Saccas, whose celebrity among pagans for the reconciliation he\neffected between jarring philosophical systems was only eclipsed by the\nesteem in which he was held by the infant church, to whose cause he\nbrought the aid of philosophy and the requirements of the times. Among all\nthose who attended the lectures of Ammonius, the most remarkable was young\nOrigen, though he had for rivals no less famous persons than Plotinus, the\nphilosopher and teacher of Porphyry, and the critic Longinus. All eyes\nwere centred on Origen, and his name was in every mouth\u2014his mind a prodigy\nof letters, his soul a temple of the Holy Ghost. The vast amount of\nerudition now acquired by Origen, not only by reason of his extraordinary\nabilities, but also on account of his eminent preceptors, whose sanctity\nof life imparted to their expositions of religion the irresistible\nauthority of example, attached him with unshaken firmness to the\ninfallible truths which were sealed by his father\u2019s blood. No other belief\ncould satisfy his yearnings, no other creed answer to the wide\ncomprehensions of his conceptions and the loftiness of his aspirations.\n\nThe completion of his studies found him versed in astronomy, the higher\nmathematics, thoroughly acquainted with the sentiments and theories of the\ndifferent philosophical schools, and more or less familiar with the\nconstruction of languages and the leading issues of the times. Reduced to\nstraitened circumstances in consequence of the persecution, he opened, on\nhis own responsibility, an institution for dialectics, music, and profane\nsciences.\n\nThis was a dangerous enterprise for one so young, but it was the only\nalternative to avoid a life of dependency and association with heretics,\nas well as to assist a helpless mother and a large family. He felt bound\nto shun the enemies of the church; he refused to mingle in their company,\nsave when the necessity of their spiritual welfare demanded it, or the\nexigencies of the occasion prevented his escape. Scrupulous even to the\nspirit of the apostolic teachings, rather than associate with the\nopponents of Christianity, he preferred to sacrifice the friendships of\nhis youth and the liberality of his patroness, at a time, too, when he\nstood most in need of assistance. His reputation attracted large numbers\nto his lectures, and the applause he received, while it elevated him in\npopularity, was the source of interior humiliation, the antidote of pride.\nDemetrius, Bishop of Alexandria, moved by the superior attainments, the\nfervent piety and unswerving orthodoxy in faith, of the young Christian,\nappointed him regent of the famous catechetical school, A.D. 203. The\ncourse of studies taught in this institution comprised, aside from secular\npursuits, theology and Scriptural expositions. Origen(32) was only\neighteen years of age when he assumed this responsible charge\u2014a charge\nthat, in the history of the province, had never been committed but to\npersons of advanced years. This appointment, then, was an exception,\nstrange in the extreme; but Origen was an exceptional scholar\u2014so\nexceptional, indeed, that history has failed to record his compeer at that\ntime of life in any other person. But, as St. Jerome(33) remarks, \u201cFrom\nhis childhood he was a great man.\u201d And Bossuet, admiring the young\nAlexandrian, towering in intellect above those of his day, like Saul above\nhis brethren, declares: \u201cIl se rendit c\u00e9l\u00e8bre par toute l\u2019Eglise des sa\npremi\u00e8re jeunesse et enseigna de grandes v\u00e9rit\u00e9s.\u201d(34) The violence of the\npersecution under Septimius Severus had interrupted the Christian school\nof Alexandria, and forced its president, Clement, to fly from his\nmurderers. It was during his retirement and under the uplifted sword that\nOrigen assumed the regency\u2014a position as precarious and laborious as it\nwas honorable. It required varied knowledge, uncommon prudence, and\nunswerving adhesion to the traditions of Christ\u2019s ambassadors.\n\nFor more than one hundred years Catholic blood, \u201cthe secret power and seed\nof Christianity,\u201d(35) had flowed through the Roman provinces; Catholic\nheads been decapitated by the sword of the executioner. Every method of\ndestruction and annihilation that human artifice and cruelty could devise\nwas brought into play to sweep from the world the new religion; but the\nkingdom of Christ emerged from the contest more glorious and powerful, and\nasserted in bolder terms the divinity which was emblazoned on its\nstandard. The saying of Gamaliel was verified: Man cannot stop the\naccomplishment of God\u2019s designs. Then the pagans felt convinced that some\nother means should be employed against the Christians, whom the emperors\nand governors had in vain sought to extinguish in blood. To this end, they\nhad recourse to the schools, to the philosophers, to men skilled in the\noracles; the followers of the different systems of belief, to preserve the\nexistence of their body, girded on their helmets of sophistry and\nraillery; the pagan writers dealt in flings of irony and the gall of\nmockery; wit and sarcasm, powerful weapons, were handled with remarkable\ningenuity. The life\u2010blood of mythology, sanctioned for ages by the\ndevotion of its victims, was on the eve of ebbing from its very arteries;\npolytheism, rooted in the manners of the multitude, supported by\nlegislation, upheld in literature, protected by the sympathies of all, was\nlosing ground at every step that Christianity was making upon its domains;\nidolatry saw its statues fall one by one, its members disappearing like\nvapor beneath the absorbing rays of light; and all these forms of\nsuperstition joined hands and allied their forces to impede the onward and\nirresistible march of Catholic truth. Alexandria, cradle of Eastern genius\nat that time, became the Christian Thermopyl\u00e6, and Origen the Christian\nLeonidas. It was he who headed the forces, and, by the splendor of his\ngenius, prepared in his school illustrious men to lead on the van. He\nvindicated the truth from calumny, supported it by facts, disengaged it\nfrom the sophisms in which enemies had obscured it, and held it up to view\nin all its natural beauty and attraction. His learning became telling in a\nshort time upon the prejudices of the people in regard to his despised\nreligion, and gradually inspired a kinder feeling towards the\nmisrepresented Christians in the minds of the cultivated. His fame drew to\nhis auditory persons who had studied under other masters, desirous of\nlistening to his wisdom, and of the honor of calling him their teacher.\nHeathens were delighted with his language, full of unction and charm, and\nthe literati of the age, who had been lost in the intricacies of\nAristotle, the obscurities of Plato, and the absurdities of Epicurus,\nwondered at the young Christian philosopher. His name was asked by authors\nfor dedicatory purposes, and works were subject to his judgment for their\ncirculation.\n\nTo give an insight into the system of education adopted by Origen, and\nwhich produced so many great men in the IIId century, we will quote from\nthe writings of S. Gregory Thaumaturgus, who was under the direction of\nOrigen for five years, the method employed by the philosopher to win him\nto Christ. The extract will also show the clearness of his ideas, the\nthoroughness and universality of his knowledge. The reader, if he chooses,\nmay compare the plan of education followed by Origen with that pursued in\nour colleges and universities in the XIXth century, and judge for himself\nof the progress civilization has made in this direction. \u201cLike a skilful\nagriculturist,\u201d says S. Gregory,(36) \u201cwho examines in all its aspects the\nland which he intends to prepare for cultivation, Origen sounded and\npenetrated the sentiments of his disciples, making inquiries, and\nreflecting upon their replies. When he had prepared them to receive the\nseed of truth, he instructed them in various branches of philosophy\u2014in\nlogic, to form their judgment, by teaching them to discriminate between\nsolid reasonings and the specious sophisms of error; in physics, to make\nthem admire the wisdom of God, by an analytic knowledge of his works; in\ngeometry, to habituate their minds to rectitude, by the rigor of\nmathematical propositions; in astronomy, to elevate and extend their\nthoughts, by giving them immensity for a horizon; finally, in morals\u2014not\nthose of the philosophers, whose definitions and sterile divisions give\nbirth to no virtue, but practical morals, making them study in themselves\nthe movements of the passions, so that the soul, seeing itself as in a\nmirror, may extirpate every vice, even to the roots. He then approached\ntheology, or the knowledge of God. He made them read on Providence, which\nhas created the world and governs it, all that has been written by the\nancients, philosophers or poets, Greeks or barbarians, without otherwise\nminding their systems, their sects, or their particular opinions. In this\nlabyrinth of pagan philosophy he served as their guide to discern whatever\nmight be really true and useful, without allowing them to be fascinated by\nthe pomp and ornaments of language. He laid it down as a principle, that,\nin whatever regards God, we must trust only God and the prophets inspired\nby him. And then he commenced the interpretation of the Scriptures, which\nhe knew thoroughly, and which, by the grace of God, he had penetrated in\nall their most secret depths.\u201d\n\nThe magnitude of his intellectual powers excited no less interest than his\nmanner of life; and it is not without reason that his friends allege the\nsanctity of his life as the best interpreter of the few objectionable\npassages in his gigantic works, and no weak argument for the purity of his\nfaith. Surrounded by eminent _savants_, and in correspondence with others\nin distant countries, he found himself hard pressed to accommodate the\nformer and answer the communications of the latter. He was obliged to\nengage several secretaries to write out his discourses on the arts and\nsciences in conjunction with his explanations of Christianity. Their\nassistance afforded him better opportunities of enriching his stock of\nknowledge. He realized what Trithemius,(37) Abbot of Spanheim, repeated to\nhimself every day: \u201cTo know is to love.\u201d His insatiable thirst for\nlearning left him plodding among manuscripts through the day into the long\nhours of the night; and when nature, succumbing under the severe stress of\nexhaustion, would demand rest, he would make the bare ground his bed, and\nthe books his pillow. Simple in his dress, the mortifications he imposed\nupon himself on several occasions threatened his life. Temperate in all\nthings, he was particularly so in drink. Wine he never used.\n\nWhile his prodigious talents and able discourses brought within the true\nfold large numbers from among the most distinguished learned men and\nphilosophers, his virtues and sublime renunciation of the world produced\nso many holy men that his school has been deservedly termed \u201c_the school\nof martyrs_.\u201d More than once he accompanied his disciples to the place of\nexecution, and exhorted them, in the very face of the instruments of\ntorture, to endure death with fortitude for the cause of truth and the\neternal inheritance promised to those who wash their robes in the blood of\nthe Lamb. He stood by at the martyrdom of S. Plutarch, brother of S.\nHeraclas, Bishop of Alexandria, both catechumens under himself,\nadministering consolations and pouring into his soul words of hope and\nencouragement. A martyr\u2019s crown he courted from infancy, and from sickness\nand infirmities contracted in the persecutor\u2019s dungeon, it is reasonably\nsupposed, his life went out. It could only have been divine interposition\nthat rescued him from the numerous assaults made upon his life. When\npermission was refused him to visit the Christians in chains, he made\nincredible efforts to convey to them words of sympathy and articles of\ncomfort. His solicitude and bearing on the eve of the martyrdom of his\ndisciples, SS. Heron, Potami\u00e6na, Herias, Sereni, and Heraclides, is\nconclusive proof of Origen\u2019s ardor to seal with his blood the divinity of\nthe cause he advocated with his eloquence, and evidence of the falsity of\nthe notorious slander which represents him yielding to the wishes of the\npersecutors in the midst of his torments, and offering sacrifice to the\ngods. The first trace we meet with in history of this accusation is in the\n_Treatise against Heresies_,(38) by S. Epiphanius, Bishop of Salamis, and\ngiven to the world one hundred years after the death of Origen. This\nslander, never repeated by the learned\u2014if we except Petavius, in the\nXVIIth century, while employed on the works of Epiphanius\u2014has been wiped\nout of ecclesiastical history by the weight of such writers as Baronius,\nHalloix,(39) Raynaudet, Henry Valois, Vincent de la Rue, and Frederic\nSpanheim.(40) This defamation of his character, unfounded as it is, though\nso much like other insinuations against the noble Alexandrian, was not\neven alluded to in the Justinian age, in which he was so violently and\nbitterly opposed. Had S. Jerome credited this monstrous fabrication, had\nit rested upon anything but a sandy foundation, the literary war between\nthe lifelong friends, Jerome and Rufinus, would have terminated at the\nfirst volley from the pen of the learned scriptural writer. It would have\nbeen a crushing argument against Rufinus, and S. Jerome was the person to\nturn it to advantage. In those times, it was a common thing to be\nreproached if one, arrested for the faith, escaped death. Some of the\ngreatest saints, S. Cyprian, S. Gregory Thaumaturgus, and others, suffered\nnot a little from calumnies of like import. Origen\u2019s behavior, on the\noccasion to which the allusion refers, was honorable, heroic, and in\nentire harmony with his life\u2010long fidelity to principle. He was seized,\nand\u2014whether it was the design of the magistrates to draw many Christians\nback to the gods of the empire by circulating the fall of Origen, or their\nadmiration of the genius of their noble victim that prevented his summary\ndecapitation\u2014was thrown into a cold cell, bound in an iron collar, with\nheavy shackles to his feet, and his legs drawn apart to a painful degree.\n\nIt appears that during the first years that Origen filled the regency of\nthe Alexandrian theological seminary, he experienced no small amount of\ninconvenience, in his controversial discourses with Jews and pagans, in\nconsequence of the different versions of the Holy Scriptures. In their\ninspired pages he found true wisdom and spiritual life: \u201cOh! how have I\nloved thy law, O Lord! It is my meditation all the day.\u201d(41) In this\nsacred department he stands without a rival, if we except S. Jerome, \u201cthe\ngreatest doctor, divinely raised up to interpret the Sacred\nScriptures.\u201d(42) Yet to Origen the indebtedness of S. Jerome is very\ngreat. He borrowed(43) from him, studied him,(44) followed him,(45)\nadmired him,(46) and then attacked him.(47) S. Jerome declares that in\nreading the _Twelve Prophets_ by Origen, in the works of S. Pamphilus, he\nsaw in them the wealth of Cr\u0153sus; and, as far as our judgment goes, we\nnever read a higher eulogium than the one S. Jerome pays to the genius of\nOrigen on his two homilies _in Cantica Canticorum_.\n\nIt was Origen\u2019s love of the Scriptures that gave birth to the grand idea\nof compiling the sacred books of the different versions into one work\u2014the\n_Octapla_, a legacy to posterity more than sufficient to support his\nreputation and endear it to all succeeding ages. For this purpose, he\ndecided, in 212, to travel through different countries, and collect the\nmost recognized and authentic copies of the Scriptures. Those travels\nopened to his view the pages of nature, on which he read the customs and\nhabits of men, religions and governments, arts and sciences. Aside from\nthose motives, he had another reason for travelling. He longed to see\nRome, the chair of Peter,(48) \u201cupon whom, as on a rock, Christ built his\nchurch\u201d; he desired to pay his homage in the \u201cprincipal church\u201d(49) to the\nsuccessor of S. Peter, \u201cagainst whom the gates of hell shall not\nprevail.\u201d(50) He arrived at Rome about the close of the pontificate of S.\nZephyrinus, to whom his presence and devotion must have been a source of\nconsolation, as the saintly pontiff, at that time, was pained to the heart\nby the fall of the great Tertullian and the deplorable perversions in the\nAfrican Church.\n\nThe travels of Origen are full of interest and instruction. Each journey\nwas a crusade against heathenism, and a glorious triumph for the Gospel;\nlike S. Paul, he wandered over sea and land to make profit for Christ,\nstrengthening the weak and marshalling the strong; the power of his pen\nwas felt where his voice failed to reach. As a comet that illumines its\ncourse with darting rays of light, and obscures the flickering stars, such\nwere the brilliant tours of Origen, leaving the light of faith and the\nfire of charity behind them. Wherever heresy raised its head in the\nchurch, there was Origen to batter it with reason and tradition; wherever\nthe faithful were wavering, there was Origen cheering and rallying the\nforces; wherever the enemy made an onslaught on Christianity, it found\nOrigen in the breach; like an Agamemnon or a Hector, wherever battle raged\nthe fiercest, Origen took the front. Now he is in the presence of the\ngovernor of Arabia, enlightens him on scientific subjects, and gradually\nraises his mind to nature\u2019s God; then he traverses through Palestine,\nexpounding the Scriptures in the assemblies of the faithful; at one time\nhe is at Antioch before the royal family, pleading for the liberty and\nfree exercise of Christian worship; at another in Nicomedia, maintaining\nthe canonicity of certain parts of the inspired writings; now he is in\nGreece, thundering against the Montanists; and again in Arabia, at Bozra,\nreclaiming fallen prelates, and defending the divinity and humanity of the\nsecond Person of the Most Blessed Trinity.\n\nThere is a point in the preceding sentence worthy of more than passing\nnotice\u2014namely, Origen\u2019s visit to Mamm\u00e6a, mother of Emperor Alexander\nSeverus. This estimable lady, who afterwards, in all probability, embraced\nthe Christian religion, desirous of seeing so illustrious a doctor as\nOrigen, sent her retinue to escort him to her palace. She was pleased with\nher learned guest, and her son, the future ruler of the empire, listened\nwith delight to the great prodigy of learning. The virtues that\ncharacterized the reign of Severus, in contradistinction to the\nlicentiousness, cruelty, and extortion of his predecessors, have been, not\nwithout justice, attributed to the influence exerted on him by lessons of\nmorality given in the discourses of Origen. It is not improbable that the\nlaw he presented, soon after his ascension to the throne, to the Roman\nsenate for its sanction, whereby the religion of Christ would be\nincorporated among the others of the empire, had for its source Origen\u2019s\ninstructions to him about the divinity of the Catholic faith, its purity\nand sanctity. Dom Gueranger, in his _Life of S. Cecilia_,(51) adduces\nmonuments of antiquity going to prove the protection and favors extended\nto the infant church by Alexander; and Origen himself,(52) in his\n_Apology_, chronicles the abatement of the persecution shortly after his\nreturn from the imperial court. On this part of his work a writer very\nfelicitously adds: \u201cIf he modestly declines telling us the part he bore in\nit, we owe him so much the more honor the less he seems to claim.\u201d(53)\n\nDuring the comparative peace obtained under Alexander, the church made\nincredible efforts to fill up her shattered ranks, restore order, and\nproduce scholars. She succeeded, for never was she more fruitful in great\nmen than at this epoch. Origen had reconciled her, in the opinion of\nphilosophers, to genius, adorned her with intellectual wealth, and\nintroduced her to the occupants of the throne she was soon to fill with so\nmuch glory; and, what is still more, he had disciplined a galaxy of\nscholars, who were about to dazzle the world by the grandeur of their\nminds, and beautify the church by the holiness of their lives.\n\nOrigen\u2019s brilliant career, like the career of all great men, was not\nallowed to end without its trials. Aside from the assaults of the\nprofessed enemies of the church, he met with severe annoyances from the\njealousy of those whose interests he had studied to further. The trouble\ncame from a quarter he least expected. Demetrius, Bishop of Alexandria,\nduring the early part of his episcopate entertained for Origen the highest\nesteem; and there is no ostensible motive to believe that Origen,\nthroughout all his relations with the patriarch, gave him any cause of\noffence, or else this prelate would not have retained him in the\npresidency of his theological school till the year 230\u2014a period of twenty\u2010\nseven years. The humility of the regent and his innate respect for\nauthority held his tongue in silence, whatever may have been his opinion\nof the conduct of Demetrius as a prelate. Still, we may conjecture\nDemetrius was not far from the mind of Origen when, in speaking of\ndisorders and irregularities in the church, he wrote of bishops: \u201cWe would\nalmost have guards like kings; we make ourselves terrible and difficult of\naccess, chiefly to the poor; we treat them who speak with us and ask for\nsome favor in a manner which the most cruel tyrants and governors would\nnot assume towards suppliants.\u201d(54) It is not wrong to look upon Demetrius\nas a man who consulted with the general interests of Christianity his own\npopularity, the extension of his diocese, and the increase of his\nsubjects; perhaps he was of the opinion that the advancement of religion\nin Alexandria and its suffragan dependencies, his own juridical district,\nwas of more importance than its dissemination in other places. It was\ninterested motives of this sort that led him to disapprove of Origen\u2019s\nevangelical missions, by which his invaluable services were temporarily\nwithdrawn from his native city. Origen, being a layman, free from any\nobligations to Demetrius, except in a spiritual point of view, possessed\nthe individual right of travelling from country to country, and of\ndelivering lectures without the permission of any authority. If he spoke\nbefore the congregations of the faithful, it was only at the urgent\nsolicitation of the prelates, whose jurisdiction within their respective\nprovinces was recognized and unquestioned; champion of the faith in the\nEast, he was waited upon by delegations from pious bishops, entreating him\nto come to their dioceses. Those missions Origen, in his love for the\nglory of God, felt conscientiously bound to perform. On a journey to crush\nby his eloquence the heresy of the Valentinians, that had made lamentable\nravages in Greece, he paid a visit to S. Alexander of Jerusalem and\nTheoctistus of C\u00e6sarea, by whom he was ordained priest. This act,\nirreprehensible in itself, entailed upon Origen serious difficulties, and\nbecame the groundwork upon which his enemies fabricated the most severe\naccusations.\n\nDemetrius, taking to heart the course of conduct of the great philosopher,\nand assured, by the aspect of things, of his speedy disconnection with the\ninterests of Alexandria, sent letters to the bishops, containing bitter\nrecriminations for imposing hands on Origen. He did not stop at this\npoint. He also despatched to the prelates of Asia letters full of\ninvectives and animosity, requiring them to hold no communion with Origen,\nwho had violated the disciplinary canons. The respite that ensued on his\nreturn to Alexandria was of short duration. A council was \u201cassembled by\nthe care, and under the presidency, of Demetrius,\u201d for the purpose of\nexamining the legality and validity of Origen\u2019s ordination. In this\ncouncil we can only discover two things laid to his charge\u2014namely, that he\nhad made himself a eunuch, and had been ordained without the consent of\nDemetrius, his ordinary. Those charges, if we take into consideration the\ncustoms of the times and the imperfections of ecclesiastical discipline\nduring the persecutions, contain in themselves very little upon which a\ngrievous censure of Origen could be founded. In the language of the\nchurch, they are irregularities; one _ex defectu_, the other _ex delicto_.\nLet us for a moment concede that there were such canons in existence at\nthe time of Origen\u2019s ordination, by the violation of which irregularities\nwere incurred, what then follows? In that age of the church, bishops\nenjoyed great privileges, discretionary powers\u2014far more discretionary than\neven the bishops of the United States enjoy nowadays in this missionary\ncountry\u2014and pre\u2010eminently so the Patriarch of Alexandria, the Patriarch of\nAntioch, and the Metropolitan of Palestine, who was Bishop of C\u00e6sarea.\nThese prelates could dispense, in nearly all emergencies, the violators of\nthe ecclesiastical ordinances; other prelates in the East were more or\nless restricted in their functions, and in matters of moment could do\nnothing detrimental to those sees. What authority, then, prevented\nTheoctistus from pronouncing Origen released from the irregularities, and\ncanonically qualified for the reception of orders? Had any other ordinary\nimposed hands on him except the Metropolitan of Palestine, the objections\nof the Patriarch of Alexandria would undoubtedly have carried with them\nmore weight. But the Metropolitan of C\u00e6sarea, while respectfully\nacquiescing in the priority of the See of Alexandria, through reverence of\nits princely founder, always exercised his own jurisdiction without the\npermission or consultation of Alexandria. Theoctistus of C\u00e6sarea was not\neven under Demetrius, but under the Patriarch of Antioch, and these\nprovincial and patriarchal boundaries as well as episcopal relations were\nonly finally authoritatively adjusted by the Council of Nice.(55) In the\nsecond place, the Metropolitan of C\u00e6sarea, who always exercised more than\nordinary episcopal functions, which were afterwards approved and\nsanctioned by \u0153cumenical councils,(56) deemed it not a usurpation of power\nto impose hands on Origen without the _direct_ consent of his bishop,\ninasmuch as he was personally acquainted with the subject of the\nsacrament, morally certain of his piety and learning. If we add to those\nreasons the surrounding circumstances stated in the reply of S. Alexander\nof Jerusalem to Demetrius, it becomes patent that neither Origen was to\nblame in the premises nor Theoctistus for the exercise of his jurisdiction\nand powers. Demetrius had given Origen commendatory letters on his\ndeparture for Greece, and, on the strength of these commendations,\nTheoctistus and S. Alexander conferred on him holy orders. His services\nhad been valuable as a layman; they would become still more valuable as a\ncleric, and, actuated by those pure motives, they ordained him.\n\nNow, is it historically true that in the year 230, or previous to that\ntime, there were any such canons framed by the church as excluded eunuchs\nfrom the reception of holy orders? It will be difficult to come across\nstatutes of this nature in canon law or ecclesiastical history. We will\nfind such acts of discipline framed years after the death of Origen, but\nnone previous to that epoch.\n\nThe other accusation, that he was ordained without the permission of his\nbishop, has a weaker foundation even than the preceding one. According to\nthe practice of the church in our day, every candidate for the sacred\nministry who is not a religious must be ordained by his own bishop\n(_titulo nativitatis, domicilii, beneficii, seu familiaritatis prout\naccidit_), or possess the written consent of his own ordinary, if ordained\nby another. Origen, viewed from a modern stand\u2010point, contracted an\nirregularity _ex delicto_; but, judged in the century in which he\nlived\u2014the only one in which he must be judged\u2014was as regular in his\nordination as the young men who are semi\u2010annually ordained in our\nprovincial seminaries. Origen transgressed no ecclesiastical injunction by\nreceiving orders at the hands of a foreign bishop, because it was only\nunder S. Anastasius that this restriction was placed on aspirants to the\npriesthood. The Council of Nice, embodying the canons of Arles, Ancyra,\nand Gangres, passed laws prohibiting clerics from attaching themselves at\nwill to different churches and dioceses; this prohibition affected clerics\nalone, and in no way referred to laics, who were at perfect liberty to be\nordained by any prelate upon testimonials of worthiness. It was only\nduring S. Ambrose\u2019s time that this abuse became offensive, and that the\nRoman pontiff deemed it proper to eradicate it. To this end, in the year\n400 a canon was enacted by the pope, which forbade any prelate ordaining\nthe subjects of another, unless such subjects had permissive letters\nbearing the signature of the bishop who had authority over them. From this\nsprang dimissorial letters. Indeed, whatever view an impartial and\ncompetent person takes of the whole affair, Origen and the saintly bishops\nwho ordained him appear innocent, and seem to have acted with the best\nintentions. Nevertheless, the decision arrived at by Demetrius\u2019 council\nwas that Origen should be dismissed from the theological school, upon\nwhich his learning had reflected so much glory, and that he should also\nwithdraw himself from Alexandria, retaining, however, his priesthood.\n\nOrigen, anticipating the result of the council \u201cassembled by the care of\nDemetrius,\u201d quietly retired to C\u00e6sarea. Matters did not end here. The\nimmense amount of writings that the unwearied industry of Origen had\ncontributed to the literature of the church offered a wide field in which\nhis adversaries might search for something reprehensible. His works would\nform in themselves a rare library, had the fall of empires not entombed a\nlarge portion of them in their ruins. No less than six thousand books did\nhis indefatigable application produce: \u201cSex millia Origenis tomos non\npoterant quipiam legere.\u201d(57) In the copying, revision, and compiling of\nthese manuscripts, he employed twenty, at other times twelve, but always\nmore than eight, amanuenses. As this article has no reference to his\nwritings, their merits, or the influence they exerted upon church\nlearning, we must make this cursory allusion to his gigantic labors\nsufficient for our present purpose. It will lay before the reader the\ngreat mass of matter his enemies had at hand to examine, the possible\nmistakes that might have crept into his works by the carelessness of so\nmany secretaries, the possible corruptions they might have suffered at the\nhands of heretics or jealous rivals. Not a finger could be raised against\nhis spotless and ascetic life in the council; the teacher of martyrs and\ncompanion of saints, his character was irreproachable.\n\nDemetrius, not unlikely hearing of the warm reception extended to Origen\nin Palestine, convened, after a short interval, another council. The works\nof Origen were subjected to the sharpest examination. One instinctively\ninquires why Demetrius, if he were simply actuated by zeal for the\npreservation of ecclesiastical discipline and the purity of revealed\ntruth, did not introduce those serious charges in the former council. To\nresort to the non\u2010publication of the _Periarchon_ and _Dialogues_ at the\ntime of the first convocation of bishops, in order to remove the\nsuspicions that point to the malice of Demetrius, is an ingenious special\nplea, unsupported by facts and testimonies. S. Jerome, studying this\nquestion learnedly, defends Origen and censures Demetrius. Why did the\nPatriarch of Alexandria, next in hierarchical honor to the Bishop of Rome,\npermit Origen for over a quarter of a century to expound within his own\nhearing the sublime dogmas of Christianity, if his conceptions of those\ndogmas were radically false? Can we suppose that the few months between\nthe assembly of the two councils were spent by the bibliophilist in\ncomposing a work that would give the lie to the glorious achievements of\nthirty years? Or can we allow the conviction to settle in our minds that\nhe, so remarkable in virtue, would deliver in the pulpit one doctrine, and\nwrite in his books another? Will we find fault with saints and illustrious\ndoctors of the church, who, by the nature of their high calling, are bound\nto avoid false teachers, for extending to Origen the warmest\nhospitalities, or acknowledge, with Eusebius of C\u00e6sarea and S. Pamphilus,\nthe severe and unjustifiable measures adopted by Demetrius? Whatever\nsecret motives guided Demetrius in the prosecution of the inquisition, his\ncourse, disapproved of by his contemporaries, has never secured a sincere\nadvocate of ordinary importance. The errors which he imagined he had\ndetected in the writings assumed, in the eyes of Demetrius\u2019 council,\nsufficient gravity to cause the deposition and excommunication of Origen.\n\nNever did an imperial edict, suddenly proclaimed in the midst of peace,\nsanctioning the indiscriminate massacre of Christians, produce greater\nconsternation in the church than the announcement of Origen\u2019s deposition.\nThe report of the fall of the great Tertullian had scarce died away, when\nthe faithful were filled with alarm at the momentary expectation of its\nechoes being taken up by the fall of Origen, and resounding throughout\nChristendom. But there was a vast difference between these two great men.\nQuintius Tertullianus, while the superior of Origen in eloquence, style,\nand strength of language, was at the same time his inferior in the sacred\nsciences and in humility, the safeguard of Origen\u2019s genius. The one\nblended with Christianity the elegance and wisdom of the pagans, the other\nthe beauty and inspiration of the prophets. Both the brightest ornaments\nof the church in their day, they no less adorned her sanctity by their\nlives than enriched her treasures by their genius. Tertullian, a pagan by\nthe prejudices of birth and education, unaccustomed to religious\nauthority, could not endure the correction of superiors; and wounded\npride, inflamed by impatience and an ambitious nature, gave way to impious\nbelief, and Tertullian, the fallen genius, dwindles into a fanatical\nheretic. It was not so with Origen. Having received information of the\naction of the council, with real humility equalled only by that of the\nmeek F\u00e9nelon, Origen wrote(58) to Alexandria that he had never taught such\ndoctrine as was imputed to him, and, if contained in his works, it was\nthrough the machinations of heretics. Then follows, in the same document,\na clear and orthodox exposition of his belief upon the contested points\u2014an\nexposition that will satisfy a modern theologian, with all his precise\ndistinctions and scholastic definitions. As long as this monument of\nantiquity, this spontaneous proof of his adhesion to apostolic truth, this\nundeniable evidence of the absence of all pertinacity, exists, so long\nwill those to whom his memory is dear love to look upon him as sincere in\nhis protestations and sincere in his faith. Here was the rule of his\nbelief, and according to this rule his works should be interpreted: \u201cThat\nalone must we believe to be the truth which differs in nothing from the\necclesiastical and apostolical tradition.\u201d(59) A noble rule of faith,\ntruly Catholic and orthodox! Words appropriate for an Origen, who caught\nup, as it were, the traditions of the apostles, and echoed them into\nNicene times. What cause have we of refusing credence to Origen when he\ntells us that the errors attributed to him were the interpolations of\nheretics? Every intelligent reader of history knows that his works were\ncorrupted, shamefully corrupted, at the close of the IVth century. In\nsubstantiation of this, we have only to refer to the learned Rufinus and\nS. Jerome. Each of these translated into Latin the _Periarchon_ of Origen\nand many other works of the same author; and what do we find? Why, S.\nJerome accuses Rufinus of altering, inverting, suppressing the sense of\nthe original; and, in turn, Rufinus charges Jerome with malicious\nperversion of the meaning of the learned Alexandrian, wilful corruption of\nthe text, and personal jealousy of the fame of Origen. S. Augustine, an\nintimate friend of S. Jerome, used his influence to reconcile those two\ngreat personages disputing about Origen; and from his letter to S. Jerome,\nit appears to us that his sympathies were with Rufinus. Indeed, in the\nfirst ages of the church, it was no uncommon thing for great men to have\nnot only their works interpolated, but entire books circulated under their\nname, S. Cyprian(60) complained that works that he had never seen were\nissued in his name. S. Jerome(61) testifies that the letters of S.\nClement, Pope, were interpolated, as well as the writings of S. Dionysius\nand Clement of Alexandria; the same trustworthy author was very much\nannoyed that the people of Africa in his day were reading a supposititious\nvolume bearing his name. We see no reason, then, why heretics would not\ntamper with Origen\u2019s productions, when they had the audacity to corrupt\nsuch public and sacred documents as those we have mentioned, some of which\nwere read in the religious assemblies of the people. It is the misfortune\nof exalted persons to be cited as authorities for opinions they never\nmaintained. Indeed, when we perceive how the teachings of men amongst us\nare misrepresented, notwithstanding the assistance of the press, the\ntelegraph, and other modern detectives, we can understand with what\nfacility opinions could have been accredited to Origen which were not his.\nWell might S. Jerome with the works of Origen scattered around his room,\nperhaps under his very elbows, write: \u201cO labores hominum! semper incerti;\nO mortalium studia! contrarios interdum fines habentia.\u201d(62)\n\nThe acts of Demetrius\u2019 council, we are informed, were forwarded to S.\nPontianus, whose short pontificate of a few years spent in exile, as well\nas the still shorter reign of his successor, S. Anterus, which lasted only\na month, was absorbed in the discharge of duties more vital to the church\nthan the Alexandrian inquisition. Ere Rome took any steps in this matter,\nor sanctioned the proceedings by her silence, the discussion ended by the\ndeath of Demetrius, 231.\n\nIt is probable that Origen indulged in conceptions or hypotheses not\naltogether in accordance with Catholic doctrine; but we must keep before\nour minds the circumstances in which he was situated, the persons with\nwhom he disputed, and the noble aim he had in view. The philosophy of\nAristotle, whom Tertullian calls the \u201cpatriarch of heretics,\u201d was very\nunpopular in Alexandria at the opening of the IIId century. The neo\u2010\nPlatonic system was the prevalent philosophy of the day at Alexandria. The\nissue of the day was, Is the religion of Christ philosophical? Can it with\nsafety be subjected to logical rules? Does it not contradict the\nreasonings of Plato? To meet this issue, so important to the spread of the\nGospel among the enlightened class, Origen had recourse as much as was\npossible to the tenets of the Platonic school for arguments. With Platonic\nphilosophers he had his controversies; and his language, the more Platonic\nit was, the more power it exerted; the more he reconciled revelation with\nreason, in their estimation, the more entered within the pale of the\nchurch. Just as in our times able writers use the popular issues, because\nthe most intelligible and taking, to dissipate the clouds of ignorance\nthat bigotry has thrown around the public mind in regard to Catholicity,\nto show the natural compatibility of the church with all legal forms of\ngovernment, her inexhaustible resources for meeting the requirements of\nsociety, and her sacred and impartial maintenance of true liberty; so,\ntoo, did Origen turn to advantage the doctrines of the schools in\ndemonstrating the love of the church for sound philosophy, her\nadaptability to the sciences, and her divine mission as regenerator of the\nworld. This tincture of Platonism pervading his early productions,\ncombined with the mysterious figures under which Eastern nations convey\nsacred truths, the allegorical style, and the _Discipline of the Secret_,\nwhich was in active force, rendered Origen obscure, and his works\nsusceptible of doubtful interpretation.\n\nThough his admirers go so far as to exculpate him from every error, we are\nnot prepared to accompany them to that distance. We are willing to concede\nthat Origen may have advanced some erroneous opinions, but error without\ncontumacy does not entail the sin of heresy, which is a wilful rejection\nof any revealed truth authoritatively proposed. \u201cI may fall into a\nmistake,\u201d says the learned S. Augustine, \u201cbut I will not be a heretic.\u201d\nThe fathers of the church were only men, subject to human weakness, liable\nto err. The doubtful and obscure speculative hypotheses of the\nAlexandrian\u2019s fertile imagination, then, should in no way darken the\nsplendor of his genius or belittle his devotion to Catholic truth. F.\nPetau, his declared enemy, followed by Huet, who gave his learning to this\ncontroversy, refuses to believe Origen obstinate. Halloix, Charles Vincent\nde la Rue, Tillemont, Witasse, Ceillier, and other erudite scholars, who\nstudied with care and impartiality this whole matter, unite in the\nemphatic declaration that Origen \u201cdied in the bosom of the Catholic\nChurch.\u201d\n\nThis is the verdict of great men in modern times. It was also the verdict\nof the century in which he lived\u2014the IIId\u2014as may be seen in the apology of\nS. Pamphilus, composed in defence of Origen\u2019s orthodoxy, and extant in the\nworks of S. Gregory Nyssen; also in that beautiful monument of antiquity,\nthe panegyric over Origen by S. Gregory Thaumaturgus, given in full in the\nworks of Gerard Vossius. This verdict was confirmed in the IVth century by\nthe catalogue of orthodox ecclesiastical writers, published by S.\nGelasius, pope, among which is the name of Origen; and in the following\ncentury, in a profession of faith drawn up by Pope S. Hormisdas, and sent\nby Germanus, Bishop of Capua, to be signed by the Patriarch of\nConstantinople, the heretics condemned by the church are enumerated, but\nin this enumeration we can discover no allusion to the great Scripturist.\n\nIndeed, it has always been a source of surprise to us how Origen, a\nfallible creature, a man like other men, unaided by any divine assistance,\ncould have written in several thousand volumes so much truth, and so\nlittle error. There were but few Encyclical Letters, no Index, no\ndecisions of Sacred Congregations, no _Syllabus_, in the days of Origen;\nand yet his enemies will measure the length of his definitions with\ntheirs, compare his expressions with the theological niceties of the\npresent, and, should a word be wanting or a synonymous one substituted,\nexclaim: \u201cThere is an error; Origen is a heretic!\u201d The body of infallible\ndefinitions from popes and councils which we now possess did not exist at\nthis early epoch; to write then orthodoxically, to justify the Christian\nbelief in the Trinity, to explain the hypostatic union, the generation of\nthe Son, and the procession of the Holy Ghost, to expound the Scripture\nand the other sublime mysteries of religion, and escape with one or two\nmistakes, was simply marvellous. Thus Origen, born in the true faith,\nreared in a religious atmosphere, educated under pious men, the intrepid\ndefender of truth and meek retractor of error, the teacher and companion\nof saints, the prisoner for Christ, has impressed on his life, in golden\nletters, the best defence of his orthodoxy. And if the saintly Origen be\ndistinguished from the abominable _Origenians_; if the allowances due to\nthe age in which he lived be accorded him, an injustice to the works of\nOrigen\u2014a valuable legacy to posterity\u2014will be removed, and the injury done\nto a reputation obscured by the malice of some and the misapprehension of\nmany others will in part be repaired.(63)\n\n\n\n\nSocial Shams.\n\n\nThere is no axiom more fraught with meaning than the old Scripture\npromise, \u201cThe truth shall make you free.\u201d But there is also no fact better\nauthenticated in the civilized world of to\u2010day than the practical\nnullification of this very promise. We speak as regards things human; for\nin spiritual matters, the home of truth is, to our belief, a fixed one,\nand the road to it staked out by a divine leader, that has power to find\nan unerring path in what otherwise seems but an ocean of shifting sand. We\npropose to apply this axiom to social life, and it is our complaint that\nit is _not_ free. The pivot on which \u201csociety,\u201d properly so called, turns\nis conventionality\u2014a polite term for untruth.\n\nThe original Christian ideal of society was of course based on charity. It\nhas been truly said that a perfect Christian is instinctively a finished\ngentleman. Courtesy is but an adaptation of charity; and the height of\ngood\u2010breeding (recognized as being the faculty of setting every one at his\nease, and of saying the right thing at the right time to the right person)\nmust answer to the Christian principle that to wilfully wound your\nneighbor in the slightest degree is a sin. But all this, call it tact or\ncharity, as you will, is not in itself inconsistent with truth. The French\nhave a proverb that _Toute v\u00e9rit\u00e9 n\u2019est pas bonne \u00e0 dire_\u2014\u201cEvery untruth\nis not necessarily expedient to all men;\u201d but even that is not a\ndeclaration of war against the principle of truth in the main. Yet what is\nthe reality, the thing constantly before our eyes, the fact of which no\none can doubt who has ever lived beyond the strictest limits of home\u2014nay,\nbeyond the limits of his own mind? One in a thousand fulfils the ideal of\nChristian courtesy, while the other nine hundred and ninety\u2010nine wear the\nregulation\u2010mask prescribed by fashion. Some wear it of iron, so that, in\nthe intercourse of a lifetime, you would never feel that you knew them any\nbetter than on the first day of acquaintance; some only of wire, so that\nthe natural personality behind it is but partially hidden even from\nperfect strangers; some of silk, so cunningly painted that it betrays you\ninto thinking it nature, until, by repeated experience, you discover the\nimposture. Again, some wear it as the women of Constantinople wear the\n_yashmak_, so filmy as only to veil, not to conceal, the features. Lord\nLytton, in his romance, _A Strange Story_, speaks of the \u201cthree women\u201d\nwhich exist in the single personality of every woman; this applies to men\nalmost equally. There is, he says, the woman as she really is, the woman\nas she thinks herself to be, and the woman as she appears to the world\u2014the\nconventional woman. This is by far the most curious product of natural\nhistory, or, more appropriately, of the history of mechanics. The human\nbeing under social manipulation is a study for philosophers. Conventional\nstandards of human beauty, such as the compressed foot of the Chinese\nlady, or the artificially stimulated rotundity of form among the women of\nsome of the Central African tribes, the staining of the finger\u2010nails with\nhenna among the Persians, etc., are as nothing and involve no deformation\nor suffering compared with that among the wholesale machine\u2010products of\ncivilized society.\n\nSpiritual systems of penance have sometimes been impugned for aiming at\nsubduing nature: taming the passions, restraining the expression of strong\nemotion, weaning the body from innocent indulgences, and so forth. But is\nthere any more barefaced destroyer of nature than \u201csociety\u201d as at present\nconstituted? Are there any penances harder, any restraints stricter, than\nthose imposed by our conventional code? The spiritual struggle with nature\nis voluntary, and aims at subduing our lower nature, only the more to\nhonor the intellectual principle, and render its exercise freer from\nclogging and degrading influences. The conventional struggle with nature,\non the contrary, is a compulsory one, into which you are thrust by others\nin early and unconscious childhood; it is, moreover, a deceptive one, as\nit tends to produce mere appearances\u2014not to tame passion, but restrain its\noutward expression; not to elevate the mind, but to give it the semblance\nof those gifts most profitable in the social estimation of the day. It\ndoes not tend to make man _super_natural, but _un_natural. It takes from\nhim even the freedom of the savage, without giving him in exchange the\nfreedom of the Christian. It aims not at virtue, but at decorum. Its\nmorality skips the whole of the Ten Commandments, but insists upon what\nfacetious Englishmen sometimes call the eleventh\u2014_i.e._, \u201cThou shalt not\nbe found out.\u201d It has rites and ceremonials of its own, more arbitrary\nthan the law of the land, and, in the same breath, more lax; it has\nbeliefs and formulas more binding outwardly than those of any religion; it\nhas its own oracles, its own language, its own tribunals. It is a state\nwithin a state, condoning many moral delinquencies, exalting some into\nmeritorious deeds, smoothing others over as pardonable follies. Where it\nis not wicked, it is inane or spiteful. Slander and gossip are its breath\nof life, except in the few instances where intrigue sweeps away such\nsecond\u2010rate _passe\u2010temps_.\n\nYet its wickedness is a subject that touches us less than its stupidity;\nfor it is less of a daily experience, and has more denouncers to lash it.\nWe also know less of its brilliancy than of its meanness; for the latter\nis visible in the smallest gathering and in the most insignificant place,\nwhile the former exists but in half a dozen great capitals, and even there\nonly among one or two circles or strata of society. Paris and Vienna have\ntheir dull and respectable society, as well as other places, and they are\nby far the most numerous, and, we will venture to say it, the meanest.\nDownright license seems, strangely enough, to carry with it a certain\nreckless _bonhomie_ which, while it is far from Christian charity, yet has\nmany outward signs of it. The most abandoned are often found to be the\nmost generous, or even philanthropic, while the pharisaical little\u2010\nmindedness of many eminently \u201crespectable\u201d members of society is a\nconstant reproach to the faith on which they pride themselves. The \u201cmilk\nof human kindness\u201d is often scarce amid \u201csaints\u201d of a certain school.\n_Noli me tangere_ is their motto, and an appropriate one, indeed; for you\nmight tap their hearts till doomsday, and never draw from them one drop of\nthe generous wine of sympathy.\n\nNot that all persons whose path of life crosses your own by the chances\nbred of social conventionalities are of this type; many are generous,\nkind\u2010hearted, impulsive; but it is part of the indictment we bring against\n\u201csociety\u201d that its rules so smother this amiable individuality as seldom\nto allow it to be revealed to you save by some chance occurrence. You may\nhave a \u201ccalling acquaintance\u201d with a woman apparently frivolous (though\nobviously good\u2010natured), and whose mind you judge to be probably as\nshallow as her conversation. Some sudden misfortune comes upon you, and,\nof all your acquaintances, this is, perhaps, the only one who will blossom\ninto a friend. In emergencies, her native good sense and affectionate\nheart burst their artificial bonds, resume their proper place, and flow\nout in deeds of refined and considerate kindness. She will prove to have\npresence of mind, delicacy of heart, an active power of sympathy. This is\nthe sort of woman you would choose to have by your dying\u2010bed, or to whom\nyou would consign the care of your children under unhappy circumstances,\nwhether of poverty or absence\u2014the woman whose nerve would not fail her in\na hospital, and who would march boldly into a prison with bright looks and\ncheerful words, ever thinking of others before herself. But had it not\nbeen for an untoward accident, you might never have distinguished her from\nthe herd of ordinary morning\u2010callers. She goes through her part in society\nas glibly and cheerfully as your gray parrot, who is ever ready to repeat\nhis lesson when the proper cue is given him, or as readily as your pet\nlap\u2010dog, which has no objection to stand on its hind legs in a corner, and\nbeg as long as you choose to hold the titbit up before it. What chance\nhave you of recognizing a soul behind all that mass of conventionality?\nAbout as much as you would have of seeing the \u201cangel imprisoned in the\nmarble\u201d in a sculptor\u2019s studio, or as much as Dante had of knowing the\ntormented souls hidden in the trunk of those grisly bleeding trees of the\n_Inferno_.\n\nThe more frequently and familiarly you mix with the world, the more your\npath is strewn with shattered ideals; for it is almost impossible to\nretain an ideal of anything which you see daily as a misshapen and blurred\nreality. Practical experience seems to coarsen and cheapen everything, and\nthere never was yet a more melancholy truth than that of the old adage,\n\u201cFamiliarity breeds contempt.\u201d Professional life as well as domestic\nfurnishes lamentable instances of this. In commerce, where it is very\ndifficult for poetry and ideals to find room, the reality is hardly\nobnoxious to the thoughtful looker\u2010on; for what refining influence could\nbe expected from the perpetual jar and clash of engines, the constant\nchaffering, the feverish life, of the exchange? It is the realm of purely\nearthly, material influences, and naturally dwarfs the sympathies, while\nit concentrates the thoughts on one narrow point of selfish interest, if\npursued for its own sake. But in the learned professions, whose aims are\nintellectually superior, and whose special province it is to elevate the\nhuman mind above selfish and individual interests, leading it, on the\ncontrary, to the contemplation of abstract principles, and to the\nfurtherance of the public weal, the ideal should be more apparent. And\nyet, in most cases, it is not so. There is no reverence left for a pursuit\nthe trivial details of which are grown too familiar; petty jealousies take\nthe place of scientific or philosophic emulation; man\u2019s innate vanity soon\nnarrows the circle of interest round the _ego_, and subordinates the\nprogress of the world to personal advancement. There is scarcely anything\nless venerable in a man\u2019s eyes than the particular branch of knowledge in\nwhich he is most proficient; and if it be with him a hobby, the love he\nbears to it is rather a shadow of the good opinion he holds of himself\nthan a genuine devotion to science in the abstract. Of course, there are\nexceptions, numerous and honorable, but such are the plain facts in the\nordinary, every\u2010day experience of which life is in the main composed. \u201cNo\none is a hero to his valet.\u201d Home life is another ideal destroyed by\nsociety, with its arbitrary rules and its hard, practical axioms. The\npeace and holiness of home are rudely jarred by the demands which fashion\nmakes on the time of its members. We have sometimes been tempted to think\nthat this would be a very pleasant world to any one who could go through\nit as a spectator only. To act a part in it yourself means to subject\nyourself to one disenchantment after another. You see a family group at a\ndistance\u2014say through a street\u2010window in a large city, or on the porch of a\ncountry villa. Old and young are mingled together; there may be beauty\namong the girls, there is refinement in their surroundings; they seem as\nthrifty as they are comfortable, for some are reading and some sewing:\nperhaps the tea\u2010table is spread and housewifely treasures displayed; as a\n_picture_, it is perfect. But as a _drama_? Are you quite sure that you\nwould like to see the real state of mind of each person there? If so,\nprepare yourself for almost inevitable disappointment. It will not be a\nsafe investigation, and the ideal you may have formed will probably come\nout of the trial as an angel might if he trusted himself to the rough\nhandling of common men.\n\nNo real happiness can exist in a life of perpetual excitement; and this a\nfashionable life can hardly fail to be. There is an intoxication of the\nmind as well as of the senses. The whirl of so\u2010called pleasure never\nsatisfies, but stimulates. More is required, and yet more, till, like the\ndrunkard, you are a living paradox, never at peace unless in an atmosphere\nof excitement, just as he may be said to be never sober\u2014or at least\ncapable\u2014unless when drunk. In the whirl of society, the mind withers;\nthere is no time for thought, for study, for application. How many young\ngirls there are who tell you candidly, \u201cOh! I have no time to practise my\nmusic. I used to do so four hours a day; but since I am in society, I can\nnever find an hour to myself.\u201d Then you inquire into this multiplicity of\nengagements, and you find\u2014perhaps some religious occupation, some\ncharitable work? Oh! no; only a call to be returned, cards to be left, a\nnew toilet to be tried on, a little shopping, and a drive in the park.\nPressing business, truly!\n\nIn great cities, during the season of balls and parties, a girl\u2019s life is\none unbroken round of dissipation two\u2010thirds of the day, and recuperation\nfor coming \u201cpleasure\u201d during the remaining third. At the end of four or\nfive months of this life, vitality is half extinct, the cheeks are pale,\nthe mouth drawn, the eyes violet\u2010circled; and against all this what prize\nis there to set? A bubble burst, a shadow vanished! These continual\nfestivities, beginning late, ending in the early dawn, when the poor are\njust waking to their toil, and servants of God are rising to praise\nhim\u2014these repeated gatherings called \u201csociety\u201d entirely upset the routine\nof domestic life. Instead of the blithe, healthy face sparkling at the\nhead of the breakfast\u2010table, there is a jaded, weary countenance, pale\nwith a floury paleness, or flushed by late and disturbed slumbers; instead\nof the brisk tread and ringing voice that cheer the home, there is the\nlistless step of the worn\u2010out dancer, the peevish tone that tells plainly\nof bodily fatigue. In the evening there is no time for a cosy gathering\nround the hearth, a quiet game or chat, the reading aloud of some\ninteresting book, or the simple delights of old\u2010fashioned national airs.\nThe dressing\u2010room absorbs all that time\u2014the choice of flowers or jewels\ntakes long; the last finishing touches to the toilet must not be given in\na hurry. _The_ event of the day is about to begin; and so it will be to\u2010\nmorrow and the day after, and for an interminable tread\u2010mill of days. If\nthere is innate talent, there is no time to develop it; or, if it is\ncultivated at all, that, too, is distorted into a mere social\n\u201caccomplishment,\u201d the sole object of which is to add to the value of the\npossessor in the social market. The champion piece of embroidery is framed\nand pointed out as the work of the daughter of the house; the solitary\nbasket of wax flowers is displayed in a conspicuous manner on an elaborate\n_\u00e9tag\u00e8re_; the water\u2010colors are studiously hung in the best\u2010lighted part\nof the drawing\u2010room; the overture of _William Tell_ is invariably called\nfor on the slightest provocation, and played off indiscriminately before\nthe least appreciative as well as the most artistic of the family\u2019s\nvisiting list. And, by the way, what more egregious sham can there be than\nthe conventional interest in music so universally professed? It is a\nmatter of course to exclaim, \u201cOh! I dote on music\u201d; and, on the basis of\nthis broad assertion, what ludicrous exemplifications one is condemned to\nlisten to! One will add, \u201cOh! yes, and I do so love Strauss\u2019 valses\u201d;\nanother will tell you there is no music like the bagpipes, and no dance\nlike an Irish jig or an old\u2010time Virginia reel. One gushing young lady\nwill call the \u201cMaud Valse\u201d and the \u201cGuards\u2019 Polka\u201d \u201cperfectly divine,\u201d\nwhile her sentimental friend will murmur that \u201cHome, Sweet Home\u201d is her\nfavorite. With many people, a collection of ballads is identical with the\nwhole science of music; their sympathies and comprehension can go no\nfurther.\n\nTo many, again, _music_ stands for comic songs and Christy\u2019s Minstrels. If\nan instrumental piece takes more than five minutes to get through, people\nbegin to shift their feet and whisper to their neighbors; of course, when\nit is over, they will turn round and sweetly simper: \u201cOh! do play us\nsomething more; that last was _so_ lovely.\u201d In ninety\u2010nine out of a\nhundred houses where you are doomed for your sins to hear music, you hear\ntrash. It is hardly worth criticising, either in the choice or in the\nexecution, and, one would therefore think, hardly worth telling a lie for.\nAnd yet this conventional admiration, what is it but a lie pure and\nsimple?\n\nTo return to our belles and their murdered home\u2010life. Not only is their\ntime so mortgaged that they have none left for the joys of the family\nhearth, but they have none to spare for self\u2010culture. A woman\u2019s education\ndoes not close on the threshold of the school\u2010room. Every advance made\nlater by voluntary application to study is a greater stride than all the\ncompulsory teaching she receives in her school\u2010life. If society materially\ninterferes with this self\u2010development, it has a heavy responsibility to\nbear. Each mind thus stunted, crude, and unevenly balanced reduces the sum\ntotal of usefulness in this world, and adds to the dead\u2010weight of\nshiftless beings whose room would be decidedly better than their company\nin the scheme of human advancement. A frivolous, fashionable man or woman\nis a monster upon earth, a being whom nature certainly does not recognize,\nand whom religion reprobates.\n\nThe most satisfactory reflection whereby to dispel the effect of this\ndismal picture is this: the thing carries its antidote with it to all but\nhopelessly narrow minds. The pleasures of dancing within an area of a yard\nsquare, and of listening night after night to the same insipid gallantries\nand insincere congratulations, cannot fail to pall after a time. A French\nauthor says that after the age of thirty, a woman of any account does not\ndance; she leaves this pleasure to those who have no other.(64) As with\nall pleasures which address the senses rather than the intellect, a\nsurfeit often proves a cure. You have tasted all the delights to be got\nfrom certain things, and the sameness at last begins to pall. There could\nbe no more effectual check on the levelling spirit of the age than a\nvoluntary renunciation for a time on the part of the possessors of wealth\nand power, and a temporary enjoyment of these honors on the part of those\nwho envy them. How soon should we see the harassed artisan fly from the\npost he once coveted, the working\u2010girl tear off the finery she envied, the\nmillionaire _pro tem._ entreat his coachman to change places with him!\nThose who, in the midst of their grinding toil, envy the man in\nbroadcloth, the woman in her barouche, whom they pass and repass day by\nday, quite leave out of the scales the weight of inner anxiety, grief, or\noften only _ennui_, which burdens the rich and fashionable. If they could\ntell how this one\u2019s heart is devoured by jealousy, how that one\u2019s home is\nrendered gloomy by his too plodding ambition, or unhappy by his wife\u2019s\nirritable temper! If they could guess how that sickly, white child, seated\namong its furs in that dark, handsome clarence, causes sleepless nights\nand heavy fears to that anxious mother in velvet robe and seal\u2010skin cloak!\nIf they only knew the secret remorse for ever gnawing at the heart of this\nexquisite of the clubs, whispering the name of a girl once happy and\ninnocent\u2014a name now to him the synonym of a crime; or if they could tell\nthe thoughts of the substantial merchant, as he turns away with heavy\nsteps from a counting\u2010house which, the more astounding is its financial\nsuccess, the more it resembles, in all but in name, a gambling\u2010den! And,\nabove all, did they but know how often the sad votary of fashion, in some\nmoment of long\u2010repressed but untamable natural emotion, cries out for the\nfreedom of the poor and their robust health! That is the saddest part of\nthis grim masque\u2014no one is contented, no one believes in himself or in his\nfellow\u2010man; it is a drama in which the actors know full well that when the\nfoot\u2010lights are put out and the curtain of night falls, they will no\nlonger be what they seem. So the gigantic sham grows day by day, stifling\nnature, burying the intellect, blurring the moral sense, fossilizing the\nwhole being. Outward shapes of humanity remain, but, by some fell\nenchantment, the spiritual essence is sucked away, and an automaton,\nskilfully contrived, represents what once was a _man_.\n\nEven pleasure no longer lurks in its outward forms when \u201csociety\u201d has thus\nworked its will on men. The real enjoyment is gone, but its dismal\nappearance must be assumed. Not to shock the world\u2014your world\u2014the\nflavorless fruit must be eaten with a good grace, the graceful draperies\nof social decorum must be hung on the skeleton. The wheel goes round, and\nit is so long since you have trusted to your own feet for guidance that\nyou must needs keep hold of the conventional support. It is very difficult\nto win back your independence once it has been surrendered. The world\u2014your\nworld\u2014is a pitiless task\u2010master, and does not pension off its former\nservants. If you leave it, you do so at your own risk; and if you can\nconquer no position which merit and your own individuality are enough to\ngain, you may resign yourself to the _r\u00f4le_ of a dummy. We are not sure\nthat some of the happiest people on earth are not, socially speaking,\ndummies. But when you come to think of it, what a strange, magnetic power\nhas the little circle that forms your world! When a lady has crowded from\nfive to six hundred guests in her narrow drawing\u2010rooms, she sees before\nher all the persons who, to her, constitute society. Of these, perhaps\none\u2010third are of hazy position; they are but outsiders, candidates for the\nsocial honors which will only be bestowed fully and ungrudgingly on their\ngrandchildren. Their opinion is not of much value. When you dissect the\nremaining thirds, you mentally check off many a respectable and amiable\nperson as incapable of forming any independent opinion; others you\nsecretly stigmatize as gossips, shallow\u2010minded, or spiteful; and the\ncircle of responsible people becomes gradually narrower and narrower.\nHardly a score do you credit with sound judgment and discriminating sense.\nBut these are precisely the judges you do not fear, unless your conscience\npricks you. They are generous and large\u2010minded; they stand apart from the\ncrowd, with wider sympathies and larger appreciation; they see beyond the\npresent, and unconsciously you find yourself classing them as exceptions\nto the rule. They do not form the impalpable social tribunal, then? It\nmust be, therefore, the mediocre company of gossips. Search a little into\nyour consciousness or your memory, and you will doubtless find it is so. A\nrecent novelist gives an apt illustration of the relative proportion, in\nthe eyes of an old English country gentleman, between his county, England,\nand the world. A diagram contains, first, a large, irregular outline\nrepresenting the county; a round ball ten times smaller typifies England,\nand an infinitesimal point in space denotes the whole civilized world.\nThis is the way we all look at things. No doubt it is instinctive. To us,\n\u201cthe world\u201d consists of a hundred old women, eminently respectable and\nunctuously compassionate, who gossip about our private affairs over their\ntea and hot rolls. This is the core of that dread tribunal which we\ntremble to offend. It is indeed a hard tyrant, if it can succeed in\nchaining us to its car, after the pleasures which it dispenses have lost\ntheir flavor for us. But, unfortunately, half mankind acknowledge this\nspecies of bondage, and we must presume voluntarily, or at least\npassively.\n\nWere it not that this thraldom is so unspeakably sad, it would seem such a\nfarce, if looked upon dispassionately from without! One might almost liken\na ball or great official reception in one of the capitals of fashion to\nthe medi\u00e6val Dance of Death. The scene is brilliant with deceptive gaiety;\nthe whole surface of society ripples with smiles; the maskers all wear\ntheir brightest garments and their stereotyped badges of mirth. There, in\nthe doorway, stands a lovely woman, in rose\u2010color from head to foot\u2014a\ncherub\u2019s face enshrined in a sunset cloud, so perhaps an artist would\nfancy. She smiles bewitchingly, and coquets with her fan, while talking to\na gray\u2010bearded hero from India. But she has made up her mind to sacrifice\nher honor to her love; tomorrow, at dawn, she will leave her husband\u2019s\nhome and her baby\u2019s cradle; and, poor victim! she is panting under the\nweight of this wretched secret even while she listens to old\u2010world\ngallantry from her fatherly admirer. Not far from her stands another fair\nform, not more pure in outward semblance, hardly less beautiful\u2014a gifted\nwoman, a true wife, smiling and conversing as calmly as any one in the\nroom; but she knows that she has a fatal internal disease, and that at any\nmoment death might suddenly overtake her. Not to alarm her husband, she\njoins in every festivity, carrying her secret with her as the Spartan did\nthe fox who was gnawing at his bosom. Amid the whirl of the dance, you\nperhaps single out that young girl, fair, fresh, seventeen. She is not as\nhappy as she seems; her eyes roam shyly around; there is one whom she both\nlongs and dreads to see, for she is not sure whether she will not find him\nby the side of her school friend, now her rival. And among the men, how\nmany, beneath their masks, bear sorrowing or anxious hearts! That elderly\nman, so calmly listening to a fluent diplomate, knows that to\u2010morrow it\nwill be noised abroad that he is bankrupt\u2014utterly ruined. When he leaves\nthis gay scene to\u2010night, it will be for the railway, which will bear him\nout of the country in a few hours. Yonder pale man, who wears his\nregulation smile so listlessly that you cannot help likening it to a\ngarment loosely hung, is here in the interest of a friend, and is waiting\nan opportunity to speak a word of cordial recommendation to a ministerial\nacquaintance, formerly a college friend, now a power in the cabinet. His\nheart is heavy with a private grief; his child lies dangerously ill at\nhome, and his poor distracted wife needs his comfort and support; but,\ntrue to his word, he forgets himself for an hour or two, that he may not\nmiss the golden opportunity on which hang the hopes of his friend\u2019s whole\nfuture. In the centre of the dance, the tall form of a Life\u2010guardsman is\nprominent; to\u2010morrow he will have disappeared from the world, and only his\nintimates will know that he had long determined to enter a Catholic\nseminary, and study for the priesthood. He did not want his decision\ndiscussed beforehand, and took the best means of silencing curiosity by\nappearing the gayest of the gay. Every one here to\u2010night has a long record\noppressing his heart\u2014something that makes the present scene quite\nsecondary in his thoughts, and that causes in his breast a bitter feeling\nof reaction against the mockery of which he forms a part. And this is the\nthing called pleasure! How little we know of the people with whom we spend\nour lives\u2014those that touch our hands daily, and speak to us commonplace\nwords of courtesy! Surely the bees in their hive, the ants on their hill,\nthe beavers and prairie\u2010dogs of a \u201cvillage,\u201d know each other better than\nwe do our next\u2010door neighbors! We cut the thread of a guilty reverie by\nsome observation about the weather, or we laugh the unmeaning laugh that\nsupplies the place of an answer, perhaps inconvenient to ourselves, and\nthis laugh jars on the tenderest memories of a sorrowful past uppermost\njust then in our neighbor\u2019s mind. There is something appalling in all\nthis\u2014the tragedy lies so near the surface, and we tread upon it so often!\n\nThe trivial aspect of society is oftener still before us\u2014the inanity of\nmorning calls, the gossip of a provincial town, the petty local interests\nthat absorb three\u2010fourths of mankind. Why, we wonder, should general\nconversation invariably breed gossip, while a _t\u00eate\u2010\u00e0\u2010t\u00eate_ sometimes\nelicits real information and rational interchange of ideas? The same\nperson who in a company of five or six has nothing but commonplace remarks\nto offer, often opens out in private though yet only ceremonial\nconversation, and startles you by original opinions and valuable\nsuggestions. The French are perhaps the only people who shine in mixed\nconversation; they have the talent of _causerie_\u2014a thing that with us\nhardly exists; the very word is untranslatable. A Frenchwoman can be\nsparkling where we can only be dull; she can dance on a cobweb, while we\nshould break down on a cart\u2010rope. Gallic vivacity can make even the\ndetails of the kitchen amusing, while we should be insufferably prosy on\nthe same subject.\n\nHow well we remember the ponderous magnates of our neighborhood in the\ncounty! The stately morning calls, the inevitable topics of local\ninterest, the solemnity of that \u201cquarter of an hour\u201d which we were fain to\nliken to that rendered famous by an old author. Unfailing resources, O\n_Court Journal_! the royal visit to such and such a place, the marriage of\nso\u2010and\u2010so, etc., etc. Then the flower\u2010garden and the poultry\u2010yard\n(hereditary hobbies with English ladies), the agricultural show, the\ncoming election. And then the formidable ordeal comes to an end, probably\nto the great relief of both parties. Neither of the two cared for the\nsubjects discussed or for the interlocutor discussing them; but etiquette\ndemanded the waste of fifteen minutes, and the laws of society are as\nthose of the Medes and Persians. In a lower rank of life, the proprieties\nare perhaps still more rigidly enforced, and the only difference would be\nin the choice of topics. George Eliot\u2019s inimitable gossip in _The Mill on\nthe Floss_ describes that to a nicety, and indeed, although written in\nEngland, might do duty almost as well anywhere else. The quality of the\nhouse linen, the antiquity of the silver spoons, the solemn conclave over\na new bonnet, and the delinquencies of the maid\u2010servant\u2014such would be the\nstaple. In every case you see the mask is on, it fits close, and no form\nof \u201csociety\u201d is disregarded!\n\nStaying for a few days at a friend\u2019s house is a terrible trial in polite\nsociety. You are never a moment off duty; you have to change costumes as\noften as an actress in a play where the \u201cunities\u201d are \u201cnowhere\u201d; and,\nabove all, if you are a woman, you have the dismal prospect of three\nhours\u2019 morning talk with a bevy of your own sex, your hands meanwhile\nengaged in some useless piece of fancy\u2010work. The topics of conversation\nmay be guessed, their range not being very extensive; of course,\nsomebody\u2019s marriage or probable engagement is discussed, silks and laces\nare made up into imaginary toilets with surprising rapidity, the history\nof some refractory scholar and the details of the clothing club are next\ndrawn upon, and it is very seldom that the talk glides into any\ninteresting or rational channel. It really is a pity that people will\npersist in talking of each other and not of _things_. So much might be\naltered for the better in society, if conversation were not so exclusively\npersonal. Mutual improvement is a thing altogether overlooked in the\ncivilized world. Even men succumb to gossip; for what is the staple of\nclub\u2010talk? So\u2010and\u2010so has \u201csold out,\u201d and gone into a less expensive\nregiment; such an one seems very attentive to Miss So\u2010and\u2010so; such another\nwas deeply offended because he was not asked to Lady So\u2010and\u2010so\u2019s party;\nthe shooting in Lord C\u2014\u2014\u2019s preserves is confoundedly bad this year; Mr.\nA\u2014\u2014 thinks of contesting the next election at B\u2014\u2014. Interminable waves of\ngossip flood the world from the club as from the _boudoir_, though the\nlatter certainly does by far the most mischief.\n\nWe are told that \u201cno man can serve two masters.\u201d In all relations in life\nthis is eminently true. Intellect and Mammon scarcely agree better than\nGod and Mammon. The proper atmosphere of intellectual life is peace, and a\nstudent\u2019s career should be blameless in morals as well as tranquil in\nexperience. Fashion and society forbid this; they necessitate loss of\ntime, and unsettle the even balance of the mind. For one who values his\ncalmness of spirit and his health of body there is a golden rule, which,\nif he weigh all external pleasures by it, will infallibly secure him the\npeace he needs: No pleasure is safe but that which leaves no regret behind\nit on the morrow. Who has not felt the wretched sensation left by\npleasures not fulfilling this condition? Who does not remember the\nfeverish pulse, the troubled dreams, the vague uneasiness, the sickly\napathy that follow on a night spent in violent and unnatural amusement?\nOne wiser than our generation has said:\n\n\u201cThe desires of sensuality draw thee abroad; but, when the hour is past,\nwhat dost thou bring home but a weight upon thy conscience and a\ndissipation of heart? A joyful going abroad often brings forth a sorrowful\ncoming home, and a merry evening makes a sad morning.\u201d(65)\n\nThese words, written centuries ago, contain volumes, and are not less\napplicable now than in the middle ages.\n\nWe often hear it said that man is a gregarious animal. He needs\ncompanionship, and clings to his kind. This it is that induces that more\nstirring life which distinguishes the city from the province; which\nquickens the perceptions and enlarges the sympathies. But the perfection\nof the intellectual life is not found in cities. The world\u2010wide influences\nthat stir great centres have locomotive powers that are superior to the\nchannels of human contrivance. It needs not the friction of mind with mind\nto originate great ideas or engender great deeds. The companionship\nneedful for men of talent lies not in the social circle, but in the\nlibrary. As Ruskin has said in one of his lectures, we should each of us\nbe proud of being admitted to the friendship of some great poet, artist,\nor philosopher; and yet we neglect that inner communion which is open to\nus at any moment with the spirits of all the departed heroes of the mind,\nwhose choicest thoughts are stored on the shelves of our libraries. It is\ntrue that the straitened circumstances of many a scholar keep him chain\u2010\nbound within the limits of great, black, smoky cities; for, since he\ncannot possess individually the literary treasures that are the necessary\nfood of his intellectual life, he is obliged to slake his thirst at the\ncommon fountain of the public libraries and lecture\u2010rooms. But we were\nspeaking rather of the ideal, the perfect scholarly life, which implies a\ncombination of pursuits. The mind which looks to the highest products of\nancient and modern thought for its legitimate _pabulum_ can never be but\nhalf satisfied with anything less than perfection in its accessory\nsurroundings. Such a mind is naturally allied to a sensitive and\nimaginative organization, and the coarse contrasts between the peaceful\nstudy and the common street\u2010sights of every large city must necessarily be\npainful to it. Even so the petty gossip and \u201cstorms in a tea\u2010cup\u201d of a\nrural centre; for all that is mean and small is foreign to that calm\natmosphere in which sages and poets live. Those sages, those poets, in\ntheir day, may have lived, it is true, among the turmoil and strife of\nsmall interests; but death and the lapse of time seem to have bereft them,\nin our eyes, of any such disenchantments; we see them transformed and\nidealized, and we gladly aim at reproducing, not their commonplace lives,\nbut their spiritual existence. This existence still survives, and it is to\nthis that we wish to ally our own. For this perfection of lofty\ncompanionship, the solitude of a country life is most conducive, but it\nmust be a solitude of leisure, of freedom from conventionalities, and,\nunluckily, of at least some degree of wealth. This latter condition is\nfulfilled in so few cases that our ideal remains but too often unrealized\nin this work\u2010a\u2010day world, yet none the less is it the true and only\ndignified ideal of the intellectual life. The instinct of those born with\na spark of genius will bear us out in this assertion; no miser longs for\nwealth more thirstingly than a book\u2010worm. There is an innate sympathy with\nthe outward beauties of nature which distinguishes the scholar even more\nthan it does the gipsy.\n\nBut, as a crowning condition to the enjoyment of these beauties, he must\nbe free from the common cares and interests of men; he must walk in a\nhigher sphere than those whose sympathies cannot mingle with his; he must\nwalk alone in spirit, even though his body may jostle the unthinking\ncrowd. Have we made our scholar a misanthrope? Yes, if thereby is meant a\nhater of society, with its shams and its stage\u2010like scenery; no, if you\nunderstand thereby a hater of humankind. But be sure of one thing: a man\nlearns to love men more the less he sees of them, and the more, by their\nabsence, they leave him his charitable estimate of their probable good\nqualities. No doubt the earth itself looks fairer from the standpoint of a\nfixed star than it does to\u2010day to any toiling wayfarer on its rough\npathway.\n\n\n\n\nTo S. Joseph: On The Day Of My First Mass.\n\n\nType of the Priesthood with its Virgin Spouse,\n  The Immaculate Church, our Mother ever fair!\nSince even to me God\u2019s wondrous grace allows\n  An office more than seraphim may share,\n  I kneel to thee, most gentle Saint, and dare\nTo choose thee patron of the trust. Oh! make\n  My evermore fidelity thy care,\nAnd keep me Mary\u2019s, for her own sweet sake!\n  Her knight before, and poet, now her priest\n  (Nor less her slave\u2014a thousandfold the more),\nI glory in a bondage but increased,\n  And kiss the chain her dear De Montfort wore,\n  With \u201cOmnia per Mariam\u201d mottoed o\u2019er:\nWhich seals me her apostle, though the least.\n\nFEAST OF THE SEVEN DOLORS, March 31, 1871.\n\n\n\n\nOdd Stories. VI.\u2014King Ruli.\n\n\nOnce upon a time there was, on this side of the Hartz Mountains, a secret\nplace, where, touching a hidden spring, you found yourself in a trice\nbetween immense walls of rock, whence a mysterious person, dressed in red\nfrom top to toe, took you into a great cavern, the first of a series of\nvast caves filled with hogsheads and tuns of wine and beer, and lighted up\nin such a manner that the brilliant stalactites with which it was hung\nsparkled and flashed like the most precious gems in a jeweller\u2019s dream.\nThe awe inspired by this scene hardly left you a moment to observe that\nthe nose of your guide was even redder than his body, when you were\nushered through another secret door into the domain of a grand old castle,\nthe battlements of which, covered with moss, overlooked a pastoral valley\nand its white flocks, and seemed to rule the landscape, notwithstanding\nthe presence of many other castles, as if it were the house of a monarch.\nAnd so it was. Here dwelt King Ruli, the patron of minnesingers and jolly\ncavaliers\u2014that stalwart king whose brow, and beard, and port were the very\nsigns of genial majesty. Pleasure ruled the board where he sat; and when\nthe juice of the Weinberg warmed up in the blood of the lords and\nminstrels in Weinbergland, the ten noble companions of King Ruli swept the\nmystic chords of the harp, and with voices free sang in echoing strain\ntheir merry roundelay:\n\n\n    We\u2019re rovers all, we\u2019re singers five\n      And rhymers five; come round, come round;\n    Ye five shall give us honest rhyme,\n      And we shall give you sound.\n\n    Let laurels crown his great gray head,\n      A big arm\u2010chair his throne be made.\n                Then sing:\n    Ruli, King Ruli! And he shall be our king.\n\n\nTo sounds of cheerful thoughts like these each royal night wore on, while\nthe castled lords of hill and valley feasted at the king\u2019s table, and made\nmerry over jest and story, to the clinking of many glasses and in the\npleasant uproar of many voices. Seated in his chair at the head of the\ntable, he drank from a great flagon of crystal, or smoked from a pipe as\nlong as his body, the bowl of which required a page\u2010in\u2010waiting to support\nit, lest, in a drowsy moment, it should drop from the mouth of the king.\nBelow him were ranged the ten minnesingers, who smoked from one immense\nbowl of tobacco, having long stems that led to all their mouths, whence\nissued a volume of smoke, which, as it rose around the great burning bowl,\nwas like the fume of a conflagration; and thus betimes the merry\nminnesingers sang:\n\n\n    Ah! never once so jolly face\n      In green old Arcady appeared;\n    And as he drinks, the drink flows down\n      His flowing, streaming beard.\n    He\u2019s six feet high, his beard is long,\n      And broad his body is and strong.\n                Then sing:\n    King Ruli, King Ruli! He shall be our king.\n\n\nNo king could resist such flattery as this, and it was with truth that his\nminstrels pictured him standing, and, in a tone of majestic joviality,\nwishing the health of the whole company:\n\n\n    \u201cTrue liegemen all, I give ye joy,\n      For I am host and landlord here;\n    Ho! varlets, bring me Rhenish wine,\n      And flagons fill of beer!\u201d\n    Right red Rhine wine! right red Rhine wine!\n      Was ever glass so clear and fine?\n                So sing:\n    Ruli, King Ruli! And he shall be our king!\n\n\nLate in the night the sound of song and story made for the gentle monarch\na lullaby, and his head rested on his bosom in slumber, as he laid down\nhis flagon. Had his chief minstrel then tickled his great ear, it would\nnot have waked him up; and so, seeing that the king had filled himself\nwith slumber as with the drugs of Morpheus, his lieges sang:\n\n\n    But, hold! the monarch\u2019s sleepy grown;\n      His pipe has dropt, he\u2019s drowsed and sped.\n    Hark! how he snores! Wide open doors;\n      We\u2019ll bury him in bed.\n    Then, while our loyal shoulders bear\n    His burden, thus our burden hear:\n            King Ruli!\n    The king is dead; long live the king!\n      And live again, King Ruli!\n\n\nBut as night after night of song and wine went by, the king grew older and\nolder in his cups. Little he saw or cared that new revellers, new\nminstrels, new lords, had one by one taken the places of old ones, and\nthat the speech of the new\u2010comers was loud and hoarse, and their song\nribald and discordant. Those who remained with him of his old friends and\nretainers had gradually imbibed the character of the latest revellers, and\ntheir potations were deeper and their jests broader than ever. Once in a\nwhile the king groaned and complained that his beer was too bitter; but\nthey so flattered his jokes, and praised his beard, and spoke of his noble\nbrow, and his royal blood, and his glorious voice, that he sang and roared\nas of old, and swallowed his beer without further complaint. On such an\noccasion as this it required the cynical courage of the minstrel\nKnipfenbausenstein to sing, as he did, from the end of the hall, which he\nhad just entered after a long absence:\n\n\n    There were ten vintners old and sick,\n    And all their wine had gone to lees;\n    Of empty casks they made them cells:\n    Oh! very bitter folks were these.\n    Misgives me now, good friends, to think\n    A king should be a king of drink.\n            But sing:\n    Ruli, King Ruli! this night shall be our king!\n\n\nThe minstrel doubtless had in mind the ten companions of the king, who,\nbeing no longer able to keep up with the stalwart Ruli in the vigor of his\npotations, had cried out as with one voice against their sovereign,\ndeclaring that his beer was bitter beyond endurance, and his pleasures a\ngilded despotism. For this offence the king, swearing roundly that they\nwere traitor knights, who knew not how to be moderate drinkers or loyal\nfeasters, consigned them to his darkest wine caverns, where they were\ndoomed to dwell in empty hogsheads for many a year.\n\nNow, after a life of good living, the rare old king sat in his great\nvelvet\u2010cushioned chair, warming his legs, which were rather swollen, and\nhis feet, which were encased in large slippers, before a fire sufficient\nto cook an ox. Glided to his side his eldest child, the queenly\nHermengilde, and said softly: \u201cAlas! sire, and hast thou not heard that my\nfirst\u2010born has killed young Siegbert of Bierhalle, in a drunken brawl, and\nwilt thou persist in these foolish feasts?\u201d\n\n\u201cTut, tut, silly girl! This feasting hurts not thy fasting. \u2019Twere better\nto kill his man in drink than sober; and, tut, tut! we must not grieve for\never, child. Wine is for the drinking, and life for the living. Heaven\nsend thee luck!\u201d With this the jovial king took a draught from his flagon.\n\nEre he had smoked his pipe, the fair Joanna, second princess of the blood,\nwhose wont it was to fill the king\u2019s pipe with affectionate care, said to\nhim musingly: \u201cMethinks it is the night when our brother Max fell over\ninto the chasm and was killed. Ill befits that its peace be marred by\nroysterers whom, say they, he had most to blame for his death.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! and have ye turned dames of the cloister, that ye seek to make\ncrows\u2019 nests of my beard and gray hairs? Umph! my lady counsellors; and ye\nwould have no more wine drank because rocks are steep! Did not sober Hans\nfall into the well, and ere thou wast born? Ay, but a brave lad was Max,\nand a merry one. A glass to his memory!\u201d\n\nThe king was unaware, as he thus spoke, of the near presence of a reverend\nand noble matron, whose face bore marks of care and grief. It was the\nqueen Roxalana. A child of tender years ran from her side to climb her\ngrandsire\u2019s knee, but, seeing that the royal flagon stood in the way,\nexclaimed: \u201cO grandfather! that horrid drink!\u201d The king, with a majestic\nmotion, waved the child away, and she returned in tears to the side of the\nmute queen.\n\n\u201cSo, my lady, queen of woebegones and nurse of whimperings, thou art here\nto tease thy lord and trouble his gout. \u2019Tis well. Train the brats of the\nland to do imps\u2019 work to their fathers, and make your daughters have long\nfaces; but have a care, goodwife, lest an old man\u2019s patience be too weak\nfor this old maid\u2019s gossip. Pray, what new worm is in thy brain, that thou\ntellest we must not drink the cup of our fathers?\u201d\n\nNot long after this scene, a loud clash of arms was heard in the court,\nand the debauched minnesinger, Wittekind, staggered into the hall, his\nface stained with blood as with wine. The king\u2019s guests had just drunk\ntheir tenth glass, when a crowd of rioters, armed to the teeth, rushed in\nupon them, and, breaking glasses right and left, proclaimed the downfall\nof King Ruli. With a bitter and heavy heart, the king recognized among the\ncrowds who now drank to his perdition many of his old revellers; and,\nseizing a favorable moment, fled totteringly into the wine mountain.\nThere, to his great surprise, he found that all the tuns and hogsheads of\nwine and beer which had been stored away were quite empty. Once more he\njoined his ten companions locked up in the wine caves, lamenting bitterly\nthat the wine of his life had gone to lees, and much tormented by the man\nin red, whose nose was like fire.\n\n\n\n\nEpigram. The Widow\u2019s Mites.\n\n\nTwo mites, two drops\u2014yet all her house and land\u2014\nFalle from a steady heart though trembling hand.\nThe others\u2019 wanton wealth foams high and brave.\nThe others cast away; she only gave.\n\n\u2014_Crashaw._\n\n\n\n\nOld Versus New.\n\n\nOne pleasant afternoon, in the autumn just passed, I lay stretched out\nlazily on a mow of new\u2010mown hay, in a large, old\u2010fashioned country barn.\n\nIt was still redolent with that odor peculiar to hay newly cut, having\nbeen placed in the barn but a few hours before.\n\nIn the work of cutting, raking, and storing, patent machines of every\ndescription had assisted; and, lying there cosily enjoying the effect, I\nhad plenty of leisure to think upon the cause.\n\nWith my mind full of reflections on the wonderful improvements of the age,\nand vague thoughts of labor\u2010saving machines, it was not long until I was\noff in a sound slumber, to which a hearty dinner had by no means\nindisposed me. I was soon in the theatre of dreams, and the first actor\nwhose voice I heard was an old scythe. Apparently, the peg on which he\nhung was rotten, and, giving way, let the old fellow fall with a shock\nthat seemed to stir up what little life yet remained in him; for I soon\nheard, in a queer, cracked voice, the following complaint:\n\n\u201cWell, here I am at last! Hung up on the wall years ago, like an old coat\nthat\u2019s put aside for a rainy day, my master couldn\u2019t even see to it that I\nhad a safe peg; but, hanging me on that old rotten thing, I\u2019ve got a fall\nthat my poor bones won\u2019t be the better of for a month to come.\u201d\n\nWith that, one of the patent mowers, showing his polished teeth, gruffly\nasked: \u201cWhat are you growling about? What\u2019s that you\u2019re saying about the\nmaster?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt ill suits you,\u201d said the scythe, \u201cto put on airs, though you are\nrubbed and polished, and, drawn by a dashing team, ride about on wheels.\nUpstarts always assume great importance, and the latest converts are the\nmost zealous partisans; when you have served the master as long and as\nfaithfully as I have, you may have some right to maintain his cause.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d said the mower, \u201cyou\u2019re quite a preacher, to be sure; pray tell us\nwhat cause _you_ have for grievance? Is it, forsooth, because your peg\ngave way you are so highly incensed? Even if you did get a fall, I think\nyou ought to be grateful that you are housed high and dry, and not left\nout in the rain to rust.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy fall is a small matter indeed,\u201d said the scythe, \u201ccompared with my\nother wrongs. When I see you, with your gay paint and glittering teeth,\neating up the food that I enjoyed for years; when I see fair meadows of\nclover, and valleys filled with golden grain, all given over to your\nrapacious maw, and I, I who once received all this as my just right,\nallowed but the little scraps that grow around a stump\u2014when I see all\nthis, my temper is tried to the utmost at the injustice that is done me.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d chimed in an old and well\u2010nigh toothless rake, \u201cyou may well\ncomplain of the scanty share that is doled out to you; I too, hang here\nneglected, and, when I am taken down, get equally tough morsels for my\npoor teeth.\u201d\n\nWhereupon several hoes, filled with deadly hate against their enemies of\nthe plough family, now took courage, as they heard the boldly uttered\nwords of their companions, and, speaking up with one voice, said: \u201cWe\nlikewise have reason to complain of our master. There was a time when we\nwere thought fit for any labor; we turned up the earth to support the\npotato\u2010vines; we loosed the earth around the corn; and that splendid\nvegetable, the cabbage, was tended by our trusty blades; now we are deemed\nfit for scarce anything but to clean out manure, to scrape offal from the\nyard, and, in fact, do all the dirty work of the place.\u201d It seemed as if\nthe spirit of rebellion was abroad; for at this, the flail that hung idly\non a spike followed with a long speech.\n\n\u201cYou have all,\u201d said the flail, \u201cgood reasons for being indignant with the\nmaster of this farm; my friend, the scythe, may justly complain of the\nrich harvests given over to his rival, the patent mower; our old\ncompanion, the rake\u2014an exceptional rake, by the way\u2014may consistently\ninveigh against the master for giving him in his old age naught but the\nhardest morsels of food; and our worthy associates, the hoes, may well be\nindignant, and look with contempt and scorn on the foul legacy bequeathed\nto them\u2014a legacy which hoes of their stamp should disdain to embrace. But\nhe has treated none of you so cruelly as he has treated me; forced into a\ndisagreeable union with what he calls my handle, battered almost to pieces\nin battering out his grain, I yet respected him for the care he took of me\nin the months when I was useless to him. But now he has new\u2010fangled\nmachines to do his work, and, uncared for and unnoticed, dust covers me so\ncompletely that I can scarce open eyes or mouth. Base ingratitude has been\nmy portion, and I certainly may be excused if I feel displeased, ay,\nenraged. I may be pardoned if I seek not simply redress, but revenge.\u201d As\nthe flail ended, a deep murmur of assent filled the whole place; and the\npatent mower, who had kept strict silence since his last question to the\nscythe, now spoke up.\n\n\u201cMy worthy friends,\u201d said he, \u201cI am indeed very sorry to be, with my\ncompanions, the innocent cause of all your troubles. I have listened to\nyour complaints, and cannot deny that they are, in the main, just. But you\nshould know that the master seeks only his own comfort, and, whatever care\nhe takes of us, it is only to relieve himself from labor. As I reflect\nupon your present position, I see myself similarly situated; for the time\nwill come when I and my associates will have to stand aside for newer and\nmore vigorous servants of toil.\n\n\u201cThe master, too, will one day find himself in the same condition. He also\nwill become old, and will look around on younger and heartier hands doing\nhis work; and, as he grows still older, he must suffer many a slight, for\nthe world wants nothing it cannot use.\n\n\u201cNow that the period of _your_ usefulness has gone by, strive to become\nreconciled to your fate; murmur no more, accept your lot with resignation,\nbe satisfied with the work you have done, and patiently wait for the end.\u201d\n\nCurious to hear how the malcontents would take this bit of philosophy, I\nleaned over to catch the first word; but, leaning too far, I slid off the\nmow, and falling, not on the floor, fortunately, but on some bundles of\nstraw, was rudely awakened to find that I had been asleep some hours; for\nevening had come on, and it was now so dark in the barn that I could see\nnothing of the bold disputants of my dream.\n\nHastening to the house, I amused the family by the recital of this contest\nof the old against the new; and, profiting by my dream, I have since\nresolved to accept the mower\u2019s advice, and be always reconciled to time\u2019s\nchanges.\n\n\n\n\nNew Publications.\n\n\n    THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED PETER FAVRE, S.J., First Companion of S.\n    Ignatius. (Vol. VIII. of F. Coleridge\u2019s Quarterly Series.) London:\n    Burns & Oates. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication\n    Society.)\n\n\nThe history of the Society of Jesus is rich in abundant materials of\nuntiring interest. The Blessed Peter Favre\u2019s apostolic career was short,\nhaving been but of seven years\u2019 duration, yet crowded with astonishing\nresults. The particular fact most strikingly brought into view in this\n_Life_ is the one which of all others is the most shameful for the\nReformation\u2014viz., that it had no intellectual or moral origin or\ncharacter, but sprang merely from the sins and vices which had so\nfrightfully corrupted a vast number of all classes of Christians in the\nmiserable XVIth century. F. Favre saw this clearly, and often said that if\nLuther himself could have been brought to sincere contrition and\nrepentance for his sins, his errors in doctrine would have disappeared\nwithout any argumentation. Accordingly, he set himself to preach like a\nmissionary, to exhort and win persons to a reformation of life, and to\nlabor with wonderful success to convert sinners to God, as the shortest\nand surest way to check the progress of heresy.\n\nThe present volume is, like all those which have preceded it, carefully\nand neatly prepared as a book of choice reading for persons of cultivated\nspiritual and literary tastes.\n\n\n    THE PRIDE OF LEXINGTON: A Tale of the American Revolution. By\n    William Seton, author of _Romance of the Charter Oak_, _The\n    Pioneers_, etc., etc. New York: P. O\u2019Shea. 1874.\n\n\nMr. Seton is a nephew of the celebrated foundress of the American branch\nof the institute of the Daughters of Charity, and a brother of the Rt.\nRev. Monsignor Seton. He served with honor as an officer of one of our New\nYork regiments during the late war, and since that time has especially\ndevoted himself to the study of early New England history, which he has\nillustrated by his historical novels. Our first impression respecting the\nmerits of a previous novel by Mr. Seton, in which he took great pains to\ndepict the manners and customs of the early Puritan inhabitants of\nConnecticut and Massachusetts (the _Romance of the Charter Oak_), was not\nvery favorable. We have since been disposed to think that we did not duly\nappreciate the skill and talent of the author, and have found other\npersons, well qualified to judge of such matters, who have considered the\n_Charter Oak_ as a remarkably successful effort of its kind. Both that\nnovel and the present one are characterized by a marked realism, like that\nof a certain Dutch and Flemish school of painting. Probably they do\npresent a more correct and faithful picture of those old times than that\ngiven by writers who have more idealism and romance in their delineation,\nlike James F. Cooper. We confess to a taste, nevertheless, for these more\nromantic authors. And, speaking in cool criticism, we think a novelist, in\nfollowing the highest principles and ends of his art, ought to idealize\nmore than Mr. Seton is disposed to do. He has a broad sense of the\nhumorous and ridiculous in commonplace characters and actions. The\nabsurdities and trivialities of common life are too faithfully represented\nin his pages, and there is frequently a degree of coarseness in the\ndescription of vulgar persons which is disagreeable. Yankee children,\nhowever, devour Mr. Seton\u2019s stories with avidity, which is a good proof of\ntheir naturalness. And, putting aside the peculiarity which we have\nnoticed, the story lately published, _The Pride of Lexington_, is, even\nmore than the first one, a composition of real originality and power,\nestablishing fully the author\u2019s ability as a historical novelist. The\nbattles of Lexington and Bunker Hill are well described; the heroes, and\nespecially the heroine, of the story, with the plot of private incidents\nand events that make the filling up of the historical scenes, are\ninteresting; there is much genuine comic humor in the by\u2010play, especially\nin the episode of Billy Smith and the black coon, called \u201cthe parson,\u201d and\nwe are quite sure that the genuine, unsophisticated children of the by\u2010\ngone generation of New England forefathers, if they get hold of _The Pride\nof Lexington_, will pay the author the tribute of an oft\u2010repeated and\ndelighted perusal.\n\n\n    CONFERENCES ON THE SPIRITUAL LIFE. By the Rev. Father de Ravignan,\n    S.J. Translated from the French by Mrs. Abel Ram. London: R.\n    Washbourne. 1873. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication\n    Society.)\n\n\nF. de Ravignan was undoubtedly an orator. The impression which he made\nupon his hearers is enough to justify us in making this assertion. The\norator must be heard; when his words are written, their fire is gone, and\nthey no longer burn. In the case of F. de Ravignan especially, there must\nhave been much in the magnetism of the man, in his earnestness, in his\ndeep religious feeling, in the firm conviction and strong love, shown in\nthe manner in which he spoke; for in his printed conferences and sermons\nwe do not find great eloquence or beauty of diction or depth of thought.\nThere are none of those bursts of passion, of those profound thoughts and\ncomprehensive views, in which a whole subject is condensed into a single\nphrase, as strong as it is striking, which we so often meet with in the\nconferences of Lacordaire. Nor yet is there that stately flow of language,\nat once simple and majestic, that evenness of style and unbroken sequence\nof thought, which characterize the discourses of F. Felix. And yet neither\nLacordaire nor Felix excited greater enthusiasm or made a profounder\nimpression in the pulpit of Notre Dame than De Ravignan.\n\nIf he had not the depth and comprehensiveness of thought of the one, or\nthe sonorous diction and lofty manner of the other, he must have been, in\nsome respects at least, a greater orator than either. The conferences\ncontained in the volume now before us were preached to the \u201cEnfants de\nMarie,\u201d in the Convent of the Sacred Heart, in Paris, during the years\n1855, 1856, and 1857. They were not written out by F. de Ravignan, but\nwere compiled by one of his hearers from notes taken at the time of their\ndelivery, and are, we think, equally as good as the conferences preached\nin Notre Dame from 1837 to 1846, which were published in four volumes\nshortly after his death. They are simply familiar discourses to ladies in\nthe world on the most important subjects connected with their duties as\nChristians; in which we find all the best qualities that distinguished F.\nRavignan as a preacher\u2014sincere piety and much earnestness, united with\ndelicacy and refinement both of thought and language. He does not inveigh\nagainst the vices of society, but rather seeks to describe the beauties of\nthe Christian life; to show its dignity and responsibilities, its perfect\nharmony with the highest aspirations of the soul and the soundest dictates\nof reason.\n\nThe name of F. de Ravignan will of itself be sufficient to obtain a wide\ncirculation for this English version of his conferences.\n\n\n    ECCLESIASTICAL ANTIQUITIES OF LONDON. By Alex. Wood, M.A. Oxon.\n    London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic\n    Publication Society.)\n\n\nThis book is quite a storehouse of curious and valuable information\u2014just\nthe kind of matter that would be overlooked by the civil historian, and\nwhich the reverent chronicler (alas! an almost extinct species, now) alone\nwould be apt to take cognizance of.\n\nIt doubtless surprised many intelligent readers to find what interesting\nfacts even a cursory investigation would bring to light, while reading\nwhat our \u201cLooker\u2010Back\u201d saw while in London. This work is a treat of a\nsimilar character. It is constructed on the plan of an itinerary, and\ndivided into nine \u201cwalks,\u201d in which the most notable localities are looked\nat from an arch\u00e6ological point of view, re\u2010peopled by the actors on the\nstage at the respective dates, and reanimated by the deeds then being\nperformed.\n\n\n    NOTES OF THE WANDERING JEW; or, The Jesuits and their Opponents.\n    Edited by John Fairplay, Esq. Dublin: McGlashan & Gill. 1873. (New\n    York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nWe are doubtless indebted to the famous romance of Eugene Sue for these\nnotes of the Wandering Jew, in which this extraordinary personage, after\nhis ceaseless journeyings for more than eighteen hundred years, finally\nturns up as an author, and, surprising as it may seem, a defender of the\nJesuits.\n\nThe first part of the little volume is devoted to S. Ignatius. The\nWandering Jew had seen him on two occasions\u2014first in Spain, in his hot\nyouth, with his light, graceful form clad in a page\u2019s rich attire, with\nthe plumed cap and velvet mantle, the hawk upon his wrist, the hounds\nfollowing at his heels, whilst his foot seemed hardly to touch the ground\nas he walked; and again, at Rome, he saw him in his old age, arrayed in\nthe flowing gown of the priest, with the calm of deliberate wisdom on his\nhigh forehead, advancing with a sweet and awful majesty to the altar.\n\n\u201cI loved and revered him then,\u201d says the Jew, \u201calbeit a stranger to his\ncommunion; and I cannot recall the memory of that marked and expressive\ncountenance, whether in the gallant boy or the venerable and saintly old\nman, without feeling some interest in the fate of that illustrious order\nwhich he alone created, and which still bears the impress of his character\nand genius.\u201d\n\nThe remaining chapters are devoted to _The Spiritual Exercises_, \u201cThe\nConstitutions of the Order,\u201d \u201cThe Missions and Schools of the Jesuits,\u201d\nand, finally, to answering some of the charges which Protestants and\ninfidels have brought against the Society. There is a very good chapter on\nthe _Provincial Letters_, in which Pascal, with a wit and power of sarcasm\nsurpassed only by the artful unfairness with which he treats the subject,\nhas sought to make the whole order responsible for the extravagant\nopinions of some few Spanish and Flemish Jesuits.\n\nThe author, who is evidently not a Catholic, has written with great\nfairness and good sense, and we most willingly recommend his book to our\nreaders.\n\n\n    THE RED FLAG, AND OTHER POEMS. By the Hon. Roden Noel. London:\n    Strahan & Co. 1872.\n\n\nWe have been asked to notice this book. But how are Catholics to regard it\nwith favor, when, before they have read far in the poem of \u201cThe Red Flag,\u201d\nthey come upon a passage containing an insult too gross and slanderous, we\nshould have thought, for even Exeter Hall? We forbear to quote the words.\nSuffice it to say that the author, ignoring the martyred archbishop and\npriests, represents the church as gloating over the execution of the\ncommunists in Paris.\n\nAffectation, verboseness, and sensuous description characterize these\npoems as works of art; while the metre of \u201cThe Red Flag\u201d is in the worst\ntaste, and the lyrics are spoilt by all sorts of quirks and the clumsiest\ndivisions of stanzas.\n\n\n\nThe Catholic Publication Society has in press, and will soon publish, _The\nLife of St. John of the Cross_, 1 vol. 12mo, and _The Farm of Muiceron and\nMadame Agnes_, in 1 vol. 8vo.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XIX., NO. 110.\u2014MAY, 1874.\n\n\n\n\nThe Coming Transit Of Venus.\n\n\nThis year, 1874, bids fair to be memorable in the annals of astronomy. A\nsubject which has long occupied our students of that venerable and now\ngigantic science is gradually passing from their closets and their\nscientific discussions into reviews and newspapers, and is forcing itself\non the attention of the world at large. At first sight the matter seems a\nvery trivial one. On the 8th of next December, keen eyes in certain parts\nof the world may, if the sky be clear, and if they look closely, notice\nthat a small, dark spot, a mere speck, will flit across the face of the\nsun. Examined through a telescope, it is seen to have an appreciable\ndiameter\u2014about 1\u2019. It is not half as interesting to look at as ordinary\nsolar spots, with their jagged edges, their umbra and penumbra, their\nchanging forms, and their whirling facul\u00e6. It has not, as they seem to\nhave, some vague connection with the magnetic disturbances, the auroral\nlights, or any other atmospheric changes of this sublunary world of ours.\nIt simply passes across the sun in something less than six hours, leaving\nno trace behind, and producing, so far as would appear, no appreciable\neffect of any kind. It occurs but rarely\u2014twice in a century; in some\ncenturies, not at all. Small as it is, it can be foretold and calculated\nbeforehand. Except as a verification of such calculations, ordinary minds\nmight think it singularly unimportant\u2014scarcely more important than the\ngleam in the heavens at night of an occasional and isolated falling star,\nwhich glides along its shining path for an instant, and then disappears\nnever more to be seen.\n\nYet for the last ten\u2014we might, with more truth, say for fifty\u2014years back,\nthe best astronomers have been preparing to observe, with unequalled care,\nthe passage of that little black spot. Some have again and again gone over\nthe records of the observations made in 1761 and 1769, when it was last\nseen, criticising what was then done, distinguishing what was well done\nfrom what they judge to have been faulty, and tracing these faults back to\ntheir sources\u2014either to the imperfection of the instruments used, to\npersonal errors, or to mistakes or omissions of the observers themselves.\nIn the observations now to be made, all these sources of error will, as\nfar as possible, be excluded. Others have spent years in patiently going\nover the long calculations connected with those observations, detecting\nand eliminating any errors they find, and introducing such corrections as\nthe subsequent advance of astronomical science demands. The amended\nresults thus obtained are ready for comparison, at their proper value,\nwith the additional and, it is hoped, better results to be obtained from\nthe observations of next December. Still others have used, and are now\nusing, their utmost skill in constructing instruments of hitherto\nunequalled excellence for the great occasion. Besides great improvements\nin the instruments known in 1769, they have devised others, perhaps more\nvaluable, and of a character then not dreamed of. Others, again, have\ndevoted months to the nicest and most intricate calculations of the\nmovements of the earth and the planets, in order to know in full time\nbeforehand what special stations on the surface of the earth will, that\nday and at the required hours, afford the most eligible positions from\nwhich to make the desired observations.\n\nFinally, governments have been appealed to, to aid in preparing the means\nand in bearing the expense; and they have responded. Every civilized\nnation is acting in the matter. Russia leads off with, as we are assured,\ntwenty\u2010seven stations, mostly on her own territory, all duly provided with\ninstruments and observers. France, England, and Germany will have ten or a\ndozen each. Austria will have her quota. Belgium, Holland, Denmark, and\nItaly will establish stations and send observers and instruments. Even\ndistracted Spain is at least talking of it. From the Western World, the\nUnited States will send eight corps. Nor will Brazil, Peru, and Chili\nprove laggard. The whole civilized world seems to move in this undertaking\nwith a singular unanimity, doing what only governments can do. Many of the\nstations must be in bleak and inhospitable lands beyond the confines of\ncivilization. They will be furnished with all that is needful, and\nthousands of miles of telegraphic wires will be stretched to put them in\nconnection with the observatories of Europe. Other stations will be on\ndistant islands in mid\u2010ocean. Thither national vessels will bear the\nobservers and their instruments. It were well for the world if governments\nwould manifest such generous rivalry in doing good when other and more\nimportant interests than those of astronomy are in question.\n\nWhat, then, is that little black spot which they are so anxious to examine\nas it passes across the sun next December? How comes it to be of such\nimportance that all these mighty efforts are made to have it fully and\ncorrectly observed? To what great results, scientific or other, will a\ncorrect knowledge of everything about it lead the world?\n\nThat little black spot is the planet Venus, then passing directly between\nthe earth and the sun, and producing an hom\u0153opathic solar eclipse, just\nas, under similar circumstances, the moon might produce an annular or a\ntotal solar eclipse. As ordinarily seen in her character of morning or\nevening star, Venus shines more brightly and joyously in the heavens than\nany other star. But on this occasion the whole of her illuminated half is\nturned towards the sun. Towards the earth she shows only her dark,\nunillumined half, which even looks darker by contrast with the bright face\nof the sun, on which it is projected. This passage across the sun is\ncalled the transit of Venus. If the observations are successfully made,\nthey will give us the means of ascertaining with sufficient precision what\nas yet is not so known\u2014the actual distance of the earth from the sun.\n\nThis knowledge is all\u2010important in a scientific point of view. From it we\ncan deduce the distance of every other planet of the solar system. With it\nwe can carry our survey beyond that system into the stellar world. The\ndistance of our earth from the sun\u2014the orbital radius of the earth, is,\nfor the astronomer, his unit of measure\u2014his yard\u2010stick, as it has been\ntermed\u2014when he would estimate or measure stellar distances or velocities.\nAny error in it is multiplied millions of times in such surveys. Any\nuncertainty or reasonable apprehension of error about it casts a cloud of\nembarrassment over almost every portion of the newly acquired domain of\nastronomy. No wonder, then, that no effort is spared to secure as soon as\npossible, and in the easiest and most certain way we know of, an accurate\nsolution of the question. This, more than anything else, is the spring of\nthe whole movement.\n\nThe earth, as all know, revolves, as do the other planets, round the sun,\nnot precisely in a circle, but in an oval or ellipse not differing much\nfrom a circle. The length of our year, or time of one complete revolution\nof the earth around the sun, is 365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes, 49.657\nseconds.\n\nInside the earth, and next to us, among the planets, comes Venus,\nrevolving around the sun in her elliptical orbit in 224 days, 16 hours, 48\nminutes, and 42 seconds.\n\nWere both orbits on the same level, in the same plane, Venus and the earth\nwould come to be in the same direction or line from the sun as often as\nVenus, moving on her inner and shorter course, and more rapidly, would\novertake the more sluggish earth. Such conjunctions would happen once in\nevery 584 days nearly; and every such conjunction would show a transit,\nand Venus could be seen between the earth and the sun. But the orbits,\nthough both around the same sun, are not on the same level. That of Venus\nis somewhat tilted up or inclined, so that one\u2010half of it lies above the\nlevel of the earth\u2019s orbit, and the other half sinks correspondingly\nbelow. The line where the orbits cross or intersect each other is the\nnodal diameter, the only one common to both orbits. Venus overtakes the\nearth regularly, but ordinarily elsewhere than on or in the immediate\nvicinity of this nodal line. The planet then, in her apparent journeying\nfrom one side of the sun to the other, generally seems to pass near that\nluminary, either to the north or the south of it. But whenever, as\nsometimes happens, Venus overtakes the planet on the line of the nodes,\neither as she is descending on her orbit on one side, or ascending on the\nother, then the planet is seen to pass across the sun, and there is a\ntransit. It is not necessary that Venus should be precisely on the line\nuniting the earth\u2019s centre to the sun\u2019s centre. The apparent size of the\nsun, 32\u2019 in diameter, and the size of the earth, and the smallness of the\nangle of inclination between the orbits, all combine to give a little\nlatitude in the matter. The earth arrives punctually every year at one end\nof this line in June, and at the other in December. The astronomical\nquestion is, When will Venus be there also at the same time? To answer\nrequires a calculation which appalls. First, there is the planetary\nvelocity proper of Venus, varying according as in the various parts of her\nelliptical orbit she is nearer to or further from the sun. Then there are\nthe influences of planetary attraction\u2014the earth and the other planets\nacting on Venus, accelerating or retarding her movements, and tending\nsometimes to draw her to one side of her orbit. Then there is or may be\nquestion of that nodal diameter shifting its position, and trying, as it\nwere, to swing round the circle of the earth\u2019s orbit. When all these\ncalculations have been made, the diurnal movement of the earth must be\ntaken into account, and the geography of her surface must be duly studied,\nto determine finally when the transit will take place, across what portion\nof the sun\u2019s face the planet will be seen to travel, and from what portion\nof the earth\u2019s surface that transit can be seen, and where in that portion\nstations for observing it can be placed with the greatest probability of\nsuccess.\n\nIt is a fearful sight even to look over a seemingly endless series of\npages all bristling with serried columns of figures, broken every now and\nthen by mysterious formulas of higher calculus, like a group of officers\ncommanding a brigade. Mathematicians and astronomers may delight in them;\nwe shall be satisfied to take the results.\n\nThe transits of Venus go in pairs eight years apart. There can be only one\npair to a century; some centuries will have none. The pairs occur\nalternately in June, as Venus descends from the upper to the lower half of\nher orbit, and in December, as she ascends again from it. Thus there were\ntransits in December, 1631, and December, 1639. A second pair occurred in\nJune, 1761, and June, 1769. A third pair is near at hand, in December,\n1874, and December, 1882. The next century will have none. The fourth pair\nwill appear in June, 2004, and June, 2012.\n\nSo much on the character of that dark little round spot, the passage of\nwhich across the sun hundreds of astronomers, with all manner of\ntelescopes, spectroscopes, and photographic instruments, will watch,\nexamine, measure, and record, as they see it sweeping on in its course on\nthe 8th of next December. What will be the special purpose animating\nobservers as they view the transits of 2004 and 2012\u2014if, despite the\nprophetic and apocalyptic Dr. Cumming, the world lasts till then\u2014no one\ncan now tell. Astronomy by that time may be advanced as far beyond the\npresent state of the science as the present state surpasses the state of\ntwo centuries ago. It is probable that new and, to that generation, most\ninteresting questions may have then arisen, which they will strive to\nsolve by their observations of the transits\u2014questions now perhaps\nundreamed of. But at present our astronomical world is deeply impressed\nwith the advantage and necessity of definitely ascertaining the distance\nof the earth from the sun. This is the paramount, though by no means the\nonly, purpose of all this expenditure of time and skill and money in\npreparing for, in making the observations, and afterwards in laboriously\nworking out the results.\n\nHow, by merely looking never so attentively at an object whose distance\nyou do not know, as it stands in a line with, and perhaps far in front of,\nanother, likewise of unknown distance, you can tell how far off that\nsecond object is, may seem as difficult as the king\u2019s requirement of the\nprophet first to tell him the dream he had forgotten, and then to explain\nits meaning. It might seem almost an impossibility; but a few words will\nexplain how the difficulty is turned by availing ourselves of other data.\n\nWhen two planets, as is the case with the earth and Venus, both revolve in\nelliptical orbits around the sun, in virtue of the law of gravitation,\nthen their respective times of orbital revolution are to each other as the\ncubes of their respective mean distances from the sun.\n\nThis is one of the laws of Kepler. It was announced by him as the\nwonderful result of seventeen long years of calculations. He took the data\ngiven by the observations of Tycho Brahe and of others, and those made by\nhimself. He tried, by every imaginable form of arithmetical supposition,\nto combine them together somehow, and under the form of some mathematical\nlaw. This was his last result, perhaps the most surprising result of hard\nplodding, long\u2010continued labor in the field of science. All honor to his\nmemory. There are few discoveries in the mathematics of astronomy to be\ncompared to this and the other laws of Kepler. He established them as\nexperimental facts. The mathematical reason of them he did not learn.\n\nSince his day, gravity has been discovered to be the bond which binds the\nsolar system together, and its laws have been studied out. The\ndifferential and integral calculus, also discovered and perfected since\nhis day, has enabled the scholar to grapple with intricate questions of\nhigher mathematics, which, without its aid, would have remained insoluble.\nAvailing themselves of the laws of gravity and of the aid of the calculus,\nastronomers have been able to give us a mathematical demonstration of\nKepler\u2019s laws, which, from being mere isolated facts or numerical\ncoincidences, have passed into the realm of scientific truths.\n\nNow, we know the length of our own year\u2014365.2422414 days; we know also the\nlength of the year of Venus\u2014224.70048625 days. If we divide the former by\nthe latter, square the quotient, and then extract the cube root of this\nquotient, we shall obtain the number which indicates the proportion\nbetween the two mean distances. Applying this, we learn that if the\ndistance of the earth from the sun be taken as 100,000,000 miles, the mean\ndistance of Venus will be 72,333,240 miles. And consequently, when they\nare in the same direction from the sun, and supposing both to be at their\nmean distances from that luminary, the distance between them must be,\naccording to the same proportion, 27,666,760 miles. It is obviously enough\nto know the actual value of either of those three distances to learn very\neasily the other two. The observations of the transit are intended to\nascertain the last and smaller one. How this is done, and what\ndifficulties are to be surmounted in doing it, we shall see further on.\nJust now we will remark that supposing the observer to have ascertained to\nthe very furlong this distance, during the transit, between the planets,\nhe must still do much before he can apply his proportion. That holds good\nonly for the mean distances. There are only two points in the orbit or\nellipse of each planet around the sun which are at the mean distance from\nthat focus. Were those points for both planets to be found on the lines of\nthe nodes, the matter would be easy. But it is not so. In June, the earth\nis approaching her greatest distance; in December, she is nearing her\nsmallest distance from the sun. A similar embarrassment exists for the\norbit of Venus. But the astronomer can bravely grapple with this double\ndifficulty. He has learned the eccentricity and consequent shape of each\nellipse, and he can calculate how far, proportionately, the actual\ndistance of either planet, at any given point of its orbit, exceeds or\nfalls short of the true mean distance. Such calculations have to be made\nfor the earth and for Venus as they will stand on the 8th of next\nDecember. When this is done, the astronomer is at liberty to make use of\nthe actual distance learned by observation, and to apply the Keplerian\nformula.\n\nBut perhaps the question suggests itself, why take all this trouble of a\ncircuitous route? Why not measure the distance of the sun directly, if\nsuch things can be done at all? If it is possible to measure the distance\nof Venus by observations, surely the sun, which has an apparent diameter\nthirty times as great, and which can be seen every day, and from any\naccessible point of the earth\u2019s surface, gives a far ampler field for such\nobservations. If we have instruments so delicate as to disclose to us the\npresence in the sun of iron, copper, zinc, aluminium, sodium, manganese,\nmagnesium, calcium, hydrogen, and other substances, surely it will be\npossible to determine that comparatively gross fact\u2014its distance from the\nearth. And, in truth, what becomes of the lesson we learned in our school\u2010\ndays, that the sun was just ninety\u2010five millions of miles away from us?\n\nAnd yet, strange as it may seem to those unacquainted with the subject, it\nhas been found impossible to decide, by direct observations, the actual\ndistance; and the distance usually accepted was not derived from such\nobservations. As for our lately acquired knowledge of some of the\nconstituent substances of the sun, that is derived from the spectroscope,\nwhich as yet throws no light on the question of distance.\n\nHow do we ascertain the distance of bodies from us? Practice enables us to\njudge, and judge correctly, of the distance and size of things immediately\naround us almost without any consciousness of how we do it. But if we\nanalyze the process, it will be found that we do it chiefly by using both\neyes at the same time. They are separated by an interval of two and a half\nto three inches. As we look at an object near to us, the rays from each\nvisible point of it must separate, in order to enter both eyes. The images\nthus formed on the retina of each eye differ sensibly, and we\ninstinctively take cognizance of that difference. Speaking mathematically,\nthe interval is a base line, at each end of which a delicate organism\ntakes the angle of the object viewed, and our conclusion is based on our\nperception of the difference between them. Ordinarily, we estimate\ndistances by the cross\u2010sight thus obtained. When, however, the body is so\nfar off that the lines of light from it to the eyes become so nearly\nparallel that the eyes fail to perceive the minute difference between the\nrepresentations formed on the retina, then we must recur to the results of\npast experience, and judge, as best we may, of the distance from other\ndata than that given us at the moment by our eyesight. Thus a sailor at\nsea judges of the distance of a vessel on the horizon from the faintness\nwith which he sees her; for he knows that the intervening atmosphere\nabsorbs some of the light, so that distant objects are dim. He judges from\nthe fact that a vessel of the form and rig of the one he is looking at is\nusually of a given size, and a certain distance is required to cause the\nentire vessel to look so small, and certain portions, the size of which he\nis familiar with, to become indistinguishable. He is guided, also, by the\namount to which, on account of the earth\u2019s curvatures, the vessel seems to\nbe sunk below the horizon. These are data from experience. It is wonderful\nwith what accuracy they enable him to judge. A landsman by the seaman\u2019s\nside, and without such aid, could give only the most random guesses as to\nthe distance of the vessel.\n\nThat we really do make this use of both eyes in judging of the distance of\nbodies near us will be evident if we bandage one eye and try to determine\ntheir distances, only using the other. It will require caution to avoid\nmistakes. We knew an aged painter, who had lost the sight of one eye, but\nstill continued to play, at least, with his brush. He had to use the\nfinger of his left hand to ascertain by touch whether the tip of his\nbrush, loaded with the proper color, was sufficiently near the canvas or\nnot. If he relied on his eye alone, it often happened that when he thought\nit near, not the eighth of an inch away, it failed in reality by an inch\nand a half to reach the canvas. He would ply the brush, and, noticing that\nthe color was not delivered, would smile sadly at what he called his\neffort to paint the air. So long as he had retained the use of both eyes,\nthis mishap, of course, had never occurred to him.\n\nWhen a surveyor desires to ascertain the distance of a visible object\nwhich he cannot approach, he must avail himself of the same principle of\nnature. He measures off on the ground where he is a suitable baseline, and\ntakes the angle of the object from each end of it, not vaguely by his\nunaided eyesight alone, but with a well\u2010graduated instrument. It is, as it\nwere, putting his eyes that far apart, and taking the angles accurately.\nFrom the length of the measured base\u2010line and the size of the two angles\nhe can easily calculate the distance of the object. In taking such\nmeasurements, the surveyor must make his base sufficiently large in\nproportion to the distance sought. If the base be disproportionately\nsmall, the angles at the extremities will not serve. Their sum will be so\nnear 180\u00b0 that the possible errors which are ever present in observations\nwill more than swallow up the difference left for the third angle, and the\ndistance is not obtained. In our excellent Coast Survey, which, in\nexactness of working, is not surpassed anywhere in the world, the bases\ncarefully measured may be five or seven miles long, and angles under 30\u00b0\nare avoided when possible.\n\nFrom such measuring of distant objects on the surface of the earth, the\npassage was easy to an attempt to measure the distance of heavenly bodies.\nHow far is the moon from us? It was soon found that a base of ten miles or\nof a hundred miles was entirely too short to give satisfactory angles. The\nmoon was too distant. A far larger base was required. Suppose two places\nto be selected on the same meridian of longitude, and therefore agreeing\nin time, and situated sixty degrees of latitude apart. The distance\nbetween them will be equal to a radius of the earth. At each station, and\nat the same hours, the angles are taken which the moon makes with the\nzenith, or, better still, with some star near it, coming to the meridian\nat the same time. In such a case, the angles are, satisfactory. The base\nis large enough. The result of such observations, and of others which we\nneed not dwell on, is that, when nearest to us, the centre of the moon is\ndistant from the centre of the earth 222,430 miles; when at her greatest\ndistance, 252,390 miles. These numbers are based on the fact that the\nequatorial radius or semi\u2010diameter of the earth is 3962.57 miles. This\nvalue, however, may in reality be a quarter of a mile too short. The mean\ndistance of the moon is roughly stated at 60 semi\u2010diameters of the earth.\n\nWhen observers essayed to apply to the sun the same procedure which had\nproved so successful in regard to the moon, they encountered disastrous\nfailures, partly because the base, even the largest practicable one, was\nfound to be comparatively very small; partly because, when the sun shines,\nno star is visible near by from which to measure an angle; and also\nbecause the atmosphere is so disturbed by the rays of solar heat that,\nwhen seen through a large telescope, the sun\u2019s edge is quite tremulous.\nHence a very large element of uncertainty is introduced when angles are\ntaken with the zenith. No astronomer would look with confidence on the\nresult obtained under such circumstances. Two hundred years ago, their\ninstruments were much less perfect than those we now have; yet, even with\nour best instruments, to\u2010day, too much uncertainty remains. That mode of\nascertaining the sun\u2019s distance has been abandoned.\n\nAncient astronomers, long before the invention of telescopes, and before\nthe discovery of the Copernican system, devised an ingenious method of\ngetting some light on the distance of the sun. It is attributed to\nAristarchus of Samos. They reflected that, when the moon appeared\nprecisely half full, this arose from the fact that the sun and the earth\nwere at right angles to her; the sun illumining the half turned to him,\nand the plane of division between the illumined and unillumined portions\nextended stretching directly to the earth. They conceived the three bodies\nto stand at the angles of a right\u2010angled triangle, of which the distance\nof the moon from the earth was the base, and the distance of the sun was\nthe hypothenuse. Hence they had only to measure the angle at the earth,\nwhich they could do, and then take into account their estimate of the\nmoon\u2019s distance, to arrive at the result sought. The plan is ingenious,\nand taught them that the sun was at least twenty times further off than\nthe moon. But their estimate of the moon\u2019s distance was altogether wide of\nthe mark. They had no means of correctly estimating it. Moreover, even\nkeen eyesight is a bad judge of whether the moon is precisely half full or\nnot. The error of half a dozen hours would give a large mistake. Even with\ninstruments such as we have, it cannot be precisely determined by direct\nobservations; for the surface of the moon, as developed in a powerful\ntelescope, is so uneven, jagged, and volcanic that the division between\nlight and shade is a line too uneven and broken to be determined except by\nguessing at its mean course.\n\nAnother method has been also used in these later centuries. Kepler\u2019s law\napplies to all the planets. The planet next outside the earth is Mars,\nwhose mean distance from the sun is about one\u2010third greater than that of\nthe earth. It periodically happens that Mars is in opposition\u2014that is, is\nprecisely on the other side of the earth from the sun. In that case, he\nmakes his nearest approach to our planet. Cannot his distance from the\nearth be then observed and determined, so that he will give us the means\nof calculating by Kepler\u2019s formula the distance of the sun? It was tried,\nand with some success. The base\u2010line was found large enough; the\nobservations were made at night, when the atmosphere is comparatively\nquiescent, and when fixed stars may be seen in the vicinity of the planet,\nto aid in taking the requisite angles. Yet, as in the case of Venus, there\nare, as we have stated, subsidiary calculations to be made on account of\nthe eccentricity of his orbit and his varying velocity. In the case of\nMars, these variations were too full of anomalies to allow confidence in\nthe calculations. When afterwards these anomalies were understood to\nproceed from interplanetary attraction, they were so complicated that\ntheir numerical value almost escaped calculation. The whole subject has\nbeen gone over in our own day under the light of more perfect\nobservations, and with the aid of the highest calculus. We doubt, however,\nif even now the results are sufficiently established to warrant a\ncalculation as to the sun\u2019s distance to which reasonable exception may not\nbe taken.\n\nAnyhow, this method cannot compare, either in facility of calculation or\nin accuracy of result, with the method of determining the solar distance\nby observations for the transit of Venus.\n\nOf the theory and mode of such observations we will now say a few words.\n\nIn 1677, while Halley, the great English astronomer, was at St. Helena,\nfor the purpose of observing and cataloguing stars south of the equator,\nhe observed a transit of Mercury across the face of the sun, and, from his\nefforts to measure its positions and movements, was led to believe that a\ntransit of Venus could be so accurately observed and measured as to yield\na precise and definite determination of the sun\u2019s distance. From the\nknowledge he had of the movements of Venus, he knew that there had been a\ntransit of Venus in 1631, as Kepler had predicted, although no eye in\nEurope had seen it; and another in 1639, which had been observed, but, of\ncourse, not for this purpose, which in 1639 was yet unthought of. The next\ntransit would be in 1761. He could not hope to live to see it. But he did\nthe next best thing. He studied out all the conditions of the question,\npublished his plans, and made all the preliminary calculations required,\nso as to aid in securing, as far as possible, good observations and good\nresults when the time came.\n\nAs the year 1761 was approaching, the scientific world was astir, pretty\nmuch as it is now. Halley\u2019s computations were again gone over, and such\ncorrections and improvements were introduced as the advance of astronomy\nsince his day warranted and required. Governments gave their aid and\nsupplied means liberally. One hundred and twenty positions had been\ncarefully chosen, and the best results were confidently expected. The\ngrand problem was about to receive a final and definite solution. The\nerror in the ultimate result would certainly not exceed one\u2010fifth of one\nper cent.\n\nThe astronomers were doomed to a sad disappointment. Wars then waging\nprevented some of the most important positions from being occupied by the\nobservers. It was bitter for a well\u2010appointed party to sail for months and\nmonths over two oceans, only to see a hostile flag floating over the port\nthey were about to enter. Sadly they sailed away, and could only see the\ntransit from the rolling deck of their ship. Cloudy weather rendered other\npositions valueless. And even where everything seemed to promise success,\nan unforeseen phenomenon interfered to mar their work. The astronomer\nmight have his best telescope duly mounted, and directed to the proper\npoint of the heavens, and carefully adjusted; his eye might be glued to\nthe instrument, as he watched on one side of his field of vision a portion\nof the circular edge of the sun\u2019s disk, and on the other the round, black\nspot gradually approaching. As they drew near, his hand was raised to give\nthe signal; his assistant stood ready to mark the very second when the two\nedges, coming nearer and nearer, would at last just touch. They hoped to\nseize the time of that first contact so accurately as to escape even the\none second of error or doubt which Halley thought unavoidable. Vain hope!\nBefore the contact, while Venus was still distant about two\u2010thirds of her\nown diameter from the edge of the sun, a dark streak or band seemed to\ninterpose between them like a black cushion or wedge. As they pressed\nagainst it, the curved outlines of their edges seemed to be pressed back\nor flattened, as if by the resistance of the cushion, and to lose their\nnormal shape. There was a pause in the onward movement, a quivering, a\nstruggle, and then, by an irregular, convulsive jump, like that of two\ndrops of water coalescing into one, Venus was seen to have already entered\nsome way on the disk of the sun. The discomfited and astonished observer\nwas forced to record that his uncertainty as to the precise time of the\ncontact was not of one second only, but of at least twelve or fifteen\nseconds. Was it the defect of the instrument, or the fault of his own eye,\nover\u2010strained by long use, by the brilliant light, or by his intense\nanxiety? Or was there some unknown atmospheric cause at work producing\nthis band? Anyhow, he might hope that other observers would be more\nfortunate than he had been. Again he was in error. Everywhere the same\nunexpected and puzzling phenomenon appeared. There was trouble in the\nastronomical world. The fault was generally thrown on the instruments. But\nwhatever the cause of the mishap, there was some room for consolation.\nThey would soon have another opportunity, and might make another trial. In\n1769, only eight years off, there would be another transit, and by that\ntime some means would certainly be devised for escaping the evil.\n\nIn 1769, the stations were as numerous, the governmental aid fully as\ngreat, the instruments, they said, more perfect, and the observers, we may\nbe sure, as earnest and as careful as before. Perhaps they were more\nskilful because of their previous experience. But again all in vain. The\nsame evil reappeared. The resulting uncertainty was even greater. It was\nheld to reach fully twenty seconds. When they undertook to calculate, from\nsuch observations, the distance of the sun, some made it not more than\n87,890,780 miles, while, according to others, it reached 108,984,560\nmiles, the majority finding intermediate values. On the whole, it did not\nappear that there was much improvement on the estimate made by Cassini a\ncentury and a half before, that it was not less than 85,000,000 miles.\nAgain and again were the records of the observations studied, scrutinized,\nand weighed, and the calculations based on them repeated and criticised.\nFinally, in 1824, Encke, after several years of special study of them,\nsummed all up, and gave, as the best result attainable, 95,274,000 miles.\nThe scientific world, hopeless of anything better, seemed for a time to\nacquiesce. Some even upheld the estimate of Encke as \u201cso successfully\ndetermined as to leave no sensible doubt of its accuracy.\u201d\n\nBut, despite this, its accuracy has since been impugned, and on very\nstrong grounds. It was known that light travels from the sun to the earth\nin about 8 minutes 13 seconds. Experiments carefully and ingeniously made\nby Arago, Foucault, and Fizeau show that light travels with a velocity of\nnearly 186,000 miles a second. This would give the distance of about\n91,400,000 miles.\n\nThe irregularities of the moon and of Mars have been studied out and\ncalculated on the theory of interplanetary attraction modifying the\nattraction of the sun. Though the results vary somewhat, yet they all tend\nin the same direction. Leverrier found 91,759,000 miles; Hansen, the Dane,\nfound 91,659,000 miles; Airey, the Astronomer\u2010Royal of England, whose\nearlier opinion of Encke\u2019s estimate we quoted above, has changed his\nopinion, and now proposes 91,400,000 miles.\n\nA fact in practical optics, calculated to affect some observations rather\nseriously, has been discovered within the last few years. It is this: When\na white body is viewed on a dark ground, its size is exaggerated by some\nillusion of our vision; and, on the contrary, a dark body seen on a bright\nground appears smaller than it would were the ground of a dark color,\ndiffering from that of the body only as much as is required to render them\ndistinguishable. Now, in the transit, a dark body is seen on an intensely\nbright ground. It becomes necessary, therefore, to bring in a correction\nwhich will compensate for the error arising from this optical illusion.\nThis has been done by Stone, who studied out the whole matter, arrived at\ncertain modes of correction, applied them to Encke\u2019s calculation, and\nmaintains that the true result of the observations of 1761 and 1769 should\nbe 91,730,000 miles.\n\nThus all seem to agree that the sun\u2019s distance must be less than\n92,000,000 miles, and that Encke\u2019s estimate was too great by 3 or 4 per\ncent.\n\nThis is the stage at which our astronomers now take up the question, and\naim to obtain a yet more definite and precise result. Will they succeed?\nThey are full of confidence now; what they will say after their\nobservations we may know a year hence.\n\nSome of our readers may like to know what is the course followed in making\nthe observations and in calculating the results. We will give a slight\naccount of the chief points, sufficiently detailed to enable one with an\nordinary knowledge of trigonometry to understand how the conclusion is\nreached.\n\nThe astronomers will follow two methods, known as those of Halley and of\nDelisle. They each require two suitable stations, so far apart on the\nsurface of the earth as to give a satisfactory base\u2010line. In fact, the\nfurther apart, the better, all things else being equal. For Halley\u2019s\nmethod, the two stations lie as nearly north and south as may be. For\nDelisle\u2019s, they lie east and west.\n\nLet us suppose two such stations to be chosen on or nearly on the same\nmeridian of longitude, and 6,000 miles apart. From each of these stations\nthe planet is seen to traverse the disk of the sun, like a dark spot\nmoving steadily across an illuminated circular dial\u2010plate. The lines as\nseen from stations so far apart are sensibly different. What the observers\nfirst seek to know is the apparent distance between these lines, the angle\nthey form, when seen from the earth. Were both visible at once from the\nsame station, through the same telescope, it would not be difficult for a\nskilful observer to measure the angle directly. But at each station only\none line is seen, if, indeed, we may properly give that name to the course\nof the dark spot that passes on and leaves no trace behind. Each observer\nmust determine correctly the position of his line on the face of the sun,\nin order that it may be afterwards compared with the other line similarly\ndetermined at the other, and the apparent distance between them is then\ndetermined by calculation.\n\nHow to determine the true position of such a line is the delicate and\ndifficult task. One mode is to take the measurements in two directions on\nthe face of the sun, northward and eastward, from the position of the\nplanet to the edge of the solar disk. This must be done for a number of\npositions which the planet occupies successively as it moves onward. But\nsuch measurements are very hard to be obtained with the desired precision.\nThe edge of the sun, viewed in a large telescope, appears always\ntremulous, on account of the action of solar heat on our own terrestrial\natmosphere. The better and larger the telescope, and the brighter the day,\nthe greater and the more embarrassing does this tremulousness appear. Such\nmeasurements are difficult, and are open to too much uncertainty.\n\nThere is another mode, which, if successfully used, is far more accurate.\nThe lines or paths which the planet, viewed from the observatories, is\nseen to follow are chords across a circle\u2014largest when they pass through\nthe sun\u2019s centre and become diameters, smaller as their course is more\ndistant from the sun\u2019s centre. Being both due to the motion of the same\nbody moving at what we may hold to be a uniform velocity, their lengths\nmust be proportional to the times required for tracing them. Being chords,\na knowledge of their relative lengths determines with accuracy their\nposition on the circular disk of the sun, and consequently their distance\napart. Hence the importance of catching, with the utmost exactness, the\nbeginning and the ending of the transit. The first exterior contact is\nnoted when the circular edge of Venus just touches the circular edge of\nthe sun; then the first interior contact when the entire little, dark\ncircle of Venus is just fully on the sun. Midway between the two, the\ncentre of Venus was just on the edge of the sun. Similarly, the second\ninterior contact and the second exterior contact, if accurately and\nsuccessfully observed, will show the instant of time when the centre of\nVenus passed off from the sun\u2019s surface. It was, as we saw, in making\nthese delicate observations, that the observers of 1761 and 1769 failed,\nto a great extent, on account of the mysterious appearance of the black\nband, of which we gave an account. Will this embarrassing phenomenon again\nmake its appearance next December? If it be due, as some think, to an\naberration of sphericity in the lenses of the instruments, it may not be\nseen. For our telescopes are far more perfect than those of 1769. If it is\ndue, as others maintain, to an interference of light in the observation, a\nmore delicate manipulation of the instrument may, it is hoped, avoid it.\nIf it is due to some optical illusion in our own eye, it will, of course,\nappear again, and must be grappled with. The observers now being trained\nat Greenwich, in preparation for the grand day, have a facsimile of the\nsun and Venus, which are made to move in such manner as to give as exact a\nrepresentation of the transit as is possible; and they practise\nobservations on this artificial transit. It is said that even in this fac\u2010\nsimile the black band has shown itself, and that one important lesson now\nbeing learned is how to judge of the instant of contact, despite of this\nobstacle.\n\nThere is, however, a still better safeguard\u2014the use of photography. The\ntransit will record itself more minutely and more accurately than any\nordinary observations for measurement could do. Various plans will be\nused. One proposed is to have one hundred and eighty prepared and highly\nsensitive plates along the circumference of a suitable wheel made to\nrevolve regularly by clock\u2010work. During three minutes, these plates come,\none every second, successively into position to receive and record the\nimages of the transit, as the planet for those three minutes is entering\non the sun. Other plates, at stated and accurately measured intervals of\ntime, will similarly record its regular progress across the sun; and\nanother wheel, with one hundred and eighty other plates, will record the\nsuccessive changes each second for the three minutes occupied by its exit\nover the sun\u2019s border. These are all, of course, negatives on glass. From\nthem any number of impressions can be taken, in the usual way, for general\ndistribution among the scientists. In order that such impressions may\nstill serve for the finest measurements, despite of any variations of\nexpansion, contraction, or warping which the atmospheric changes may\nproduce, a system of fine, spider\u2010web lines is placed inside the\ntelescope, producing on the photograph itself a network of fine lines,\nsome running north and south, others crossing them east and west. These\nlines are at equal distances apart, and serve admirably for measuring the\nposition of the planet on the solar face. If the photographic sheet should\nbecome quite distorted, these lines would show it; for they would of\ncourse follow the distortion, and yet, after that distortion, they would\nstill guide us to accurate measurements. It is hoped that this means and\nthe many other photographic devices to be used will secure a degree of\naccuracy far beyond what Halley anticipated and would have been satisfied\nwith.\n\nThe spectroscope comes in also to aid in determining the contacts with the\nutmost precision. The light of the solar photosphere, or body of the sun,\nwhen made to pass through the prisms of a spectroscope, spreads into a\ncontinuous band of various colors, and crossed by many faint, dark lines.\nOther bodies, raised to a certain heat, and emitting light, give a\nspectrum of a totally different character. We see only bright upright\nlines. There is no continuous band or spectrum of prismatic colors. Now,\njust outside the solar photosphere, and between it and the chromosphere,\nis a layer of solar atmosphere which gives just such upright, bright\nlines. This was first discovered not many years ago during a total solar\neclipse, when the direct light of the photosphere was cut off by the\ninterposing moon. Knowing what to look for, the astronomers have since\nbeen able so to manipulate their telescopes as to catch these bright\nlines, even when there is no eclipse. They find them, of course, as they\nexamine, a narrow ring apparently encircling the sun, and immediately\naround his circumference. Now, when the moment of the beginning of the\ntransit is at hand, the spectroscope is turned to the precise point where\nVenus will touch the sun\u2019s rim, and these lines are clearly brought into\nvision. So long as they shine, the way is open for the light of that\nnarrow layer or belt to reach the earth. The instant their bright flash\ndisappears, the observer knows that the planet has so moved as to\nintercept the rays of light, and is just in contact. Their reappearance,\nat the proper time, on the other side of the sun, will indicate the\ninstant when Venus will have quitted the disk and the transit is over.\n\nIt is confidently expected that by some one or by all of these methods the\nuncertainties of 1761 and 1769 will be avoided, and that the instants of\nthe commencement and the conclusion of each line of the transit may be so\naccurately determined that for neither of them will the error as to their\nduration exceed one second. Did the time occupied by Venus in making the\ntransit, as seen from one station, differ from the time as seen at the\nother by only one minute, the uncertainty of one second would be less than\ntwo per cent. But, in fact, the times will differ by fifteen minutes, and,\nby skilfully choosing the places, a difference of twenty minutes may be\nobtained. In that case, the error or uncertainty would be less than one\u2010\ntenth of one per cent. For the present, the scientific world will be\nsatisfied with that degree of exactness.\n\nLet us return to our supposition of two stations north and south, 6,000\nmiles apart. The two lines of transit, as seen from them, are separated\nabout 35 of an arc. This is as the lines are seen from the earth. If we\nrecur to Kepler\u2019s proportion, as stated before\u2014that the distance of the\nearth from the sun is to the distance of Venus from the sun as 10,000,000\nis to 7,233,324\u2014we can make use of a trigonometrical calculation, and\neasily ascertain that those same lines on the sun, seen by an observer on\nVenus, would appear about 48\u2010\u00bd\" apart. Moreover, the lines from the sun to\nVenus, forming this angle, cross each other at the planet, and, if\nprolonged, will reach the two stations on the earth. Hence, since opposite\ninterior angles are equal, this (48\u2010\u00bd\") must be the angle at which the\nsame observer on Venus, turning towards the earth, would see the two\nstations. We arrive thus at a triangle, in which the base is known\u20146,000\nmiles; the angle at the vertex on Venus is also known\u201448\u2010\u00bd\"; and the\nangles at the base are easily ascertainable. A simple calculation leads to\nthe distance of Venus from the earth\u2014about 25,300,000 miles. Again,\napplying Kepler\u2019s formula to this number, we obtain as the result, for the\nearth\u2019s distance from the sun, about 91,450,000 miles. If we give here\nonly rough approximations, we are, after all, as near the truth as the\nastronomers of to\u2010day can boast of being. In a minute calculation,\nsubsidiary but important points are to be brought in, complicating the\ncalculation and influencing the result.\n\nAfter this statement of the general character of Halley\u2019s method, we may\nbe brief in our notice of the yet more beautiful mode of Delisle. He\nproposed it before the transits of the last century. But its efficiency so\nentirely depends on an accurate knowledge of the longitudes of the\nstations, and the longitudes of distant stations were then so uncertain,\nthat it could not then be used with success.\n\nIn this mode, two stations are necessary, east and west, or, rather, along\nthat line on the earth\u2019s surface from all points of which the transit will\nshow the same line on the solar disk. The further apart the stations are,\nthe better; for the base between them will be larger. To know the distance\nbetween them, we must know their longitudes as accurately as their\nlatitudes. From the longitudes we ascertain with precision the difference\nof time between them. At one of those stations, the first exterior contact\nis seen, and the exact time is noted. As Venus moves on, the shadow of\nthis first contact flies along that line of the earth\u2019s surface like the\nshadow of a cloud in spring traversing the fields. It is only after the\nlapse of a certain length of time that the contact is seen and timed at\nthe other station. This certain length of time is the key to the solution.\nIt may be determined by observations on any one or on all the contacts, or\nby the observation of any other points of the transit examined and timed\nat both stations. It is obvious that the contacts, being the most\nunmistakable in their character, will be all used to check and control\neach other; the more so, as they serve also, as we saw, for Halley\u2019s\nmethod. The most careful use of the telescope will be supplemented by the\nphotograph and the spectroscope.\n\nLet two such stations be chosen which, by their longitudes and latitudes,\nwe know to be 5,000 miles apart. It will be found that the transit, or any\nspecial point of it, will be seen at the second station about three\nminutes of time later than at the first. This means that the shadow of\nVenus travels 5,000 miles in three minutes on the earth\u2019s surface or at\nthe earth\u2019s distance from the sun. Applying Kepler\u2019s formula, we find\nthat, to produce this effect, Venus herself must have travelled about\n3,860 miles in those three minutes. There\u2010fore in 224.7 days\u2014her solar\nyear\u2014she would travel about 416 millions of miles, supposing that, during\nthe transit, she was moving at her mean velocity. This, then, is the\nlength of her periphery of her orbit around the sun. Observations have\ndetermined its shape. Now that we know its size, it is not difficult to\nascertain what her mean distance from the sun must be. It is about\n66,300,000 miles. From this, the usual formula leads us to the earth\u2019s\ndistance from the sun\u201491,650,000 miles. We merely indicate the salient\npoints of the process, and that with summary numbers. An astronomer would\nenter into minor questions: how far the earth had travelled in her orbit\nduring those three minutes, and what had been the special motion of the\nsecond station during the same time, on account of the diurnal revolution\nof the earth on its axis. He would carefully establish the proportion of\nthe distances between the sun and Venus and the earth, during the transit,\nto their mean distances as contemplated in Kepler\u2019s law, and he would\ncompare the velocity of Venus at that time with her mean velocity. Other\npoints, too, would have to be brought in, complicating the whole process\nto an extent that would soften the brain of any one but a calculating\nastronomer.\n\nIn Halley\u2019s method, the effort is to obtain two transit lines on the sun\nas widely apart as possible. For that purpose, the stations must differ in\nlatitude as widely as possible. In Delisle\u2019s method, on the contrary, the\nlongitude becomes of primary importance. The latitude can be easily\ndetermined. Hence, in the last century, Halley\u2019s method was almost\nexclusively adopted. But now we can use both; for we have better\ninstruments and better star catalogues, and can determine longitudes by\nastronomical observations much more accurately than could ordinarily be\ndone a century ago. In addition, we have now almost faultless\nchronometers. Besides all these means, we have, and will use to a great\nextent, the grand American invention of determining the longitude by the\nelectric telegraph with an accuracy which leaves nothing to be desired.\n\nWhile each method requires at least two stations, a greater number would\nsupport and control each other, and allow us to take the average result of\na greater number of observations. Four stations at the corners of a large\nquadrangle on the surface of the earth might give two sets of stations for\neach method. But this year the stations may be nearer a hundred.\n\nCareful preliminary studies have already determined on what portion of the\nearth the transit will be visible. The most available points will be\nturned to account for stations. We say available; for, unfortunately, much\nof that space is occupied by oceans, while astronomical stations must\nperforce be situated on firm land. Some of the best points, too, seem\nalmost inaccessible. Still, there is a vast line of posts determined on in\nthe northern hemisphere, and quite a number, to correspond with them, in\nthe southern. Beginning at Alexandria, in Egypt, the line stretches\nnorthward and eastward through Palestine, Georgia, Tartary, Middle Asia,\nand Northern China to Yeddo, in Japan, perhaps to Honolulu, in the\nSandwich Islands. Along a great part of this line, the Russian telegraphic\nwires will give exact longitudes, thus affording a fine field for the use\nof Delisle\u2019s method. In the southern hemisphere, the line may be set down\nas commencing near the Cape of Good Hope, bending southeastwardly to the\nlately discovered Antarctic lands, passing south of Australia, then\nturning upwards towards the equator, and terminating at Nukahiva, in the\nSandwich Islands, in the South Pacific Ocean. Along this line, at Crozet\nIsland, at St. Paul\u2019s, at Reunion, at Kerguelen Land\u2014further south, if the\nsouthern summer will have sufficiently melted the snows and driven back\nthe ice\u2010barrier to allow the observers to land and work\u2014at Campbell Land,\nin New Caledonia, and in other places, stations will be established,\nbetween which and corresponding stations in the northern line Halley\u2019s\nmethod may be used.\n\nTime, learning, skill, energy, money, everything that man can give, will\nbe devoted to ensure success in the astronomical work to be done on the\n8th of December next. Such earnestness commands respect, and wins our\nsympathy and best wishes.\n\nMay the day itself\u2014the festival of the Immaculate Virgin Mother\u2014be an\naugury of success! Astronomers, as a body, are less infected with the\nvirus of modern scepticism and materialism than any other class of our\nscientists of to\u2010day. On the contrary, not a few, standing in the front\nrank among them, are devout children of the church. Some of their chiefs\nare even numbered among her clergy. They will not omit on that day to\ninvoke the blessing of heaven and the intercession of their Holy Mother.\nMay their fervent prayers be heard, and may He who \u201chas ordered all things\nin measure and number and weight\u201d(66) bless and give success to their\nlabors!\n\nYet they can only look for an approximation to the truth, not the truth\nitself. They will see more clearly than before how the heavens declare the\nglory of God. But there will remain obscurity and uncertainty enough to\nteach them humility in his presence. For \u201cGod hath made all things good in\ntheir time, and hath delivered the world to the consideration of the sons\nof men, so that man cannot find out the work which God hath made, from the\nbeginning to the end.\u201d This was true when the inspired Ecclesiastes wrote,\nand is still, and must ever be, true. The history of the progress of\nphysical sciences is practical, tangible evidence of it. Each generation\nhas to correct the mistakes and discard the errors of a preceding\ngeneration, and must acknowledge the uncertainty of much that it continues\nto hold or boasts of having discovered.\n\nNo greater absurdity is conceivable than that of a man puffed up with\npride because of the little knowledge he has gained\u2014little indeed, though\nhe may think it a great deal\u2014who sets his intellect against the infinite\nwisdom and the revelation of God. The more man really knows, the more\nconscious he becomes of his own failures in many things, and of the vast\nextent of his ignorance.\n\n\n\n\nThe Veil Withdrawn.\n\n\nTranslated, By Permission, From The French of Madame Craven, Author Of \u201cA\nSister\u2019s Story,\u201d \u201cFleurange,\u201d Etc.\n\n\u201cThe one thing worth showing to mankind is a human soul.\u201d\u2014_Browning_\n\n\n\nI.\n\n\nSEPTEMBER 1, 1871.\n\nIt was at Messina, July 15, 18\u2014. I have never forgotten the date. It was\njust after my fifteenth birthday. The balcony of the room where I was\nsitting overlooked the sea. From time to time, but more and more faintly,\ncould be heard the noise of the waves breaking against the shore. It was\nthe hour called in Italy the _contr\u2019 ora_\u2014the hour when, in summer, the\nwhole horizon is aflame with the scorching rays of the already declining\nsun, which are no longer tempered by the gentle wind from the sea that\nevery morning refreshes the shore. The windows, that had been open during\nthe earlier part of the day, were now shut, the blinds lowered, and the\nshutters half closed. Profound silence reigned within doors and without.\nFor many, this is the hour of a siesta; and for all, a time of inaction\nand repose.\n\nI was holding a book in my hand, not from inclination or pleasure, but\nsimply through obedience, because I had a lesson to learn. But that was no\ntask. I took no pleasure in studying, nor was it repugnant to me, for I\nlearned without any difficulty. The chief benefit of study was therefore\nlost on me. It required no effort.\n\nI had not yet even taken the trouble to open my book, for I saw by the\nclock I had ample time. At six I always went into the garden, which I was\nnot allowed to enter during the heat of the day. There was still an hour\nbefore me, and I knew that a quarter of that time would be sufficient to\naccomplish my task. I therefore remained indolently seated on a low chair\nagainst the wall, near the half\u2010open shutter, motionless and dreaming, my\neyes wandering vaguely through the obscurity that surrounded me.\n\nThe room I occupied was a large _salon_. The ceiling covered with frescos,\nand the stuccoed walls brilliantly ornamented with flowers and arabesques,\nprevented this vast apartment from seeming gloomy or ill\u2010furnished. And\nyet, according to the tastes I have since acquired, it was absolutely\nwanting in everything signified by the word \u201ccomfort,\u201d which, though now\nfully understood in our country, has nevertheless no corresponding term in\nour language. A clumsy gilt _console_, on which stood a ponderous clock,\nwith an immense looking\u2010glass above, occupied the further end of the room;\nand in the middle stood a large, round, scagliola table under a\nmagnificent chandelier of Venetian glass. This chandelier, as well as the\nmirrors that hung around, not for use, but to ornament the walls with\ntheir handsome gilt frames and the figures painted on their surface, were\nthe richest and most admired objects in the room. A few arm\u2010chairs\nsystematically arranged, a long sofa that entirely filled one of the\nrecesses, and here and there some light chairs, were usually the only\nfurniture of this vast apartment; but that day a small couch stood near\nthe window, and on it reclined my mother\u2014my charming young mother!\u2014her\nhead resting on a pillow, and her eyes closed. On her knee lay a small\nbook, open at a scarcely touched page, which, with the ink\u2010stand on a\nlittle table before her, and the pen fallen at her feet, showed she had\nbeen overpowered by sleep or fatigue while she was writing.\n\nMy mother at that time was barely thirty\u2010two years of age. People said we\nlooked like sisters, and there was no exaggeration in this. I was already\ntaller than she, and those who saw me for the first time thought me two\nyears older than I really was; whereas my mother, owing to the delicacy of\nher features and the transparency of her complexion, retained all the\nfreshness of twenty years of age. I looked at her. Her beautiful hair,\nparted on her pale brow, fell on the pillow like a frame around her face,\nwhich looked more lovely than ever to me. There was a deeper flush than\nusual on her cheeks, and her half\u2010open lips were as red as coral.... I\nsmilingly gazed at her with admiration and love! Alas! I was too much of a\nchild to realize that this beauty was ominous, and that I had much more\nreason to weep!...\n\nMy mother was left an orphan at fifteen years of age without any\nprotector, and poverty would have been added to her other privations had\nnot Fabrizio dei Monti, a friend of her father\u2019s, and a celebrated lawyer,\nsucceeded in snatching the young heiress\u2019 property from the hands of a\ngrasping relative who had been contending for it. This law\u2010suit had been\ngoing on several years, and the result was still doubtful when Count\nMorani, Bianca\u2019s father, died.\n\nHe who rendered the young orphan so signal a service was then about\nthirty\u2010five years old. He was a widower, and the father of two children,\nto whom he devoted all the time left him by his numerous clients, whom his\nreputation for ability brought from all parts of Sicily\u2014famed, as every\none knows, for the most complicated and interminable law\u2010suits. Fabrizio,\nafter his wife\u2019s death, had given up all intercourse with society, except\nwhat was imposed on him by the obligations of his profession. With this\nexception, his life was spent in absolute retirement with an austerity as\nrare among his fellow\u2010citizens as his long fidelity to the memory of the\nwife he had lost.\n\nBut when, after advocating Bianca\u2019s cause, he found himself to be her only\nprotector, he at once felt the difficulty and danger of such a situation,\nand resolved to place her, without any delay, under the guardianship of a\nhusband of her own choice. He therefore ran over the names of the many\naspirants to the hand of the young heiress, and gave her a list of those\nhe thought the most worthy of her.\n\n\u201cYou have forgotten one,\u201d said Bianca in a low tone, after glancing over\nit.\n\n\u201cWhom?\u201d ... inquired Fabrizio in an agitated tone, not daring to interpret\nthe glance that accompanied her words.\n\nBianca still retained all the simplicity of a child, and the timidity of\nwomanhood had not yet come over her. Accordingly, she said, as she looked\ndirectly towards him, that she should never feel for any one else the\naffection she had for him; and if he would not have her, she would go into\na convent, and never be married.\n\nIt was thus my mother became Fabrizio dei Monti\u2019s wife, and, in spite of\nthe difference of their ages, there never was a nobler, sweeter union. A\nhappier couple could not have been found in the world during the fourteen\nyears that followed my birth. But for several months past, my father had\nappeared depressed and anxious. Sometimes I could see his eyes blinded by\ntears as he looked at my mother, but the cause I did not understand. It is\ntrue, she often complained of fatigue, and remained in bed for hours,\nwhich became more and more prolonged. And now and then she passed the\nwhole day there. But when she was up, as she had been that day, she did\nnot look ill. On the contrary, I never saw her look more beautiful than\nwhile I was thus gazing at her with admiration and a love amounting to\nidolatry....\n\nAfter remaining for some time in the same attitude, I at length took my\nbook, and endeavored to give my whole attention to my lesson. But the heat\nwas stifling, and, after a few moments, I was, in my turn, overpowered by\nan irresistible drowsiness, to which I insensibly yielded without changing\nmy position, and soon sank into a profound slumber.\n\nI had been asleep some time, when I was suddenly awakened by a remote,\nindistinct sound that seemed like the continuation of the dream it had\ninterrupted. This sound was the footsteps of a horse....\n\nI sprang up without taking time for a moment\u2019s reflection. I raised the\nblinds, hurriedly opened the shutters and the window, and sprang out on\nthe balcony.... The room was at once flooded with light and filled with\nthe evening air. The sun had just disappeared, and a fresh breeze fanned\nmy cheeks.... I heard my mother cough feebly, but did not turn back. I was\noverpowered by one thought, which made me forget everything\nelse\u2014everything!\u2014even _her_!... I leaned forward to see if I was mistaken.\nNo, it was really _he_!... I saw him appear at the end of the road that\nconnected our house with the shore. He rode slowly along on his beautiful\nhorse, which he managed with incomparable grace. As he came nearer, he\nslackened his pace still more, and, when beneath the balcony, stopped,\nand, taking off his hat, bowed profoundly, the wind meanwhile blowing\nabout the curls of his jet\u2010black hair. Then he raised his eyes, of the\ncolor and tempered clearness of agate, and with a beseeching, passionate\nlook seemed to implore me for some favor.... I knew what he meant....\nFoolish child that I was! I snatched from my hair the carnation I had\nplaced there an hour before, and threw it towards him!...\n\nAt that instant I heard a piercing cry\u2014a cry that still rings in my heart,\nand the memory of which will never be effaced\u2014\u201cGinevra!\u201d.... Hurrying in,\nI found my mother standing in the floor, pale and gasping for breath, with\nher arms extended towards me.... I instantly realized I had been guilty of\nan indiscretion which had afflicted and displeased her. I was at once\nfilled with sorrow, and on the point of throwing myself at her feet to beg\nher forgiveness; but before I had time to speak, or even reach her, she\nfell back on her couch in a semi\u2010unconscious state that I should have\nthought a swoon, had not a spasmodic groan from time to time escaped from\nher breast, and when I did prostrate myself, had she not seized one of my\nhands, which she continued to hold with a strong grasp in hers....\n\nWe remained thus for some minutes without my being able to leave her to\ncall for assistance, though the frightful change in her face filled me\nwith inexpressible terror as well as the keenest anguish. I withdrew my\nhand at last, and threw my arms around her neck, exclaiming repeatedly\namid my sobs: \u201cForgive me! Answer me! Oh! tell me that you forgive me!...\u201d\nShe made no reply, however, but by degrees she returned to herself and\ngrew calm. Then, taking me in her arms, she held me a long time closely\nembraced, as if she felt there was no safety for me anywhere else, and\nlonged in some way for the power of taking me once more into her maternal\nbreast, that I might live with her life, or die if she died!...\n\nO Almighty God! the prayer that then rose from her heart in behalf of her\npoor child thou alone didst hear! But when I recall all the errors of my\npast life and thy wonderful mercy towards me, I feel it was in answer to\nthat prayer thou hast bestowed on me so many benefits! I know that at that\ninstant a new source of grace was opened to me never to be exhausted\u2014a\nlook of mercy vouchsafed that nothing has ever extinguished!...\n\nMy mother still remained speechless, but her respiration became more and\nmore regular, though, alas! still too rapid, and her features resumed\ntheir usual appearance. But her bright color had given place to a deadly\npaleness, and a large dark ring encircled her sweet, expressive eyes, now\nfastened on me with a look I had never read there before. She bent down\nand kissed me, and I felt two great tears fall on my forehead, as her pale\nlips murmured these words:\n\n\u201cO my God! since it is thy will I should die and leave her behind me, I\ncommit her to thy care. Watch over her, I pray thee, better than I have\ndone.\u201d\n\n\u201cDie!\u201d ... my mother die!... I sprang up with a sudden, violent bound, as\nif smitten to the heart, and stood motionless like one petrified. A\nfrightful vision appeared before me!... a vision I had not been prepared\nfor by the slightest apprehension, or anxiety, or suspicion.\nNotwithstanding the too precocious development of my sensibilities, there\nwas something child\u2010like in my peculiar temperament that had blinded my\neyes, now so suddenly opened! I tried to recall the words I had just\nheard, but my mind grew confused, and was conscious of nothing but a sharp\npang I had never yet experienced, but the cause of which had faded from my\nremembrance. I turned away, perhaps with the vague thought of calling\nassistance, perhaps to close the window, but staggered, as if dizzy, and\nfell to the ground behind the curtain of the window.\n\nAt that instant the door opened. I heard the mingled voices of my father\nand several other persons. Some one sprang forward, exclaiming: \u201cThe\nwindow open at this late hour!... Who could have been so imprudent?\u201d Then\nI was conscious that they were gathering around my mother. My father took\nher up in his arms, and carried her out of the room.... No one had\nperceived me in the increasing obscurity, as I lay on the floor, half\nconcealed by the curtain. I had not fainted, but I was in a partially\ninsensible state, incapable of any clear notions except the wish to lose\nall consciousness of suffering in a sleep from which I should never\nawake!...\n\n\n\nII.\n\n\nI know not how long I remained in this condition. When I opened my eyes,\nthe moon was shining so brightly that the room was as light as day. I rose\nup, and threw a terrified glance around. Everything in the moonlight wore\nan ominous aspect, and I shuddered as my eyes fell on the couch and the\nwhite pillow on which I had seen my mother\u2019s face resting. What had\nhappened?... A long time seemed to have elapsed, and I felt as if on the\nedge of an abyss\u2014an abyss of sorrow into which I was about to be\nprecipitated. O my God! was it a mere dream, or was it a frightful\nreality? I could not tell. I soon became conscious of an excruciating pain\nin my head, and my teeth began to chatter with a violent chill. I rose up\nto go out, but it was only with the greatest difficulty that I reached my\nmother\u2019s couch, on which I threw myself in despair, burying my face in the\npillow where she had reposed her dear head. I burst into sobs, and this\nexplosion of grief afforded me momentary relief.\n\nI then attempted to leave the room, and was proceeding towards the door,\nwhen my attention was attracted to something that had fallen on the floor.\nIt was my mother\u2019s little book, the silver clasp of which glittered in the\nlight of the moon. I picked it up, and had just concealed it, when the\ndoor opened, and my sister Livia (my father\u2019s oldest daughter) appeared\nwith a light in her hand.\n\n\u201cGina!\u201d she exclaimed, \u201chow you frightened me! What are you doing here,\nchild, at this late hour? I thought you were in the garden. How long have\nyou been here?\u201d\n\nI made no reply. I felt as if I should die of mortification, should any\none learn what had taken place before my mother\u2019s ill turn; but Livia did\nnot repeat her question. She was pale and preoccupied, and her eyes were\nred with weeping.\n\nWhat could have happened? My heart throbbed with suspense, but I had not\ncourage enough to ask a single question. She had come for the pillow left\non the couch, and seemed to be hunting for something she could not find.\nPerhaps it was my mother\u2019s note\u2010book, which at night she always laid on a\ntable beside her bed. But I did not give it to her. I wished to restore it\nmyself, and, though generally frank with Livia, said nothing about finding\nit. Agitated as I was, I felt that this little book was a treasure that\nbelonged solely to me\u2014a treasure of which I must never allow any one to\ndeprive me. She made me hold a light to aid her in her vain search, but,\nnot finding it, she took the rest of the things on the stand, and left the\nroom. I followed her, and we walked along together through the gallery\nthat led to my mother\u2019s chamber, which was at the end.\n\nThis gallery, or, rather, open _loggia_, looked down on the inner court of\nthe old palace we lived in, and extended entirely around it. The landing\nof the principal staircase to the first story connected with the gallery,\nwas precisely opposite the place where we were, when, all at once, we\nheard in that direction a sound\u2014confused at first, and then more\ndistinct\u2014of chanting and the measured steps of several people, mingled\nwith the constant ringing of a bell. Presently a bright light shone\nthrough all that side of the gallery, and through the arches we saw a long\nprocession appear, and proceed around towards the door directly before us,\n... the door of my mother\u2019s chamber.... Livia knelt down, and made a sign\nfor me to do the same, but I remained standing, my eyes staring wide open\nbefore me in a kind of stupor. I saw the long file of white penitents as\nthey came with lighted torches in their hands; then appeared the canopy\nunder which walked Don Placido, my mother\u2019s aged confessor, carrying the\nDivine Host in a silver Ciborium.... I could see his long, white beard,\nhis bowed head, his sad, recollected look, and that was all. In an instant\nthe truth flashed across my mind; then everything vanished.\n\nThis new shock followed the other so quickly that it caused a deeper and\nmore dangerous swoon; and when I was taken up senseless, and carried to my\nchamber, it was with the fear that this fatal night would be the last for\nthe daughter as well as the mother....\n\nI have no recollection of what took place for a long while after. I only\nremember that, opening my eyes one day, I saw Ottavia (my mother\u2019s nurse,\nwho had brought me up) beside my bed. I recognized her, and stammered a\nfew words.... She murmured: \u201cBlessed be God!\u201d but did not add another\nword. A thousand thoughts rushed across my mind, but I could not analyze\nthem, and the one which might seem of the least importance was that which\nI gave utterance to first.\n\n\u201cMy mother\u2019s book,\u201d ... I said repeatedly.\n\nOttavia, without speaking, at once raised the lid of a large ebony coffer\nthat stood on the table not far from my bed, and took out the little book\nwith the silver clasp. She held it up, and then replaced it in the box,\nwhich she locked. Turning to me, she put her finger on her lips. I obeyed\nthe sign, and remained silent, but I slept no more till evening. By\ndegrees my mind grew clear, and my confused recollections distinct. The\nfever that had brought me so near to death\u2019s door now abated, and from\nthat day my convalescence was rapid. But the chief thing that renewed life\nand strength restored, was the faculty of suffering, and comprehending in\nall its fulness the reality of my misfortune.\n\nMy mother was no more. She did not live to see the morrow of the day when\nshe embraced me for the last time. My father\u2019s agitated face revealed this\nterrible fact more clearly even than the mourning he wore.... But I did\nnot learn the details of her last hours till a long time after the day\nwhen, for the second time, he lost the light of his fireside. Knowing the\nkeen impetuosity of my disposition, a violent explosion of grief had been\nanticipated. But it was not so. On the contrary, I fell into a state of\ngloomy silence that gave rise to fresh anxiety to those who had so long\ntrembled for my life.\n\nThe physician, however, advised my father, my sister Livia, and Ottavia,\nwho took turns at my bedside, to leave everything to time without\nattempting to oppose me. I therefore passed day after day without\nappearing to notice their presence. But on other days, I silently made\nsome sign of gratitude, which would bring a smile to my father\u2019s pale\nface. Then Livia would embrace me, saying: \u201cCourage, _bambina_!(67) Try to\nlove God\u2019s holy will.\u201d Or Ottavia, as she used to do when I was only four\nyears old, would hold up the silver cross on her cornelian rosary, which I\nalways looked at with pleasure. And when they saw me kiss it for the first\ntime, they began to hope, in spite of my silence, for the return of my\nreason. But my eyes would become fixed again, and I would cease to\nrecognize any one. And when my pillow was found wet with my tears, as was\noften the case, the physician would say: \u201cThat is a good sign; let her\nweep. It is a relief she needs.\u201d But days passed, and my mental condition\nremained the same.\n\nMy strength nevertheless returned. I was able to get up, and several times\nI walked a few steps on the terrace leading from my chamber without any\ninjury. But nothing could break the unnatural silence that transformed\ninto an inanimate statue the girl whose excessive vivacity and\nunrestrained liveliness had sometimes disturbed, sometimes enlivened, the\nwhole house, filling it throughout with the sense of her presence.\n\nOne day I was sitting on my terrace, looking off over the gulf, when\nOttavia approached, and, as usual, began to talk with the vain hope of\ndrawing forth some reply. I generally listened in silence, but that day a\nnew train of thought came into my mind, which I felt the power of pursuing\nclearly, calmly, and with a certain persistence that proved my physical\nstrength was at last beginning to triumph over the kind of mental\nparalysis which made my convalescence seem like a new phase of my disease.\n\nOttavia had placed a number of books on a small table beside me. She knew\nnothing of them but the covers, but she offered them to me one by one,\nhoping to induce me to read\u2014a diversion it was desirable I should take to.\nAt last I shook my head, and for the first time pushed away the book she\noffered me. Then I spoke, and the sound of my voice was a joyful surprise\nto my faithful attendant:\n\n\u201cNo, Ottavia, not that one. I want another book, and that alone\u2014the one\nyou put away there,\u201d with a gesture and glance towards the further end of\nmy chamber.\n\nOttavia understood me, but hesitated between the joyful hope of my cure\nawakened by my reply, and the fear of causing fresh excitement which might\nbring on another relapse. But after all the means that had been used to\nrouse me from the state of apathy into which I had fallen, it did not seem\nprudent to oppose that which I had chosen myself. She therefore obeyed my\nrequest, and, without any reply, opened the ebony coffer where she had put\nmy mother\u2019s book, as if it were a relic, and placed it in my hands.\n\n\u201cThank you, Ottavia,\u201d I said. And putting my arms around her neck, I\nkissed her, causing big tears of joy to roll down her cheeks. \u201cAnd now\nleave me, I beg of you; leave me alone for an hour.\u201d\n\nShe hesitated a moment, and looked at me uneasily, but then complied as\nbefore with my wish, and, after seeing that I was sheltered from the sun\nand wind, noiselessly left the balcony through my room.\n\nI then kissed the cover of the book I held in my hand, and opened it with\nawe. It seemed to me I was about to hear my mother\u2019s voice from the depths\nof the tomb!\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n\nMAY 15, 18\u2014\n\n\u2014\u2014Ginevra! It is to her I consecrate these pages\u2014the child that at once\nfills my heart with inexpressible anxiety and the tenderest affection\u2014the\nchild whom I love so dearly, but whom my hands perhaps are too feeble to\nguide. And yet I shudder at the thought of leaving her behind me. My\nstrength, however, is rapidly failing, and I feel that my poor child will\nsoon be left alone.\n\nAlone! This word may seem harsh to you, Fabrizio mio, and, lest this\nshould meet your eye, I will explain my meaning.\n\nI know you have as tender a heart as mine, and your prudence is far\ngreater; but, to tell you the truth, you likewise are too fond of her! You\nknow how many times I have taken her from your arms to make room for poor\nLivia, so often grieved by your involuntary forgetfulness, but not\noffended with her little sister, because she too, like every one else,\nfelt that Ginevra from her infancy had the power of charming every eye and\nheart around her!...\n\nBut though to Livia you were sometimes indifferent, you were never severe,\nwhereas, though generally too indulgent to Ginevra, when you detected some\nfault in her, I have often seen you inclined to go from one extreme to\nanother, and been obliged to beg you to leave the correction to time or to\nher mother.\n\nShe has grown up, as she is, in our midst, like one of the flowers of our\nclime which put forth their beauty almost without cultivation, rejoicing\nour hearts and our eyes, and intoxicating us all with the perfume of her\ngrace and caressing affection.\n\nO yes! it is nothing but intoxication, and I have perhaps yielded to it\nwith too much delight; but I repeat it, it is I alone, among all who have\nloved her, whose delight has been unmingled with blindness.\n\nPerhaps this was because (pardon me, Fabrizio) I loved her more than any\none else, and because the affection of a mother has something divine in\nits clearness of vision. I see this charming child, to whom I have given\nbirth, as she is. I understand her real nature. I look into her pure soul\nas into the limpid waters of some beautiful lake. But clouds are now\npassing over its surface. Others are rising and gathering, and I tremble\nto think a storm may some day rise up to overwhelm and crush her!\n\nJUNE 1.\n\nThis is Ginevra\u2019s fifteenth birthday. I will describe her, not only as she\nappears to me, but to every one else.\n\nShe is slender and graceful in form, and an inch or two taller than I.\nThere is an habitual sweetness and languor in her large, brown eyes; but\nwhen they are suddenly lit up with surprise, wonder, or any other\nunexpected emotion, they glow with wonderful expression and brilliancy.\nHer hair, of a golden hue which is as beautiful as it is rare in our\ncountry, parts on a pure white brow which forms almost a continued\nstraight line with a nose of perfect regularity, so that her profile would\nbe quite faultless were not her mouth larger than is consistent with the\nstandard of classical beauty. But this blemish is redeemed by the\nexpression of her mouth, sometimes grave and thoughtful enough to excite\nanxiety, sometimes half open with a child\u2010like smile, and often extended\nwith hearty laughter, like that of a peasant, displaying two beautiful\nrows of small, white teeth.\n\nAnd now, O my child! I would with the same sincerity describe the\nlineaments of your soul, which is far dearer to me than your face\u2014yes,\ndearer to me than my own life, or even than yours!\n\nIn the inner recesses of this soul\u2014and I thank God for it!\u2014is hidden, even\nfrom her, a jewel of purity and truth which it would be far easier to\ncrush than deface. Then, like a strong wind that cannot shake this\nfoundation, but seeks entrance through every pore, beats a loving nature\nthat cannot be denied its food, which is the predominant trait in her\ncharacter. Passing over her other good qualities and her defects, and\nspeaking merely of her outward appearance, it must be confessed that she\nmanifests the excessive vanity of a child, and a want of reflection that\nwould be surprising in a girl of ten years old, mingled with a passionate\nardor that would excite anxiety in one of twenty!\n\nSuch is my poor child\u2014such are the attractive but alarming traits that\nconstitute the peculiar nature she has inherited.\n\nO Almighty God! ... two more years of life, ... that I may watch over her\ntill the day I am able to entrust her to the care of some one she can\nregard with the true devotion of a wife!\n\nAlas! this desire is consuming my life. It is shortening my days. It is\nhastening my end, which I regard with calmness when I merely consider\nmyself, but which fills me with terror when I think only of her.\n\nJUNE 15.\n\nIt was your wish, Fabrizio, and I yielded to it. But it was not without\nrepugnance I saw her go to this ball. You say your sister will watch over\nher; but I know Donna Clelia better than you. She has no eyes but for her\nown daughters, and will think she has done her duty to Ginevra by seeing,\nwhen she arrives, that her dress has not been crumpled on the way, and, at\nher return, that she has lost none of her ribbons. She will separate her\nfrom her own daughters, you may be sure, lest she eclipse them, and leave\nher alone\u2014alone in the gay world where she appears for the first time....\nYou smiled when you saw her ready to start. You whispered with pride that\na lovelier creature never was seen.... Ah! Fabrizio, at that moment how I\nwished she were less charming, or, at least, that her beauty could be\nhidden from every eye!...\n\nDo you remember the assertion of a queen of France about which we were\nconversing only a few days since? You thought it too severe, but to me it\nonly seems reasonable; for it gives expression to the most earnest wish of\nmy heart. O yes! like her, I would rather see the child I love so\npassionately\u2014a thousand times rather\u2014see her die than contract the\nslightest stain!...\n\nThe hours are passing away, and I must seek calmness in prayer. I feel as\nif in this way I shall still be able to protect her....\n\nClelia promised to bring her home at eleven. The clock has just struck\ntwelve, and she has not yet arrived....\n\nJUNE 25.\n\nI have been ill for a few days past, and unable to write. To\u2010day I feel\nsomewhat better, and, though my mind has been greatly disturbed, will try\nto collect my thoughts.\n\nI was not deceived in my presentiment. I thought the day of the ball would\nbe a fatal one, and I was not mistaken. As I said, at midnight she had not\nreturned. I awaited her arrival with increased anxiety of mind, lying\nawake a whole hour after that, listening to every sound, and repeatedly\nmistaking the noise of the sea for that of the carriage bringing her\nhome.... At last, about half\u2010past one, I heard the rumbling of the wheels,\nand presently recognized her light step in the gallery. She passed my door\nwithout stopping, and had arrived at her own chamber, when Ottavia, who\nhad been sitting up with me, went after her to say I was not yet asleep,\nif she wished to come and bid me good\u2010night. As she entered the door, the\nlight in Ottavia\u2019s hand shone across her face. It was by no means the same\nas at her departure. The excitement of dancing, and the fatigue of\nremaining up to so unusual an hour, were doubtless sufficient to account\nfor her disordered hair, her pale face, and the striking brilliancy of her\neyes; but her troubled look, her trembling lips, and the care she took to\navoid looking me in the face when she fell on my neck, showed there was\nsomething more which I must wait till another day to question her\nabout....\n\nJULY 1.\n\nTo continue the account interrupted the other day:\n\nI know everything now, for she never deceives me. She is always as sincere\nas she is affectionate. Yes, she had scarcely entered the ball\u2010room before\nshe was, as I foretold, separated from her cousins, and left in a group of\nyoung ladies, who, treating her as a mere child, immediately proposed she\nshould take a seat at a table where there were sweetmeats and games. Just\nthen the orchestra began a dance, and the two oldest of the group\nstationed themselves in front to attract the attention of those in search\nof partners, while a third kept Ginevra in her seat by showing her\npictures, and patronizingly promising in a whisper to dance with her\npresently. But at the sound of the music, Ginevra could not be restrained\nfrom springing up and advancing to look at the preparations for the dance.\nThis change of position attracted the observation of a young gentleman who\nwas slowly entering the room with an absent air without appearing to wish\nto take any part in the dance.\n\n\u201cThere is Flavio Aldini,\u201d said one of the young ladies; \u201che will not\ncondescend to come this way. He looks upon us as mere school\u2010girls, and\nonly dances with those ladies whose elegance has already made them the\nfashion.\u201d\n\n\u201cI never saw him before, but he looks very much as I supposed from the\ndescription I had of him. Is he not said to be engaged to a rich heiress?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe? No; he does not dream of marrying, I assure you. I tell you he never\nlooks at us young ladies.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet, my dear, he seems to be looking rather earnestly in this\ndirection now.\u201d\n\nShe was right. At that very moment, the person of whom they were speaking\neagerly approached the place where Ginevra was standing, and, without\nglancing at her companions, accosted her, begging she would give him the\npleasure of being her partner in the quadrille about to begin.\n\nThis was a triumph for my poor Ginevra, and all the greater after the\nvexation caused by her companions\u2019 patronizing airs. She went away\nradiant\u2014intoxicated.... Hitherto she had been petted as a child; now she\nsuddenly realized how much admiration a woman can inspire, and this\nknowledge, like a mischievous spark, fell from the look and smile of\nFlavio Aldini into her very heart!\n\nFlavio Aldini! You will understand, Fabrizio, the terror I felt at the\nmere name of this presuming fellow; so well calculated, alas! to please\nyoung eyes like hers, and capable of taking advantage of the impression he\ncould not help seeing he had made on her inexperience....\n\nHow agitated the poor child was in repeating all his dangerous\ncompliments! And how flattering to her pride a success that attracted the\nattention of every one in the room, and made her an object of envy to\nthose who had just humiliated her by their condescension!... I allowed her\nto go on.... I was glad, at all events, to see she did not manifest the\nleast shade of deception\u2014the usual consequence of vanity\u2014but I trembled as\nI listened!\n\nHe begged for the little bunch of flowers she wore in her bosom. She was\nstrongly tempted to grant his request, and was only prevented from doing\nso by the fear of being observed.\n\nJULY 5.\n\nI have not been able to continue. I have been growing weaker and weaker,\nand can only write a few lines at a time without fatigue. Since the 15th\nof June, I have been constantly worried and anxious. I cannot bear for her\nto leave me now for a single instant. I want to keep her constantly under\nmy eyes and near my heart. Yesterday I saw her start at the sound of a\nhorse passing under the balcony. To\u2010day she was standing there with her\neyes dreamily turned towards the road that connects our house with the\nshore.... I called her, and she listened as I talked kindly to her, hoping\nto give a new turn to her thoughts, instead of trying to check them by\nremonstrances. She is easily influenced and guided by kindness but it is\ndifficult to make her yield to authority. Oh! there never was a child who\nneeded more than she the tender guidance of a mother!...\n\nBut let thy will, O God! be done. Help me to say this without a murmur.\nLet me not forget that my love for her is nothing\u2014nothing at all\u2014in\ncomparison with that.\n\nJULY 15.\n\nIt is only with great effort I can write to\u2010day. I do not know as I shall\nbe able to write more than a few lines. But I wish to remind you once\nmore, Fabrizio, of the conversation we had yesterday evening. Who knows\nbut it was the last we shall ever have in this world! My time here is\nshort. Do not forget my request. Lose no time in uniting her to some one\nshe can love and will consent to be guided by. Though still young, he\nshould be several years older than she, in order to inspire her with\nrespect, which is so sweet when mingled with affection, as no one knows\nbetter than I, Fabrizio. Has not the mingled respect and love with which\nyou have filled my heart constituted the happiness of my life? I would\nbless you once more for this, as I close. I have not strength enough to\ncontinue.... I must stop.... And yet I would speak once more of her\u2014of my\nGinevra\u2014my darling child. I would implore you to be always mild and\npatient with her, and if ever....\n\n\n\nHere the journal ended!... Oh! what a torrent of recollections rushed\nacross my mind at the sight of this unfinished page! This little book\nfalling from her hand, ... her slumbers, ... her terrible awakening, ...\nher incoherent words, her last embrace, my despair! All this I recalled\nwith poignant grief as I pressed my lips to the lines written by her dying\nhand. I shed a torrent of tears, but this time they were salutary tears. I\nhad already severely expiated my error, for it was only my deep sorrow for\nhaving embittered the last hours of my mother\u2019s life, and perhaps, O\nfearful thought! of hastening her end, that had given so dark a shade to\nmy grief, and filled me with a despair akin to madness. I was now\nstronger, calmer, and wiser, and felt I could yet repair my fault by\nfulfilling my mother\u2019s wishes, and this thought brought the first ray of\ncomfort that penetrated my heart. I made many new resolutions in my mind,\nand felt I had firmness enough to keep them.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nThe Principles Of Real Being. V. Intrinsic Principles Of Complex Beings.\n\n\nThe primitive beings of which we have treated in a preceding article imply\nnothing in their constitution but what is strictly necessary in order to\nexist in nature; and therefore they are physically simple\u2014that is, not\nmade up of other physical beings, though they are metaphysically\ncompounded, because their intrinsic principles are so many metaphysical\ncomponents. Those beings, on the contrary, the entity of which is not\nstrictly one, besides the three principles common to all primitive beings,\ninvolve in their constitution other components, either physical or\nmetaphysical. Such _complex_ beings are either _substantial_ or\n_accidental_ compounds. We propose to investigate in the present article\nthe general constitution of substantial compounds, then of accidental\ncompounds; and lastly we shall inquire into the principles of the\nattributes and properties of complex, as well as primitive, beings.\n\n\n\nPrinciples of substantial compounds.\n\n\nBy substantial compound we mean a compound _of which the components are\ndistinct substances uniting in one essence or nature_. Such a compound is\na physical one, inasmuch as it is made up of physical components; for\nsubstances are complete beings, and each of them has its own distinct and\nindividual existence in the physical order of things.\n\nThis definition of substantial compound is very different from that which\nthe scholastics drew from their theory of substantial generations. But\nsince chemistry has shown, and philosophical reasoning based on facts\nconfirms, that what in such a theory is called the \u201cgenerated substance\u201d\nis only a compound of substances, it must be evident that our substantial\ncompound, as above defined, does not, in fact, differ from theirs, but is\nthe same thing viewed under a different light. Perhaps, if the schoolmen\nhad thought that bodies were possibly but the result of the composition of\nmany permanent substances, they would not have called them _substantial_,\nbut only _natural_, compounds; yet, since the epithet \u201csubstantial\u201d has\nbeen originally adopted, and is still commonly applied to compounds which\nwe know actually to contain many distinct substances, we cannot keep the\nword \u201csubstantial\u201d without giving it such a meaning as will answer to the\nreal nature of the things it qualifies. Nevertheless, should the reader\nprefer to apply the epithet \u201csubstantial\u201d to that compound only which\nconsists of matter and substantial form interpreted in accordance with the\nPeripatetic system, then the compounds of which we treat might be called\n_natural_, or _essential_, compounds, or _compound natures_. So long,\nhowever, as such compounds are called \u201csubstances,\u201d we think we have the\nright to apply to them the epithet \u201csubstantial.\u201d\n\nThe immediate principles of substantial compound are three, as in the\nprimitive being: to wit, _act_, _term_, and _complement_; but they are of\na different nature, as we are going to explain. Two cases are to be\nexamined. For the physical parts, which unite to make one compound nature,\nsometimes rank all alike as material constituents of the compound, as in\nwater, iron, silver, and other natural bodies; but at other times one of\nthe constituent substances stands forth in the character of a form, as the\nhuman soul in the body, all the parts of the body remaining under it, and\nmaking up the complete material constituent of the compound nature.\n\nIn the first case, the physical components taken together constitute the\nadequate _potential term_ or the compound nature; because, as they are all\nalike material constituents, they are all alike potential respecting their\ncomposition; and thus they are all equally liable to be tied together by\nphysical action. The specific composition will be the _act_ of the\ncompound essence; for it is such a composition that formally binds\ntogether those physical components into one specific compound. Finally,\nthe actual bond of the components, brought about by their composition,\nwill be the actuality of the compound nature\u2014that is, its formal\n_complement_.\n\nThat these three constituents differ very materially from those of a\nprimitive being is evident: for, in a primitive being, _the term_ is a\npure potency that receives its first actuation; whilst in the compound\nnature it consists of a number of actual beings which are no longer\npotential respecting their first actuation, but only with regard to their\ncomposition, which gives them a second and relative actuation in the\ncompound. Again, _the act_, in the primitive being, is a product of\ncreation, calculated to give the first existence to its term; whilst in\nthe compound nature it is the product of actions interchanged between the\ncomponents, and gives them, not to exist, but to be united so as to form a\nnew specific essence. Lastly, _the complement_, in a primitive being, is\nthe existence of a thing absolutely _one_, whilst in the compound nature\nit is the existence of a thing whose oneness is altogether relative.\n\nIn all compounds of this kind\u2014viz., whose form is their composition\u2014the\ncomponents are, of course, physical beings, as we have stated; but their\ncomposition is only a metaphysical entity. Indeed, we are wont to call it\n\u201cphysical composition\u201d; but we do not mean that it is a physical being; we\nonly mean that it is the composition \u201cof physical beings.\u201d We know that\nformal composition is that by which the components are formally bound with\none another; and we know also that the components are thus bound in\nconsequence of their mutual actions, and that such actions cannot be\nconceived to be complete in nature, except inasmuch as they are received\nin their proper subjects\u2014viz., in the components themselves. And therefore\nthe composition which is styled \u201cphysical\u201d is, of its own nature, only an\nincomplete and metaphysical entity; and, in a like manner, the actuality\nof the physical compound is not a physical being, as it cannot be found\noutside of that of which it is the result.\n\nBut a compound of the kind just mentioned is sometimes intended for an end\nwhich cannot be attained without the concurrence of a higher principle.\nThen, by the introduction of this new principle, a second kind of\nsubstantial compound arises, in which one of the components (the higher\nprinciple) ranks as the formal, and the others as the material,\nconstituent of the compound nature. Such is the case with our own bodies;\nwhich, to fulfil the ends for which they are organized by nature, besides\ntheir bodily constitution and organism, require the infusion of a distinct\nprinciple of life. Hence the _formal_ constituent of man, and of all\nanimals too, is the principle of life, or the soul; whilst his _material_\nconstituent is the body, with its organic constitution.\n\nThat the body is a physical being and a substance there is no doubt; and\nthat the soul also is a physical being and a substance distinct from the\nbody is conclusively shown in all good treatises of anthropology. The soul\nand the body are therefore two physical components, and make up a physical\ncompound. The animal life, however, which is the result of the animation\nof the body by the soul\u2014and is, therefore, the _complement_ of the\ncompound\u2014is not a third physical component, but a metaphysical entity; and\nthus of the three principles which constitute the animal, the first and\nthe second only are to be reckoned as physical parts.\n\nAnd now, since we have stated that the constituents of compound natures\nmay have either a physical or only a metaphysical entity, we must further\ninform our readers that a great number of authors are wont to consider all\nthe real constituents of physical beings as so many _physical_ entities.\nBut we would say that in this they are mistaken; for although it is\nevidently true that the constituent principles of a physical being have a\nphysical existence in the being to which they belong, it cannot be\ninferred that therefore all such principles must be called _physical_\nbeings; as some of them can neither have an independent existence nor be\neven conceived without referring to their correlative principles. Thus the\nact and the term of a primitive being are both entitatively less than\nphysical beings; for the first being we find in the physical order is that\nwhich arises out of them. It is not, therefore, the same thing to say that\na being is physically real, and to say that it is made up of physical\nrealities. The first assertion may be true, and the second false; because\na thing which is _one_ has only _one_ existence, and nevertheless implies\nthree principles; whence it appears that it is impossible to conceive each\nof the three principles as having a _distinct_ existence. And since that\nwhich has no distinct existence in nature is not a physical being,\naccordingly the principles of primitive physical beings are not physical,\nbut only metaphysical, realities.\n\nWe have further to remark that the act and the term, even when they are\ncomplete physical entities, in their manner of principiating the compound\nnature always behave towards one another as incomplete entities, inasmuch\nas their principiation is always of a metaphysical, and never of a\nphysical, character. To speak first of those compound essences whose form\nis _composition_, we observe that the physical components of such essences\nare indeed _in act_, absolutely speaking, but, with regard to the\ncomposition, they are simply _in potency_: and since it is in this last\ncapacity that they enter into the constitution of the compound nature, it\nis evident that they contribute to its constitution only inasmuch as they\nhave a claim to further actuation. For to be potential respecting any kind\nof composition means not only that the parts _might_ be duly disposed to\nundergo such a composition, but moreover that they are already disposed\nand related to each other in that manner which _imperatively calls_ for\nsuch a composition. Consequently, the components, when thus disposed,\nconstitute a potency which needs actuation, and stands, with respect to\nthe form of composition, in the same relation in which any term stands\nwith respect to its essential act. It is, therefore, manifest that the\nsaid components, though they are physical entities, behave as metaphysical\nprinciples in their material principiation of a compound essence. As for\nthe composition itself, we have already seen that it is always a\nmetaphysical constituent.\n\nIn the same manner, the soul and the body are indeed physical beings,\nabsolutely speaking, and, therefore, independent of one another so far as\ntheir existence is concerned; but the body is informed and vivified, not\ninasmuch as it exists in its absolute actuality, but inasmuch as it is\npotential respecting animal life\u2014that is, inasmuch as its organic\ncomposition imperatively claims a soul. And similarly the soul is a\nvivifying form, not inasmuch as it is something absolute in nature, but\ninasmuch as it naturally requires completion in the body for which it is\ncreated and to which it is actually terminated. It therefore appears that\nthe soul and the body, in their principiation of the animal, behave\ntowards one another as metaphysical principles.\n\nHence all composition of act and potency is, properly speaking, a\n_metaphysical_ composition; though, when the compound is resolvable into\nphysical parts, the same composition may also, from the physical nature of\nthe components, be rightly styled _physical_. The difference between a\nmetaphysical and a physical compound does not, therefore, consist in the\ncharacter of the composition itself, which is always metaphysical, but in\nthis: that the latter can be resolved into physical parts which may and\nwill exist after their separation, whereas the former can be resolved only\ninto metaphysical constituents which are utterly incapable of separate\nexistence.\n\nWhat precedes refers to the immediate constituents of compound essences.\nIt is evident that every immediate principle, which is a complete being,\ninvolves other principles. Hence all compound essences imply some\nprinciples which are _proximate_, and others which are _remote_. The\nremote are those by which every primitive component is itself constituted\nin its individual reality, and from which the components derive their real\naptitude to become the material, the formal, or the efficient principle of\nthe compound essence.\n\n\n\nPrinciples of accidental compounds.\n\n\nWe have hitherto shown that all physical beings, whether physically simple\nor physically complex, involve in their constitution an act, a term, and a\nformal complement. Nothing more is required to conclude that no physical\nbeing can be conceived of as an act without its term, or a term without\nits act, or a formal actuality not resulting from the concurrence of an\nact and its suitable term. From this it immediately appears that accidents\nand accidental modes are not physical beings, and that their existence is\nnecessarily dependent on the existence of some other thing of which they\nare the appurtenances.\n\nAn accident, properly so called, is _an act having no term of its own_,\nand, therefore, having no metaphysical essence and no possibility of a\nseparate existence. Accordingly, the term of which it is in need must be\nsupplied by a distinct being already existing in nature; and this is\ncalled _the subject_ of the accidental act. Hence no accidental act can be\nconceived to be without a subject.\n\nAnd here we must reflect that, as the _first_ actuation of an essential\nterm by its essential act has for its result the actual _existence_ of the\nindividual being, so also any _second_, or accidental, actuation of the\nterm by an accidental act has for its result an actual _mode of existing_\nof the same individual being. From this plain truth we infer that a\ndistinction is to be made between _accidental acts_, which are properly\naccidents, and _accidental modes_, which are only accidentalities. An\naccident, properly speaking, is that which causes the subject to acquire\nan accidental actuality, and is always an act; whilst the accidental mode\nis not an act, but an accidental actuality which results in the subject\nfrom the reception of the accidental act.\n\nThese general notions being admitted, let us inquire into the principles\nof accidental compounds. An accidental compound is either a compound of\nsubstance and accident or a compound of real essence with something\nsuperadded. In the first case, \u201caccidental\u201d means the opposite of\n\u201csubstantial\u201d; in the second case, \u201caccidental\u201d means the opposite of\n\u201cessential.\u201d Thus _a falling body_ is an accidental compound of substance\nand its momentum, the momentum being a real accident; whereas _a man\nclothed_ is an accidental compound of individual human nature and dress;\nthe dress being considered as something accidental as compared with the\nessence of man, though it is a real substance. And in the same manner a\nmass of gold is an accidental compound of golden molecules, because each\nmolecule fully possesses the essence of gold independently of any other\nmolecule; whence it follows that the addition of other molecules is\naccidental as compared with the essence of gold, and only increases the\nquantity without altering the specific nature of gold. Of course, these\nother molecules are substances, and it is only their concurrence into one\nmass that is accidental.\n\nIt is plain that the constituent principles of an accidental compound are\nthree\u2014viz., _the accidental act_ which entails a modification of the\nsubject; _the subject_ which receives the modifying act; and _the\naccidental mode_ of being, or the modification, which results from the\nreception of the act in the subject.\n\nThe subject is always a complete physical being, and, therefore, has its\nown essential act, term, and complement, independently of all things\naccidental. It becomes the subject of an accidental act by actually\nreceiving it.\n\nThe accidental act which is received in the subject must proceed\nimmediately from the action of some natural or supernatural agent. This is\nevident; for real receptivity is real passivity, and therefore reception\nis passion. Now, no passion can be admitted without a corresponding\naction. Hence all accidental act that is properly and truly _received_ in\na subject is the immediate product of action, and its production exactly\ncoincides and coextends with its reception.\n\nLastly, the mode of being which results from the accidental actuation of\nthe subject is only an accidentality, or an accidental actuality, as we\nhave already remarked, and is predicated of the subject, not as something\n_received_ in it, but as something following from the actual reception of\nthe accidental act. Hence the substance, or the nature, which is the\nsubject of such accidental modes lies under them, not on account of its\nreceptivity, but on account of the resulting potentiality, which is a\nproper appurtenance, not of the material term, but of the formal\ncomplement of the substance. And, in fact, the complement of all created\nessence always arises from the actuation of a potential term, and\ntherefore is itself necessarily potential\u2014that is, liable to such\naccidental changes as may result from any new actuation of the essential\nterm. This resulting potentiality is commonly styled _mobility_,\n_changeableness_, or _affectibility_, and may be called _modal_\npotentiality in opposition to the _passive_ potentiality which is the\ncharacteristic of the essential term.\n\nHence a subject is said to _receive_ the accidental act, but not the\naccidental mode; and, on the contrary, is said to _be affected_ by the\naccidental mode, but not by the accidental act. We may say, however, that\na subject _is modified_ as well by the act as by the mode, because this\nexpression applies equally to the making of the change (_mutatio in\nfieri_) and to the state that follows (_mutatio in facto esse_).\n\nA subject has, therefore, two distinct manners of _underlying_: the one on\naccount of its receptivity, the other on account of its affectibility; the\none by reason of the _passive_ potentiality of its term, the other by\nreason of the _modal_ potentiality of its complement. Thus a body,\naccording to its passive potentiality, underlies the _act_ produced in it\nby a motive power, because it passively receives the motive determination,\nand, according to its modal potentiality, it underlies _local movement_,\nthis movement being the immediate result of the determination received.\nAnd in a similar manner our soul, inasmuch as it is receptive or passive,\nunderlies the act produced or the impression made in it by a cognizable\nobject; and inasmuch as it is affectible, it underlies the feeling or\naffective movement, which immediately results from the cognition of the\nobject.\n\nWe have said that every accident which is received in a subject and\ninheres in it must be produced by the action of some agent; and this being\nthe case, it follows that the quantity of the mass of a body, and the\nquantity of its volume, which are not the product of action, cannot be\nranked among the accidents received and inhering in the body; and\ngenerally all the accidental modes which arise in the subject, in\nconsequence of the reception of accidental acts, are intrinsic modes\nindeed, but are not received, and do not properly _inhere_ in their\nsubject; they only _result_ in the subject. Moreover, as all such\nintrinsic modes immediately arise from the intrinsic reception of\naccidental acts, it follows that those accidental modes which do not arise\nin this manner must be _extrinsic_; and therefore such modes, though they\nare predicated of their subject, do not inhere in the subject, but only in\na certain manner _adhere_ to it. All accidental connotations and\nrelativities belong to this last class.\n\nHence we gather that predicamental accidents are of different species, and\naccordingly demand distinct definitions. The accidental act, or accident\nstrictly, is an act received in the subject and inhering in it; the\nintrinsic mode is an accidental actuality or modification resulting in the\nsubject; the extrinsic mode is a simple connotation or respect arising\nbetween the subject and some correlative term. Accordingly, accidental\nbeing in general cannot be defined as \u201cthat which inheres in a\nsubject\u201d\u2014_quod inh\u00e6ret alteri tamquam subjecto_\u2014for this definition does\nnot embrace all accidentalities, but should be defined as \u201cthat which\nclings to a subject\u201d\u2014_quod innititur alteri tamquam subjecto_, the phrase\n\u201cto cling to\u201d being understood in a most general sense. This last\ndefinition covers all the ground of predicamental accidentalities; for it\nis, in fact, applicable to all accidental acts, intrinsic modes of being,\nand extrinsic connotations.\n\nFor the same reason, the subject is not to be defined as \u201cthat which\nreceives within itself an accidental entity,\u201d but as \u201cthat to which an\naccidental entity belongs,\u201d and, taking the word \u201csubject\u201d in its most\ngeneral sense, we may also define it, as Aristotle did, to be \u201cthat of\nwhich anything is predicated.\u201d It is only by this last definition that we\ncan explain the general practice of predicating of everything, not only\nits accidentalities, but also its attributes and essential properties.\nSuch predications would be impossible, if the notion of subject were\nrestricted to that which receives on itself accidental entities; for\nattributes are not accidents, and are not received in their subject, but\nspring forth from its very essence, as we are going presently to show.\n\nWhen the thing predicated of any subject is an accidental act, then its\nsubject is _a subject of inhesion_. When the thing predicated is an\nintrinsic mode, no matter whether essential, substantial, or accidental,\nthen its subject is _a subject of attribution_. And when the thing\npredicated is only a connotation or a respect (_modus se habendi ad\naliud_), then its subject is _a subject of mere predication_.\n\nAs we have stated that natural accidents cannot exist without a subject,\nthe reader may desire to know how we can account for the accidents which,\nin the Holy Eucharist, exist without their substances. As a lengthy\ndiscussion of this philosophico\u2010theological question would be here quite\nout of place, we will content ourselves with remarking that the\nEucharistic species of bread, as described by S. Thomas and by the ancient\nscholastics, is not a natural and predicamental accident; and that,\ntherefore, many things may be possible with the Eucharistic species which\nare not possible with natural accidents. It is not true, in fact, what\nsome have maintained, that in the Holy Eucharist _each_ of the accidents\nof bread exists without any subject. Theologians acknowledge that the\nquantity of the bread fulfils the duty of subject with regard to all the\nother accidents, and consequently that all the other accidents, after the\nconsecration as before, cling to quantity. There is no need, therefore, of\nassuming color without a subject, or figure without a subject, or weight\nwithout a subject. This would simply mean color of nothing, figure of\nnothing, weight of nothing; which is not a miracle, but an absurdity. To\naccount for the sacramental species, theologians need only to show that\nthe _quantity_ of the bread can exist miraculously without the substance\nof the bread. This is the only accident which remains without any subject\nwhatever; for the Sacred Body, which _ad modum substanti\u00e6_\u2014that is,\nsubstantively, replaces the substance of the bread\u2014is indeed under that\nquantity, but it is not affected nor modified by it, and therefore cannot\nbe called its _subject_ in the ordinary sense of the word, though some\nwriters have called it a _sacramental subject_.\n\nTo show that quantity without the substance of which it is the quantity is\nnot an impossibility, we must leave aside the idea that such a quantity is\n_a form inherent_ in the substance. For the quantity of the mass which\nalone is destined to become the first subject of all the other accidents\nis made up of a number of material parts, and therefore is not a form, but\na certain amount of actual matter, and _fulfils the office of matter_, as\nS. Thomas recognizes, and not that of form, as Suarez and others after him\nhave erroneously assumed. Now, it is evident that as no number can be\nconceived without units, so neither can a quantity of mass be conceived\nwithout its parts; and that, if such parts or units are substances, the\nquantity of the mass will be nothing less than a number of substances. So\nlong, then, as such a quantity remains, it cannot cease to be a number of\nsubstances, unless, indeed, each of the units of which it is made up, _and\nwhich must always remain_, be supernaturally deprived of that which places\nthem formally in the rank of substances. This is, therefore, what must be\ndone, and what is really done by transubstantiation. When, in fact, the\nwords of the consecration are pronounced, and the Sacred Body of our Lord\nis constituted under the sensible symbol _ad modum substanti\u00e6_ (that is,\nnot only substantially, but substantively), then the substantiality of\nevery particle of the bread is superseded, and, so to say, supplanted by\nthe new substance which lies under each of them, but which leaves intact\nthe constituents of concrete quantity; for \u201cthe act and the power of\nsubstance,\u201d and \u201cwhatever belongs to matter,\u201d remains in each of them, as\nS. Thomas teaches, in accordance with the common doctrine of the ancient\nscholastics and of the fathers of the church.\n\nThus the quantity of the bread remains the same as before, and _retains\nits formal and material constitution_, notwithstanding the substantial\nconversion of the bread into the Sacred Body of our Lord. Had the modern\nscholastics paid more attention to this last point, they would have seen\nthat the species of bread is none of those natural accidents, whether\nforms or formalities, which found a place in Aristotle\u2019s categories, but\nis a supernatural accident as perfectly constituted, in its own way, as\nsubstance itself, and therefore capable of being kept in existence by God\nwithout the help of a natural subject. The reader may infer from these\nremarks that the philosophical questions about _natural_ or predicamental\naccidents are altogether distinct from, and independent of, those\nconcerning the sacramental species; and that therefore nothing that\nphilosophers may say about _natural_ accidents can have any direct bearing\non the explanation of the Eucharistic mystery.\n\nOne thing remains to be said regarding the distinction between accidental\nand substantial compounds. We have defined the first to be a compound \u201cof\nsubstance and accident,\u201d or a compound \u201cof essence and something\naccidentally superadded to it.\u201d The second we defined to be a compound \u201cof\nsubstances uniting in one essence or nature.\u201d But, as we noticed, the\nauthors pledged to the theory of substantial generations admitted of no\n\u201csubstantial\u201d compound but that which was believed to consist of matter\nand substantial form; and accordingly all compounds the form of which was\nan accidental entity, say _composition_, were considered by them as\naccidental. We observe that composition, though an accidental entity, is\nnevertheless the \u201cessential\u201d form of the compound, and gives it its\n\u201cfirst\u201d actuality. If, then, the compound is a distinct essence, and has a\ndistinct name, and is called a distinct \u201csubstance,\u201d as water, iron, gold,\netc., its form, though an accident, is an essential constituent of the\nspecific substance.\n\nWe cannot at present discuss the question of substantial generations; we\nonly remark that, to avoid all useless disputes about words, a physical\ncompound, when it contains nothing but what is needed for the constitution\nof its specific nature, may be called _Unum per se naturale_\u2014_i.e._, a\nbeing essentially one; and when it has something accidentally superadded,\nit may be called _Unum per accidens_\u2014_i.e._, a being accidentally one.\nThis distinction of names, which is familiar to all philosophers,\nexpresses the distinction of the things without having recourse to the\nterms of \u201csubstantial compound\u201d and \u201caccidental compound,\u201d taken in the\nPeripatetic sense of the words. Thus, whilst the Peripatetics based their\ndistinction between these compounds on a presumed difference between their\nforms, we draw our own from the presence or absence of anything not\nbelonging to the specific nature of the compound. This we do in accordance\nwith the true spirit of scholastic philosophy, not to say compelled by a\nphilosophical necessity; for we know that the constituent form of a purely\nmaterial compound, though essential with respect to the compound itself,\nis only an accident received in the substance of the components, as we may\nhereafter have an occasion to show. And now let us come to the attributes\nof complete beings.\n\n\n\nPrinciples of attributes and properties.\n\n\nAll complete beings possess attributes and properties called\n_essential_\u2014that is, invariably following the essence to which they\nbelong. It is therefore necessary for us to inquire whether, to account\nfor them, any special principles must be admitted. We can easily show that\nno new real principle is required besides the principles of the essence,\nas all the essential attributes and properties(68) of a complete being are\nfully contained in the real essence of the same as in their fountain\u2010head,\ninasmuch as they are nothing else than _the actuality_ of the essence\nconsidered under different aspects or connotations. It is known, in fact,\nthat the essential attributes of things are said by all philosophers _to\nemanate_ from the essence, _to flow_ from the essence, _to follow_ from\nthe essence, without any other thing being ever mentioned as their\nprinciple; which shows the universality of the doctrine that the essence\nalone is the adequate _source_ of all its attributes.\n\nAnd here let us observe that the words _principle_ and _source_ are not\nsynonymous; for a principle is not sufficient, of itself, to principiate\nanything without the concurrence of other principles, as it does not\nperfectly contain in itself the whole reality of which it is a principle.\nThe source, on the contrary, contains totally and adequately within itself\nwhatever emanates from it; so that any such emanation, taken separately,\nis only an imperfect exhibition of the reality from which it emanates, as\nit presents it only under one out of the many different points of view\nunder which it may be regarded. To say, then, that the essence of a thing\nis the source of all its attributes is to say that the essence itself\nalone sufficiently accounts for their origin, their necessity, and their\ndistinction.\n\nThat such is the case we shall easily understand by reflecting that all\nthe essential attributes and properties of a thing express the _being_ or\nactuality of the thing under some special aspect; as _to be_ active, _to\nbe_ passive, _to be_ one, _to be_ simple, etc. Now, _to be_, or actuality,\nimmediately results from the principles of the essence alone, as we have\nproved in our last article. Consequently, the essential attributes and\nproperties of anything immediately result from the essential principles of\nthe thing\u2014that is, from its real essence. Thus a being is active inasmuch\nas the act by which it is can be further terminated; and therefore _to be\nactive_ is nothing more than to have in itself an act further terminable;\nand activity, or active power in the abstract, is nothing more than the\nfurther terminability of the same act. In like manner, a being is passive\ninasmuch as its intrinsic term is still capable of further actuation; and\ntherefore _to be passive_ is nothing more than to have in itself a term\nwhich can be further actuated; and passivity, or passive potentiality in\nthe abstract, is nothing more than the further actuability of the same\nterm. The like may be said of every other attribute. Meanwhile, if we\ninquire what does _terminability_, or _actuability_, add to the thing, we\nshall soon see that it adds nothing real, but only exhibits the reality of\nthe thing under a special formality as connoting something either\nintrinsic or extrinsic to it. Thus the terminability of the act simply\nconnotes some term capable of actuation, and the actuability of the term\nsimply connotes an act by which it can be actuated.\n\nFrom this it follows that the essential attributes of being are nothing\nbut distinct _abstract ratios_ having their foundation in the principles\nof the complete being, and presenting its actuality under different\naspects. In fact, it is because such a being contains the foundation of\nall those ratios that our intellect, by looking upon it, is enabled to\ndiscover them, and to trace them distinctly to their distinct principles.\nIt thus appears that the true reason why no new real principles are needed\nto account for the essential attributes of things consists in this, that\nthe whole reality of the attributes already pre\u2010exists in the thing, and\nthat nothing further is necessary, that they may be distinctly conceived,\nbut intellectual consideration.\n\nWhat we have said of the attributes that have their foundation in the\nessential principles of being applies equally to qualities which are the\nimmediate result of accidental actuation. Thus, if a material point be\nacted on, the result of the determination it receives will be _velocity_.\nOf course, velocity is an accidental attribute, since it follows from the\ntermination of an accidental act; yet it results as perfectly from that\ntermination as the essential attributes result from the termination of the\nessential act.\n\nIn general, all the objective ratios which immediately follow the\nconstitution of a concrete being need no additional principles, because\nthey are already contained in the entity of the concrete being, in which\nthe intellect finds its ground for their distinct conception. And here let\nus add two remarks. The first is that all such intelligible ratios\nidentify themselves really, though inadequately, with the concrete entity\nof which they are predicated; so that between the attribute and its\nconcrete subject there can be but the slightest of metaphysical\ndistinctions. The second is that the essential attributes of a _simple_\nbeing are never _really_ distinct from one another. The reason of this is\nevident; for such attributes are the simple actuality of a simple being,\nwhich does not cease to be identical with itself when it is viewed from\ndifferent points of view. They admit, however, of a distinction of reason;\nfor when the same thing is considered under different aspects, the\ndistinct concepts that are then formed by the mind evidently exhibit\ndistinct objective ratios, every one of which corresponds to one of those\naspects without formally implying the others.\n\nThough we have hitherto spoken of the essential attributes and properties\nof _primitive_ beings, the doctrine we have expounded is also applicable\nto those of all substantial compounds. Thus the attributes and properties\nof a molecule of hydrogen, oxygen, or any other specific compound have the\nreason of their being in the essential principles of their respective\ncompound, and nothing else is required to account for them, as is evident\nfrom the preceding explanations. It is to be observed, however, that in\nsuch compounds as owe their being to material composition only, as it is\nthe case with all the molecules of natural bodies, the composition which\nis the essential form of the compound is not a substantial, but an\naccidental, determination of the components; and hence it is that each\nsuch molecule involves in its essential constitution _both substance and\naccident_, and therefore is not exactly a substance, but a natural\ncompound essence. The consequence is that its essential attributes, too,\nowe their being not only to the component substances, but also to such\naccidents as are essentially implied in the constitution of the compound.\nThus, _porosity_, _compressibility_, _bulk_, etc., which are essential\nattributes of each molecule as such, have the reason of their being partly\nin the elements of which they are made up, and partly in the specific form\nof their composition. Now, this specific form may undergo accidental\nchanges _without trespassing the bounds of its species_; and those\nessential attributes which depend on the specific composition may\nconsequently undergo a change in their degree; and since none of those\nchangeable degrees are determinately required by the essence of the\nmolecular compound, it follows that the essential attributes and\nproperties of each molecule, in so far as their actual degree is\nconcerned, are accidental; and accordingly such attributes and properties\nby their degree belong to the predicament of accidental _quality_. Such is\nthe case with the attributes of every single molecule of a natural\nsubstance.\n\nAs for bodies made up of a number of molecules of the same kind, it is\nevident that all such bodies are accidental compounds, and none of them\ncan have any other essential attributes besides those which are common to\ntheir molecules. For the union of equal molecules is the union of\n_integrant_ parts, and gives rise to no new species, but only to\naccidental relations, quantity of mass, and quantity of volume; and\nconsequently all the attributes and properties originating in the\nagglomeration of such integrant parts are simply accidental qualities.\nThus _liquidity_ is an accidental quality of water, because it exhibits\nonly the mutual behavior of distinct molecules which, of themselves, and\napart from one another, are not liquid, though they have all that is\nneeded to unite in the liquid state. And indeed, if each molecule contains\nthe true essence of water, and yet is not actually liquid, actual\nliquidity has nothing to do with the essence of water, and therefore is\nnot an essential attribute of water, but an accidental mode resulting from\nmutual accidental action between neighboring molecules.\n\nThere are two cases, however, in which new essential attributes may be\nfound in a body without being found in the component molecules. The first\nis when the component molecules undergo chemical combination; for in this\ncase such molecules are not merely integrant but _constituent_, and by\ntheir combination a new essence is formed. Now, a new essence gives rise\nto new essential attributes. Thus sulphuric acid, for instance, has\nattributes which do not belong to its components.\n\nThe second case is when the whole body is only a part of the compound\nessence\u2014that is, when the specific form of that essence is a distinct\nsubstance, as in man and all animals, whose bodies are informed by a soul.\nIn this case, the whole body and all that belongs to its organic\nconstitution is involved in the essence of the perfect compound of which\nit is a part; and therefore some among the essential attributes of the\ncompound must depend on the very constitution of the body. Thus _stature_\nfollows from the essential constitution of man, which includes a body\nhaving dimensions. But here, again, we must observe that, although to have\nsome stature is an essential attribute of man, to have _this_ stature\nrather than that is an accidental quality; it being evident that human\nnature can exist without _this_ determinate stature.\n\nBy the preceding remarks we are led to conclude, 1st, that all essential\nattributes originate in the essential constituents of the nature of which\nthey are the attributes; 2d, that all the accidental attributes or\nqualities originate in the accidental determinations of the nature of\nwhich they are the accidental qualities; 3d, that, in material compounds,\nthose essential attributes which depend on the composition admit of\ndifferent accidental degrees.\n\nWe have only to add that the abstract ratios, through which the attributes\nand properties of things are conceived, are very frequently styled\n_formalities_. Formalities are, generally speaking, either _real_ or\n_logical_. A real formality is that which has its being in the reality of\nthings; a logical formality, on the contrary, is that which has no being\nin real things, but only in our conception.\n\nReal formalities are also called _metaphysical degrees_. Thus, in\nSocrates, animality, rationality, individuality, personality, etc., are so\nmany metaphysical degrees. All such degrees express the _being_ of the\nthing under some particular aspect; as to be animated, to be rational, to\nbe an individual, etc., as we have above remarked.\n\nReal formalities are either _absolute_ or _respective_. The absolute are\nthose which belong to the thing considered in itself absolutely; as\nsubstantiality, oneness, singularity. The respective are those which imply\na connotation of something else; as terminability, passivity,\ncognoscibility. The absolute formalities correspond to the absolute\nattributes of beings; the respective correspond to the relative\nattributes\u2014that is, to the properties and qualities of beings.\n\nReal formalities are either _positive_, _negative_, or _privative_. The\npositive are directly founded on the _act_, _term_, and _complement_ of\nthe being; as activity, passivity, and inertia. The negative are real\nnegations affecting the thing; as the mode of substance, which is a\nnegation of sustentation. The privative are real privations, as blindness\nin man.\n\nWe may observe, by the way, that the logical formalities are likewise\neither positive, negative, or privative. The positive exhibit the thing as\na positive element of logical thought; as when _man_ is said to be _the\nsubject_ of a proposition. The negative exhibit the thing as affected by a\nnegation which is not in the thing, but only in our conception of it; as\nwhen we say that God\u2019s immensity and eternity are distinct; for\ndistinction is a negation of identity, but the distinction in this case is\nonly mental, because those two attributes are the same thing in reality.\nThe privative exhibit the thing as mentally stripped of that which is due\nto it; as when we consider color, figure, velocity, etc., as formally\nuniversal, and therefore as deprived of a subject; for they cannot be\ndeprived of a subject except in our conception.\n\nThis is what we had to say about attributes and properties. As we have\nhere and there mentioned inadequate identity, metaphysical distinction,\ndistinction of reason, etc., we will take care to have the meaning of\nthese words accurately explained in our next article, in which we hope to\nend this our cursory survey of the principles of real being.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nThe Butterfly.\n\n\nFrom The French Of Marie Jenna.\n\n\n    Why silently draw near\n      And menace my joyous flight?\n    What is there in my gay career\n      That can offend your sight?\n\n    I am only a vivid beam,\n      Flitting now here, now there,\n    A wing\u00e9d gem, a fairy dream,\n      A flower that the breeze may bear.\n\n    The brother of the rose,\n      In her breast I shun the storm;\n    On her soft bosom I repose,\n      And drink her perfume warm.\n\n    My life is a transient thing,\n      Why mar its glad estate?\n    Answer me, O creation\u2019s king!\n      Art envious of my fate?\n\n    Nay, hear me while I pray:\n      Elsewhere thy footsteps bend;\n    Let me live at least one happy day,\n      Thou that shalt never end!\n\n\n\n\nThe Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil.\n\n\nFrom the Revue Du Monde Catholique.\n\n\n\nXX.\n\n\nThat day was February 25, 1848. If you remember, there had never been\nseen, at that season, such mild weather and such brilliant sunshine. But\nthat the trees were without leaves, it seemed like May; and in the\norchards exposed to the south, the almond\u2010trees were even covered with big\nbuds ready to flower.\n\nThis beautiful, early spring rejoiced all on the earth, both men and\nbeasts; the peasants were heard singing in the fields, the horses neighing\nat the plough, the hens clucking, the sparrows chirping, the lambs\nbleating; and down to the babbling brooks, that flowed and leaped over the\nstones with more than ordinary rapidity, each creature, in its own way,\nappeared happy and glad.\n\nThe _cur\u00e9_ walked along slowly, a little fatigued by the heat, to which he\nwas not yet accustomed. He closed his Breviary, and thought of the dear\nfamily he was about to rejoice with his good news, and doubtless, also, of\nthe exile, who only waited for one word to return to his beloved home.\n\nWhen he reached the right of the barns at Muiceron, he paused a moment\nbehind the cottage to take breath and wipe his forehead. From that spot he\ncould see into the courtyard without being seen; and what he saw, although\nvery simple, moved him to the bottom of his soul.\n\nJeanne Ragaud was drawing water from the well; but, instead of carrying\noff the buckets already filled, she deposited them on the ground, and,\nresting her elbows on the curbstone of the well, covered her face with her\nhands in the attitude of a person completely overcome.\n\nHe knew she was weeping, and certainly her poor heart must have been full\nof sorrow that she should give way to such silent grief. The good _cur\u00e9_\ncould no longer restrain himself; he advanced gently behind her, and, when\nquite near, touched her on the shoulder, just as he had done in former\ndays, when he wished to surprise her in some school\u2010girl\u2019s trick.\n\nJeanne turned around, and he saw her pretty face bathed in tears.\n\n\u201cOh! oh!\u201d said the kind pastor, smiling, \u201cwhat are you doing, my daughter?\nI wager you are the only one who is not rejoicing to\u2010day in the bright\nsunshine that the good God gives us.\u201d\n\n\u201cFather,\u201d said the little thing, who always thus addressed our _cur\u00e9_ when\nthey were alone, \u201cit is perhaps very wrong, but it is precisely all this\njoy I see around me that breaks my heart. When I reached the well, I\nthought how often Jean\u2010Louis had come to this very place to draw water for\nus, and how displeased he was when my mother wished to do it herself. Poor\nJeannet! he was so gentle and kind! Oh! I am sure he is unhappy away from\nhome.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is not doubtful,\u201d replied the _cur\u00e9_; \u201cbut perhaps one day we will\nsee him again.\u201d\n\n\u201cI begin to despair of it,\u201d said she. \u201cHe left heart\u2010broken, and perhaps\nnow he detests me.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps? Perhaps, my daughter, can mean yes as well as no; why should it\nnot be no?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! if I only knew!\u201d said she.\n\n\u201cWell, what would you do?\u201d\n\n\u201cI would write to him that I love him,\u201d she cried, clasping her hands;\n\u201cand I would beg him to come and tell me that he pardons me, and take his\nplace again at home; for the house will always be his, whether I live or\ndie; and although I have done very wrong, he would listen to me, don\u2019t you\nthink so, father?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the _cur\u00e9_, much touched; \u201che is a person who never cherished\nrancor against any one. Write to him, my child, and tell him all you wish;\nyour letter will reach him.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! you know where he is? I thought so,\u201d said she joyfully.\n\n\u201cYes, indeed! I know where he is, and I will now tell you, my dear\ndaughter. He is in Paris, where he wants for nothing; and if you are good,\nif you will stop crying, I will read you some of his letters, which will\nmake you happy.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I promise you that I will be good. I will not cry any more\u2014never\nagain,\u201d cried the poor little creature, who instantly began to sob, by way\nof keeping her promise.\n\nBut they were tears of joy this time, and the _cur\u00e9_ let them flow without\nreproof. They entered Muiceron together, and Jeannette, without any\npreambulation, threw herself on her mother\u2019s breast, crying out that\nJeannet was coming back. Pierrette, who desired it as ardently as she,\nasked to be excused for one moment, that she might run off and tell\nRagaud, who was sowing clover near the house. It was right that they\nshould be all together to hear such welcome news; but scarcely had the\ngood woman reached the door, than she knocked against Jacques Michou, who\nhad just crossed the threshold.\n\n\u201cJean\u2010Louis! Jean\u2010Louis is coming back!\u201d said Pierrette, as she passed\nhim. \u201cCome in, Jacques Michou; I will be back in a second.\u201d\n\nMichou entered in his usual tranquil manner. He saluted the _cur\u00e9_ and\nJeanne without showing the least excitement.\n\n\u201cWho says that Jeannet is coming back?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cWe don\u2019t say he is coming back,\u201d replied the _cur\u00e9_, \u201cbut that he will\nreturn home.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll very well,\u201d answered Michou; \u201cbut, for the present, that is not to be\nthought of.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy God!\u201d cried Jeanne, \u201cwhat has happened?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe revolution in Paris,\u201d said Michou; \u201cand this time it is real. Here is\na letter from M. le Marquis, who tells me that in three days from now all\nwill be fire and blood. He orders me to join him\u2014Jeannet is with him\u2014and I\nwill take guns for everybody.\u201d\n\nJeannette fell fainting in a chair. M. le Cur\u00e9 conversed with Michou; and,\nmeanwhile, Ragaud and Pierrette entered, and learned, in their turn, the\nevent, which was very true, as we all know. I leave you to think if there\nwere ahs! and ohs! and exclamations of all kinds. For a full hour there\nwere so many contradictory statements you would have thought the\nrevolution at Paris transported to Muiceron. Several peasants, returning\nfrom the city, stopped at the farm, and reported there was agitation\neverywhere; that a great number of workmen in the factories had decamped;\nand, as under similar circumstances all sorts of stories are told and\nbelieved, it was added that half the capital was already burnt, and that\nsmoke was seen in all the other parts of the city. At that, Michou\nshrugged his shoulders; but he was anxious about his master, whom he knew\nto be the man to do a thousand imprudent things, so he took a hasty\nfarewell of his friends, and that very evening passed Muiceron in full\nrig, armed and equipped, ready for his post.\n\nSo once again everybody at Muiceron became gloomy and miserable, as each\nday brought its fresh contingent of sad news. For if, in the city and\namong learned men, where there is every chance of correct information,\nevery one appears half crazy in time of public calamity, and in a fever to\ntalk all kinds of nonsense, you can imagine what it is in a village, where\none is obliged to listen to the neighbors and gossips, who always improve\non the most absurd reports. It is true, also, that they never see a paper,\nand it is lucky if they preserve a few gleams of good sense; but what each\none draws from his own private source amply suffices to bewilder\neverybody.\n\nI, who speak to you, and who was very young at the time of this\nrevolution, remember well to have heard it positively affirmed that the\nking, Louis Philippe, and his family had been crucified in front of their\nch\u00e2teau, then cut in little pieces, boiled, and eaten by the people! And\nwhen, in addition, it was said that the waters of the Seine had formed a\nmagnificent cascade from the heaped\u2010up corpses, and were red with blood as\nfar as the bridge at Rouen, I did not think the thing incredible, and,\nwith great simplicity, I always awaited still more extraordinary news.\n\nI remember, also, that a band of our most respectable young men took turns\nevery night in mounting guard around the ch\u00e2teau of Val\u2010Saint, because it\nwas known, from a trustworthy source, that the cellars contained more than\na hundred barrels of powder, ready to blow up at the shortest notice. Now,\nto ask how so many barrels, the least of which weighed as much as a tun of\nwine, could have been placed there without being seen, is what no person\nthought of; and the reflection, what man, sufficiently desirous of putting\nan end to his days by bringing that enormous building down upon him (a\nthing which could profit no one), would be capable of setting fire to the\npowder, still less entered their heads; and yet terror was at its height\nat the mere thought of an explosion so tremendous that it would have\nbroken all windows for two leagues round. And thus it is that good people,\nwithout wishing it, lend their hands to the revolution.\n\nIt was not that all this was believed at Muiceron as readily as I\nswallowed it, but, in reality, they were very anxious, and ardently\ndesirous of hearing news. A long week passed. M. Michou wrote a short\nletter, in which he said everybody was well, that M. le Marquis and Jean\u2010\nLouis were always together, and cried out, \u201cLong live the king!\u201d in the\nstreets while carrying a white flag, which made the boys of the street\nlaugh, but at which no one took any exception. He added that King Louis\nPhilippe was driven out, and that for the present the republic was much\nspoken of. Thereupon Ragaud declared that all was lost; for he, like all\nthose of his age, only understood the republic as accompanied by\nscaffolds, drownings, and robberies, as in that of 1793, which he well\nremembered.\n\nJeannette, then, with the consent of M. le Cur\u00e9, wrote a long and touching\nletter, which she addressed to Solange, in which she poured forth all the\nwarmth and fire of her little heart. The poor child dared not write\ndirectly to Jeannet, in the fear that new events might prevent his\nreceiving the missive; but she did not doubt that Solange would find means\nto read it to him who would receive so much consolation from its contents.\nThe misfortune was that, in the midst of the fray, that good girl could\nhear nothing about her old friend; and, between ourselves, it was, I\nbelieve, because she had no permission to mix herself up in the affair, as\nshe lived retired and absorbed in prayer with the other young sisters of\nthe novitiate. It therefore followed that when Jeannet, in his turn, wrote\nto M. le Cur\u00e9, it seemed, from the quiet, sad, and cold tone of his\nletter, that he knew nothing of this step of Jeannette\u2019s, or, if he knew\nit, he attached no importance to it, and wished them to understand it was\ntoo late to repair matters.\n\nIt was this last idea which fastened itself in the child\u2019s head as firmly\nas a nail in the wood. She became profoundly sad, which, according to her\nhabit, she concealed as much as possible; and thus passed weeks and months\nwithout anything further being said of the return of the dear boy, so\nfondly desired by all at Muiceron.\n\nSo far affairs in Paris went on quietly, and the people who believed in\nscaffolds began to think they might sign the lease between their shoulders\nand heads. For now that all this fine story is over, it must be avowed the\nfirst part of the revolution was more laughable than terrible. I had it\nfrom Michou, who was present and witnessed many things in detail, which\nwere served up for our amusement during many of the following winters. The\ngood man never wearied of relating how the great city of Paris, that had\ndriven off a king from a desire of giving herself a hundred thousand in\nhis place, played at comedy for three months, for the sole purpose, I\nsuppose, of affording other countries a perpetual diversion. Once, for\nexample, in remembrance of spring\u2010time, a crowd of little trees were\nplanted at all the corners, as signs of liberty; and as, for this\namusement, each man became a gardener on his own hook, without ever having\nlearned the trade, you can imagine what chance these precious emblems of\nfreedom had of flourishing. It is not necessary to say that they fell down\nand were trodden under foot in a very short time, so that the beautiful\ngreen ornaments were renounced at the end of a few days!\n\nAnother time, the street\u2010boys assembled and formed the brilliant\nresolution that they would have a general illumination. And then\u2014I really\nwould not have believed it, if Jacques Michou had not vouched for the\ntruth\u2014these ragamuffins ran in troops through the streets, hand\u2010in\u2010hand,\nshouting out a song which had but two words, always sung to the same tune.\n\n\u201cLight up! light up!\u201d they cried at the top of their voices; upon which,\nall classes, rich and poor, high and low, obediently placed candles in the\nwindows, without daring to utter a word against the decree; and this\nlasted more than a fortnight.\n\nI will only ask, if the king or our holy father, the Pope, had exacted\nsuch a thing even once, what would have been said? There was also the\nfarce of the laborers, who were out of work, taking the air, and marching\nby thousands along the quays to the great ch\u00e2teau, where five or six fine\nmen who were called the government resided, and who were very brave in\nwords, but became half crazy when it was time to act; which must not be\nwondered at, as their task was none of the easiest. The men arrived, they\nwould send one of their number to ask some little favor, which was sure to\nbe promised for next day. Then they returned the same as they came, and so\nmuch the worse for those who were found in their way that day; for not a\ncat could have come out alive among so many legs. This amusement was\ncalled \u201ca manifestation.\u201d But to say what was ever manifested except want\nand misery in every house\u2014for when such promenades are made, no work is\ndone\u2014is what you may learn, perhaps, sooner than I, if the day of\ndiscovery will ever come.\n\nDuring this time, they pretended to make laws for the country, in a large\nbuilding where a great number of men from the provinces talked themselves\nhoarse every day, insulting each other, and even, I have been told, flung\nwhatever they happened to have near at hand at one another\u2019s heads; so\nthat he who appeared the master of all, and was called president, was\nforced to speak with a great bell, as he could no longer make his voice\nheard. For those who liked noise all this row was very amusing; but quiet\npeople were obliged to shut their eyes and stop up their ears. In my\nopinion, instead of being contented with that, they should have descended\ninto the streets, and enforced order with heavy blows of the cudgel; but,\nif they thought of that later, for the time being good people seemed\nasleep, which emboldened the rabble to such a degree they thought\nthemselves masters of the situation.\n\nYou doubtless think our dear good master, M. le Marquis, was discouraged\nat seeing the republic established in place of his cherished hopes. Not at\nall. On the contrary, he was as ardent and fiery as ever, assured that it\nwas \u201ca necessary transition\u201d\u2014a phrase which I repeat as I heard it,\nwithout pretending to explain it, and which, probably, was profoundly\nwise. He was very busy coming and going with his friends, and arranging\nall, in words, for the approaching arrival of the young legitimate prince,\nwho remained near the frontier with a large army, invisible for the time,\nbut ready to march at a moment\u2019s notice.\n\nJean\u2010Louis and Michou allowed themselves in secret to be rather doubtful\nof these fine assertions, but, respectful and devoted as they were to that\nexcellent gentleman, they made the agreement to follow him about like his\nshadow, and to shield him whenever he might incur any risk. Thus, whenever\nM. le Marquis was seen, near him was always the handsome, brave Jeannet,\nwith his pale, serious face, or the old game\u2010keeper, looking very jaunty,\nbut with such fierce eyes and strong arms a man would think twice before\nattacking him. Dear mademoiselle, who was half dead with fear for her\nfather\u2019s life, confided him entirely to his village friends, and begged\nthem every morning to be faithful to their trust. Besides, this good soul,\nformerly so desirous of seeing and living in Paris, yawned there almost as\nmuch as at Val\u2010Saint.\n\nThere was not much amusement going on in society. Rich people stayed at\nhome, and guarded their money, which was carefully concealed in some\nsecure place, ready to fly in case of necessity; as for out\u2010door\namusements, none were thought of. M. le Marquis had something else to do\nthan drive out with his daughter; and to circulate around among the\nmanifestations was not the most pleasant performance\u2014far from it. Poor\nmademoiselle seemed doomed to the miserable fate of always running after\nsome distraction, _f\u00eates_, and other disturbances of that kind, without\never finding them. Add to all this, she was in a constant state of fear,\nas she was little accustomed to the cries, songs, patrols, and threats\nwhich filled the capital. Her only consolation was to hope that there\nwould soon be an end of all this; and Dame Berthe encouraged her to be\npatient, showing herself all the while full of the idea of the near\ntriumph of _the cause_, as she said. And mean\u2010time, while waiting for it,\nshe embroidered little strips of white satin by the dozen, to decorate the\nbelts of the king\u2019s officers when the triumphal entry would be made into\nParis.\n\nTheir happiest moment was in the evening, when these five persons, drawn\ntogether through friendship and devotion, were reunited to talk over the\nevents of the day, and to plan for the next. M. le Marquis ordered the\nservants off to bed\u2014for they were not sure but there might be spies among\nthem\u2014and, keeping Jeannet and Michou, he joyfully laid before them all his\nplans and hopes. Jean\u2010Louis listened with one ear; and fortunate was it\nthat respect prevented him from joining in the conversation, as his\nremarks might have been very _mal\u00e0propos_. Can you guess why? He thought\nof other things; and while his master soared away in imagination to the\nfrontier, where the invisible army of the king man\u0153uvred, in heart and\nsoul he was in the beloved spot, where he lived over again the happy days\nof his childhood.\n\nAnd thus they advanced, without knowing it, to the terrible days which\ngave the death\u2010blow to the republic, in the midst of the blood of so many\nhonest men, which flowed and mingled with that of the rabble, for love of\ngood order, which could easily have been established without so much\nsuffering. Alas! it was not the first time in our gay, beautiful France\nthat things have begun with songs and pleasant jokes, and ended amid the\nnoise of cannon and the cries and lamentations of the wounded.\n\nBefore relating this last part of my story, I must tell you that our\n_cur\u00e9_, always in correspondence with Jean\u2010Louis, was much astonished at\nthe uniform coolness of his letters. At last he thought best to ask an\nexplanation during the month of May, advising him to go and see Solange,\nwho for a long time had had good news for him. Do you think it was long\nbefore Jeannet ran quickly to the convent? When he read that Jeannette\nloved him and desired his return, he nearly became wild with joy. Solange\nlet him have the precious letter, which he read and re\u2010read all one night,\nso as to be better able to reply to it. It was time for things to change,\nas Jeannette declined visibly from the pain she suffered in believing\nherself disdained.\n\nIt is always so with women (I must make the remark); they torture without\nmercy, or at least with very little thought, the poor hearts which become\nattached to them; and then the day they feel pain in their turn all must\nend in the quickest manner, otherwise they will die; and then, again, they\nwill have all the pity and sympathy on their side. So our two dear\nchildren made up and became friends with a few words written on paper; and\nenchanted were they both, I can assure you. Now it was easy to wait. Jean\u2010\nLouis, in his answer, showed the same heart, the same tenderness, as\nformerly. He wished no excuses from his sister, saying that all the fault\nwas on his side\u2014which was a big story, as every one could see but himself,\nand made them both laugh and weep at Muiceron. As for his return, it was\nnot necessary to promise anything. They knew well that the day duty would\nno longer detain him he would take the first train and our good friends,\nthe Ragauds, while not wishing him to leave M. le Marquis, commenced to\nprepare for the happy moment, so ardently desired by all.\n\nRagaud told the women it was not the time for economy, and the following\nweek he called in the painters and the masons to replaster all the house,\nand to give it an air of freshness inside, which, I must acknowledge, was\nvery much needed. Jeannette directed the changes in Jean\u2010Louis\u2019 room, and\nI can assure you she spared nothing, and spent at least fifty francs of\nher father\u2019s crowns in a splendid paper for the walls, which was yellow,\ncovered with large bouquets of bright flowers that had the most beautiful\neffect. The month of June found them busily occupied; and then they began\nto count, not the days, but the hours, that would separate Jean\u2010Louis from\nthe dear home that had adopted him.\n\nHis last letter announced his speedy departure. The joy at Muiceron, and\nits holiday look, was touching to see. Jeannette, pink and white, like an\neglantine rose, had never looked prettier.\n\nSuddenly, one morning, M. le Cur\u00e9 entered the farm, and, in the midst of\nall this happiness, pronounced these terrible words:\n\n\u201cMy children, they are fighting in Paris, and we must pray to God, for the\ndanger has never been greater; happy those who will come safe out of it!\u201d\n\n\n\nXXI.\n\n\nI shudder when I speak of that horrible time. Alas! we all know about the\nfearful struggle of blood and tears called \u201cThe days of June, 1848.\u201d\n\nNever did the lowering storm\u2010clouds more quickly burst, and never did a\ngreat city, in all the pride of her beauty and wealth, come nearer\ncomplete ruin. Each quarter, each place, each cross\u2010way, were battle\u2010\nfields. Houses were demolished, that barricades might be erected across\nthe streets; and this time, if extravagant accounts went abroad, not one\nappeared exaggerated in face of the real truth.\n\nFor three long, weary days\u2014why, no one ever knew\u2014the army kept hidden;\nthen the sovereign people were masters of the situation, and acted as best\npleased their capricious will; and I rather think nobody but a fool could\nhave helped being disgusted with serving such kings.\n\nAt the end of these three days, at last the cry was heard from all the\nbarracks, \u201cForward!\u201d And as in the time of the great Napoleon, generals in\nfine uniforms and waving plumes dashed about on horseback, and there was a\nterrific noise of cannon and musketry. How terrible was the anger of the\nLord! For these enemies, who grappled in the fierce death\u2010struggle, were\nchildren of the same mother, and yet forgot it in the midst of their\nsenseless fury and thirst for vengeance, when, in truth, they had nothing\nto avenge.\n\nWhat more shall I tell you? You know it all better than I; perhaps you\nwere there; and, besides, it is not so long ago that you cannot remember\nit; and when you recall it, pray fervently to the good God such a time may\nnever again be ours.\n\nWhen the battalions moved, every honest citizen left his bed, and armed,\nto be ready to assist the army. M. le Marquis was one of the first on the\nscene, accompanied by his two body\u2010guards. Mademoiselle, when she saw them\nleave, wept, and threw herself on her knees in her room, unwilling to\nlisten to Dame Berthe, who still could have the heart to speak of \u201cthe\ntriumph of the right,\u201d so rooted in her head was this fixed idea. Leave\nthese poor women, more to be pitied than blamed, lamenting and praying to\nGod, while listening, with hearts half dead with agony, to the noise of\nthe battle, and we will see what became of the combatants.\n\nWhen they left the house, there was no appearance of extraordinary\nexcitement, and even the quarter where M. le Marquis lived, very quiet at\nall times, seemed calmer even than usual, for the very good reason that,\nof all who occupied it, those that were brave ran elsewhere, and the\ncowards buried themselves, like moles, in the cellars. Our friends first\nwent down one long street, crossed a second, a third, and only then, when\ncoming up to a great bridge with a Prussian name very difficult to\nspell\u2014and therefore I cannot write it\u2014began to see and hear the horrors of\nthe deadly combat.\n\nM. le Marquis stopped.\n\n\u201cFriends,\u201d said he, \u201clet us make the sign of the cross; perhaps one of us\nwill not return to sleep in his bed, but may be killed, wounded, or made\nprisoner. It is well to provide ourselves with a passport for the other\nworld, and one more blessing for this one.\u201d\n\nAnd this excellent gentleman instantly put in practice what he preached,\npronouncing aloud the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy\nGhost.\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d said he joyously, \u201cI feel younger by ten years. Ah! while I think\nof it, have you white cockades in your pockets?\u201d\n\n\u201cFaith! no,\u201d said Michou; \u201cI confess to M. le Marquis I did not dream of\ntaking that precaution. But we need not worry about that; if we want them,\nI will tear off an end of my shirt.\u201d\n\nJean\u2010Louis had been equally forgetful of the white cockades; M. le Marquis\ntold them their heads were turned, but forgot to add he was in the same\nfix; for they had rushed to arms in such a hurry, each one had only taken\ntime to dress quickly and seize his gun, so ardently desirous were they to\nsee the end of the masters of Paris.\n\nSoon they were in the midst of the troops and a crowd of volunteers like\nthemselves.\n\nThe fight was hot. The height and solidity of the barricades, for the most\npart cemented with stone and mortar like ramparts, forced them to\nestablish a siege; and the thick walls that sheltered the rioters were\nonly destroyed with the aid of cannon, and after many deaths. I must be\nfrank, and say it was not a war very much to the taste of our soldiers,\nwho like to see the faces of the enemies at whom they aim; neither, as a\nfirst effort, was it very amusing for our friend Jeannet, who had never\nbefore seen any fire but that in the chimney at Muiceron. So when he found\nhimself in the midst of the scuffle, surrounded with dead and wounded,\nsmoke in his eyes, loud oaths and curses in his ears, without counting the\nwhistling of the balls, which I have been told produces a very droll\neffect when not accustomed to it, he stopped short, and looked so\nstupefied Michou laughed at him. That old soldier had been present at the\nbattle of Wagram, and, being very young at the time, was at first half\ncrazy with fear, which did not prevent him from showing great bravery when\nhe recovered his senses. He therefore understood from experience precisely\nhow Jeannet felt, and, giving him a hard blow on his shoulder, shook the\nyoung fellow\u2019s gun, which he was carelessly pointing at random.\n\n\u201cAre you going to let yourself be killed like a chicken?\u201d he cried to him,\nswearing tremendously; \u201cbe quick, my boy; you can sleep to\u2010morrow.\u201d\n\nJean\u2010Louis jumped; he drew himself up to his full height, and his handsome\nface reddened with shame, although he had done nothing dishonorable.\n\n\u201cJacques,\u201d said he, \u201cI am afraid I am a coward.\u201d\n\n\u201cBig mule!\u201d gaily cried the game\u2010keeper; \u201con the contrary, by\u2010and\u2010by you\nare going to see how we will amuse ourselves.\u201d\n\nThey were at the time before a barricade, which was most obstinately\ndefended. The conversation could not last long, but Jacques Michou did not\nlose sight of the boy. He saw that he soon recovered himself, and kept out\nof the way of the balls as well as he could\u2014something which required as\nmuch skill as coolness\u2014and handled his gun with as firm a hand as though\nhe were hunting.\n\nFighting went on there for a good hour. The soldiers began to be furious,\nand, notwithstanding the number of killed on both sides, no advantage was\ngained. Cannon were brought up; at the first fire, a large breach was\neffected, and it was seen that the insurgents were reduced to a small\nnumber, who attempted to escape.\n\nAt that sight, the soldiers and volunteers could not be restrained.\n\n\u201cNo prisoners!\u201d cried a hundred voices, hoarse with rage.\n\nThat meant death to every one. Our officers were no longer masters; the\ntide, once let loose, soon overflowed, and a horrible mixture of shots,\ncries, and oaths, frightful to hear, pierced the air.\n\nJeannet became as crazy as the rest. He fired so often, his gun was\nburning in his hands; his dishevelled hair, and his face, blackened with\npowder, changed his appearance so completely no one would have recognized\nhim. He loaded and reloaded, fired at hazard, and no longer heard Michou,\nwho, always at his side, cried, \u201cLook out!\u201d every moment. Suddenly the\ngame\u2010keeper gave a yell that resembled the howl of a wolf. A man, covered\nwith blood, had just leaped upon the ruins of the barricade, and aimed at\nJean\u2010Louis, who was not three steps from his gun.\n\nIt is not easy to make you understand the rapidity with which old Michou\nthrew himself before Jeannet to preserve his life. It was like a flash of\nlightning, but that flash sufficed; he had time to fire before the rioter,\nwho rolled lifeless on the heaped\u2010up pavement.\n\nAll was ended. Five minutes afterwards, at least in that corner, it only\nremained to remove the dead, and carry the wounded into the neighboring\nhouses, where the women were ready to dress the wounds. There was time to\nbreathe.\n\nAlas! the poor, blinded people paid dearly in that quarter for their folly\nand madness. All the unfortunate wretches who had raised that barricade\nwere dead or dying.\n\nJacques looked around for his master and his friend. M. le Marquis, with\nhis arm all bleeding, was seated leaning against a post, very weak and\nfaint from his wound; but his eyes sparkled, and a smile was upon his\nlips. The game\u2010keeper rushed to him.\n\n\u201cIt is nothing, old fellow,\u201d said our master, \u201conly a scratch on the\nwrist; lend me your handkerchief.\u201d\n\nBy the mercy of God, it was really not much; and our dear lord quietly\nwrapped up his hand, while he asked about Jeannet.\n\n\u201cHeaven has worked miracles for that child,\u201d said Michou proudly. \u201cAh! he\nis a brave boy, I tell you. He fought both like a fox and a lion!\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish to see him,\u201d said M. le Marquis. \u201cGo bring him to me.\u201d\n\nJacques willingly obeyed. It was some time before he found his pupil\u2014for\nsuch he could be called. He was in the midst of a crowd that surrounded\nhim and loaded him with congratulations and compliments on his bravery.\nHis conduct had been noted, and the commanding officer was then asking him\nhis name and residence, that he might inscribe them in his report.\nJeannet, who shrank from observation, looked like a criminal before his\njudges. Michou, seeing him so timid and confused, told him he was a fool,\nand came very near being angry himself.\n\n\u201cJust see how frightened you are now!\u201d said he to him, in such a cross\ntone the officer smiled. \u201cExcuse him, colonel, he always looks sheepish\nwhen before people he don\u2019t know. His name is Jean\u2010Louis Ragaud, and he\ncomes from the commune of Val\u2010Saint\u2010sur\u2010Range, near Issoudun.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right,\u201d said the officer; \u201cthat is enough, my brave fellow. Jean\nRagaud, Gen. Cavaignac will hear of you, ... and, if it depends on me, you\nwill hear from him.\u201d\n\nJeannet bowed as awkwardly as possible, which made the game\u2010keeper grumble\nagain.\n\n\u201cAgain I beg of you,\u201d said he, \u201cto keep that bewildered stare. You look\nlike the head of S. John the Baptist, cut off and laid on a dish, that is\npainted in our church. I suppose it is because you are so unhappy! The\ngeneral will no doubt send after you to have you hanged\u2014unless he sends\nyou the Cross of the Legion of Honor....\u201d\n\n\u201cThe cross!\u201d cried Jeannet, seizing the game\u2010keeper by the arm.\n\n\u201cYes indeed, idiot! I know how soldiers talk; would the colonel have said\nas much unless he was sure of the fact?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe cross!\u201d repeated Jean\u2010Louis, with tears in his eyes. \u201cO Jacques\nMichou! if it were true!\u201d\n\n\u201cThat would make you bold, eh? And it would be a fine present to take back\nto Muiceron.\u201d\n\n\u201cHush!\u201d said Jeannet: \u201cthe bare thought makes me crazy.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope not,\u201d replied Michou; \u201cbut I would be half wild myself. Come, now,\nlet us be off; we have earned our dinner. M. le Marquis is asking for\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cWait a moment, good, kind Jacques,\u201d said Jean\u2010Louis. \u201cI have not yet\nthanked you; and yet I know you saved my life.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat nonsense!\u201d said Michou, who in his turn looked embarrassed. \u201cIn such\na battle, do you think a fellow looks after any one\u2019s skin but his own?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I saw you,\u201d replied Jeannet. \u201cYou sprang before me, or I would have\nbeen killed.\u201d\n\n\u201cListen,\u201d said Michou in a solemn tone, \u201cbefore God, who hears me, and\nconducts all by his divine hand, it was not so much your life that I\nwished to save, ... it was another\u2019s that I wished to take.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe should not love revenge,\u201d replied the game\u2010keeper; \u201cbut the temptation\nwas too strong; faith! I am ready to confess it, if it was a sin\u2014of which\nI am not sure. Jeannet, he who aimed at you from the barricade\u2014didn\u2019t you\nrecognize him?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Jeannet, \u201cI saw no one.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was Isidore Perdreau. God have mercy on his soul!\u201d said the game\u2010\nkeeper, blessing himself. \u201cMy poor Barbette in heaven will ask for my\npardon....\u201d\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nFragment Of Early English Poetry.\n\n\nTo Those Who Get Their Lyvyne By The Onest Craft Of Masonry.\n\nKnele ye both ynge and olde,\nAnd both yer hondes fayr upholde,\nAnd say thenne yn thys manere,\nFayre and softe withouten bere;\nJhesu, Lord, welcome Thou be\nYn forme of bred as y The se;\nNow Jhesu for Thyn holy name,\nSchielde Thou me from synne and schame,\nSchryff and hosel, grant me bo,\nEre that y schall hennus go.\n\n\u2014_Christian Schools and Scholars._\n\n\n\n\nSelf\u2010Education.(69)\n\n\nWords the most familiar, and which convey to the mind the most clearly\nmarked associations of ideas, very frequently grow vague and obscure when\nwe seek to limit their meaning by accurate and scientific definitions.\nWhen we attempt to define that which is complex, or to make a\ngeneralization of facts of diverse natures, we find it extremely difficult\nto avoid including more than we intend, or leaving out something that\nshould be embraced.\n\nThis will become evident to any one who will take the trouble, for\ninstance, to examine into the various definitions of life which have been\ngiven by philosophers and scientists.(70) Still, they all agree, however\nwidely they may differ in their views concerning what life is in itself,\nthat the law of growth applies to all living beings. This is true, not of\nphysical life alone, but of intellectual and moral life as well. What I\nhave to say on this subject at present relates more especially to\nintellectual life, which consists in the union of the intelligent\nprinciple with the objects submitted to it, and which it apprehends as\ntrue\u2014that is, as being in reality what they seem to be, and resulting from\nthis, as good or beautiful.\n\nTruth is the harmony of thought with things.(71) Intellectual growth is a\ncontinual approach to the perfect harmony of thought with things, which,\nhowever, to the finite mind, is unattainable; and this fact constitutes\none of the great charms of the cultivation of the mind.\n\nThe nature of the human intellect places limits to mental progress, though\nthey are not assignable in any given case, but may be indefinitely\nextended. That there are limits, however, you will readily perceive by\nreflecting that we do not possess even one idea which does not, either in\nitself or in its postulates, contain something which transcends all human\ncomprehension.\n\nWhat, let us ask ourselves, is the law of intellectual growth? The\ncondition of all growth is effort. Life is a struggle in which lesser\nforces are overcome by greater. This is true of the individual as of the\nrace. It is only by effort, by the exertion of power, that we live and\nconsequently grow. Labor, then, is the law of intellectual as of all\nprogress.\n\nBefore going further, let us examine into the obstacles which tend to\nprevent improvement of mind.\n\nThese are to be sought for either in the circumstances which surround us\nor in ourselves. We are to such an extent the creatures of circumstances\nthat, when these are unfavorable, it is almost impossible that we should\nmake great head\u2010way.\n\nAs occasion makes the thief, it is also required to make the scholar. In\nthe first place, leisure is essential to mental culture, since education\nis a work of time and of labor. We therefore look for little or no\ncultivation of mind in those who lead lives of manual toil, and who,\nduring the brief moments allowed for recreation, are so fatigued as to be\nincapable of sustained mental effort.\n\nHere and there an individual from this class, of remarkable gifts, and\nendowed with great energy and will, surmounts the obstacle, and, having\nrisen to a higher level, succeeds, by perseverance and industry, in making\nvery considerable intellectual progress. But, as a rule, all will admit\nthat it would be absurd to look for much mental training in men who work\nten or even eight hours a day in factories and mines, or in tilling the\nsoil.\n\nIntercourse with educated men is of the greatest advantage in the work of\nself\u2010education; and where this is wanting, intellectual progress will\nrarely be found. The presence of highly developed and gifted minds has a\nmagnetic power which creates emulation, awakens admiration, and stimulates\nto effort. Hence we find the great men of the world, whether philosophers,\npoets, statesmen, orators, or artists, in schools and historic groups.\n\nBooks, too, are required; but to this part of the subject we shall return.\n\nThe obstacles to mental growth within ourselves are of various kinds. Some\nhave their origin in the body, some in the intellect, others in the will.\n\nInfirm health, the love of ease, and excessive fondness of eating and\ndrinking are generally incompatible with intellectual growth; and yet some\nof the greatest minds have wrought through feeble bodies, whilst many\nliterary men have indulged to excess in the pleasures of the table, though\nalways to their own injury.\n\nThe literary man, it may be well to remark, is not necessarily the\nthoroughly educated man; very often, indeed, he has nothing of the true\nman except the talent for letters. Vain, selfish, conceited, restless, a\nfickle friend, an unfaithful husband, the mere man of letters, poet,\nnovelist, or scribe, is too often a caricature on human nature.\n\nThere are in the mind itself obstacles to mental progress which vary with\nthe peculiarities of the individual. There are weak minds, slow minds,\ninattentive minds; in fact, all minds are in different degrees subject to\nthese defects, and it is only relatively and by comparison that some are\nsaid to be feeble, whilst others are strong. Education supposes these\nweaknesses, and it is its aim to correct them. Obstacles to intellectual\ngrowth may exist also in the will; since the mind, under the influence of\ninordinate passion, is incapable of the deliberation and sustained\nattention which are required for calm and serious thought.\n\nThese, briefly and imperfectly stated, are, it seems to me, the chief\ndifficulties with which those who seek to improve their minds have to\ncontend.\n\nThey are not imaginary, but they are not so great as to frighten men in\nyour condition of life. For you, young gentlemen, the obstacles of\ncircumstance do not, I may say, exist. Your occupations leave you a few\nhours out of the twenty\u2010four, which you are free to devote to study; you\nmay enjoy, if such be your desire, the conversation of men of thought and\nlearning, whilst books of all kinds are within your reach. I may add that,\nin a great metropolis like this, you possess special advantages. Here you\nhave the best of everything. Where there is the greatest demand for the\nmost perfect, thither will it gravitate by a law as universal as that of\nattraction. To this city, from two worlds, come the best orators, the most\nlearned men of science, the finest singers, the most accomplished actors,\nfor the same reason that the fattest beeves, the choicest wines, and the\nmost costly fabrics are sent hither\u2014that is, because there is a demand for\nthem. On the other hand, life in great cities has its intellectual\ndangers. There is here so much of the mere noise of life that most men\nfind it difficult to dwell within themselves, to receive as welcome guests\nthoughts that do not concern the business or the pleasure of the\nhour\u2014difficult not to be drawn into the whirlpool of human passion, where\nmen eddy round and round, shouting, rushing, struggling, in wild\nconfusion, forgetful of themselves, forgetful of truth. In a great\ncommercial centre, too, we are apt to become the victims of the prevailing\nopinion which attaches honor and respect to wealth before all things; and\nI know of nothing more hurtful to intellectual growth than the absorbing\npursuit of riches or that narrow disposition of soul which causes men to\nfawn upon the rich, even though they have nothing but money. That it is of\nimportance to every one to think correctly, to possess a trained and\ncultivated mind, I need not attempt to prove. The harmonious development\nof our faculties in accordance with the principles of eternal wisdom is, I\nmay say, the great work of life; for the proper training of the intellect\nnecessarily involves the cultivation of the moral faculties. Of the\nnecessity and priceless value of such education there can be no diversity\nof opinion among enlightened, men. Nor wealth nor place can give to man\nthe dignity which is derived from the perfection of his own powers. We are\ngreater than whatever ministers to our wants and vanities.\n\nAnother consideration which you will permit me to present to your\nattention, as suggestive of salutary thought in connection with the\nbenefits to be derived through an association like yours, is this: no man\nwho has done nothing more than go through a college course, it matters not\nhow brilliant he may have been, can rightly be called educated. Education\nis the work of the man, and not of the boy. The best that school\u2010training\ncan do is to teach the boy how he should study when he has become a man.\nThough there will generally be found a certain refinement, correctness of\nexpression, and intelligent appreciativeness in those who have made a\ncollegiate course, yet, if this be not followed up by the study of the\nman, they will be found to possess neither mental strength nor logical\naccuracy.\n\nBefore entering upon the direct treatment of the proper method to be\npursued by those who seek to improve their minds, allow me to say a word\nof the work of preparation, which is twofold, intellectual and moral.\n\nWe should prepare the mind for the reception of truth by freeing it from\nall those opinions which rest upon no other foundation than prejudice.\nThere are personal prejudices, family prejudices, national prejudices,\nprejudices of childhood, prejudices of old age, prejudices of men,\nprejudices of women, all of which tend to prevent the view of things as\nthey are in themselves, by directing the mind, in an undue manner, to\ntheir relations to ourselves.\n\nPersonal prejudice inclines each one to think too well of himself, his\ntalents, his acquirements; it is that, in a word, which makes it almost\nimpossible that any power should\n\n\n        \u201cThe giftie gie us\n    To see oursels as ithers see us.\u201d\n\n\nIt is the great obstacle to self\u2010knowledge and the fruitful source of\nerror, warping the judgment and perverting the will. It creates within us\na tendency to deceive ourselves concerning whatever we love or hate.\n\nNational prejudice is another very common phase of this universal\nweakness. How few men are capable of forming just and fair opinions of the\nmanners, customs, and opinions of foreign nations! The infirmity of even\ngreat minds is, in this respect, lamentable; above all, this is an\noriginal sin of the English people; for they\u2014if I be not myself under the\ninfluence of the prejudice which I condemn\u2014are the most narrow and\ninsular, in their self\u2010conceit, of all the peoples of the earth. It is\nnext to miraculous that an Englishman should judge fairly of the Irish,\nthe French, the Italians, or the Americans; and this unfortunate defect of\nthe national mind has been stamped upon the literature of the country.(72)\n\nAmericans, more, probably, from the force of circumstances which were not\nunder their control than from any other cause, are less narrow in their\nnationalism, though by no means free from prejudice. In the past, at\nleast, we were too often guilty of the folly of looking upon our form of\ngovernment as ideal, forgetting that no form of government should be\nconsidered in the abstract, or as good or better, except relatively to the\ncircumstances to which it is applied.\n\nThen, we, a young people, affect contempt for antiquity, and become\nsuperficial, and lose veneration.\n\nIt is not necessary that I should enter further into this part of the\nsubject.\n\nThere is, I have said, a work of preparation which directly concerns the\nmoral nature. As the mind is to be freed from prejudice, the will is to be\ntaken from beneath the yoke of passion. It is through the will that the\nintellect is warped by prejudice. He who is the slave of passion will\nrarely have an honest desire to improve his mind; and, even where this\nexists, the tyrant into whose hands he has surrendered his soul will\ndeprive him of the power. Sensual indulgence produces a deterioration of\nthe nervous system, which, of course, causes a corresponding degeneracy in\nthe intellectual faculties. How can there be a love of excellence without\nself\u2010respect, and how can a man who habitually violates the sanctity of\nhis nature respect himself?\n\n\u201cNothing,\u201d says Cicero, \u201cis so injurious, so baneful, as lust, which, were\nit stronger or of greater duration, would extinguish the very light of\nreason. It prevents thought, blindfolds the eyes of the mind, and can have\nno society with wisdom.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will simply express my strong belief,\u201d says Faraday, one of the\ngreatest men of science of this century, \u201cthat that point of self\u2010\neducation which consists in teaching the mind to resist its desires and\ninclinations until they are proved to be right, is the most important of\nall, not only in things of natural philosophy, but in every department of\ndaily life.\u201d\n\nThe assent of the mind is, in a marvellous manner, subject to the power of\nthe will. How readily we give credence to what flatters our vanity, or is,\nfrom whatever cause, agreeable to us!\n\nWe easily persuade a man that what he wishes to do is right, but usually\nlabor in vain when passion pleads against us.\n\nIn this undoubted psychological fact is found the hidden cause of the\ninfidelity of many young men. They do wrong, and passion seeks to justify\ntheir conduct to their intelligence, which becomes the tool of the\nperverted will.\n\nOr, if you prefer to take another view of the subject, I will say that\nwhat the French call _l\u2019interiorit\u00e9_\u2014the habitual dwelling with one\u2019s own\nthoughts\u2014is an essential condition of mental growth. But this is painful\nto the sensual man, who has violated the sanctuary of his soul, and can\nconsequently no longer dwell there in peace.\n\nWhat pleasure can the father find in the bosom of his family, when he has\nbetrayed the wife whom he swore to love, and has brought shame upon the\nname which his children have received from him?\n\nTo him, then, who wishes to begin the life\u2010work of self\u2010improvement I\nwould say: Seek to have a large mind, from which no narrowing prejudice\nshuts out the full light of truth; have a pure heart, with the strength to\nlove all that is right.\n\nThen, I ask of him the will to work and to persevere in labor. Labor is\nthe great law of progress, the necessary condition of all improvement. He\nwho wishes to be an educated man must have courage; he must consent to see\nhimself forgotten for a time, overshadowed by the easy\u2010won reputations of\nthose of his own age, who will wear their honors full\u2010blushing, whilst all\nhis life is still concentred in the bud that wraps it close and nurtures\nit.\n\nIs it easy, in the fresh\u2010blown flower of manhood, in the enthusiasm of a\nnewly\u2010found liberty, when fair hands hold out the cup of pleasure, when\nbright eyes and smiling lips woo to indulgence\u2014is it easy, then, to choose\nrather silence and solitude, a life of toil more earnest and not less\nregular than the enforced labor of the college? And yet this must be.\nThere is no royal road to science.\n\n\n    \u201cA king of feasts and flowers, and wine and revel,\n    And love and mirth, was never king of glory.\u201d\n\n\nI have heard the question\u2014you have asked it yourselves\u2014Where are the young\nmen who go forth year after year from our colleges? What becomes of them?\nWe never hear of them. Is not something wrong? They cease to study, they\ncease to grow, and are lost in the crowd.\n\nBut your presence, young gentlemen, assures me that you have not ceased to\nlabor, and that you do not intend to cease to grow.\n\nPermit me, then, to present to you a few suggestions concerning the proper\nmethod of study. We do nothing well except what we do with system and\norder. Set apart, therefore, stated times for the improvement of your\nminds, and suffer not a slight circumstance to interfere with this\narrangement. And now I feel that I must be brief, when the subject which I\nam treating most requires development. How to study and what to study are\nproblems which engage the attention of the profoundest thinkers of our\nage, the adequate solution of which can be found only in a perfect\nphilosophy of education, which possibly has not yet been written. Without\naiming, then, to be either deep or thorough, I shall strive to be\npractical. To study, as I have already intimated, means to work with the\nmind. The mind grows by union with truth, by the assimilation of\nknowledge, which never takes place except by direct application of the\nthinking subject to the object thought. This continued application\u2014in\nother words, attention\u2014is difficult; it wearies the mind, it fatigues the\nbody. To read is not to study. Some of the most indolent men I have ever\nknown, intellectually indolent, were passionately fond of reading. To read\nrequires no mental effort, and demands merely that sort of attention\nnecessary to form a vague notion of each sentence as it passes through the\nmind. A man may read all the books in the Astor Library, and acquire\nhardly more knowledge than there will remain water in a sieve through\nwhich a stream has been pouring. Indiscriminate, inattentive reading\nconfuses the mind, and, if persevered in, begets a mental habit\nincompatible with clear and accurate thinking; and the important thing,\nfrom an educational point of view, is not so much to get knowledge as to\nstrengthen and develop the intellect, that it may be prepared to grapple\nintelligently and successfully with the problems which greatly concern or\ninterest us as rational beings.\n\nBut you will readily understand that it is far from my thought to wish to\ndissuade you from cultivating a fondness for reading. On the contrary,\nthis, if you have it not, you must acquire, if you hope to make progress\nin the work of self\u2010education. Read, then, but read intelligently,\nthoughtfully. One should read at his writing\u2010desk, pen in hand, taking\nnote of new and striking thoughts, of graceful and forcible modes of\nexpression; bringing the author\u2019s ideas into the presence of higher\ntruths, of principles that are fixed; rejecting what is false,\nassimilating what is just. Better still, write yourselves. Do not imagine\nthat I have the faintest desire to encourage you to become authors; there\nwould be fewer and better authors if men were in the habit of doing what I\nwould have you do. Write, not that others may read your thoughts, but that\nthey may become clear to your own minds.\n\n\u201cI confess,\u201d said S. Augustine, \u201cthat by writing I have learned many\nthings which nothing else had taught me.\u201d You will recall to mind the\napothegm of Bacon: \u201cReading makes a full man, talking a ready man, and\nwriting an exact man.\u201d\n\nI have no hesitation in saying that, of all means of mental culture,\nwriting is the best, as well for extending and deepening the intellectual\nfaculties, as for giving them justness and polish.\n\nDo I propose to you to go back to the drudgery of task compositions? Such\nis not my thought.\n\nI suppose you to be interested in certain subjects, of which you wish to\nget at least a tolerably thorough knowledge. You take the authors who have\ntreated most exhaustively of these matters; you read them, you study them;\nyou apply your own minds, in sustained thought, to the facts and\nprinciples which they give you. And here precisely lies the difficulty;\nfor you will find that, when you will have acquired the power of sustained\nthought, you will be able to master almost any subject.\n\nNow, to get this mental habit, nothing will aid you like writing. I do not\nbelieve that any man who has never translated his thoughts into written\nlanguage is able to think profoundly or correctly. Do not, however,\nmisunderstand me. One may write negligently and thoughtlessly, as he may\nread with indolence and inattention. Put your hand to the pen, and begin\nto meditate upon the thoughts that fill your mind. Should you, for weeks\nand months, not write one sentence for every hour you hold the pen, do not\nbe discouraged, and, above all, be persuaded that this time has not been\nlost. Think neither of style nor of the reader; give all your attention to\ntruth and to your own soul. The style is the man. Write out the life that\nis within you. Keep what you have written, and after months and years, in\nlooking back, you will perceive that you have grown steadily, increased\nday by day in intellectual vigor and refinement; and there will always be\nspecial worth in words written, not to please the vulgar crowd, not to\npropitiate a false and intolerant public opinion\u2014written to gain neither\napplause nor gold, but for God and truth, and the dignity of the human\nsoul.\n\n\u201cThere is nothing,\u201d says Seneca, \u201chowever difficult or arduous, which the\nhuman mind cannot conquer, and assiduous meditation render familiar.\nWhatever the soul demands of itself it obtains.\u201d But how are you to learn\nthe secret of assiduous meditation, to acquire the habit of retaining\ndifficulties in mind, to be considered and reconsidered, to be taken up at\nthe leisure moment, and laid down as deferred but not abandoned?\n\nAs the soldier takes the sword, the painter the brush, the musician his\ninstrument, the mechanic the tools of his trade, each to perfect himself\nin his art, so he who wishes to learn how to think must take the pen and\ndo honest work.\n\n\n    \u201cBut words are things, and a small drop of ink\n    Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces\n    That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.\u201d\n\n\nI shall conclude this part of my subject with a quotation from Sir William\nHamilton: \u201cThe primary principle of education is the determination of the\npupil to self\u2010activity\u2014the doing nothing for him which he is able to do\nfor himself.\u201d This principle is applicable to every stage of the mind\u2019s\ndevelopment, and in it will be found the secret of success in the great\nwork of self\u2010education.\n\nThe student, I have said, should cultivate a fondness for intelligent and\nthoughtful reading; for in books chiefly all human knowledge is treasured\nup.\n\n\u201cMany a man lives a burden to the earth,\u201d says Milton; \u201cbut a good book is\nthe precious life\u2010blood of a master\u2010spirit, embalmed and treasured up on\npurpose to a life beyond life.\u201d But only a few books are good. The great\nmass of those that are written fall upon the world dead, or at best\nsurvive but a short time.\n\nWe are about to celebrate the centennial anniversary of our national\nexistence, and, in the hundred years of our life, we have made many books.\nHow many of them will be read in the next century? A dozen? Hardly.\n\nThere is the Augustan age, the age of Leo X., the Elizabethan age, the age\nof Louis XIV., the age of Queen Anne, all remarkable for literary\nexcellence and the number of great writers whom they produced, and yet you\ncan count on your fingers the really good books that each has bequeathed\nto us. And this, too, is worthy of remark: a considerable portion of the\nbooks that survive are saved by style alone, and not on account of more\nsolid worth. Books which have the inductive sciences as their object can,\nfrom the nature of things, live but a short time, since these sciences,\nbeing in a state of continuous development are constantly outgrowing their\nown conclusions, and the treatises of even the ablest observers are\nsuperseded by those of men who, with less genius, have more certain and\nnumerous data.\n\nWorks of imagination, poetry and romance, may meet with temporary success,\nwithout possessing the higher qualities, from the fact that they describe\na mental, moral, or social phase of existence whose chief interest lies in\nits actuality. When this is past, the literary efforts called forth by it\ndie. In fiction, only the very best is worthy of study.\n\n\n    \u201cMediocribus esse poetis\n    Non homines, non d\u00ee, non concessere column\u00e6.\u201d\n\n\nAnd here is a case in point, in which we should know how to rise above\nprejudice\u2014the vulgar prejudice of the insipid and intellectually indolent\nsociety of our day, in which it is considered the proper thing for a man\nof culture to read each worthless production that happens to have a run.\n\nPersons of intellectual aspirations should, as far as possible, associate\nwith their superiors in knowledge and elevation of thought, and should\nexclude the common herd from intellectual companionship.\n\nThere is at least an aristocracy of mind, to which neither gold nor title\ncan give admission, but only kinship of spirit, smitten with the love of\nhigh thinking. What Tennyson has written of a different union may be\napplied to that of mind with mind:\n\n\n    \u201cYet it shall be, thou shalt lower to his level day by day,\n    What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay.\n    As the husband is, the wife is; thou art mated with a clown,\n    And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee\n                down.\u201d\n\n\nAllow me, in this connection, to say a word of periodical literature.\n\nA book can wait for success; the best books have not been understood by\nthe generation for which they were written; but a newspaper or magazine\nmust succeed at once, or fail utterly, since its life is necessarily\nephemeral. Hence the great probability is that it will be guided, not by\nprinciple, but by policy; that it will aim, not to uphold truth, but to\nflatter the prejudices of its readers. If it is the organ of a party, it\nmust defend its interests blindly; and hence, whenever argument is\nattempted, it will be found to consist of little else than special\npleading and sophistry. But since the average newspaper\u2010reader is not fond\nof logic, the partisan organ will deal rather with men than with\nprinciples; and the whole basis of this procedure is double\u2010\ndealing\u2014untruth erected into the dignity of a principle. Its business will\nbe to whitewash its friends, and besmear its enemies. When its party is\nout of office, it will swell with indignation at the public corruption,\nand will use what are called the argus eyes of the press to discover\nthings which do not exist; but when the spoils are in the hands of its\nfriends, it will devote itself to covering up their misdeeds. There is\nalso what is called the independent press, which generally has less of\nprinciple than that which is avowedly partisan. It in turn affirms and\ndenies everything, plays fast and loose, palters in a double sense, and,\nwith a seeming honesty, is most unfair, lending all its influence to\npersuade men that there is no such thing as truth, and that morality is\nonly cant.\n\nThere are yet other heads of indictment that may be brought, without\ninjustice, against the press. Its columns are filled with details, more or\nless minute, of all the horrible and disgusting crimes which disgrace\nsociety, with sins against the decencies of life, with coarse\npersonalities, and advertisements which are an opprobrium to human nature.\n\nThis, I must confess, is a one\u2010sided view of the question; it is, however,\nthe view which my subject forces me to take in treating of the means of\nself\u2010education.\n\nThough it would be absurd to ask you not to read newspapers, it would, in\nmy opinion, be wholly unwise to counsel you to make use of them to any\ngreat extent as aids to true cultivation of mind. We grow, morally and\nintellectually, by association with that which is above us, and not by\ncontact with what is low; and it is not by filling the mind day by day\nwith what is startling, corrupt, sensational, or at best only of passing\ninterest, but by lifting it up into the higher and serener atmosphere,\nfrom which the trivial and transitory value of these things is perceived,\nthat it will gain in depth and power.\n\nExcept in the line of study which belongs to one\u2019s profession, the wisest\nrule is to confine ourselves to the works of really great minds, which we\nshould not merely read, but study.\n\nIn connection with practical self\u2010education, I consider the \u201cconversation\nevening,\u201d as described in your _Report_ for 1872, excellent. In\nintellectual pursuits, as in other things, association gives increase of\npower and the means of progress. The contact of mind with mind develops\nthe latent fire, and strikes into life the slumbering thought. Mind\nbecomes supplementary to mind; and the intercommunion of souls, which\nconstitutes the purest friendship, becomes also the source of the highest\npleasure.\n\nI know that the value of mere intellectual cultivation may be exaggerated,\nand that, in point of fact, the men who, in our day, deny God, insist most\nupon the developed mind\u2019s self\u2010sufficiency.\n\n\u201cIn the writings of our great poets,\u201d says Strauss, after having rejected\nGod and the soul, \u201cin the performances of our great musicians, we find a\nsatisfying stimulus for the intellect and the heart, and for fancy in her\ndeepest or most sportive moods.\u201d(73)\n\nIndeed, there is a danger in polite education which we should be most\ncareful to avoid. The love of poetry and music, of the fine arts in\ngeneral, has, I think, a tendency to make us unreal and visionary, because\nit separates feeling from acting. We may have high thoughts, fine\nsentiments, and pleasurable emotions, and yet lie slothfully on our couch.\nBut life is for action, and to this end thought, sentiment, and feeling\nshould all conspire. If science and philosophy be our favorite pursuits,\nwe may acquire inveterate habits of analysis which, by drying up the\nfountains of feeling, and isolating the intellect from the heart, will\nconvert the mind into a storehouse for abstractions and lifeless formulas.\nThis tendency of the study of science will give us a satisfactory\nexplanation of many of the intellectual errors of the present day.\n\nFrom abstraction, only the abstract, the unreal, can be inferred, and\nhence the new philosophy of atheism does not affirm being, but merely the\nphenomenon.\n\nThe exaggerated importance which this age has attributed to mere\nintellectual cultivation has, amongst other results, produced what may be\ncalled over\u2010education\u2014an excessive activity of brain, which threatens to\nenfeeble the physical health of modern peoples by abnormally developing\nthe nervous system.\n\nI have referred to these dangers, not for the purpose of insisting on\nthem, but rather that I might have an opportunity to say that they are not\nto be greatly dreaded by us. The church gives us fixed principles of\nfaith, certain rules of conduct, which will prevent the love of literature\nfrom taking from us that deep and practical seriousness of mind which is\ninseparable from the true Christian character, whilst she guides us with\nan eye that sees the light of heaven through the dark mazes of philosophy;\nand the fear of over\u2010education should certainly not trouble us.\n\nThe educated Catholics of this country seem to be fast sinking to a low\nlevel of mediocrity, above which no man has the power or the courage to\nraise his head. Where are the men, lay or clerical, who give promise of\nbecoming worthy to be the successors of Kenrick, of England, of Hughes, or\nof Brownson?\n\nAnd yet never was there an age or country in which men of might, able to\ndo battle for the truth, were more needed. If we sink out of the\nintellectual life of the American people, we shall be passed by and\nforgotten.\n\nPermit me, then, young gentlemen, before concluding this hastily\u2010written\naddress, to exhort you to be ambitious, not of success, but of excellence,\nwhich is its own reward. He who is worthy to succeed can despise success.\nAfter the noble resolve to be true to God, to one\u2019s self, and to one\u2019s\nfellowman, I know of no higher aim in life than to grow in intellectual\nstrength.\n\nOlder men than you might say that my words smack something too much of the\nsavor of youth, which is \u201ca bubble blown up with breath, whose wit is\nweakness.\u201d But with you, enthusiasm, I am sure, need not plead for pardon.\nEven to have dreamed of deeds of high emprise and noble endeavor, of\nvictories won on the foughten field, is something; and to the young should\nbelong hope, which is not only the charm of life, but also its strength.\n\nWithout the living hope of something better, man falls back upon himself,\nin impotence, like a bird whose wing is clipt. He who wishes to do much\nmust hope for still more.\n\nHope gives the conviction of strength; it is confidence, and confidence is\npower. Have faith and hope in God and in yourselves; and, above all,\nbelieve that the highest wisdom consists in tender love for the religion\nof Jesus Christ. Guard yourselves against a life of indulgence, which is\nincompatible with generous ambition and is destructive of character. Yield\nnot to the fascinations of a literature which flatters human weakness and\npays court to the senses instead of speaking to the soul. Be not cynical,\nbe large\u2010hearted, since the true view is the generous view. Give the\nhomage of admiration to every great man, whether he be a hero, a genius,\nor a saint.\n\nWhen you see Napoleon on the battle\u2010field, and look into his eye, and\nbehold there the soul of the war\u2010god that looks and conquers, forget for\nthe moment his tyranny and selfishness, and let your soul shout unto his\npresence a shout of living enthusiasm, even as the war\u2010cry of his own\nunconquered veterans when, in the battle, he rode amongst them in strength\nand majesty, like unto the archangel when he beat into hell the rebellious\npowers of heaven. When you stand in the Roman forum, and see Cicero arise\nand take into his hands the enchained hearts of his hearers, and play upon\nthem, as the harper sweeps his fingers over the trembling chords of the\nlyre, till it shouts or laughs or wails, sighs like the zephyr, sings like\nthe seraph, curses like the demon, let your soul also be attuned to the\nthrilling accents of his divine eloquence.\n\nWhen you behold young Xavier, surrounded by the most brilliant audience\nthat fame could attract, suddenly, after a burst of applause, stop,\nreflect a moment, then quit that scene of triumph, and, clothed in simple\ngarb, turn his eager steps toward the East, where millions dwell who have\nnever heard the name of Jesus, and there, strong in the power of divine\nlove and super\u2010human self\u2010sacrifice, cause every knee to bend to Jesus and\nevery tongue to bless his holy name, until at last, still seeking for some\nsoul in darkness lying, on a barren isle, far from man or beast, alone,\nwith the ocean before him, the desert around him, and God within him, he\nbreathes out his great soul in the words of a confidence certain of\nitself: \u201cIn thee, O God! have I hoped; I shall not be confounded for\never\u201d\u2014when you behold all this, lift up your hearts to God, and ask him to\ngive you, too, the strength to be Christians.\n\n\n\n\nOn The Wing. A Southern Flight. II.\n\n\n    \u201cIo son Monaco; sopra un scoglio,\n        Non seme, non coglie,\n        E pure vuol mangiar.\u201d(74)\n\n\nIt is true indeed that he does eat, the prince of the ancient name, and\nexquisitely beautiful little town, of Monaco. But it is food that would\ngive an indigestion to any man with a conscience. The prince has reserved\nto himself of his lovely tiny principality very little more than his large\npalace and the surrounding gardens. The rest is let to the keeper of a\ngambling establishment built and organized on a very magnificent scale,\nand standing, with its hotel and several gay shops, in the most exquisite\nItalian gardens that imagination can picture\u2014veritable gardens of Armida,\nwith terrace above terrace, flights of white, gleaming steps, handsome\nbalustrades, and all the glorious flowers and foliage of far\u2010distant and\nstill more sunny regions. They command a view of unspeakable beauty. They\nare full of all the sweet, peaceful suggestions of lovely nature,\nheightened and enhanced by the order and arrangement of subtle art. As I\nwandered up and down the marble stairs, and from beneath the shade of\neucalyptus, palm, mimosa, tamarisk, and cypress, into the sunny walks\nbright with flowers, my heart sank within me at the dreadful thought that\nall this had been brought together for no other purpose than to minister\nto human passions of the worst kind, and to accumulate sordid gains by\ntrading on vice. Games of chance may not, in themselves, be wrong. Far be\nit from me to assert that they are. But if the chronicles of Monaco could\nbe truly written for only one season, we should look on this beautiful\nscene, where God\u2019s best gifts in bountiful nature have been used to\ndecorate and adorn it to the utmost, as simply one of the gates of hell,\nand probably one of its broadest and largest. The moon was riding through\na pure expanse of spotless blue, her reflection dancing on the rippling\nsea with silver footsteps, as we passed down the flights of broad stairs\nfrom terrace to terrace to join the night\u2010train to Mentone. The journey\ntook us barely twenty minutes; and we were silent and depressed. We had\nseen no startling sight: all was perfectly decorous and calm. A slight\nclick, click, very occasionally, as the heaps of gold had been piled on\nthe _tapis vert_, and a subdued, muffled noise, hardly perceptible, as the\ncroupiers dragged forward the gains and the losses of silent figures that\nsat or stood around the numerous gambling\u2010tables\u2014that was all. Hours\npassed. People came and went with noiseless tread and controlled\ncountenance. No man committed suicide in our presence. No woman shrieked\nat her loss or laughed at her success. Outwardly, it was calm, silent, and\nintense. But there is a wordless language which speaks from one human soul\nto another, and which, whether we will or no, reveals something of the\ninner state and the unspoken secrets. The very air teemed with these\nsecrets. And as I passed out into the quiet night, I wondered whether\nperhaps in hell there will be the same decorous silence, without the\nexterior beauty, and all the fire of anguish be hidden beneath the outer\ngarb\u2014so entirely did it seem that, to many, it might be but one step from\n_this_ to _that_.\n\n\n    \u201cO tu che, siasi tua fortuna o voglia,\n    Al paese fatal d\u2019Armida arrive,\n    Pensi indarno al fuggire; or l\u2019arme spoglia,\n    E porgi ai lacci suoi le man cattive.\u201d(75)\n\n    \u2014_Gerusalemme Liberata_, Canto 7, stanza 32.\n\n\nThe rusticity of Mentone was a relief after the sort of nightmare to which\nwe had so needlessly subjected ourselves at Monaco. It was carnival time,\nand the peasantry were making merry. A motley crew came pouring down the\nonly street worthy of the name, in fantastic dresses, making hideous\nsounds through huge horns, shouting and dancing. They had two bears with\nthem, which, I afterwards heard, in their frolic they had let loose, to\nthe alarm of quiet folks. For myself, I scrambled up a steep, narrow, and\nvery dirty _vicolo_,(76) part of which was composed of broken steps, glad\nto be out of their way. And so, climbing higher and higher, I found myself\nat the parish church, where there was an Exposition of the Blessed\nSacrament, and where the noise of the masks and merry\u2010makers could not\npenetrate.\n\nAs I am far from intending to give my kind readers anything of the nature\nof a guide\u2010book\u2014a task for which I am utterly unqualified\u2014I will not weary\nthem with an account of how and by what route we found ourselves at the\nSan Marco Hotel at Bologna, the City of Arcades, the capital of\njurisprudence, whence came many an astute lawyer, reared in its celebrated\nuniversity, which has also given the church six sovereign pontiffs, and\namongst them the witty and learned Benedict XIV. To Bologna we owe the\ngreat school of painting founded by Francia, which boasts of the Caracci,\nDomenichino, Guido, and his pupil Guercino, besides many others. We\nthought ourselves unusually accurate and learned, when, on arriving at the\n_Accademia_, we asked the surly guardian which way we ought to turn to get\nto the _Pinacoteca_; and not till we had, in a more roundabout form, told\nhim we wanted to see the pictures would he condescend from his stolid\ndignity to tell us where to go. The Francias alone, the S. Cecilia of\nRaphael, or the Martyrdom of S. Agnes by Domenichino, would be worth a yet\nlonger journey to behold. And the Head of Christ Crowned with Thorns,\ndrawn in crayons by Guido, with stains of damp on the paper, and some\nslight discoloration from age, leaves an impression on the memory\nsurpassing, to my mind, all that artist\u2019s finished paintings. Bologna has\nset an example our more liberal times, as we are apt to think them, seem\nunwilling to follow, and are doing so but slowly and grudgingly. The\nlearned ladies who aspire to equality with the other sex might come here\nin a body, raise the now declining glories of the university, and fill\nthose comparatively empty halls. Bologna has known female lawyers of\neminence, and doctors, and at least one surgeon and anatomist of the\ngentler sex, and has done homage to their learning and merit. Might it not\nbe as well to take advantage of a university so large\u2010minded, and once so\ncelebrated?\u2014convinced, as we are, that if the ladies took the lead, the\ngentlemen would follow.\n\nWe had had the honor many years ago of knowing Cardinal Mezzofanti, so\ncelebrated as a linguist. He was a Bolognese, and had been librarian of\nthe university here, and, when we knew him, occupied an important post in\nthe Vatican library. At that time he had mastered something like forty\nlanguages. He told us that, a short time previous, he had been informed\nthere was a poor sailor come to Rome from some out\u2010of\u2010the\u2010way part of the\nworld\u2014Lapland, I believe\u2014who spoke a dialect no one could understand or\nmake anything of; and that the man, being a Catholic, wanted to go to his\nEaster duties. The cardinal sent for him, and made him discourse in his\npresence. In two days his eminence was quite ready to hear his confession,\nand could talk with the man in his own tongue with fluency.\n\nThrough the cool, shady arcades of beautiful Bologna we wandered to the\nPiazza Vittoria Emanuel, which formerly was known by the more honorable\nname of Piazza del Gigante. The crowd was so great that we could hardly\nmake our way past the groups of peasants and well\u2010to\u2010do farmers, in their\nwarm, brown cloaks, all talking and gesticulating, with apparently nothing\nelse to do. There was a market going on, but not one which seemed of\nsufficient importance to justify so large a crowd, and which probably\ncollects there daily, about mid\u2010day, out of the abundant leisure which\npervades Italian life, even in its most industrious forms. We visited the\nshrine of S. Dominic, and were long engaged in admiring its extraordinary\nbeauty. The saint died at Bologna in 1221. He was in England when the\nvision was granted him which revealed to him that, before the next Feast\nof the Assumption, his earthly career would be closed, and, on arriving at\nBologna, had forewarned the students at the university that he was about\nto leave them. Shortly after, he went to Venice on the affairs of his\norder. He returned to the monastery of S. Nicholas, at Bologna, in the\ngreat heats of the last days of July. The following morning he celebrated\nhis last Mass, and said Office in choir. He then complained of headache,\nbut refused to take any further repose than was obtained by sitting on a\nsack of wool which happened casually to be at hand. Finding his suffering\nincrease, he sent for the novices, to give them his last exhortation,\nsumming up all in these simple words: \u201cBe filled with charity, keep\nhumility, and observe voluntary poverty.\u201d In the hope that a purer air\nmight benefit their beloved father and founder, they carried him to the\nChurch of S. Mary of the Mount. But the journey, brief as it was, proved\nrather to have aggravated his condition. Once again he addressed the\nassembled brethren; and finding that there was some idea of burying him\nthere, instead of in his own monastery, he entreated to be taken back to\nS. Nicholas, that he might, as he expressed it, be buried beneath the feet\nof his brothers. They wanted to change his clothes, but discovered he had\nno others but those he wore. Brother Moneta therefore lent him a habit. He\nhad received the last sacraments at S. Mary\u2019s of the Mount; and finding\nthat his disciples, in the excess of their grief, were delaying to read\nthe prayers for the dying, he was the first to beg they would commence.\nWhile they prayed around him, his lips silently repeated the words; and\nwhen they came to the sentence, \u201cCome to his assistance, ye saints of God.\nCome forth to meet him, ye angels of the Lord, receiving his soul, and\noffering it in the sight of the Most High,\u201d(77) he lifted up his hands\ntoward heaven, and at the same moment gave up his pure soul to God.\n\nIt was at noon, on Friday, the 6th of August. Thus he reached his home\nfive years before his companion in arms in the warfare of the great church\nmilitant, S. Francis of Assisi, who was six years his junior. The last\nwords of the holy dying are ever precious to the Christian world; and it\nis to be remarked that those of the canonized saints have most frequently\nbeen taken from Holy Scripture or from the liturgy of the church. S.\nFrancis died repeating the 141st Psalm; thus his last words were, \u201cBring\nmy soul out of prison, that I may praise thy name: the just wait for me,\nuntil Thou reward me.\u201d\n\nThe greater part of our journey to Bologna from Genoa had been through a\nhighly cultivated but flat and uninteresting country. The contrast was\ngreat on the railway from Bologna to Florence, with its forty\u2010five\ntunnels, its sudden turnings and windings, the beautiful valleys of the\nApennines, and the mountains themselves looking as if the giant hand of\nnature had crushed them like rose\u2010leaves, and then flung them down with\nall the crinkles in them. You look below on fertile fields and beautiful\nlittle towns nestling on the sides of green hills, with gardens and\nmeadows smiling in the sunshine. As you are attempting to realize the\nlovely scene before you, the relentless engine is bringing you nearer to\nrugged rocks, with hanging woods and fringes of the golden broom. A black\ncavern yawns in front of you, and in a second you are plunged in darkness.\nAway you are hurried, with grind, and puff, and roar, regretting the sunny\npicture from which you have so suddenly been snatched. Just as you are\nrecovering from the shock, again you emerge on a scene as beautiful as the\nlast; and again are you doomed to lose it, almost before your dazzled eyes\nhave recovered from this unnaturally rapid succession of day and night,\nand which reminded me of a certain planet, where, as astronomers assure\nus, the inhabitants, if there be any, are exposed to the vicissitudes of\nseveral days and nights in the course of our comparatively leisurely space\nof four\u2010and\u2010twenty hours. I have always ventured to hope they were not\nalso condemned to dress and undress each time; otherwise I think many of\nthem must be tempted to follow the example of that poor gentleman who cut\nhis throat, leaving a paper on the table in which he stated that it was\nthe constant buttoning and unbuttoning which had been too much for him.\n\nNothing can exceed the beauty of the view as the plain of Tuscany opens\nbefore you. We had seen it two\u2010and\u2010twenty years ago, before any railroads\nwere there to cut short the delights of travelling. We had gazed long and\nlingeringly from out the windows of our travelling\u2010carriage, while the\nsetting sun left his last kiss on the mountain heights, and the evening\nmists gathered below. I, for one, had never seen it since. But sometimes\nin my dreams that view had come back to me, and, when I awoke, it Was\nstill there. Sometimes the phantasmagoria of the mind had suddenly\nunfolded it before my memory without my being able to say when and where I\nhad painted that picture on my brain. And now I saw it again; and suddenly\nall those broken recollections seemed to gather themselves together, and\nunroll before me, while my soul whispered, \u201cHere is the reality of what\nfor so many years has haunted you, and which you have so often been\ntempted to believe was a trick of your imagination. It is a fact; and you\ncan recall it and put it together, piece by piece; as you will do, far\nmore perfectly, the broken and half\u2010forgotten fragments of your life when\nthe barrier of death is passed.\u201d\n\nThe only other wide expanse which has left the same impression on my\nimagination, waking and sleeping, is the view from the beautiful viaduct\nat Aricia, as it first burst upon me\u2014the vast campagna and the crimson\nlights of the setting sun.\n\nThis was our first visit to Florence since the government had taken\npossession of the Dominican church and monastery of San Marco, and opened\nthe latter as a museum to the public in 1869; so that my old jealousy that\nFrank could gaze at those wonderfully lovely angels of Fra Angelico was\nnow at an end. I do not think there is a cell without some exquisitely\ndevotional painting by the monk\u2010artist, whose every picture is an embodied\nmeditation and a prayer. We paused long in the two cells where Savonarola\nhad lived and studied and suffered. The old question forced itself upon me\nas to what had been the real character of that grand, imposing figure,\nwhich fills so large a page in the history of Florence\u2014the hard\u2010featured\nreformer, the man of relentless will and burning eloquence. Where was the\nlittle rift in the flute which jarred that celestial music? Where was the\nflaw in the gem which spoiled its intrinsic value? And which was the snare\nin his life which prevented his growing on into heroic virtue? His gifts\nand graces were immense, and, at one time at least, so supernatural that\nthey seemed at once the guarantee and the pledge that he would die a saint\nin the highest acceptation of the word. Frank, who has read a great deal\nabout him, written by all sides, is persuaded that it was a form of\nspiritual pride and dependence on himself that ruined all. Of course, at\nthis distance of time, and judging only from existing documents, no one\ncan say when precisely this began\u2014when the annihilation of self first gave\nplace to an inner complacency; when that heart, covered, as before, with\nthe rude hair\u2010shirt, began to throb with a secret sentiment of personal\nsatisfaction in the graces God had given. It must have been long, if ever,\nbefore those set, stern features began to betray that another spirit had\nentered into the soul of the ascetic monk, which gradually was tarnishing\nthe purity of his spiritual life. But when the end came, and he bowed to\ndeath in its most dreadful form, hurried on by the malignity of his\nenemies\u2014who, having once laid their hand on their prey, feared lest the\nmercy of Rome should be enlightened to arrest its own mandate\u2014can any\ndoubt that the man who had done so much in a holy cause, and had so\ndecried the pomp and pride of life, found all the graces attached to a\ngreat and accepted sacrifice?\n\nWe hurry from Florence. And though I might linger over my pages, and make\nmy story more full of information, and possibly of interest, I yet refrain\nfrom anything that may trench on the character of mere sketches, which\nalone I aim at. Frank forms one of a deputation to the Holy Father, and he\nwas to reach Rome by a certain day. We arrived long enough before that\ndate to establish ourselves in a house in the Ripetta, overlooking the\nyellow Tiber. Charon, mild, modern, and a Roman, ferries his boat just\nbeneath our windows. The rope is fastened to a stake on our balcony, and\nmakes a creaking noise as the boat crosses the river, to which we are so\nhabituated that we think it musical. Charon wears a glazed hat, and\naffects a nautical air quite uncalled for, considering his limited\nnavigation. For the moderate fee of one half\u2010penny he conveys his\npassengers to and fro across the classic river. Landed on the opposite\nshore, we pass along a narrow lane, on one side limited by a high wall, on\nthe other by a green bank paved with violet\u2010leaves. Modern violet\u2010leaves,\nbut doubtless descendants of those that fell beneath the coulter of\nCincinnatus\u2019 plough along these Quintian fields that early morn when the\nanxious senate went to call the half\u2010naked hero to another and less\npeaceful field, and bade him cross the Tiber (where we have done), and\nturn his plough\u2010share into a sword against those ever\u2010recurring Volsci and\n\u00c6qui. Let the violets grow, O warrior ploughman! and in a few brief days\nthou shalt return to find the little purple flowers ready to hail thy\ntriumph. Shall we see Racilia behind the tall vine\u2010poles, bearing the toga\nthat is to cover the brawny shoulders of the noble laborer? Or have these\nfamiliar idyls of our early life lost their charm in the sterner and more\nassured memories of Christian Rome?\n\nThe narrow, violet\u2010bordered lane leads into wide fields and to the\nfortifications of the Castle of Sant\u2019 Angelo. We are outside the gates of\nthe city. The white walls of Rome stand glittering in the sunshine to our\nleft; to our right lies the green, undulating Campagna; and before us are\nthe heights of Monte Mario, pine\u2010crowned.\n\nS. Michael, poised in mid\u2010air, sheathes his avenging sword above the huge\nround tower that was the tomb of Hadrian, and by turns the hiding\u2010place of\nthe popes or the prison of their enemies.\n\nDarkly looming against the blue\u2010white sky, the bronze figure of Rome\u2019s\nguardian angel for ever holds his weapon half\u2010way out of his scabbard,\nlike the suspended threat of an avenging power.\n\nDark\u2010browed Roman women are hanging out inconceivable colored rags that\nsurely never can have served for human raiment, to dry on the wooden rails\nthat mark our road. They are jabbering, in harsh and femininely shrill\ntones, their curtailed _patois_ of the Roman tongue; and the lark, in\nadvance of the season, is carolling overhead in the motionless air and in\nthe quivering light of the mid\u2010day sun. We re\u2010enter the city by the Porta\nAngelica, and are standing on the fields of the Vatican, where stood\nNero\u2019s circus and Nero\u2019s gardens. Of all the characters of the heathen\nRoman Empire, none comes more prominently forward as the very type of\nhuman depravity and accomplished wickedness than that of Nero. He seems\nthe embodiment of evil heightened by a versatility of talent and varnished\nby the gloss of a false poetic sense that makes him the exact opposite to\nall that produces heroic virtue in its greatest charm, as well as its\nhighest glory, among the Christian saints. His was the poet nature debased\nto the lowest sensuality and the meanest vanity. And in the mystic saints,\nis there not ever something of the poet nature carried to its most subtle\nexpression and its utmost elevation in the ascetic purity and tender\ndevotion of a S. Francis or a S. Gertrude? There is a wonderful sequence\nin the low\u2010lying, half\u2010hidden events of the church\u2019s history. There is a\nmarvellous counterbalancing of good against evil, as though the providence\nof God had (if we may use the expression) taken pleasure in substituting\nlight for darkness, and beauty for ugliness; selecting in each the exact\ncounterpart of the other, and placing them in juxtaposition. And so it is\nin this spot, which most brings to our recollection the lavish and foul\nluxury of Rome\u2019s artist emperor, the degraded being who was by turns\nactor, poet, musician, wrestler, or coachman, but fiend always! There,\nwhere the horrid pomp of his midnight revels was lighted up by the living\nand burning forms of the meek martyrs of the church\u2014there we now have the\ngrandest monument of the faith for which those martyrs died that ever has\nbeen, or probably ever will be. And the great saints, the pillars of the\nchurch, the founders and foundresses of her armies of religious orders,\nstand now, sculptured in cool marble niches along the aisles of that\ngorgeous Basilica which stands on the very ground of Nero\u2019s infamous\ngardens. There, too, was another \u201cPotter\u2019s Field,\u201d in which to bury\nstrangers; for the clay soil on which S. Peter\u2019s is built had served in\nthe old Roman manufactory of bricks and earthenware. The potters had\nexcavated numberless caves on the slopes of the Vatican hills, where\nsubsequently the Christians concealed themselves, and, as in the other\ncatacombs of Rome, celebrated the divine mysteries and buried their dead.\nIt is said that S. Peter himself, on his first journey to Rome, baptized\nmany in these very catacombs\u2014many, probably, who later on had received\nthat other baptism of blood in the ghastly revels of Nero\u2019s gardens, and\nwhose remains were gathered together secretly by the brethren, and buried\nin the caves of the \u201cPotter\u2019s Fields.\u201d And now the strangers have become\npossessors; the holy dead have consecrated what might well have been\ncalled another \u201cfield of blood\u201d; and the successors of S. Peter sit in\nreverend state and govern Christendom on the very spot where the first\nBishop of Rome celebrated in secret the first Masses Rome ever witnessed.\nThe grain of mustard\u2010seed has indeed become a great and goodly tree, and\nthe birds of all nations and all ages lodge in the beneficent shadow of\nits branches.\n\nThe whole history of the Basilica of S. Peter, whether the first that\nsheltered the relics of the apostles, or the present more magnificent one,\nbuilt from the designs of Bernini, and completed by Michael Angelo, teems\nwith facts of this nature.\n\nThe old roof of S. Peter\u2019s was covered by Pope Honorius I. with the gilt\nbronze tiles that had roofed, some historians say the temple of Romulus,\nothers that of Jupiter Capitolinus, possibly of both; as though the first\nfounders of pagan Rome, the Romulus and Remus of history and legend, were\nto pay tribute to the founders of Christian Rome, the great apostles SS.\nPeter and Paul, whose blood cemented the walls of the early church, and\nover whose sacred relics that venerable roof was to hang; or, as if the\nfalse Jove, dethroned and vanquished by the fisherman, were stripped of\nhis splendor to do honor to the true God. The tiles have been removed\nelsewhere now, but the fact still retains its touching import. And the\nlike is carried out in the present Basilica; for the Pantheon, raised to\nthe honor of its myriad of demon gods, gave up the bronze of its portico\nat the command of Urban VIII., that out of it Bernini might fashion that\nwonderful work, the _Baldacchino_ over the high altar. Wonderful work!\nthat, as we gaze at it, never weary and ever admiring, we ask ourselves in\nwhat way the mind of the architect(78) wrought when he brought forth this\nsplendid design. Did it come to him at once, like the one grand idea\nruling all the cadences of action in a Greek play? Or did he build it up,\npiece by piece, in his soul, and touch and retouch the beautiful image\nlike the finished diversities of an idyl? We incline to the first, for\nthat is most like inspiration, and the _Baldacchino_ of S. Peter\u2019s must\nhave been an inspiration.\n\nAs we pass beneath the deep shadow of the great colonnade of S. Peter\u2019s\ninto the vast piazza facing the Basilica, it is like stepping from the\nmazes of a forest out into the sunny plain. Almost catching the diamond\nspray of these ever\u2010joyous fountains, we mount the easy steps, so\ndignified in their gradual ascent, and pass into the gallery of the fa\u00e7ade\nwith the same awe\u2010struck feeling we have experienced when suddenly we have\nfound our frank glance come in unexpected contrast with the deep,\nscrutinizing gaze of a dark eye and the overhanging solemnity of a\nthoughtful and heavy\u2010laden brow. And first the bass\u2010relief before us tells\nus the history of the church. Christ delivers the keys to S. Peter, who,\nkneeling, receives the tokens of his high office. At either end of the\nlong gallery are the equestrian statues of two great imperial defenders\nand benefactors of the church: Constantine the Great still gazes on the\nlabarum that appeared to him in mystic form not far off on that very hill\nof Monte Mario, pine\u2010crowned, and where now stands a church in\ncommemoration of the event\u2014an event which turned the City on Seven Hills,\nthe Babylon of the prophecies, the woman drunk with the blood of the\nmartyrs, into the Eternal City, the port of the church\u2019s bark, the\npatrimony of S. Peter, and the home of all Christian hearts\u2014the city of\nwhich a great and royal sufferer once said; \u201cJ\u2019ai trouv\u00e9 que Rome est\nl\u2019endroit o\u00f9 on peut le mieux se passer du bonheur.\u201d(79) Here all sorrow\nis ennobled, all grief is sheltered. The great King of the church is\nhimself \u201cthe Man of Sorrows,\u201d and here his Vicar reigns!\n\nAt the very entrance we pause to ponder over as touching an elegy as ever\nwas written _in memoriam_; and the grief it portrays is that of the other\ngreat defender of the church, whose equestrian statue meets us on the left\nend of the gallery\u2014Charlemagne mourns for Adrian I.\n\n\u201cI, Charles, write these verses, weeping for my father! Yea, my father, my\ndear love! These verses are my lamentation for thy loss. Be thou ever\nmindful of me, whose memory seeks thee dwelling with Christ in the blessed\nregion of heaven. The priests and the people loved thee with a great love,\nand all with one love, best of shepherds! Great friend! I mingle in one\nour names and our illustrious titles. Adrian and Charles\u2014emperor, I; and\nfather, thou!\u201d\n\nIn the history of nations, as in the life of individuals, there is a not\nunfrequent repetition of events bearing the same type though not the same\nin fact. They give a characteristic coloring to the biography of the\nindividual or the history of the people. The events and the man react on\neach other. But this is especially true, and in a far deeper sense, with\nthe history of God\u2019s church. When the Israelites came out of Egypt, they\nspoiled the Egyptians. They carried away as a tribute the treasures\nunwillingly conceded by their former masters. The Christian world, on the\nconversion of Constantine, stepped forth from the darkness and despotism\nof paganism, and Charlemagne, as if in commemoration of this antitype of\nthat deliverance, endowed the church of S. Peter with rich tributes from\nEgypt for the benefaction of the clergy, and for the lighting and\nrepairing of the great Basilica. Human governments are generally\nungrateful; but the church is a divine government, though carried on\nthrough human agents, and gratitude is one of her virtues and one of her\nmost distinctive attributes. Constantine and Charlemagne are not\nforgotten. Their statues guard the entrance of S. Peter\u2019s, as erstwhile\ntheir power guarded and endowed the see of Peter. Nor shall even the\nweaker sex fail of the tribute liberally paid to loyalty and devotion.\nThere is something sublime in the gratitude depicted in the monument to\nthe Countess Mathilda, who holds in her hands the mitre and the keys, as\nthough to suggest the idea of consigning them to the protection of the\ngreat mediatrix of the incorrigible Emperor of the West, Henry IV., and\nwho had sheltered in her own dominions the great S. Gregory, and done so\nmuch to increase the patrimony of the church. A royal father giving his\ncrown and sceptre into the hands of a favorite child could not more\ntouchingly portray the loving appreciation of the sovereign pontiffs\ntowards one who had been so true to the church\u2019s cause. And time has no\neffect in diminishing the gratitude of that church which is built upon a\nrock, and where all is enduring, any more than it has in diminishing the\nglory of the saints; for it was Urban VIII. who erected the monument in S.\nPeter\u2019s to the spiritual daughter of the great Hildebrand, Gregory VII.\u2014a\ngrateful memory of more than six hundred years\u2019 standing!\n\nWe have often heard people complain of a sentiment of disappointment on\nfirst entering S. Peter\u2019s. It has been accounted for by the fact that the\nperfect proportion and harmony of the whole, producing therefore no\nstartling contrasts, fail to effect so sudden an impression on the mind as\nwould be the case were the harmony less absolute. To this it may be\nreplied that some minds are more alive to impressions of harmony, and\nothers to those of contrast. We can best speak from experience, and we all\nagreed that nowhere had we felt such a sense of completeness and its\nconsequent repose fall upon our souls as when we pushed aside that heavy\nleathern portal, and passed within the precincts of S. Peter\u2019s. I do not\nremember ever to have done so, though I have probably been there fifty\ntimes, without an involuntary pause as I first entered; and before\napproaching the holy\u2010water stoups, supported by white marble boys of six\nfeet high, who carry a large marble shell between them, and, everything\nbeing large in proportion, fail not to look like infants, in spite of\ntheir real size. The first chapel to the right as you enter is the one in\nwhich a large number of very valuable relics are kept in rich reliquaries,\nand which are only shown to the public on certain days. These are distinct\nfrom the great relics of the Passion, which are exhibited to the crowd\nfrom the _loggia_ in the dome on either side of the high altar during Holy\nWeek. I used to be attracted to that chapel, which is otherwise less\nstriking than many of the others, by the Piet\u00e0 of Michael Angelo. In my\nfather\u2019s house in England we have that same Piet\u00e0, said to be an original.\nIt is on a smaller scale and unfinished; at least the head and features of\nOur Lady always gave me that impression. Not so the figure of Our Lord,\nwhich is full of the sad tenderness of death. The utter supineness of the\nlimbs and of the arm, which has fallen off Our Lady\u2019s lap, and hangs down;\nthe beauty of the worn face; the wonderfully graceful and yet manly hands,\npierced, like the feet; the general position of the whole body, like a\nbroken flower flung on the Mother\u2019s lap\u2014are full of the deepest religious\nfeeling and pathos. But it is difficult thoroughly to appreciate it where\nit stands in S. Peter\u2019s. It is over the altar, and one had need do as I\nused to do at P\u2014\u2014, when a child, to be able to appreciate all the details.\nI used to go alone, when I was sure of not being caught, down the dark,\ndreary passage which led to the dark, disused chapel, on the damp, marble\npavement of which stood this supposed original of the Piet\u00e0. Then getting\na chair from a bath\u2010room in the vicinity of the chapel, I stood upon that,\nso as to bring myself nearly on a level with the head of Our Lady, and\nthus be able to look down, as she does, on the dead Christ supported on\nher knees.\n\nHow often in S. Peter\u2019s I have wished I could do the same with the\nundoubted work of Michael Angelo, and trace again in every line the\npathetic beauty of suffering and death, as, with eyes full of tears, I had\ndone in early life! The Piet\u00e0 at S. Peter\u2019s has the same absence of real\nbeauty in the face of Our Lady with the one at P\u2014\u2014; the same long upper\nlip and want of finish. It also gives a like impression with all other\n_piet\u00e0s_, in which the Mother is represented as holding her Divine Son on\nher knees\u2014a thing which in reality would be impossible. No woman could\nsupport on her knees the dead body of a full\u2010grown man. Michael Angelo,\nwhose idealism was always under the control of his marvellous anatomical\ndrawing, was too conscious of that not to endeavor palpably to counteract\nwhat probably, as he was working at the group, he felt to be an invincible\nobjection. He has certainly made it look possible in his Piet\u00e0, but he has\ndone it at the expense of beauty and congruity. The Blessed Virgin\u2019s lap\nis enormous; her whole figure looks powerful and gigantic, while that of\nthe Saviour is undersized in proportion.\n\nI have often paused in the space opposite this first chapel, across the\nnave, to watch some fifty little urchins learning their catechism. Merry\nlittle creatures they seemed to be, all more or less in the _n\u00e9glig\u00e9_\nattire of Italian beggar life, picturesque in color and dilapidated in\ntexture. Sparkling black eyes and gleaming white teeth were their chief\nand never\u2010failing beauty. They sat on low forms, or rather they leant upon\nthem, lay upon them, scrambled over them, waiting for their instructor,\nwho always seemed long in coming. When at last he did arrive, a faint\nsemblance of order was established. The little creatures shouted forth the\nanswers in a sort of loud sing\u2010song, nudging each other all the time,\nswinging their little, naked, well\u2010bronzed legs, and keeping up some\nperennial jokes all the time with each other, but little in unison with\nthe words they were repeating. I cannot say that their demeanor seemed at\nall to affect the stolid gravity of their priestly instructor, or even to\ntry his patience. He simply ignored it. He appeared to have no eyes nor\nears for any sound but the well\u2010known monotony of the responses. It is to\nbe hoped something may come back to them of it all when they are old\nenough to think. For myself, I could only reflect on what a strange\nreminiscence it would seem to me to have learnt my catechism beneath the\ndome of S. Peter\u2019s. To these little, careless mortals, it was only a part\nof their everyday life.\n\nThe niches, filled with colossal statues of the founders and foundresses\nof religious orders, embellish the walls on all sides; and probably all\nCatholics look out for some special saint as they wander through the\nBasilica. We used particularly to salute S. Teresa and S. Frances of Rome;\nthe latter attended by her guardian angel. These statues produce a grand\neffect, being all of white marble, standing in niches of many\u2010colored\nmarbles and rich carving, though they are far from all having artistic\nmerit. There are still some niches empty. Who will fill them? What saintly\nfounders or foundresses of new orders does the future of the church still\nreserve for us? Or will the last day come, and find those niches empty\nstill? With the exception of the four statues under the dome, they are\n(and must always be) canonized saints and founders of orders.\n\nI have heard of people whose great ambition was to be buried in\nWestminster Abbey. I knew one pretty bride, of high rank and youthful\nambition, who was married in the Abbey because she was persuaded that her\nhusband would be a great statesman, and that his grateful country would\nbury him there. But I never heard of any one who dreamed of filling one of\nthe empty niches in S. Peter\u2019s. On first entering the church, one sees the\nmany lamps burning round the Confessional of S. Peter, as the high altar\nis called. They seem to pour an orange\u2010colored glow all around. You stand\nor kneel against the marble balustrade, and look down on the kneeling\nfigure of Pius VI. before the tomb of his greater predecessor. It is a\nbeautiful, restful image of perpetual prayer, and is one of the few works\nof Canova I have ever really admired. Against the marble balustrade there\nhang some wooden frames containing an indulgenced prayer and hymn to S.\nPeter and S. Paul in Latin. I once had a curious illustration of how a\ntrifle may strike a stranger, while it escapes the notice of one in the\nhabit of seeing it constantly. I never went to S. Peter\u2019s that I did not\nsay that prayer at the tomb of the apostles; for it must be remembered the\nrelics (not all of them) of S. Paul lie here, as well as those of S.\nPeter. I had had occasion to insert them in a manuscript, which fell into\nthe hands of a certain very learned Capuchin, who holds a high post in his\norder, and in connection, also, with the Sovereign Pontiff. He surprised\nme by asking me where I got those prayers and hymns. He had never read\nthem before, in the many years he had lived at Rome in the venerable\nconvent of his order, and might have seen them fastened by a small chain\nto the spot where he must so often have knelt. Perhaps the fact that in\nevery church in Rome you will find an indulgenced prayer printed up\nsomewhere as an incentive to devotion, may have led to his not\nparticularly noticing the one at S. Peter\u2019s.\n\nFrank used to tell Mary he never knew any one so greedy of indulgences as\nshe was. She always looked out for these short prayers; she never went to\nS. Peter\u2019s without kneeling, as she passed the priests in their\nconfessionals, to receive the little tap from the long wand they have in\nfront of the confessional, and to the receiving of which an indulgence is\nattached. He used to tell her laughingly that he did not understand how\nshe had the face to disturb the priest saying his Office, and oblige him\nto lift his eyes from his Breviary, and detach the long stick as she knelt\na yard or two distant. We have seen her unblushingly obtain three raps in\nsuccession with all the devotion possible; and then, when she and I were\nlooking another way, Frank would strive against his natural British\nundemonstrativeness, and kneel for the little blow, getting up again with\na shy blush. Mary and I never took any notice. We knew that the small act\nof humility, which, among the childlike Italians, came almost as a matter\nof course, cost him far more than it did us, and therefore had more merit.\nThe Romans have a harmless superstition that if you are leaving Rome, and\nare anxious to return, you will not fail to do so if you deposit some\nsmall coin in a safe place. I had done so the last time I had been there;\nand, sure enough, I was back again to claim my money. But though I could\nremember the part of the church beneath the statue of S. Juliana where I\nhad dropt it into a crevice, I never could find it again. However, that\ndid not matter, since the charm had worked successfully. A draught of the\nwater from the fountain of Trevi is said to have the same effect. I drank\na cupful once in pure jest, and have been to Rome four times since; but\nsomething more powerful than the hidden half\u2010pence or the fountain of\nTrevi has lured me back again. There is, I believe, no spot in the world\nwhere everybody gets to feel so at home as in Rome, outside the land of\ntheir birth and the roof that shelters all their domestic affections.\n\nIn the same place where I had hidden my little coin I remember a scene\nwhich filled my imagination with interest and admiration. It was Holy\nThursday. The high altar was being stripped of all the ornaments, and\nwashed with wine, to the mournful chanting of the choir; the daylight was\nfast declining, though still some rays of the setting sun stole through\nthe yellow\u2010tinted windows below the dome; and the Grand Penitentiary was\nseated in his violet robes on a raised platform, in a crimson velvet\nchair, with no partition between him and the low stool to his right, on\nwhich the penitents were to kneel. There were several steps, covered with\ncloth, to mount from the pavement of the church to the seat of the\nprelate; and at some distance from these was a temporary railing to\nprevent the crowd from approaching within hearing of what should pass\nbetween the penitent and the priest. We stood among the crowd. The\npenitent was a man of about thirty years of age, with coal\u2010black hair and\nbeard, deep, dark eyes, and regular features. It was very curious to hear\nthe remarks of the bystanders; and they were very characteristic of\nItalians, born to the faith. Most of them were praying aloud, in brief\nejaculations, that God would grant him perfect contrition. The women\nespecially were exclaiming: \u201cAh! poverello, ma piange!\u201d(80) Two priests\npassed through the crowd, and paused a moment, with a smile of\nindescribable benevolence and satisfaction that a big fish had been caught\nin Peter\u2019s net, and was being drawn to land. The confession lasted a long\ntime. The man never for a moment shifted his position; but by degrees the\nvenerable prelate bent his ear closer and closer to the poor penitent, and\nhis countenance showed a mixture of compassion and tenderness quite\npaternal. The man\u2019s forehead almost touched the priest\u2019s shoulder, as he\npoured forth his long history of error and shame. At length the priest\u2019s\nhand was raised to give the absolution, and a murmur of relief and\ncongratulation ran through the crowd of spectators. The hand rested on the\nman\u2019s head before he rose from his knees. He came quickly down the steps.\nThe crowd parted to let him pass. He can have seen none but smiling and\nhappy glances all around him, if he cared to look up; but all silently\nmade way for him, and in a moment he was lost in the multitude, absolved\nand released from the burden of some \u201creserved case.\u201d Of course there were\nmany conjectures as to who and what he might be. Some said he had been a\nbandit; others that he was a priest who had broken his vows, and made this\nconfession in public as an act of greater humility; for of course it is\nnot imperative to carry all reserved cases to the Grand Penitentiary, nor\nneed the penitent wait for Lent to get absolution. Nevertheless, the\nprelate with power to absolve all reserved cases (of which murder is one)\noccupies that raised confessional throughout Lent for certain hours of the\nday. Mary was so overcome at the piety and charity of the crowd in the\nwarm interest they evinced, and observed so often that it must be\ndelightful to be thus prayed for while making one\u2019s confession, that we\nbegan to apprehend she would mount the platform herself, had not Frank\ntimely observed to her that, in all probability, she had no reserved case\non her conscience!\n\nBy this time the shades of night were closing in. The lights were all\nextinguished. The altars stood bare and cold. The dark crowd swayed in\ndense masses towards the open doors. The light of the moon struggled pale\nand wan through the high windows where the setting sun had lately thrown a\ngolden glow. The vast cathedral echoed to the steps of the departing\ncrowd, and we turned towards home, more deeply impressed with the\ndesolation expressed by the Holy Thursday ceremonies in S. Peter\u2019s in the\nstripping of the altars than with many others more generally remarked.\n\nIt was night before we reached our apartment in the Ripetta.\n\nMary\u2019s bedroom overlooked the river, and in the morning she could see S.\nPeter\u2019s bathed in the rosy light of the rising sun, while flights of white\nsea\u2010gulls came up the river with the early tide to feed upon the refuse\nwhich had been thrown into the water. They came swooping down, with their\nglittering plumage flashing in the sunshine, and, dipping low, would\nsnatch some dainty morsel from the swift water, and mount up, in graceful,\ncurving flight, to repeat the same again and again. As the port was close\nto our house, no doubt it was an advantageous position for both the\nbreakfast and supper of the gulls. They always returned in the evening,\nbut at no other hour in the day. At night we could see lights in three\nwindows of the Vatican. They were always there, and always at about the\nsame hour they disappeared. One day, when Mary was calling on Cardinal\nAntonelli he asked her where we were living; and on her describing the\nposition, and how she could see S. Peter\u2019s and the Vatican, and specially\nthose three windows, he told her the lights were from his own apartment.\nHis eminence is very fond of flowers, and has a garden in Rome, in which\nhe takes great pleasure. They were talking of flowers, and he observed to\nMary that she would find very much the same flora throughout Europe,\nthough not of course equally distributed. Mary objected that she had never\nseen the little common yellow primrose of our English woods, in that part\nof Italy. \u201cNevertheless, you will find we have it,\u201d was his reply. And not\nlong after, on our way to Viterbo, we saw its starry blossoms by the\nroadside, and hailed it as an old friend, dearer to our hearts than even\nthe graceful pink cyclamen, which from the position of the petals reminds\nme of a pretty, blushing child with her hair all drawn back from her\nforehead.\n\nWhat memories crowd upon me as I recall these trivial incidents! What\nhappy hours have I spent beneath that deep\u2010blue but not unclouded sky,\nwith the warm breeze perfumed by the breath of violets in the Doria\nPamphili Villa! The great stone pines, with their soft, unceasing sighs;\nthe large willows dropping their bright\u2010green flexible wands into the\nclear water; the violet anemones, with here and there a large crimson one,\nor a yellow tulip lighting up the soft green grass like a sparkling gem;\nthe violets, not bashful and hidden shrinkingly beneath their leaves, as\nin our colder climes, but lifting their little dark\u2010purple heads high in\nthe air, to drink the light and leave a perfumed kiss on every breeze that\nfloats; soft masses of white cloud sailing slowly over the blue ether, and\ncasting dappled shadows on the long grass. In the distance is S. Peter\u2019s\nand the Vatican, with fields of broken ground in many tints of yellow and\ngreen and red between it and the stone balustrade against which we lean.\nIt appears, from this point of view, to be quite outside the city, and to\nstand alone and untrammelled by meaner buildings. Behind us is a dense\navenue of venerable ilex, and but now we were visiting the Colombarium,\nthe other side of the road, and moralizing on the pagan practice of\ncremation, as compared with the hallowed Christian sepulture\u2014it must have\nbeen so difficult to realize that the little handful of ashes in the urn\nhad anything to do with the dead wife or child or father, that they had\nloved, embraced, and conversed with!\n\nAgain, I remember a day when we were living at Capo le Case. I took Ann\nwith me, and we set out for a long walk regardless of the flight of time.\nWe directed our course to S. John Lateran. On our way, we paused at San\nClemente, where we had several times visited the subterranean church under\nthe guidance of the kind and learned F. Mullooly. Few, perhaps, have ever\nnoticed, in a church which presents so much else to interest them, a small\npicture, the head of S. Catharine of Sienna, over an altar at the bottom\nof the church, on the right hand. It is modern, and by a Dominican artist\nwhose name is unknown to me, and probably to all save the brothers of his\norder. Nevertheless, I have never seen devotion more exquisitely depicted\nthan in that sweet, sorrowful face, with the tears standing in the large,\nuplifted eyes. Through the open door of the church penetrated the scent of\nlarge masses of Banksia roses that hung over a wall in a garden nearly\nopposite. Untrained, untrimmed they flung long wreaths to the wind, and\nlay in cloud\u2010like bunches of soft, creamy white. As we passed by the door\nof the hospital of the Salvatore, two Sisters stepped out into the\nsunshine, on some errand of charity for their sick and aged patients. We\nthen visited the Basilica of S. John Lateran, \u201cthe mother and head of all\nchurches.\u201d The gigantic statues of the apostles have a very imposing\neffect, in spite of their many artistic faults, more so, perhaps, than the\nequally faulty statues at S. Peter\u2019s. Then we wandered into the large\npiazza in front of the cathedral, and looked beyond the gates and\ncrumbling fortifications of Rome upon the Alban hills. The long avenue of\ntrees leading to the church of Santa Croce di Gerusalemme were coming into\nleaf; so were the group of trees to our right, by the low wall of the\npiazza, on which grew tufts of fern and yellow\u2010blossomed oxalis. We sat on\nthe steps, and ate some hot chestnuts I had bought by the roadside,\ngetting, at the same time, a pinch of salt from a dark\u2010browed matron, with\na yellow kerchief across her ample bosom, and a silver dagger in her hair,\nwho sold cigars in a little wooden booth. It was enough to be alive on\nsuch a day and in such a scene, with the easy liberty of Italian life and\nthe total absence of \u201cMrs. Grundy.\u201d There was no one to see us (save a few\nbeggar\u2010women) sitting on the steps of the grand portico, and scattering\nthe skins of our chestnuts on the pavement at our feet, while we silently\ndrank in the balmy air and rejoiced in the beauty of the view before us.\nEre we returned, we visited the Scala Santa, and looked long on\nGiacometti\u2019s beautiful group of the Kiss of Judas. The evening was closing\nin when, wearied but satisfied, we reached our home. But if these\nremembrances are full of light and warmth, not less pleasing are those of\nour moonlight drives the year that we remained in Rome till the middle of\nJuly, and every evening used to visit the Colosseum, or S. John Lateran\nand Santa Maria Maggiore, stopping to gaze long upon the cold silver\nlight, so sharp and sudden on every curve and shaft, on architrave and\nentablature, on capital and plinth, while the dense shadows lurked behind\nlike black stains of unfathomable darkness. Then we would drive to S.\nPeter\u2019s, and after crossing the bridge of Sant\u2019 Angelo between the angels,\neach holding an instrument of the Passion, we would look across the dark\nriver to see the covered balcony of the house where Michael Angelo was an\nhonored guest, and had introduced the young Raphael to the small circle of\nfavored ones who met nightly under that roof. There, too, Vittoria Colonna\nprobably came to increase the charm by her wit and beauty, while Michael\nAngelo nourished those sentiments of pure and profound veneration for her\ngreat merits which made him bitterly reproach himself after her unexpected\ndeath, because he who had never breathed one word of love to her while\nliving, had dared to press a kiss on her marble brow when cold in death.\nWhat noble sentiments, what lofty times! And yet in many things how\nunseemly would some of their practices appear to us? For it was in the\nChurch of San Silvestro al Quirinale that they used to meet after Vespers,\nto converse and laugh and jest together. We look across the river to mark\nthat house. It is dark and silent now. No lights gleam from the windows.\nHalf\u2010defaced frescos still cover some of the walls, but it is let from top\nto bottom to several families of the very poorest of the people.\n\nBut I must pause. Rome is inexhaustible, whether in her classic, her\nChristian, or her artistic treasures; besides the charm of social\nintercourse, the delight of varied society, and the equal ease and\nsplendor which may be found in the interior life of her princely palaces.\nNor can I close this chapter without speaking of one whose presence,\nthough now confined within the walls of his own palace, makes Rome so\ndoubly dear to the true Catholic. The days are gone when our afternoon\ndrive might be gladdened by the pleasure of finding the well\u2010known crimson\ncoach and magnificent black horses checking our progress, while we\nhastened to descend and kneel where he would pass, that we might catch a\nglance, perhaps a smile, and certainly the blessing, of the venerable old\nman in whom we recognize the Vicar of Christ. We had been admitted to more\nthan one private audience, besides witnessing several of those receptions\nin which hundreds of people of many nations knelt to kiss his feet, and to\nhear that sweet, clear voice utter words of exhortation and encouragement.\nThis last time we had entered the Vatican with sad and altered feelings.\nIt was no longer a gala\u2010day, that on which we were to visit the universal\nfather of Christendom. We were going to condole with an august prisoner, a\nfather defrauded of his rights, a sovereign deprived of his possessions.\nWe all felt depressed and inclined for silence. The Pope had been\nindisposed, and, as we were kept waiting a long time, we began to fear His\nHoliness would prove unable to receive us. Our spirits flagged with every\nsecond that we were left in expectation, till Mary began to look so pale I\nfeared that she was ill. At length, however, we perceived a stir among the\ncrimson\u2010liveried servants who were in attendance in the vestibule;\npresently the curtain at the end of the long gallery where we stood was\ndrawn aside, and once again our eyes beheld him who is ever present to our\nthoughts, and whose name is breathed in so many prayers. The first feeling\nthat filled our beating hearts, as we looked on his saintly and venerable\nface, was joy to feel that he was still amongst us; that despite\nincreasing years, and the increasing malice and hatred of his enemies, his\neye had not dimmed or his strength failed him. This impression was\nincreased with every word he spoke. It was like the dawn which promises\nthe perfect day, no matter how dark the night has been. \u201cThe people\nimagine a vain thing!\u201d He is still with us\u2014he, the father of his people!\nHe may be ours for years to come. He may see the day\u2010spring of the church\nagain. He may live to witness her triumph. And should it be\notherwise\u2014should that white head be laid low before the triumph of the\nchurch over her enemies\u2014will he see it less, will he share it less,\nbecause he has gone before? Impossible! The church militant and the church\ntriumphant are one. But our hopes go further; or rather, they are more\nhuman. We believe that Pius IX. will live to see the end of confusion and\nthe beginning of peace; the downfall of falsehood and oppression, and the\nrestoration of himself (and others) to all their rights. May God grant it!\n\n\n\n\nThere Was No Room For Them In The Inn.\n\n\nNo place for Him! So Him you drive away;\nYou drive away your God, your God. Oh! stay.\nO height of human madness! wonders rare!\nNo place for Him! without Whom no place were.\n\n\u2014_Crashaw._\n\n\n\n\nAntar And Zara; Or, \u201cThe Only True Lovers.\u201d I.\n\n\nAn Eastern Romance Narrated In Songs.\n\nBy Aubrey De Vere.\n\n\n\nPreface.\n\n\nWho has not heard of those Christian communities which have held their own\nduring so many centuries, on the citied slopes of the Lebanon, or on the\nadjacent plains? Several of them have existed from a period earlier than\nthat in which the foundations of our oldest monarchies were laid. The\nMaronites derive their name from Maron, a hermit of the IVth century,\nwhose cell, on the banks of the Orontes, gradually attracted a Christian\npopulation about it. In the VIIth and VIIIth centuries, when the sword of\nthe False Prophet was carrying all before it, they retreated from the\nuplands of the Euphrates and Mesopotamia to the fastnesses of the Lebanon.\nThe Melchites, a race of unquestionably Arab origin, and whose religious\noffices are still celebrated in Arabic, emigrated to Syria before the\nChristian era, and became Christian in the IVth century. Weakened by their\nhereditary feuds, they retain, notwithstanding, all the pride of their\nancient stock, and not less all its heroism, its generosity, its\nhospitality, its sense of honor, and its passion for poetry and eloquence.\nThe devotion of both these races to their Faith is sufficiently attested\nby their having retained it during so many centuries of wrong, and in\nspite of so many persecutions. In the massacres of 1860 alone about 12,000\nof them perished.\n\nFew subjects are more worthy of attention than the ways of a People which\nstill keeps so much of what belonged to the feudal and monastic system of\nEurope in the Middle Ages, and combines them with the patriarchal\ntraditions of the world\u2019s morning. Much that we possess they lack; but,\namong them, some of the affections\u2014Patriotism and Love, for\ninstance\u2014retain a meaning which appears to grow daily more rare amid the\nboasted civilization of the West. That meaning is illustrated alike in\ntheir lives and their poetry. It has been observed that the religious\npoetry of the East sometimes resembles love\u2010poetry. The converse remark\nmay no less be made. Eastern love\u2010poetry is wide in its range; but its\nmore characteristic specimens resemble the early poetry of religion or\npatriotic devotion, so full are they of elevation and self\u2010sacrifice. I\nknow not how far the spirit of such poetry can make itself intelligible to\nthe sympathies of the West. To many readers the present poem will be an\nexperiment new, not only as regards its spirit, but its form also\u2014that of\na story narrated in songs. It was composed, in substance, some years ago,\nwhen the author was in the East.\n\n\n\nPart I.\n\n\nHe Sang.(81)\n\nI.\n\nO wind of night! what doth she at this hour\n  In those high towers half lost in rock and brake?\nWhere is she? Sits she lonely in her bower?\n  If she is pensive, is it for my sake?\n\nPerchance she joins the dance with other maids:\n  With whom? By whose are those white fingers pressed?\nPerhaps for sleep her tresses she unbraids\n  While moonbeams fill the chamber of her rest.\n\nTell her, O wind! that I have laid my head\n  Here, on the rough stem of the prostrate pine\nWhich leans across the dried\u2010up torrent\u2019s bed,\n  And dream at times her face, and dream it mine.\n\nOnce in the palm\u2010grove she looked back on me;\n  A wild brier caught her zone: I saw it fall:\nLarge is the earth, the sun, the stars, the sea\u2014\n  For me that rosy girdle clasps them all.\n\nII.\n\nBy night I crossed the tremulous poplar bound\n  Which cools the south wind with its watery bower;\nI heard the river\u2019s murmur, mid that sound,\n  And smelt the fragrance of the trampled flower.\n\nWhere that pure crystal makes thy morning bath\n  A white tent glimmered. Round it, rank on rank,\nThe crimson oleanders veiled the path,\n  And bent or rose, as swelled the breeze or sank.\n\nI entered not. Beside that river\u2019s brim\n  I sat. Thy fawn, with trailing cord, drew near:\nWhen from my knee its head it lifted, dim\n  Seemed those dark eyes, by day so large and clear.\n\nGo back, poor fawn, and house thee with thy kind!\n  Where, amid rocks and mountains cold with snow,\nThrough forests sweep the branching hart and hind;\n  Go back: go up: together let us go.\n\nIII\n\nTell her that boasts\u2014that slender is and tall\u2014\n  I have a cypress in a sunny space:\nTell her that blushes, by my garden wall\n  A rose\u2010tree blushes, kindling all the place.\n\nTell her that sweetly sings and softly moves,\n  A white swan winds all night below my trees;\nMy nightingale attunes the moon\u2010lit groves\u2014\n  Can I not portion out my heart with these?\n\nIf I were dead, my cypress would lament,\n  My rose\u2010tree shed its leaves upon my grave,\nMy nightingale weep long in forest tent\u2014\n  She would not mourn me dead that scorns to save.\n\nIV.\n\nThou cam\u2019st, thou cam\u2019st; and with thee came delight,\n  Not mine alone. The little flowers and leaves\nShook at the first gleam of thy garment white;\n  And still yon myrtle thrills, yon almond heaves.\n\nThou spak\u2019st! That voice, methinks, is heard on high!\n  The buds and blooms in every amaranth wreath\nBy angels worn expand in ecstasy;\n  And in pure light a heavenlier fragrance breathe.\n\nHail, Land that gav\u2019st her birth! Hail, precinct old!\n  Hail, ancient Race, the Lebanonian crown!\nThe Turk hath empire, and the Frank hath gold:\n  Virtue and Beauty, these are thy renown!\n\nV.\n\nThou wentest: with thy going came my night:\n  As some deep vale when sudden sinks the sun,\nDeep, yet suspended on the mountain height\n  And girt by snows, am I when thou art gone.\n\nWith death those hills, so late all amethyst,\n  At once are clad: the streams are filmed with ice:\nThe golden ether changeth into mist:\n  Cold drops run down the beetling precipice:\n\nThe instant darkness cometh as a wind,\n  Or falleth as the falling of a pall:\u2014\nReturn, my light of life, my better mind,\n  My spirit\u2019s day, my hope, my strength, mine all!\n\nVI.\n\nBreathe healthful zephyrs, airs of Paradise,\n  Breathe gently on that alabaster brow;\nShake the dark lashes of those violet eyes;\n  Flatter those lids that such high grace allow.\n\nThose cheeks, pure lilies, capture with sweet stealth,\n  And warm with something of a rose\u2010like glow;\nThose tremulous smiles, costlier than miser\u2019s wealth,\n  Draw out; those magic tresses backward blow!\n\nThus much is yours. \u2019Tis mine where once she strayed\n  To cull sad flowers that ne\u2019er shall meet her sight;\nTo watch, close shrouded in the tall rock\u2019s shade,\n  High up one little casement\u2019s glimmering light.\n\nVII.\n\nSeest thou, O maid! some star by us unseen,\n  Buried from us in depths of starless space?\nKnow\u2019st thou some joy of lesser joys the queen,\n  That lights so sweet a mystery in thy face?\n\nThat face is as the face of them that bask\n  In some great tidings, or the face of one\nWho late hath set his hand upon some task\n  By God ordained, that shall for God be done.\n\nThat light is as the light of them who bent\u2014\n  That shepherd choir\u2014above the Babe new born:\nUpward from Him thy day is ever sent,\n  A lifelong kindling of the Bethlehem morn.\n\nVIII.\n\nSince that strange moment, Love was as a breeze,\n  And I a leaf wafted by it along:\nOnward \u2019twixt magic heavens and mystic seas\n  We passed. If I was weak, yet Love was strong.\n\nOn, ever on, through mountainous defiles,\n  By Love sustained, upborne, on piloted,\nI wound o\u2019er laughing lakes and happy isles;\n  I asked not whither, and I felt no dread.\n\nI breathed, methought, some everlasting spring:\n  I passed, methought, in endless, aimless quest\n(A dew\u2010drop hanging on an eagle\u2019s wing)\n  Through some rich heaven and ever\u2010deepening West.\n\nThat dream had end. Once more I saw her face:\n  No love it looked: the sweet lips breathed no sound:\nThen fell I, stone\u2010like, through the fields of space,\n  And lay, dead bulk, upon the bleeding ground.\n\nIX.\n\nRiver that windest in thy jewell\u2019d bed,\n  The palms of her soft feet beside thee move:\nBut gentleness and peace are round thee spread,\n  And therefore I am gone from what I love.\n\nNightly on thee the stars thou lov\u2019st shall gaze:\n  Thee and thy heaven no envious cloud can sever:\nIn vain to her I love mine eyes I raise;\n  And therefore, happy stream, farewell for ever!\n\nPale passion slays or dies. I would die young,\n  Live while I live; then sink without a sigh,\nAs some swift wave, from central ocean sprung,\n  Subsides into the flat tranquillity.\n\nX.\n\nO heart whereon her Name was graved so long!\n  Heart pressed at last to hers, henceforth be snow!\nFor love\u2019s sake let me do to love no wrong:\n  There are who watch her. To the wars I go.\n\nThere are that watch her: and in fields far off\n  There are that wait my banner, name my name;\nMy House was ne\u2019er the upstart Moslem\u2019s scoff:\n  Its orphaned heir his fathers will not shame.\n\nThis is the grove where, by yon meeting streams,\n  She too her love confessed\u2014how falteringly!\nFrom that glad hour a Church to me it seems:\n  I leave it: I must leave it though I die.\n\nHere as I slept, an Angel, not to sense\n  Revealed, above me traced the sacred sign:\n\u201cHere is Love\u2019s palace: Duty calls thee hence:\n  Alone where Duty stands are Church and Shrine.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nF. Louage\u2019s Philosophy.(82)\n\n\nThe design of F. Louage in compiling this little text\u2010book is most\npraiseworthy, and one which we are especially bound to commend, as it is\nan attempt to carry out a plan we have repeatedly and earnestly advocated\nin this magazine, of furnishing good text\u2010books of philosophy, written in\nthe English language. The credit of originating this purpose belongs, so\nfar as we know, to the Christian Brothers. The good work had, indeed, been\nbegun by Mr. Brownson, in translating the _Fundamental Philosophy_ of\nBalmes. Nevertheless, as this is not precisely suited for use as a text\u2010\nbook, the preparation of such a text\u2010book remained a desideratum; and our\nattention was first called to the practical need of one or more of these\ntext\u2010books by a letter to the editor from the Superior of the Christian\nBrothers at Baltimore, urging the great necessity of translating some one\nof the Latin manuals, or preparing a new one. This demand was the occasion\nof our mooting the question in these pages, and since that time the demand\nhas been supplied by three different publications. One of these is the\ntranslation of Balmes\u2019 admirable _Treatise on Logic_, brought out under\nthe auspices of the Christian Brothers; another, the first part of F.\nHill\u2019s _Philosophy_, which has been highly commended both in Europe and in\nthis country, and a third is the work now under notice.\n\nWe have delayed noticing this text\u2010book by F. Louage for a long time,\nsimply from a feeling of reluctance to express, without obvious necessity,\nthe judgment which we formed on first perusing it\u2014that it is very far from\nbeing a successful effort, and, moreover, that it contains a philosophical\ndoctrine which cannot be safely taught in our Catholic schools. We shall\nproceed by\u2010and\u2010by to establish the justice of both these criticisms; but,\nbeforehand, we wish to offer a few preliminary remarks explaining the past\nand present attitude of THE CATHOLIC WORLD in respect to soundness of\nphilosophical doctrine.\n\nIt is well known that a number of doctrinal decisions on philosophical\ntopics have been promulgated by the reigning Sovereign Pontiff, which have\nmade the true sense and teaching of the church on several important points\nmuch more clear and definite than it had previously been to a large number\nof sincere and learned Catholics. For a long time, some of these\ndecisions\u2014those, namely, concerning ontologism\u2014were not universally known,\nand their import had not been sufficiently discussed and explained to give\na certain and distinct direction to those who, like ourselves, in this\ncountry, had not been _au courant_ with the affairs which brought about\nthese decisions. Philosophy has been generally, and more especially in\nEngland and the United States, in a miserable and chaotic state until a\ncomparatively brief period, during which a more wholesome tendency has\nbeen awakened. The worst and most dangerous errors have been those which\nhave sprung from the sensist school. As a natural consequence, those whose\nCatholic belief has led them to reject these gross errors, being\nunacquainted with the scholastic philosophy, have been inclined to throw\nthemselves back on Platonism, and to welcome any system of philosophy\nwhich put forward a high ideological doctrine in which the necessary and\neternal truths, the immutable principles of first and final cause, the\nbeing and attributes of God, and all natural theology, were professedly\nexalted to their due supremacy, and placed on a basis unassailable by a\nmean scepticism and materialism. The very same took place in the instance\nof Cardinal Gerdil, of Malebranche, and of others, at a former period; and\nF. Rami\u00e8re, one of the most successful opponents of ontologism, has\nlucidly explained how this is precisely the reason that the said system\nhas appeared in a captivating light, in our own day, to a number of minds\nto which scepticism and materialism are especially odious. This may\nexplain the fact that we have taken a more decisive and explicit stand in\nregard to several important philosophical doctrines, since the more\nthorough examination of the differences between the ancient and received\nteaching of Catholic schools, and the various modern theories, have\nconvinced us of the great importance of adhering closely, not only in\nrespect to the substance of doctrine, but even in respect to form and the\nuse of terms, to that philosophy which has a Catholic sanction. Within the\nlimits defined by positive, explicit authority, this adhesion is, of\ncourse, obligatory on the conscience in the strictest and gravest sense.\nIn a former article on Dr. St\u00f6ckl\u2019s _Philosophy_, we have explained our\nposition, which is that of the best and most approved European authors, in\nregard to this obligatory doctrine, so far as relates to ideology. Beyond\nthis, we respect, of course, the liberty which the church concedes. Her\npositive sanction has been given to the scholastic principles, method, and\ndoctrine, only in general terms. While, therefore, we advocate the\nadhesion to scholastic philosophy, as the only safe and really scientific\nway of procedure in education, we do not close our eyes to the fact that\nthere are several important topics in respect to which discussion is not\nonly allowable, but really necessary. The best philosophical writers\nliving, who are in the main disciples of S. Thomas, differ very much from\none another in regard to questions of this sort. Kleutgen, Liberatore,\nSanseverino, Tongiorgi, Rami\u00e8re, and St\u00f6ckl may be cited as the most\ndistinguished modern expositors of the doctrine commonly taught in\nCatholic schools; and the differences among these are well known. A very\nable writer, who is now publishing a series of articles in this magazine,\nand who happily combines a profound knowledge of mathematics and physics\nwith his deep metaphysical science, departs, in some instances, from all\nthese, and strikes out a path for himself, in which we are sure that every\nphilosophical reader will watch his progress with the greatest interest.\nPersonally we are disposed to favor the stricter Thomistic doctrine so\nably elucidated by Liberatore and St\u00f6ckl, and to prefer text\u2010books of a\nsimilar method and doctrine; yet we should not think we were authorized to\ncensure as unsound, in a theological sense, any philosophical work, merely\nbecause it might deserve, in our judgment, to be criticised on purely\nscientific grounds, or to condemn as absolutely unsound, in a purely\nphilosophical sense, a work essentially in accordance with the scholastic\nsystem, on account of any particular opinions of its author on topics of\ndifference among Catholic teachers of acknowledged scientific eminence and\nauthority.\n\nWe are sorry to be obliged to say that, in our judgment, F. Louage\u2019s work\ncannot be exempted by the most impartial criticism from either theological\nor philosophical censure for radical unsoundness on most important points,\nand besides this, that it cannot stand the test of even literary\ncriticism, and is, therefore, wholly unsuitable for use as a text\u2010book in\nCatholic schools. We give the author full credit for good intentions, and\nattribute his failure to accomplish his laudable undertaking simply to the\nfact that he has attempted a very difficult task, in which very few have\nachieved a remarkable success, without having duly estimated its arduous\nnature, and made the requisite preparation for coping with the formidable\nobstacles in the way of a happy issue.\n\nWe are bound to sustain the judgment we have pronounced by solid proofs\nand reasons, in view of the great importance of the subject to Catholic\nteachers and pupils, and this duty we shall now endeavor to fulfil, in\naccordance with the sentiment of the trite old philosophical adage:\n\n\n    Amicus noster Plato\n    Sed magis amica veritas\n\n\nAnd, first, we think that the author has underrated the average aptitude\nof our young men for philosophical studies. We have not the pleasure of\nknowing F. Louage\u2019s pupils or their literary attainments; but we presume\nthat they are not worse off than the pupils of other Catholic colleges,\nwhere the philosophical education receives a far greater development than\nhis \u201ctext\u2010book for the use of schools\u201d seems to warrant. We know, of\ncourse, that the literary instruction hitherto given in the public schools\nof this country is too light and superficial to serve as a fair\npreparation for philosophical pursuits; and we admit that even our\nCatholic schools and colleges, though certainly superior to most public\ninstitutions of a like kind, may yet complain in some measure of the same\nevil; but, notwithstanding this, we believe that those among our youths\nwho feel any inclination to dedicate themselves to the study of philosophy\nhave sufficient ability to master ten times as much of philosophical\nmatter as F. Louage\u2019s text\u2010book contains.\n\nA book which pretends to embrace logic, metaphysics, and ethics within the\nnarrow compass of about 220 small pages of clear type cannot be styled \u201ca\ncourse of philosophy\u201d; and when it claims to be \u201cdesigned as a text\u2010book\nfor the use of schools,\u201d it tends to give abroad a very wrong idea of the\npresent condition of Catholic education in America. If our boys cannot\nhave anything better than the superficial philosophy the \u201ctext\u2010book\u201d of\nthe reverend author furnishes, we would say: Let them forsake philosophy,\nand be satisfied with the _Catechism of the Christian Doctrine_. Let them\nremain undisturbed in their humble simplicity, and do not foster in them\nthe vain thought that they are superior to others, only because they have\nlearned by heart a few philosophical phrases, which they would be\nembarrassed to defend, and even to explain.\n\nThe London _Tablet_, November 22, 1873, remarks that our author \u201cdoes not\ngo very deeply into anything.\u201d This remark is true. Many important\nphilosophical doctrines are not even mentioned by him; his book says\nnothing about universals, nothing about the essential constituents of\nbeing, nothing about real and logical distinction, nothing about\nsimplicity and composition, nothing about quantity and quality. We do not\nthink that any one can aspire to the honor of being a philosopher without\na clear and distinct knowledge of these subjects, and of the many\nmomentous questions connected with them.\n\nAgain, the \u201ctext\u2010book\u201d is altogether silent about creation, its true\nnotion, its possibility, its reality, and its final end\u2014a silence which is\nall the more remarkable, as every one knows how pertinaciously this\nChristian and philosophical dogma is attacked every day by the adepts of\nthe rationalistic schools. The \u201ctext\u2010book\u201d ignores cosmology altogether;\nand therefore it does not even allude to any theory concerning the\nconstitution of bodies, the nature of matter, the laws of physical\ncausation, or the conditions of natural phenomena. Neither is anything\nsaid in particular about the origin of the human soul\u2014a subject concerning\nwhich many ancient and modern errors should have been pointed out and\nrefuted; nor anything about that important truth that the soul is the form\nof the body; nor anything about the scholastic view of the origin of\nideas\u2014a view which the author should not have silently passed over, but\nwas obliged to refute before concluding, as he does, in favor of the\nexploded ontologistic system.\n\nIn his theodicy we have sought in vain for any mention of a positive\nconservation of creatures, or of God\u2019s immediate concurrence with all\ncreatures in their operations. We only found a few remarks, altogether\nunsatisfactory, on the \u201cinfluence\u201d of God over the free actions of man.\nThe \u201ctext\u2010book\u201d is equally deficient in ethics, where the whole discussion\nabout the ultimate end of man is entirely forgotten, although it is\nunquestionably one of the cardinal points of moral philosophy. Natural\nrights are not even mentioned; habits, virtues, and passions are likewise\nabsolutely ignored.\n\nWe might go on enumerating other deficiencies of the \u201ctext\u2010book\u201d; but as\nwe have other things more important to notice, we will only point out in\ngeneral that scarcely any modern error is directly impugned, and scarcely\nany of the plausible arguments advanced by modern thinkers against such\ncapital truths as divine providence, human liberty, etc., are answered or\neven hinted at. We cannot be surprised, then, that Dr. Brownson regards\nthis \u201cmodest work\u201d as \u201csimpler and more easily understood by the English\nreader ignorant of Latin and the scholastics\u201d than F. Hill\u2019s work. It is\nclear that it must be so; for, when all things difficult are set aside,\nwhat remains must be just as easy as any \u201creader ignorant of Latin and the\nscholastics\u201d can desire. But \u201cthe fact is,\u201d as the London _Tablet_ very\nwisely observes, \u201cthat such books as this are a mistake. We have had\nplenty such as this from France before, their use in schools and colleges\nbeing pernicious, as we can testify; because they create either a slovenly\nor a sceptical habit of mind. Either a lazy student sees difficulties and\nquestions suggested, and he takes no trouble to get the things explained\nto him, or a clever, active\u2010minded boy is induced to dub logic and\nmetaphysics humbug, and to ruminate on his own imaginings and wayward\nreasonings.\u201d\n\nAn elementary course of philosophy, to be really useful, should be nothing\nless than an accurate summary of some complete standard work already\naccepted and recognized by good philosophical and theological authorities;\nso that the student may know that, in case of need, he can, by referring\nto the latter, solve the doubts and difficulties now and then arising from\nthe incompleteness and brevity of the former. We have many such courses of\nphilosophy in the Latin language. They are the work of patient writers,\nwho carefully collected and methodically condensed in their books the\nlearning and the wisdom of centuries for the benefit of those who needed\nan introduction to the philosophical discipline. Any student who can make\nuse of such Latin books perceives, while going through his course of\nphilosophy, that he is brought into constant relation with the most\neminent thinkers of the classical philosophical ages, knows that their\nworks are always accessible to him, and is gratified to think that their\nrecognized authority affords him a solid guarantee against the subreption\nof fallacious doctrines. When such conditions as these are realized, it is\nevident that an elementary course of philosophy may be very useful indeed.\nBut such is not the case with an English course of philosophy designed as\na text\u2010book for those who do not understand Latin. Such a text\u2010book cannot\nrefer the English student who knows nothing but English to other complete\nand approved works of philosophy; for we have none such in our language.\n\nIt seems to us that before we can employ a good English text\u2010book of\nphilosophy for the use of schools to the best advantage, we must be\nprovided with a great, sound, and exhaustive philosophical work in our own\nlanguage, to which the student would refer for all those questions and\ndifficulties which cannot be sufficiently explained in an elementary\ncourse. We think that even F. Hill\u2019s English _Elements of Philosophy_,\nexcellent as it is, needs to be supplemented by a higher English\nphilosophical work. Those of his pupils who cannot consult the Latin\nvolumes of the schoolmen may frequently remain in doubt as to the proper\nsettlement of many important questions which their professor did not judge\nnecessary or possible to examine thoroughly in his valuable book; and we\nhave no doubt that all professors of philosophy will agree with us that\nsuch a great English work as we suggest\u2014a very arsenal of good\nphilosophical weapons\u2014is one of the greatest necessities of our time and\nof our country. Without it, all our philosophical efforts are doomed to be\nmore or less insufficient and unsuccessful.\n\nAnd now, let us come to another consideration. If any book needs to be\nextremely correct in its expressions and definitions, surely elementary\ntext\u2010books for beginners must be so; for, if the foundation is wrong, what\nis built upon it cannot be right. Now, we are sorry to say that F.\nLouage\u2019s _Course of __ Philosophy_ teems with false notions and incorrect\nexpressions. Dr. Brownson openly rejects the author\u2019s definition of\n_philosophy_, of _being_, of _existence_, of _possibility_, of _essence_,\nof _science_; and in the main he is evidently right. Yet, while we admit\nwith Dr. Brownson that \u201cthe science of the supersensible\u201d is not a good\ndefinition of philosophy, we do not adopt his own definition, \u201cthe science\nof _principles_\u201d; because we know that the true definition of philosophy\nis \u201cthe science of _things_ (supersensible or not) through their highest\nprinciples.\u201d Nor do we agree with him that F. Louage\u2019s definition of\n_being_\u2014\u201cthat which exists or may exist\u201d\u2014is incorrect; for, although what\nmay exist, but does not exist, is no thing in the real order, yet it is\nsomething in the ideal order, as an object of thought; and therefore F.\nLouage\u2019s definition of _being_ is perfectly correct.\n\nHis definition of possibility, as \u201cthe agreement of the attributes which\nconstitute a being, in such a way that its existence does not involve any\ncontradiction,\u201d we do not approve, not exactly for the reason adduced by\nDr. Brownson, that the non\u2010existent has no attributes, but because the\ndefinition considers the attributes as \u201cconstituents\u201d of being (which they\nare not), and because the word \u201cagreement\u201d should either be replaced by\n\u201cnon\u2010repugnance,\u201d or at least qualified by the epithet \u201cintellectual,\u201d\nreferring to the divine intellect, in which all possibilities are ideally\ncontained.\n\nThat \u201cthe essence of a being consists of the collection of its essential\nattributes,\u201d as the author of the \u201ctext\u2010book\u201d says (p. 7), is certainly a\ngreat error. The attributes of a being are not the material components of\nits essence, nor do they precede the essence; it is, on the contrary, from\nthe essence itself that all the attributes flow. The essence of any given\nbeing is nothing else than \u201cthe ratio of a given act to its term,\u201d as has\nbeen clearly established by a writer in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, March, 1874,\nand the attributes of any given being are nothing else than different\naspects of the actuality of its essence.\n\nIt is no less erroneous to say that \u201ca genus is a collection of beings\nhaving one or more attributes common to each\u201d (p. 8). This definition\nmight be admitted in natural history; but, in philosophy, genus is not a\ncollection, nor is it conceived by composition, but by abstraction. Genus\nis usually defined to be \u201ca ratio which can be found in many things, and\nbe predicated of each of them when an incomplete answer is given to the\nquestion _What is it?_\u201d To confound the universal with the collective is\ninexcusable, we think, in a \u201ctext\u2010book\u201d of philosophy.\n\n\u201cA species,\u201d says the author, \u201cis a collection of beings belonging to one\nand the same genus, but having particular and constitutive properties\u201d (p.\n8). Same remark as above: Species, in philosophy, is not a collection, but\nis \u201ca ratio which can be found in many things, and be predicated of each\nof them when a complete answer is given to the question, _What is it?_\u201d\nSpecies, like genus, is a universal.\n\n\u201cBeing, the most general genus, is divided into two species, _corporeal_\nand _incorporeal_ beings\u201d (p. 8). No philosopher of good reputation has\never considered being as a \u201cgenus.\u201d It is known that \u201cbeing\u201d is above all\ngenus, and accordingly is called \u201ctranscendental.\u201d If \u201cbeing\u201d were a\ngenus, nothing could save us from pantheism.\n\n\u201cScience ... is objective, when we consider it as existing in the object\ncontemplated\u201d (p. 9). Can science be considered as existing in the moon?\n\n\u201cArt is the application of science to external things according to\ndetermined rules\u201d (p. 9). If so, then all artists and artisans should be\nmen of science; which, unhappily, is not true. Art is usually and rightly\ndefined as _Recta ratio factibilium_\u2014\u201ca right method of making anything\u201d\nwith or without the application of science.\n\n\u201cLogic is the first part of philosophy\u2014the part which treats of the first\nefforts of the human mind to discover truth\u201d (p. 17). We think that\napprehension, judgment, and reasoning, which are the proper object of\nlogic, are no _efforts_ of the human mind, but very natural and\nspontaneous operations.\n\n\u201cAn idea may be considered as existing either in the mind or out of it\u201d\n(p. 18). It is very improper to give the name of _idea_ to anything out of\nthe mind, as words, gestures, and other outward natural or conventional\nsigns.\n\n\u201cIdeas are, first, either true or false. They are true when they conform\nwith their objects, false when they do not. But since this conformity is\nalways with the objects as represented in our minds, and not as they may\nbe in reality, we may, with this explanation, admit the opinion of those\nwho pretend that there are no false ideas\u201d (p. 20). This explanation has\nno grounds. Ideas are never compared with the objects as represented in\nour minds. Such a comparison would have no meaning; for the object as\nrepresented in our minds is nothing else than a subjective form identical\nwith the idea itself. When philosophers say that _there are no false\nideas_, they mean that ideas always conform to their object as it shows\nitself. This is the common and true doctrine. Even the author himself,\nprobably forgetful of what he had said in this passage, teaches, a few\npages later, that \u201cwe cannot err in perceiving or in feeling\u201d (p. 23).\n\n\u201cAn idea is distinct when it can be readily separated from any other idea,\n... and is confused when the object cannot be distinctly determined\u201d (p.\n21). We believe that ideas are called \u201cdistinct,\u201d not when they can be\nreadily _separated_ from one another (a thing which we cannot even\nconceive), but when they represent distinctly their object in all its\nparticulars. In the contrary case, they are called \u201cconfused.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe extension of an idea signifies the whole collection of the\nindividuals which the same idea embraces\u201d (p. 21). This is false. The\nextension of an idea is the range of its universality; and we have already\nremarked that universality is not a collection of individuals. Moreover,\nit is _comprehension_ that \u201cembraces\u201d whatever it comprehends, while\nextension embraces nothing, but only \u201creaches\u201d potentially the terms to\nwhich it extends, inasmuch as the idea is applicable to them.\n\n\u201cWhen, in order to form a species, we collect several individuals having\ncommon properties, we perform an operation which is called\n_generalization_\u201d (p. 22). This is very wrong. Generalization, says\nWebster, \u201cis the act of reducing particulars to their genera\u201d; and this\ncannot be done by collecting individuals, but only by leaving aside\nwhatever is individual, and retaining that which is common.\n\n\u201cWhen the mind, after having compared two ideas, declares their\nconsistency or their inconsistency, it makes a judgment\u201d (p. 23). The mind\nproperly compares, not the ideas themselves, but their objects as\ncognized. Two ideas may be found consistent, and yet no judgment be made.\nThus, I see that the idea of whiteness is consistent with the idea of\npaper; but does it follow that my mind judges the paper to be white? Not\nat all. It might as well judge the paper to be green; for the idea of\ngreen is no less consistent with the idea of paper. It is therefore\nevident that the mind in judging does not declare the consistency or\ninconsistency of two ideas, but affirms the mutual inclusion or exclusion\nof two objective terms as apprehended.\n\n\u201cNothing is more obscure or less useful than such classifications (of\ncategories)\u201d (p. 24). The author should have been loath to condemn what\nall great philosophers have praised. He might have considered that\nclassification, as in all the other sciences, so also in philosophy,\nbrings clearness, and that clearness is very useful.\n\n\u201cReasoning is said to be immediate when no comparison is needed\u201d (p. 30).\nHow can there be reasoning without the comparison of two terms with a\nthird?\n\n\u201cMethod is that operation of the mind, etc.\u201d (p. 44). Method is the order\nfollowed in the operation; the operation itself is the _use_ of method.\n\n\u201cInduction ... is an operation of the mind inducing us to affirm, etc.\u201d\n(p. 46). Why \u201cinducing us\u201d? It is the conclusion that is induced, not\nourselves.\n\n\u201cThe criterion of certitude is the sign by which certitude is perfectly\ndistinguished from error\u201d (p. 52). We remark, that there are criteria of\ntruth, but not properly of certitude. Certitude is the firm adhesion of\nthe mind to the truth made known to it, and needs no criterion, because it\ncertifies itself by its very existence. The author says that \u201ccertitude is\nat the same time a state and an act of the mind. As a state, it may be\ndefined to be a disposition by which the mind tends to adhere firmly to\nthe known truth\u201d (p. 50). But this is a great mistake. First, the _act_ of\nadhering to truth is an act of judging, not an act of certitude. Secondly,\nthe _state_ of certitude is not a disposition by which the mind tends to\nadhere to truth. So long as the mind tends to adhere, there is no\nadhesion, and therefore no certitude. Certitude is the rest of the mind in\nthe known truth.\n\n\u201cReason is a perception\u201d (p. 62). It is superfluous to remark that reason\nis a faculty, and no perception is a faculty.\n\n\u201cConsciousness cannot be deceived, although it may deceive\u201d (p. 62). How\ncan consciousness deceive? And if it can deceive, on what ground does the\nauthor immediately add: \u201cHence consciousness gives true certitude\u201d?\n\n\u201cThe evidence of senses is that invincible propensity which induces us to\nrefer our sensations to the bodies which, according to our conviction,\nhave been the cause of them\u201d (p. 63). We observe, that our propensity\ncannot be our evidence. Our evidence must be objective, whilst our\npropensity is a subjective disposition. The evidence of senses is the\nevident perception of an object acting on the senses. The invincible\npropensity is nothing but the necessity of yielding to that evidence.\n\n\u201cCommon sense is nothing else than that general knowledge of first notions\nor principles which is found in all men\u201d (p. 65). Common sense, according\nto Webster, is that power of the mind which, by a kind of instinct or a\nshort process of reasoning, perceives truth, the relation of things, cause\nand effect, etc., and hence enables the possessor to discern what is\nright, useful, or proper, and adopt the best means to accomplish his\npurpose. This definition, or rather description, is wonderfully correct.\nThat kind of instinct, in fact, which the Scotch philosophers wrongly\nconsider as blind, is really nothing less than a short process of\nreasoning, which carries evidence within itself. Reasoning, when\n_formal_\u2014that is, when its premises and its conclusion present themselves\ndistinctly and in a logical form, as in the scientific\ndemonstration\u2014carries within itself what may be styled _reflex_ evidence;\nand, when _informal_\u2014that is, when the conclusion and its grounds present\nthemselves as implied in one another without assuming the formal shape of\nan argument\u2014it carries within itself what may be called _direct_ evidence;\nand because it is in this second manner that men commonly acquire their\nfirst convictions, this shorter and informal process of reasoning is\ncalled reasoning of _common sense_. Accordingly, common sense is not\nmerely \u201ca general knowledge,\u201d but a source of general knowledge, extending\nto all conclusions that are evident but informal, and especially to moral\ndictates, such as \u201cGood is to be done,\u201d \u201cEvil is to be shunned,\u201d \u201cGod is\nto be honored,\u201d etc., which in fact have ever been known by the special\nname of judgments of common sense\u2014_sensus natur\u00e6 communis_.\n\n\u201cThe laws of nature, considered individually, are contingent\u201d (p. 76).\nWould they cease to be contingent if they were not considered\nindividually?\n\n\u201cMetaphysics literally means _above nature_, and nature here signifies the\nmaterial world\u201d (p. 81). These two assertions do not agree with the common\nnotion of metaphysics, and have been refuted in THE CATHOLIC WORLD for\nDecember, 1873.\n\n\u201cSpecial metaphysics has been called _pneumatology_\u201d (p. 81). Pneumatology\nis only a part of special metaphysics. Every one knows that cosmology and\nanthropology belong to special metaphysics no less than natural theology.\n\n\u201cIn this dissertation (ontology) we consider being as abstracted from\nexistence\u201d (p. 81). Ontology does not consider being as abstracted from\nexistence, but considers being as such, and therefore as existing either\nin the order of things, or at least in the order of ideas. It is as\nimpossible to conceive being as abstracted from existence as to conceive a\ncircle as abstracted from rotundity.\n\n\u201cSome existence must have existed before any possibility\u201d (p. 84). We do\nnot like the expression \u201cexistence exists,\u201d as we would not like this\nother, \u201cvelocity runs.\u201d Moreover, possibilities are co\u2010eternal with God;\nit is therefore incorrect to say that some existence must have existed\n_before_ them.\n\n\u201cPrinciple is that which contains the reason for the existence of\nsomething.... Cause is that which produces something, or which concurs in\nthe production of something\u201d (p. 85). These definitions are very vague and\nunsatisfactory, to say the least.\n\n\u201cThe condition is the difficulty to be conquered in order to obtain the\neffect\u201d (p. 86). By no means. Is the presence of the object a difficulty\nto be conquered in order to see it?\n\n\u201cThe end ... has been improperly called the final cause\u201d (p. 87). Why\n\u201cimproperly\u201d?\n\n\u201cModification ... is the substance appearing to us with such or such\ndetermined form\u201d (p. 89). Quite absurd. Modification is not the substance,\nbut the accidental form itself, no matter whether appearing or not\nappearing to us.\n\n\u201cModification cannot exist without substance, nor substance without\nmodification\u201d (p. 90). This proposition is too universal. Would the author\nadmit modifications in the divine substance?\n\n\u201cSome authors divide infinite into the infinite _actu_, or the actual\ninfinite, ... and the infinite _potentia_, or the potential or virtual\ninfinite, which can be infinitely increased or diminished. But certainly\nthis division cannot be accepted, since the infinite and a substance which\ncan be increased are two terms involving contradiction\u201d (p. 91). What the\nauthor calls \u201csome authors\u201d are all the schoolmen. We put to him the\nfollowing question: Will the human soul have a finite or an infinite\nduration? If finite, it must have an end; but, if it has no end, it cannot\nbut be the contradictory of finite\u2014that is, infinite. Yet this infinite\nduration is successive; it is therefore not actually, but potentially,\ninfinite. Hence the division of the schoolmen can and must be accepted.\nThe author thinks that the potential infinite is not infinite, but\nindefinite; but surely what has no end is infinite, not indefinite,\nalthough it is conceived by us indefinitely, because it transcends our\ncomprehension. The indefinite is not that which has no end, but that of\nwhich the end remains undetermined.\n\n\u201cThat we have in our mind the idea of the infinite is certain....\nEvidently it has been placed in our mind by God himself, since the finite\ncould not give the idea of the infinite\u201d (p. 91, 92). We undoubtedly have\na notion of the infinite; but the author gratuitously assumes that this\nnotion is an _idea_ placed in our minds from without, while the fact is\nthat such a notion is not an _idea_, but a _concept_ of our mind, or a\nresult of intellectual operation. Of course, the finite cannot give us the\n_idea_ of the infinite; but from the finite we can, and we do, form a\n_concept_ of the infinite. This is the true and common doctrine. We cannot\nundertake to give in this place a refutation of ontologism; we only remark\nthat the ontologistic theory is so generally repudiated that it should not\nfind a place in a text\u2010book for the use of schools.\n\n\u201cA material being is one which is essentially extensive and inert\u201d (p.\n92). If so, how can the author consider as \u201cmore acceptable\u201d the view of\nLeibnitz, that \u201ca monad is essentially unextensive\u201d? (p. 93).\n\n\u201cSpiritual substance is quadruple\u2014namely, God, the angels, the human soul,\nand the soul of the beasts\u201d (p. 93). The soul of the beasts _spiritual_!\u2014a\nnice doctrine indeed for the use of schools. Nor is this an oversight of\nthe author; for we find that he endows beasts with _intellect_ also (p.\n170). What shall we say, but that we live in an age of progress?\n\n\u201cThe properties of a being are those parts which constitute the being\u201d (p.\n93). We have already observed that the being is constituted by its\nprinciples, and not by its properties.\n\n\u201cA being is true when it agrees with its own attributes\u201d (p. 94). It would\nbe more philosophical to say that a being is true when its constituent\nprinciples agree with one another.\n\n\u201cA bad action or a sin is something merely negative\u201d (p. 95). False. The\nphysical action is positive, and its sinfulness is not a negation, but a\n_privation_, as theologians know.\n\n\u201cWe may define relation, in general, to be a property pertaining to a\nbeing when compared with another being\u201d (p. 95). This is a wrong\ndefinition. Relation can hardly be called a property. Distance and time\nare relations; yet no one would dream of calling them _properties_.\n\n\u201cIdentity is the perseverance of a being in the same state\u201d (p. 96). The\nauthor should have said \u201cin the same entity\u201d; for a mere change of state\ndoes not destroy identity.\n\n\u201cSpace is virtually (_potentia_) infinite, using the word infinite, as we\nhave before explained, in the sense of indefinite. It is also immense and\ninfinitely divisible\u201d (p. 97). The author might have considered that\nimmensity is infinity; and therefore, if space is immense, it is infinite,\nand not indefinite.\n\n\u201cTime is the duration of a being, or the permanence of its existence\u201d (p.\n97). Without successivity there is no time; and therefore the definition\nof time given by the author is essentially defective.\n\n\u201cDuration without an end ... is the same as immortality\u201d (p. 98). If the\nearth is to last without an end, shall we call it immortal?\n\n\u201cPerfections are modifications of beings\u201d (p. 107). This proposition, as\nunderstood by the author, who extends it to all the perfections of\ncontingent beings, is evidently false.\n\n\u201cThe Scotists teach that there is a real distinction among God\u2019s\nattributes\u201d (p. 115). By no means. The Scotists would never have taught\nsuch a gross error. They taught that the distinction between God\u2019s\nabsolute attributes was a _formal_, and not a _real_, distinction.\n\n\u201cFor God, the interior acts are those whose object is himself\u201d (p. 123).\nThere are not many interior acts in God, as the author implies, but one\npermanent act only.\n\n\u201cIt appears difficult to reconcile the immutability of God with his\nliberty. Three systems have been formed for this purpose, but they are not\nsatisfactory\u201d (p. 124). If the author had considered that God\u2019s liberty is\nall _ad extra_, and not _ad intra_, he would have seen that he had no\nright to qualify as he does the theological solution of the present\ndifficulty. Each of the three solutions is satisfactory, at least in this\nsense: that each of them sets at naught the objections of the opponents.\nThis is all we need. As to which of the three solutions is the best, it is\nnot our duty to decide.\n\n\u201cImmensity means the same as omnipresence\u201d (p. 130). This is not true.\nOmnipresence is relative, and its range is measured by the actual\nexistence of creatures, as it does not extend beyond creation; while\nimmensity is absolute, and transcends all created things.\n\n\u201cS. Thomas says that God also sees future free and contingent things in\ntheir essence\u2014that is, that he sees them in his eternal and immutable\ndecrees\u201d (p. 133). Does the author mean that S. Thomas considers the\nessence of contingent things as equivalent to the eternal and immutable\ndecrees?\n\n\u201cBut Molina and his disciples contend that with such a system (S.\nThomas\u2019s) it is impossible to defend human liberty\u201d (p. 133). Here Molina\nand his disciples are represented as the decided adversaries of the\nAngelic Doctor. It is not fair. The author should have remembered that S.\nThomas\u2019s doctrine is variously explained by various writers, and that it\nis possible to be a follower of S. Thomas without being a _Thomist_ in the\nusual sense given to this word.\n\n\u201cVeracity consists in this: that a being can neither deceive nor be\ndeceived\u201d (p. 134). Shall we deny the author\u2019s veracity because he has\nbeen sometimes deceived?\n\n\u201cJustice is the attribute according to which we give to others what\nbelongs to them\u201d (p. 135). Justice with us is a virtue, not an attribute;\nwith God, justice is an attribute, but does not consist in giving to\nothers what _belongs_ to them; it consists in giving to others what the\norder of reason demands.\n\n\u201cProvidence is, therefore, a continuous creation\u201d (p. 137). The mistake is\nevident. It is conservation, not providence, that is thus defined.\n\n\u201cThe action of God upon us during life is constant, and this is what we\nmean by his providence\u201d (p. 137). This is another mistake. The author\nconfounds the notion of providence with that of _concursus_.\n\n\u201cIn regard to its wrong use (of liberty), God cannot have an immediate,\nbut only a mediate, influence on man\u2019s actions, in the sense that he has\ngranted liberty of which a bad use is made against his suggestions. His\nsanctity forbids that he should act immediately in that case\u201d (p. 138).\nNot at all. God _immediately_ concurs to all our actions, whether good or\nbad, as every theologian knows, inasmuch as they are physical actions; and\nconcurs neither immediately nor mediately to their badness, because their\nbadness is nothing but a privation, and therefore requires no efficient\ncause.\n\nThe author misrepresents (pp. 138, 139) the doctrine of the Molinists\nconcerning the influence (_concursus_) of God upon our actions. He says\nthat this influence, according to the Molinists, \u201cis positive and direct,\nbut _not on our will_,\u201d and \u201cconsists in affording a concourse of\ncircumstances the most suitable for the determination.\u201d The author may\nhave found this interpretation of Molina\u2019s doctrine in some old book; but\nit is known that the Molinists have always admitted God\u2019s influence \u201con\nour will,\u201d though they never admitted the physical predetermination; and\nit is no less certain that none of them maintain that \u201ca concourse of\ncircumstances\u201d suffices to explain God\u2019s influence on our free actions.\n\nWe are afraid that the reader must be tired of following us in this\nenumeration of philosophical, theological, and historical mistakes, and we\nourselves are tired of our irksome task. Indeed, the psychology and the\nethics of our author are open to as much criticism as the rest of the\nwork; but what we have said abundantly suffices to justify our opinion\nthat F. Louage\u2019s text\u2010book has no claim to adoption in Catholic schools.\nAccordingly, we shall omit the detailed examination of the last 86 pages\nof his work. But we cannot conceal the fact that we have been much\nsurprised and pained at the open profession of ontologism made by the\nauthor in his article \u201cOn the Nature and Origin of our Ideas.\u201d That Dr.\nBrownson, in his _Review_, should try to show that _his own_ ontologism\ncan be philosophically defended and does not fall under ecclesiastical\ncondemnation, we do not wonder. He is not a priest; he does not write for\nschool\u2010boys, but addresses himself to educated men, who can sift his\narguments, and dismiss with a benign smile what they think to be unsound;\nand, after all, he takes great care to screen himself behind a newly\ninvented distinction between ideal intuition, and perception or cognition,\nbased on the assumption, honestly maintained by him, that \u201cintuition is\nthe act of the object, not of the subject.\u201d But with our \u201ctext\u2010book\u201d the\ncase is very different. F. Louage makes no distinctions, and takes no\nprecautions. He declares unconditionally that \u201cGod is present to our\nintellect, and seen by it,\u201d and that \u201call rational ideas come into the\nmind _by the intuitive perception_ of the simple being, or of God,\u201d and\nthat, \u201cin a word, all rational ideas, after all, are _nothing else_ than\nthe idea of the simple being (_God_) considered in itself\u201d (p. 156). Can\nthe author be ignorant that this doctrine coincides with the doctrine\nwhich, on the 18th of September, 1861, the Roman Congregation of the Holy\nInquisition has declared to be untenable (_tuto tradi non posse_)? The\nreverend author believes that \u201cthis doctrine has been held by S.\nAugustine, S. Anselm, S. Bonaventure, Bossuet, and many others\u201d; but we\ndoubt whether this fact, even if it were well established, would afford\nhim sufficient protection against the Roman declaration. We presume, in\nfact, that S. Augustine, S. Anselm, etc., are better known and understood\nin Rome than in America. But, waiving all discussion on the subject, we\ncannot but repeat that a text\u2010book for Catholic schools must not teach as\n\u201c_the_ true doctrine,\u201d and not even as a probable doctrine, what the\nCatholic Church shuns as unsound, unsafe, and untenable. This \u201ctrue\ndoctrine,\u201d nevertheless, he says, is \u201ca mere hypothesis\u201d!\n\nAnd here we stop. We have given sixty passages of F. Louage\u2019s book, by\nwhich it is manifest that his course of philosophy is as sadly deficient\nin philosophical accuracy as it is glaringly incomplete in its survey of\nthe philosophical topics. It is to be regretted that a man of his facility\nin writing has not devoted himself to some subject more congenial to his\ntalents. Such books as this are a mistake. A philosophy which is not\nprecise in its definitions nor deep in its bearings can only do harm. Such\na philosophy will certainly not enable the young student successfully to\nuphold truth, nor make him proof against sophistry, nor afford him any\nguidance whatever in after\u2010life. It will, on the contrary, lay him open to\ntemptation and seduction, as it will open his eyes to many objections\nwhich he has not the power to solve. Indeed, unpretending common sense is\nsafer for individuals and for nations than a superficial philosophical\ntraining. A sad experience shows this to be a fact. It was shallow\nphilosophy that most powerfully aided the spread of rationalism and\ninfidelity in France, Germany, and other European nations. America needs\nno such thing.\n\nWe need thorough and comprehensive philosophical teaching in accordance\nwith the tradition of the schools which have been formed and directed by\nthe highest ecclesiastical authority, and which shall be conducted by men\nthoroughly competent for the task. The only fruit our youth can gather\nfrom any other system will be noxious in its effects both on their minds\nand their morals. Yet, as we cannot remain idly waiting and doing nothing\nuntil the perfect system of education descends from heaven, we cannot\ndismiss this important matter without a few more remarks upon the\npractical course to be pursued under our present disadvantages.\n\nIn the first place, we renew our recommendation of F. Hill\u2019s text\u2010book for\nall classes which cannot make use of a Latin manual, and are capable of\nunderstanding the above\u2010mentioned treatise. Professors who understand the\nLatin language can prepare themselves to elucidate and supplement the text\nby their own lectures and explanations. Those who read French will find in\nthe translation of F. Kleutgen\u2019s _Philosophie der Vorzeit_ into that\nlanguage an exposition of scholastic philosophy, with a refutation of\nmodern errors, which will be of the greatest utility. Those who read\nGerman are referred to the works of Dr. St\u00f6ckl, and those who read Italian\nto San Severino(83) and the admirable treatise of Liberatore\u2014_Della\nConoscenza Intellettuale_. It is a pity that these works of Kleutgen and\nLiberatore could not be at once translated into English, while we are\nwaiting for the coming man who will give us a great original work. The\nCatholic Unions which are so devotedly pursuing \u201cstudies\u201d in respect to\neducation, or some other society of young men anxious to promote their own\nintellectual culture, could not do better than to provide for the\nnecessary expense of making and publishing these and similar translations.\nThe English language is poorly provided with works of this kind. If the\nstudy of Latin must be excluded from the education of so many of our\nintelligent and cultured young men, or so superficially pursued as to be\npractically useless, it cannot be too earnestly recommended to them to\nlearn the French, German, and Italian languages, or at least one or two of\nthem, that they may have access to their rich and abundant stores of\nCatholic literature, contained not only in books, but in the periodicals,\nwhich are conducted with an ability and extended over a range of subjects\nfar beyond what our own have yet attained. This last remark applies\nespecially to the French periodicals. The best works ought, however, to be\ntranslated into English, and the only obstacle to this desirable work is\nthe expense, which at present effectually hinders its being done, except\nfor very popular and salable books.\n\nSomething ought to be done to enable young men who discover at a later\nperiod, when they are already engaged in the business of life, the defects\nof their education, to supply these in some way. The manly and sensible\nletter of the alumni of the Dublin Catholic University to the Irish\nbishops expresses a want felt not only by young men in Ireland, but also\nin England and America. These young Irishmen point out two notable defects\nin their collegiate instruction\u2014a defect of instruction in physical\nscience, and a defect of instruction in the science of Catholic doctrine.\nThe Irish bishops, and the English bishops also, are beginning energetic\nand wise measures for the improvement of higher education for Catholic\nyoung men. At present, there seems no immediate prospect of similar\nmeasures being undertaken in this country; but, as a practical substitute,\nwe venture to suggest to Catholic Unions and other societies that courses\nof lectures would partly supply that lack, which is felt by so many, of\nthe more regular and systematic instruction which they did not receive at\ncollege.\n\nIn respect to the actual instruction at present given in schools, there\nremains one other important point to be noticed. It is a regular part of\nthe plan of study in our academies for young ladies, to give them lessons\nin philosophy during the last two years of their course. After a short\ncourse of pure logic, which presents no special difficulty, the pupils of\nthe academies under the Ladies of the Sacred Heart\u2014which may be taken as a\nspecimen, we suppose, of other schools of similar grade\u2014have two lessons a\nweek in what is called \u201cmental philosophy,\u201d and another lesson in ethics,\nduring two years. The early age at which the pupils graduate, which is\nusually about the completion of their eighteenth year, and the many\nbranches of study they are expected to pursue, make it impossible to give\nmore time to these lessons. F. Hill\u2019s text\u2010book seems to be too difficult\nfor use in these schools under the present circumstances. Some might think\nit would be better to drop the study of philosophy altogether in young\nladies\u2019 schools, and cite in their own favor what we have said above of\nthe mischief of superficial instruction in this science. But, in the first\nplace, if we were to give this counsel, there is no probability that it\nwould be followed; and our own acquaintance with the intellectual\ncondition and wants of this very interesting and important class of young\npeople induces us to think, that they cannot be relegated entirely to the\ncatechism class, and really require instruction in these higher branches\nof mental and moral science. We would like to see the experiment of using\nF. Hill\u2019s _Philosophy_ fairly tried with these classes, before it is\nrejected as too difficult. If an easier one is found to be necessary, the\nonly thing to be done is to try to make such a text\u2010book, which shall be\nsolid, accurate, sufficiently comprehensive, and yet written with a\nlucidity of style and explained with an appositeness of illustration, by\nexamples, which will make it intelligible both to the teachers and the\npupils. A difficult task, certainly, and requiring a very unusual\ncombination of high intellectual capacity and science with tact and skill\nin the adaptation of style and manner to the condition of the juvenile\nmind. Yet is it not equally difficult to make a good catechism? If it is\nfeasible to produce such a text\u2010book, we think there are classes of boys\nfor whom it would be as useful as for female pupils. There are\nunquestionably women, as well as men, who need and are capable of a much\nhigher intellectual discipline than that which is possible for the\ngenerality; but we see no way for such persons to obtain what they desire,\nexcept by their own private reading, aided by the advice of a learned and\njudicious counsellor, unless some change were made in the present system\nby providing a longer course and more advanced instruction for a select\nclass of pupils.\n\nThis leads us to remark that the religious women who are dedicated to the\nwork of higher instruction need themselves better preparation for their\nelevated and important task than they can at present receive in convents.\nBeyond their previous education in the convent\u2010school, which prepares them\nonly to give what they have received, they can at present proceed no\nfurther, except by private study, for which both time and proper books are\nlacking. Lectures by learned priests, which advanced pupils might attend,\nwould be the most effectual means of giving this training. And as the\nprincipal object of these higher studies is not a mere intellectual\nculture, but education in the principles and doctrines of the Catholic\nreligion, there is need of more thorough doctrinal, and we might even say\n_theological_ instruction in convent\u2010schools, from priests who can devote\na large part of their time and labor to a truly pastoral care of this\nchoice and precious portion of Christ\u2019s flock\u2014religious women and the\nyoung girls under their maternal care. There are many things to be amended\nand improved in all departments of Catholic education. _Emendemus in\nmelius quod ignoranter peccavimus._\n\n\n\n\nEaster.\n\n\nHe\u2019s risen: O stars! rejoice; O angels! sing;\nThough we stand dumb with awe, or doubting turn\nTo probe the wound above that heart where burn\nGreat flames of love. The saints with rapture fling\nTheir crowns before the throne, and angels wing\nTheir anthems through the air. Come, man, and learn\nWhere crowns belong; thy God\u2010like soul should yearn\nFor them thick\u2010set with every holy thing\u2014\nGood deeds, prayers, penances, all shining bright\nWith fire of charity. Rejoice again,\nO stars! O angels, saints, and man! a Light\nIs risen that floods the worlds with joy. No pain\nIs felt this day; earth\u2019s moan may cease, and night\nGrow bright with stars of hope\u2014\u2019tis heaven we gain!\n\n\n\n\nGrapes And Thorns. Chapter XI. A Harvest of Thorns.\n\n\nBy The Author Of \u201cThe House of Yorke.\u201d\n\nOne of the greatest severities in the imprisonment of a criminal is,\nprobably, that he can no longer see the wide earth nor the free skies, so\nthat not only is his body cramped, but his mind is thrown back on itself,\nand forbidden to send out those long tendrils which can sometimes shoot\nthrough the eyes, and fasten on distant objects, when those near by are\nrepelling. Moreover, the universe itself becomes to him like another\nprisoner, and he can scarcely believe that the large, smooth creation\nsails uninterruptedly on its way when he sees of it but one little spot\nfor ever shut in by the bars of his cell.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger\u2019s window in the jail had been low, giving him a sight of\nthe street not far away; but his cell in the prison was higher up, and\nseparated from the window by a passage. Sitting or lying down, therefore,\nhe saw only a small square of sky; and standing, the topmost line of a\nblue hill became visible. Only one other earthly object was in sight; and\nas time passed by that became still less and less of earth, and assumed a\nvariable but always supernatural character: it was the stone Christ that\nstood on the church not far away. He could see all of it but the lowest\nhem of the robe; and as it stood there, surrounded by air alone, above the\nnarrow line of the distant hill, it seemed an awful colossal being walking\nin over the edge of a submerged world. At morning, when the sky was bright\nbehind it, it darkened, the lineaments of the face were lost in a shadow\nthat was like a frown, and its garments and its hands were full of gloom.\nAt one season there were a few days when the risen sun at a certain hour\nsurrounded the head with an intolerable splendor, and then it was an image\nof wrath and judgment. It wore quite another character on bright evenings,\nwhen, the setting sun shining in its face, it came, white and glowing,\ndown the hillside, with arms outstretched, full of irresistible love and\ninvitation. To see this image, he had to stand at the grated door of his\ncell. When sitting or lying down, there was no view for the prisoner but a\nsquare of sky barred off by iron rods; and as the earth rolled, his view\ntravelled with it, day after day going over the same track in the\nterrestrial sphere. At evening a few pale stars went by, afar off, and so\nunaware of him that they were like distant sails to the shipwrecked\nmariner, hovering on the horizon and disappearing, each failure a new\nshipwreck to him.\n\nOne morning, when he opened his eyes just as day was beginning to flicker\nin the east, he saw a large, full star, so brilliant that it trembled in\nthe silvery sky, as if about to spill its brimming gold. It was so alive,\nso intelligent, so joyous, that he raised himself and looked at it as he\nwould have looked at a fair and joyful face appearing at the door of his\ncell. Surely it was like good tidings, that glad star in the east! He got\nup, and, as he rose, there rose up whitely against the sky the Christ of\nthe Immaculate Conception, seeming almost transparent in that pure light.\n\nThe prisoner knelt on the stone floor of his cell, and lifted his hands.\n\u201cGod of my fathers,\u201d he said, \u201cdeliver me! for I am turned in my anguish\nwhilst the thorn is fastened!\u201d\n\nIt was the first prayer he had uttered since the night of his arrest,\nexcept those outcries which were more the expression of anger and a\ndevouring impatience than of petition. Having uttered it, he lay down\nagain, and tried to sleep. He dreaded the thronging thoughts and\ntormenting pains of the day, and there was a tender sweetness in this new\nmood which he would fain have kept and carried off into sleep. To keep it\nby him, he called up that story suggested by what he had just seen, the\nstar in the east and the Christ. He did not believe it, but he found it\nsoothing. It came to him like David\u2019s song to Saul, and, though but a\nmythical story, as that was but a song, it kept down the tigers of anger\nand despair which threatened to rise and tear him.\n\nIt was his own Jud\u00e6a, which he had never seen, indeed, but which was to\nhim what the fountain is to the stream\u2014the source of his being. How fair\nand peaceful was that silent night that overhung, unbarred by iron bolts,\nfree from horizon to horizon! The holy city was sleeping, and by its side\nslept Bethlehem. Within a stable a fair young matron had just laid her\nnewly\u2010born child on its bed of straw, while Joseph, his Jewish brother,\nministered to both, feeling sad and troubled, it must be, that those so\ndear to him were so illy cared for at such a time. The ox and the ass\nlooked on with large, mild eyes, and warmed the air with their breath. It\nwas poor, but how peaceful, how tender, how free! The open door and\nwindows of that poor stable were to him more beautiful than the barred and\nguarded portal of a Herod or a C\u00e6sar.\n\nYet with what a blaze of glory the Christian church had surrounded this\nsimple human picture! The poor man who had been able to give his family no\nbetter shelter than a stable was held by them more honored than Herod or\nC\u00e6sar; and cherubim, bright and warm from heaven, like coals just from a\nfire, drew near to gaze with him, and burned with a still white light\nabove his head. They called this matron a miraculous mother, they showered\ntitles over her like flowers and gems, they placed the moon beneath her\nfeet, and wreathed the stars of heaven into a garland for her head.\n\nHow terrible and how beautiful was this Christian legend! The Jew had\nabhorred it as a blasphemy, and his blood chilled as he suffered his\nthought to touch one instant the awful centre of this strange group\u2014the\nBabe to whose small hand these idolaters gave the power to crush the\nuniverse, on whose tiny head they placed the crown of omnipotence. It was\nuseless to try to sleep. The soothing human picture had blazed out with\nsuch an awakening supernatural glory that he could not even lie still. He\nrose again, and stood at the door of his cell. The star had melted from\nsight, the peaceful, cloudless morning was spreading over the sky, and\nwhere the feet of the Christ stood on the hill\u2010top the beams of the sun\nwere sparkling. Beautiful upon the mountains were the feet of Him who\nbrought good tidings.\n\n\u201cA Christian would call it miraculous,\u201d he muttered, looking at that\nlight; and he shuddered as he spoke. But that shudder did not come from\nthe depths of his soul, where a new light and peace were brooding. It was\nlike the clamor and confusion outside the doors of the temple when the\nLord had driven forth the money\u2010changers, and was less an expression of\nabhorrence than a casting out of abhorrence.\n\nThe Jew did not know that, however, nor guess nor inquire what had\nhappened in his soul. He scarcely thought at all, but stood there and let\nthe light steep him through. Some dim sense of harmony stole over him, as\nif he heard a smooth and noble strain of music, and for the first time\nsince his imprisonment he remembered his loved profession, and longed to\nfeel the keys of a piano or an organ beneath his hand. His fingers\nunconsciously played on the iron bars, and he hummed a tune lowly to\nhimself, without knowing what it was.\n\n\u201cHow beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of Him that bringeth good\ntidings, that publisheth peace!\u201d\n\nThen, catching himself idle and dreaming, he turned away from the grating,\ntook a book from the table, and began to read.\n\nThis book had been to Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger an intellectual substitute for that\nspiritual consolation which he had not. Finding early in his imprisonment\nthat his mind was working itself into a frenzy over the horrors of his\nposition, and injuring him physically more even than confinement did, he\nhad begun the study of a language with which he was entirely unacquainted,\nand, whenever he found his thoughts accomplishing nothing profitable, he\nturned them resolutely to this study, and bent them, with the whole force\nof his will, to learning dry rules and regulations. The discipline had\nsaved him much, but it had not prevented his growing thin and haggard, and\nloathing food, and almost forgetting how to sleep.\n\nBut on this morning study did not seem so much a refuge as a task. The\nprisoner lifted his eyes now and then from the book, and looked outward to\nthe sky, and then dropped them again, still in a dream, and wondering at\nhimself. So might the sea have wondered when its waves sank to rest\nbeneath the divine feet of the Lord passing over.\n\nHow many times during those terrible months he had striven to produce a\nperfect calm in his own soul by calling up stoical thoughts, and all in\nvain; or, if not in vain, the only effect had been a temporary and\nenforced calm.\n\nNor was it unworthy a manly and reasonable character that such an effect\nas he now experienced should be produced by something which, apparently,\nappealed only to the artistic or the marvellous. Every soul has its\nbeautiful gate; and if truth, walking about outside, should choose to\nenter by that vine\u2010wreathed portal, and reach the citadel by way of\ngardens and labyrinths, instead of approaching by the broad avenue of\nreason, who shall say that it is not as well? Besides, in the artist, that\ngate stands always open.\n\nIt was those same sunbeams, shining on the hill\u2010top, and speaking to the\nlonely prisoner of a dawn of hope and joy, which to Annette Gerald\u2019s eyes\nhad flashed like the two\u2010edged sword by whose lightnings the first sinners\nin the world had fled out into the desert. But this sorrowful daughter of\nEve missed one of the consolations of our first mother; for Eve could\nlament aloud, and call on all creation to weep with her; but this later\nexile must take up her misery as if it were a delight.\n\nShe went about smilingly, making preparations for this little journey she\nhad announced her intention of taking.\n\n\u201cBut you needn\u2019t put everything in order, just as if you were never coming\nback again,\u201d her mother said. \u201cI\u2019ll see to things.\u201d\n\nShe was sitting in Annette\u2019s chamber, and watching her at work.\n\n\u201cWell, mamma, just as you please,\u201d the daughter answered gently, and\ntouched her mother caressingly on the shoulder in passing.\n\nA lock of Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s dark hair had fallen from the comb, and was\nhanging down her back. Annette paused to fasten it up, and, as she did so,\ncaught quickly a pair of scissors near, and severed a little tress.\n\n\u201cWhat in the world are you cutting my hair for?\u201d exclaimed Mrs. Ferrier,\nwho had witnessed the operation in a looking\u2010glass opposite.\n\nAnnette laughed and blushed. She had not meant to be detected. \u201cI\u2019ll tell\nyou when I come back, mamma. You shall see what I am going to have made.\nIt will be something very wonderful.\u201d\n\nShe turned quickly away, and bit her lip hard to keep down some rising\nemotion. She had seen a single thread of silver in that dark\u2010brown tress,\nand the sight, touching at all times\u2014the mother\u2019s first gray hair\u2014brought\nwith it the poignant thought that white hairs would come fast and thick\nwhen her mother should know what this journey meant.\n\n\u201cWhat are you taking all those common dresses for?\u201d Mrs. Ferrier asked.\n\u201cThey are hardly fit to go to the mountains with.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! we do not mean to be gay and fashionable,\u201d was the light reply. \u201cWe\nwant to have a quiet time by ourselves.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you have got your jewel\u2010case,\u201d the mother persisted. \u201cI don\u2019t see\nwhat you want of diamonds with a shabby black silk gown.\u201d\n\nIn spite of the almost intolerable thought that after these few hours she\nwould probably never see her mother again, Annette found this oversight\nirritating. Yet not for anything would she have spoken one word that was\nnot dictated by respect and affection. The only way was to escape now, and\nmake her preparations afterward, and for that she had an excuse.\n\n\u201cBy the way, mamma,\u201d she said, \u201cI want to see F. Chevreuse, and this is\njust the hour to catch him at home. Won\u2019t you take your drive now, and\nleave me at his house? Wouldn\u2019t you just as lief go out before lunch as\nafter? You and I haven\u2019t had a drive together for a long time.\u201d\n\nAnd then, when she was alone, she made haste to put into her trunks all\nthose common, useful articles which fitted her present needs, and the few\nsouvenirs too dear to leave behind, and the valuables, which might some\nday be sold, if money should fail them. She had scarcely turned the key on\nthem, when her mother came in again, pulling on her gloves. \u201cI want to\nspeak to F. Chevreuse myself,\u201d she remarked, \u201cand I will go in with you.\u201d\n\nAnnette said nothing, but dressed herself hastily. It really seemed as\nthough every obstacle were being placed in her way; yet how could she be\nimpatient with her poor mother, whose heart was so soon to be smitten,\nthrough her, by a terrible grief, and who would soon recall in bitterness\nof soul every word and act of this their last day together? And, after\nall, she had no desire to talk with the priest. What could she say to him?\nAll that was necessary was written, and she could not ask his blessing nor\nany service from him, nor even his forgiveness. The one thing he could do\nfor them was to denounce them, set the officers of justice on their track,\nand make their lot worse than that of Cain, since the earth was no longer\nwide and wild, but close and full of watching eyes and prating tongues.\nThe world seemed to her, indeed, oppressively small, having no least nook\nwhere the restless, curious traveller did not penetrate with his merciless\npen, for ever ready to sketch all he heard and saw to gratify the equally\nrestless and curious people at home.\n\n\u201cIs it a confession you have to make?\u201d Mrs Ferrier asked, as they\napproached the priest\u2019s house.\n\nThey had been driving along in silence, and at this question Annette\nstarted and blushed violently. \u201cDear me, mamma!\u201d she said, in answer to\nher mother\u2019s look of astonishment, \u201cI was off a thousand miles, and you\ngave me such a start when you spoke. Yes, it is a confession. You can see\nF. Chevreuse first, and I will go in after. You need not wait for me. I am\ngoing to walk out to the convent to Sister Cecilia a few minutes. The walk\nwill do me good; and afterward I would like to have you send the carriage\nthere for me.\u201d\n\nThe excitement under which she was laboring led her unconsciously to\nassume a decided and almost commanding tone, and her mother submitted\nwithout any opposition. Annette certainly did not look well, she thought;\nand, besides, she was going away. This last consideration was one of great\nweight with Mrs. Ferrier, for she looked on railroads and steam\u2010boats as\ninfernal contrivances expressly intended to destroy human life, and never\nsaw persons in whom she was interested commit themselves to the mercies of\nthese inventions without entertaining mournful apprehensions as to the\nprobable result. Moreover, Annette had been very sweet and fond with her\nall day, and was looking very beautiful, with that wide\u2010awake glance of\nher bright eyes, and the crimson color flickering like a flame in her\ncheeks.\n\n\u201cI think, dear, on the whole, I won\u2019t go in to\u2010day,\u201d she said. \u201cIt might\ntake too long; for this is his busy time of day. To\u2010morrow will do as\nwell.\u201d\n\nAnnette only nodded, unable to speak; but in stepping from the carriage,\nshe laid her small hand on Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s, and gave it a gentle pressure.\n\n\u201cThat girl grows prettier and sweeter every day,\u201d said the mother to\nherself, as her daughter disappeared within the doorway. \u201cAnd how black\nvelvet does become her!\u201d\n\nFather Chevreuse knew well that no ordinary errand could have brought\nAnnette Gerald to his house, and it was impossible for him to meet her\nwith the ordinary forms of civility. Scarcely any greeting passed between\nthem, as he rose hastily at her entrance, and waited for her first word.\nShe was, perhaps, more collected than he.\n\n\u201cAre you quite alone here?\u201d she asked.\n\nHe led her to the inner sitting\u2010room, and closed the door after them, and\neven then did not think to offer her a chair any more than she thought of\ntaking one.\n\n\u201cWe have told mamma that we are going away this evening for a little\njourney, and she expects us to return in four weeks. John knows all about\nour affairs. At the end of four weeks, he will say something to you, or\nyou to him, whichever you please, and at that time you will open and use\nthis packet.\u201d She gave him an envelope carefully sealed, with the date at\nwhich it was to be opened written on the outside. \u201cIf anything should\nhappen to you in the meantime, some one else must open it; but care must\nbe used not to have it read before the time.\u201d She paused for an answer.\n\n\u201cYou need not fear,\u201d the priest said, taking the packet and looking it\nover. He thought a moment. \u201cI will write also on this that, in the event\nof my death, it is to be opened by F. O\u2019Donovan or by the bishop of the\ndiocese.\u201d\n\nHe went to a table, wrote the directions, and then gave them to Annette to\nread.\n\n\u201cIt is a private paper of mine,\u201d she said, after reading and giving it\nback; \u201cand I have the right to say when it shall be read. I give it into\nyour hands only on the condition that my directions shall be complied\nwith.\u201d\n\nHe bowed, understanding perfectly that the words were intended as a future\nshield for him.\n\n\u201cAt the same time, you will open this also, which is yours,\u201d she added,\nand gave him a paper roll sealed and tied, but without any direction.\n\nF. Chevreuse shrank a little, took the roll, then let it drop from his\ntrembling hand. The cold and business\u2010like manner of his visitor and his\nsympathy for her had kept his thoughts fixed on her; but here was\nsomething which brought his mother\u2019s image up before him with a terrible\ndistinctness. It was impossible for him not to know that this little\npackage was what she had died in trying to save. Tears blinded his eyes.\nThe last evening he had spent with her came back like a vision; he saw her\nface, heard her voice, saw her kneeling before him for his blessing.\n\nMaking an effort to control and hide his emotion, he stooped to take up\nthe package he had dropped; and when he looked up again, his visitor had\nleft the room, and was walking quickly to the street door. For one moment\nhe stood irresolute; then he hurried after her. But she had already gone\nout, and either did not or would not hear him call her back.\n\nThe sight of her going away so, wrung all thought of selfish grief out of\nhis mind. He went back into the room, and watched her as she walked\nswiftly up the street. So innocent, so generous, so brave as she was, yet\nof all the sufferers by this miserable tragedy, with one exception, the\nmost unhappy! The grief that must fall upon the mother of the guilty one\nno one could fathom; but the mother of a criminal can never hold herself\nsurely innocent of his crimes, since a greater holiness in her own life, a\nwiser care in his training, and a more constant prayerfulness in his\nbehalf might have saved him; but the young wife was, of all people in the\nworld, the most innocent and the most wronged.\n\nHow light and graceful her step was. Who would not think that it betokened\na light heart? She met an acquaintance, and stopped for a word of\ngreeting, and the friend came along afterward smiling, as though at some\nmerry jest. Passing the house of another friend, she nodded and kissed her\nhand to a child in the window, with how bright a face the priest, who had\nseen her self\u2010control, could well guess.\n\n\u201cIs there nothing I can do, nothing I can say, to help her?\u201d he asked\nhimself, turning away from the window. \u201cIt is cruel that one so young\nshould bear alone such a burden! What can I do? What can I do?\u201d\n\nHe searched in vain for some means of help. There was none. For what she\nshould do her own wit or the advice of others must suffice; and for words\nof comfort, they were not for him to speak to her. Her manner had shown\nclearly the distance which she felt must lie between them, and there was\nno way but for him to accept that position. He could pray, and that was\nall.\n\nBy the time he had come to this conclusion, Annette Gerald had reached the\nconvent, and was greeting Sister Cecilia.\n\n\u201cI have only two words to say to you, dear Sister,\u201d she said, \u201cand those\nmay seem very childish, but are not so in reality. Lawrence and I are\ngoing to make a little journey, which may last about four weeks, and poor\nmamma will be lonely. Besides that, she will worry. She hates to have me\ngo away from her. Will not you be very kind to her, if she should come to\nyou? Oh! I know you always are that; but recollect, when you see her, that\nI am really all she has. A son does not count for much, you know,\nespecially when he is a young man. Very few young men are much comfort to\ntheir mothers, I think. Tell F. Chevreuse the very first time you see him\nthat I said this to you, but don\u2019t tell any one else. And now, dear\nSister, I have but a little time, for we start this evening. If there is\nno one in the chapel, I would like to go in a while. People have got so in\nthe habit of wandering into the Immaculate, and looking about carelessly,\nthat it is no longer pleasant to go there.\u201d\n\nThe same air, as of a person gentle, indeed, but not to be detained nor\ntrifled with, which had impressed F. Chevreuse in his visitor, was felt by\nthe Sister also. She rose at once, saying that there was no one in the\nchapel, and would not be for some time, all the Sisters being engaged,\nunless Anita should go in.\n\n\u201cAnita has not been well?\u201d Mrs. Gerald remarked with absent courtesy.\n\n\u201cNo; she has not been the same since that terrible trial,\u201d the nun sighed.\n\nAnnette Gerald\u2019s face lost its absent expression, and took a somewhat\nhaughty and unsympathizing look. \u201cIs that all?\u201d she inquired in a tone of\nsurprise.\n\n\u201cBut, you know,\u201d expostulated the Sister, \u201cAnita\u2019s testimony was of the\ngreatest importance. Besides, the scene was a most painful one for her to\nbe dragged into. She is such a tender, sensitive creature.\u201d\n\nAnnette had paused just inside the parlor\u2010door, and she had evidently no\nmind to let the subject drop indifferently.\n\n\u201cMy dear Sister,\u201d she said with decision, \u201cI am truly sorry for your sweet\nlittle Anita; but I think it wrong to foster the idea that there are\ncertain sensitive souls in the world who must be pitied if a breath blows\non them, while others are supposed to be able to bear the hurricane\nwithout being hurt. A great deal of this shrinking delicacy comes from a\nselfish watching of one\u2019s own sensations, and forgetting those of others,\nand a great deal from being pampered by others. You remember, perhaps, an\nold myth, which I have half forgotten, of a Camilla who was fastened to a\nlance and shot across a stream. She was a woman soft and weak, perhaps,\nbut she had to go. Now, in this world there is many a woman who has all\nthe miserable sensitiveness and delicacy of her kind, but with that there\nis also a will, or an unselfishness, or a necessity which transfixes her\nlike a spear, and carries her through all sorts of difficulties.\u201d For one\ninstant a flash of some passion, either of anger, impatience, or pain, or\nof all mingled, shot into the speaker\u2019s face, and seemed to thrill through\nall her nerves. \u201cOh! it is true in this world also,\u201d she exclaimed, \u201cthat\nunto him that hath shall be given. The happy must be shielded from pain,\nand those who cry out at the prick of a pin must be tenderly handled; but\nthe miserable may have yet more misery heaped on them, and the patient\nfind no mercy.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear lady!\u201d expostulated Sister Cecilia, when the other paused,\nquivering with excitement.\n\n\u201cOh! I do not mean to speak harshly of your sweet little Anita,\u201d\ninterrupted Mrs. Gerald, recovering herself; \u201cI was only reminded of\nothers, that is all. But even to her I would recommend thinking more of\nthe sufferings of others and less of her own.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is precisely that which hurts her,\u201d replied the Sister, a little\ndispleased. \u201cShe thinks of the sufferings of others, and, fancying that\nshe has caused them, breaks her heart about it.\u201d\n\nAnnette made a motion to go, and had an air of thinking very slightingly\nof the young novice\u2019s troubles. \u201cShe merely did her duty, and has no\nresponsibility whatever,\u201d she said. \u201cThe child needs to be scolded, and\nset about some hard, wholesome work. It would do her good to work in the\ngarden, and spend a good deal of time in the open air. A person who has\nbeen taken possession of by some morbid idea should never be shut up in a\nhouse.\u201d\n\nSister Cecilia suffered her visitor to pass on without saying another\nword. She was surprised and deeply hurt at the little sympathy shown their\nhousehold flower and pet, yet she could not but perceive that, in a\ngeneral way, much that had been said was quite true.\n\nPassing by the chapel\u2010door shortly after, she saw Annette Gerald on her\nknees before the altar, with her head bowed forward and hidden in her\nhands. Half an hour afterwards, when Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s carriage came, she was\nstill in the same position, and had to be spoken to twice before she was\nroused. Then she started and looked up in alarm.\n\n\u201cYour carriage has come,\u201d whispered the Sister, and looked quickly away\nfrom the face turned toward her, it was so white and worn. In that half\u2010\nhour she seemed to have grown ten years older.\n\n\u201cMust I go now?\u201d she exclaimed, with an air of terror, and for a moment\nseemed not to know where she was. Then murmuring an excuse, she recalled\nherself, and, by some magic, threw off again the look of age and pain.\n\u201cYou need not call Sister Cecilia, only say good\u2010by to her for me,\u201d she\nsaid. \u201cI have really not a moment to spare.\u201d\n\nThis Sister was almost a stranger to Mrs. Annette Gerald, and was quite\ntaken by surprise when the lady turned at the door, and, without a word of\nfarewell, kissed her, and then hurried away.\n\n\u201cDrive to the office, John, for Mr. Gerald,\u201d she said; and no one would\nhave suspected from her manner that she trembled before the man to whom\nshe gave that careless order.\n\nLawrence came running lightly down the stairs, having been on the watch\nfor his wife, and John, holding the carriage\u2010door open, winked with\nastonishment at sight of the bright greeting exchanged between the two. He\ncould maintain a cold and stolid reserve, if he had anything to conceal;\nbut this airy gayety on the brink of ruin was not only beyond his power,\nbut beyond his comprehension.\n\nStealing a glance of scrutiny into the young man\u2019s face, he met a glance\nof defiant _hauteur_. \u201cYou need not go any further with us, John,\u201d\nLawrence said. \u201cWe shall not need you. Jack, drive round to Mrs.\nGerald\u2019s.\u201d\n\nAnd John, with his coat down to his heels\u2014a costume in which nothing would\nhave induced him voluntarily to take a promenade\u2014was forced to walk home,\ncomforting himself with the assurance that it was the last order he should\nhave to obey from that source. Perhaps, indeed, he would not have obeyed\nit now, had they not driven away and left him no choice.\n\nThe sun was declining toward the west, and touching everything with the\ntender glory of early spring, when they drew up at the cottage gate, the\nsound of their wheels bringing Mrs. Gerald and Honora to the window, and\nthen to the door.\n\n\u201cWe can\u2019t stop to come in, Mamma Gerald,\u201d Annette called out. \u201cWe are\ngoing off on a little visit, and only come to say good\u2010by. Isn\u2019t it\nbeautiful this afternoon? The trees will soon begin to bud, if this\nweather continues.\u201d\n\nThe two ladies came out to the carriage, and Mrs. Gerald caught sight of\nher son\u2019s face, which had been turned away. It had grown suddenly white.\nShe exclaimed: \u201cWhy, Lawrence! what is the matter?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! another of those faint turns,\u201d interposed his wife quickly, laying\nher hand on his arm. \u201cHe has no appetite, and is really fainting from lack\nof nourishment. The journey will do him good, mamma. We are going entirely\non his account.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! yes, it\u2019s nothing but a turn that will soon pass away,\u201d he added, and\nseemed, indeed, already better.\n\n\u201cDo come in and take something warm,\u201d his mother said anxiously, her\nbeautiful blue eyes fixed on his face. \u201cThere is some chocolate just\nmade.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have no time,\u201d Annette began; but her husband immediately opened the\ncarriage\u2010door.\n\n\u201cYes, mother,\u201d he said. \u201cI won\u2019t keep you waiting but a minute, Ninon.\u201d\n\nThe mother put her hand in his arm, and still turned her anxious face\ntoward him. \u201cYou mustn\u2019t go to\u2010night, if you feel sick, my son,\u201d she said.\n\u201cYou know what happened to you before.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the journey is just what I need, mother,\u201d he answered, trying to\nspeak cheerfully. \u201cOf course I won\u2019t go if I feel unwell; but this is\nreally nothing. I have not quite got my strength up, and, as Annette says,\nI have eaten nothing to\u2010day.\u201d\n\nThose little services of a mother, how tender and touching they are at any\ntime! how terrible in their pathos when we know that they will soon be at\nan end for us for ever! How the hand trembles to take the cup, and the lip\ntrembles to touch its brim, when we know that she would have filled it\nwith her life\u2010blood, if that could have been saving to us!\n\n\u201cSit here by the fire, dear, while I get your chocolate,\u201d Mrs. Gerald\nsaid, and pushed the chair close to the hearth. \u201cThere is really quite a\nchill in the air.\u201d\n\nShe stirred the fire, and made the red coals glow warmly, then went out of\nthe room.\n\nHe looked round after her the moment her back was turned, and watched her\nhastening through the entry. The temptation was strong to follow her,\nthrow himself at her feet, and tell her all. He started up from the chair,\nand took a step, but came back again. It would kill her, and he could not\nsee her die. He would let her live yet the four weeks left her. Perhaps\nshe might die a natural death before that. He hoped she would. At that\nthought, a sudden flame of hope and of trust in God rose in his heart. He\ndropped on his knees. \u201cO my God! take my mother home before she hears of\nthis, and I will do any penance, bear anything!\u201d he prayed, with vehement\nrapidity. \u201cBe merciful to her, and take her!\u201d\n\nHe heard her step returning, and hastily resumed his seat, and bent\nforward to the fire.\n\n\u201cYou look better already,\u201d she said, smiling. \u201cYou have a little color\nnow. Here is your chocolate, and Annette is calling to you to make haste.\u201d\n\nShe held the little tray for him, and he managed, strengthened by that\ndesperate hope of his, to empty the cup, and even smile faintly in giving\nit back. And then he got up, put his arm around his mother\u2019s waist, in a\nboyish fashion he had sometimes with her, and went out to the door with\nher so. And there he kissed her, and jumped into the carriage, and was\ndriven away. It never occurred to her, so sweetly obedient had he been to\nher requests, and so expressive had his looks and actions been, that he\nhad not uttered a word while he was in the house nor when he drove away.\nHe had accepted her little services with affection and gratitude, and he\nhad been tender and caressing, and that was enough. Moreover, he had\nreally looked better on leaving, which proved that her prescription had\ndone him good.\n\nHow Annette Gerald got away from home she could not have told afterward.\nHer trunks were sent in advance, and she and her husband chose to walk to\nthe station in the evening. Some way she succeeded in answering all her\nmother\u2019s charges and anxious forebodings. She promised to sit in a middle\ncar, so as to be at the furthest point from a collision in front or rear,\nand to have the life\u2010preservers all ready at hand in the steamer. She took\nthe basket of luncheon her mother put up, and allowed her bonnet to be\ntied for her and her shawl pinned. And at last they were in the portico,\nand it was necessary to say good\u2010by.\n\n\u201cMy poor mamma! don\u2019t be too anxious about me, whatever happens,\u201d Annette\nsaid. \u201cRemember God takes care of us all. I hope he will take care of you.\nWhenever you feel disposed to worry about us, say a little prayer, and all\nwill come right again.\u201d\n\nThe darkness hid the tears that rolled down her cheeks as she ended, and\nin a few minutes all was over, and the two were walking arm\u2010in\u2010arm down\nthe quiet street.\n\n\u201cThis way!\u201d Lawrence said when they came to the street where his mother\nlived.\n\nIt was out of their way, but they went down by the house, and paused in\nfront of it. The windows of the sitting\u2010room were brightly lighted, and\nthey could see by the glow of the lamp that it stood on a table drawn\nbefore the fire. As they looked, a shadow leaned forward on the white\ncurtain. Mrs. Gerald was leaning with her elbow on the table, and talking\nto some one. They saw the slender hand that supported her chin, and the\ncoil of her heavy hair. They saw the slight movement with which she pushed\nback a lock of hair that had a way of falling on to her forehead.\n\nAnnette felt the arm she held tremble. She only pressed it the closer,\nthat he might not forget that love still was near him, but did not speak.\nThere was nothing for her to say.\n\n\u201cLet\u2019s go inside the gate to the window,\u201d he whispered. \u201cPerhaps I can\nhear her speak.\u201d\n\nShe softly opened the gate, and entered with him. The moonless night was\nslightly overclouded, and the shadows of the trees hid them perfectly, as\nthey stole close to the window like two thieves. Lawrence pressed his face\nto the sash, and listened breathlessly. There was a low murmur of voices\ninside, then a few words distinctly spoken. \u201cAnd by the way, dear, I\nforgot to close the blinds. Oh! no, I will close them. Don\u2019t rise!\u201d\n\nMrs. Gerald came to the window, opened it, and leaned out so close to her\nson that he heard the rustle of her dress and fancied that he felt her\nbreath on his cheek. She was silent a moment, looking up at the sky. \u201cThe\nnight is very soft and mild,\u201d she said. \u201cThose children will have a\npleasant journey.\u201d One instant longer she rested there, her hand half\nextended to the blind, then she sent upward a word of prayer, which\nbrushed her son\u2019s cheek in passing. \u201cO God! protect my son!\u201d she said.\n\nThen the blinds were drawn together, and the son was shut out from her\nsight and sound for ever.\n\n\u201cIt is our signal to go,\u201d Annette whispered to her husband. \u201cCome! We have\nno time to lose.\u201d\n\nHe held her by the arm a moment.\n\n\u201cIsn\u2019t it better, after all, to stay and have it out here?\u201d he asked\ndesperately. \u201cI\u2019d rather face danger than fly from it. Running away makes\nme seem worse than I am.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have no longer the right to consider yourself,\u201d she answered, with a\ncertain sternness. \u201cI will not submit to have a convict for a husband. I\nwould rather see you dead. And your mother shall not visit you in a\nfelon\u2019s cell. Besides, no one is to be profited by such a piece of folly,\nand you would yourself repent it when too late. Come!\u201d\n\nHe said no more, but suffered himself to be drawn away. He could not\ncomplain that his wife treated his heroic impulses with a disrespect\namounting almost to contempt, for he could not himself trust them.\n\nAfter having closed the window, Mrs. Gerald returned to her place by the\nfire. A round table was drawn up there between two armchairs, in one of\nwhich Miss Pembroke sat, knitting a scarf of crimson wool. The shade over\nthe lamp kept its strong light from her eyes, and threw a faint shadow on\nthe upper part of her face; but her sweet and serious mouth, and the round\nchin, with its faint dent of a dimple, were illuminated, her brown dress\nhad rich yellow lights on the folds, and the end of a straying curl on her\nshoulder almost sparkled with gold. Her eyes were downcast and fixed on\nher work, and crimson loop after loop dropped swiftly from the ivory\nneedles scarcely whiter than her hands.\n\n\u201cAs I was saying,\u201d Mrs. Gerald resumed, \u201csix months of the year they were\nto pass with Mrs. Ferrier have gone, and next fall they will have an\nestablishment of their own. It will be better for both of them. I am sure\nAnnette will make a good housekeeper. Besides, every married man should be\nthe master of a house. It gives him a place in the world, and makes him\nfeel his responsibilities and dignities more.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, every one should have a home,\u201d answered the young woman gravely. \u201cIt\nis a great safeguard.\u201d\n\nMrs. Gerald leaned back in her chair, and gazed into the fire. There was a\nsmile of contentment on her lips and an air of gentle pride in the\ncarriage of her head. As she thought, or dreamed, she turned about the\nbirth\u2010day ring her son had given her, and, presently becoming aware of\nwhat she was doing, looked at it and smiled as if she were smiling in his\nface.\n\n\u201cI never before felt so well contented and satisfied with his situation,\u201d\nshe said, her happiness breaking into words. \u201cHis marriage has turned out\nwell. They seem to be perfectly united, and Lawrence is really proud of\nhis wife; and with reason. She is no more like what she was when I first\nknew her than a butterfly is like a grub. She has developed wonderfully.\u201d\nShe was silent a moment, then added: \u201cI am very thankful.\u201d\n\nShe drew a rosary from her pocket, and, leaning back in her chair with her\neyes closed, began to whisper the prayers as the beads slipped through her\nfingers.\n\nMiss Pembroke glanced at her, and smiled faintly. It was very pleasant to\nsee this mother happy in her son, yet how trembling and precarious was her\nhappiness! This woman\u2019s heart, which bruised itself in beating, was always\nready to catch some fleeting glory on its springing tide; like the\nfountain, which holds the rainbow a moment among its chilly drops.\n\nWhile one woman prayed, the other thought. She had often dwelt upon this\nsubject of women\u2019s lives being wrecked from love of friend, husband, or\nchild, and the sight of Mrs. Gerald had been to her a constant\nillustration of such a wreck. These thoughts had troubled her, for she was\nnot one to judge hastily, and she did not know whether to pity or to blame\nso ruinous a devotion. Now again the question floated up, and with it the\nwish to decide once for all before life should thrust the problem on her,\nwhen she would be too confused to think rightly. She was like one who\nstands safe yet wistful on shore, looking off over troubled waters, and\nMrs. Gerald and Annette seemed to her tossing far out on the waves. She\neven seemed to herself to have approached the brink so near that the salt\ntide had touched her feet, and to have drawn back only just in time.\n\nGradually, as her fair fingers wove the glowing web, a faint cloud came\nover her face, and, if it had been possible for her to frown, that deeper\nshadow between the brows might have been called a frown. Her thoughts were\ngrowing stern.\n\n\u201cWere we made upright, we women, only to bend like reeds to every wind?\u201d\nshe asked herself. \u201cCan we not be gentle without being slavish, and kind\nand tender without pouring our hearts out like water? Cannot we reserve\nsomething to ourselves, even while giving all and even more than our\nfriends deserve? Cannot we hold our peace and happiness so firmly in our\nown hands that no one shall have the power to destroy them?\u201d\n\nEach question as it came met with a prompt answer, and resolution followed\nswiftly: \u201cNever will I suffer myself to be so enslaved by any affection as\nto lose my individuality and be merged and lost in another, or be made\nwretched by another, or to have my sense of justice and right confused by\nthe desire to make excuses for one I love. Never will I suffer the name\nwhich I have kept stainless to be associated with the disgrace of another,\nand never will I leave the orderly and honorable ways of life, where I\nhave walked so far, to follow any one into the by\u2010ways, for any pretext.\nEach one is to save his own soul, and to help others only to a certain\nextent. I will keep my place!\u201d\n\nThat resolute and almost haughty face seemed scarcely to be Honora\nPembroke\u2019s; and she felt so surely that her expression would check and\nstartle her companion that when she saw Mrs. Gerald drop the rosary from\nher fingers, and turn to speak to her, she quickly changed her position so\nas to hide her face a moment.\n\nMrs. Gerald\u2019s voice had changed while she prayed, and seemed weighted with\na calm seriousness from her heavenly communion; and her first words jarred\nstrangely with her young friend\u2019s thought.\n\n\u201cHow uncalculating the saints were!\u201d she said. \u201cOur Lady was the only one,\nI think, who escaped personal contumely, and that was not because she\nrisked nothing, but because God would not suffer contempt nor slander to\ntouch her. He spared her no pang, save that of disgrace; yet she would\nhave accepted that without a complaint. How tender he was of her! He gave\nher a nominal spouse to shield her motherhood; it was through her Son that\nher heart was pierced, and the grief of a mother is always sacred; and he\ngave her always loving and devoted women, who clustered about and made her\nlittle court. She was never alone. But she is an exception. The others\nwere despised and maltreated, and they seemed to be perpetually throwing\nthemselves away. I do not doubt that those saints who never suffered\nmartyrdom nor persecution were still, in their day, laughed and mocked at\nby some more than they were honored by others. They never stopped to count\nthe cost.\u201d\n\nMiss Pembroke felt at the first instant as though Mrs. Gerald must have\nread her thoughts, and her reply came like a retort. \u201cIt is true they did\nnot count the costs,\u201d she said; \u201cbut it was God whom they loved.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d Mrs. Gerald replied gently, \u201cthat was what I meant.\u201d\n\nShe was too closely wrapped in contentment to perceive the coldness with\nwhich her companion spoke. It seemed to her that all her cares had floated\naway, and left only rest and sweetness behind. She no longer feared\nanything. There comes to every one some happy season in life, she thought;\nand hers had come.\n\nWhen, the next day, she received a note from her son, which he had written\nfrom their first stopping\u2010place, she was scarcely surprised, though it was\nan unusual attention.\n\nIt was but a hurried line, written with a pencil and posted in the\nstation\u2010house.\n\n\u201cMy darling mother,\u201d he wrote, \u201cif you should find your violet\u2010bed under\nthe parlor window trampled, blame Larry for it. He saw his mother\u2019s shadow\non the curtain when he was on his way to the station last night, and took\na fancy to go nearer and peep through the window. But he didn\u2019t mean to do\nany harm then, nor at some other times, when he did enough indeed. Forgive\nhim for everything.\u201d\n\nMrs. Gerald immediately went out, letter in hand, to see what marks had\nbeen left of this nocturnal visit; and, sure enough, there, on the newly\u2010\nturned mould, was the print of a boot\u2014well she knew her son\u2019s neat\nfoot\u2014and, on the other side, a tiny and delicate track where Annette had\nstood! But not a leaf of the sprouting violets was crushed.\n\nMiss Pembroke smiled to see the mother touch these tracks softly with her\nfinger\u2010tips, and glance about as if to assure herself that there was no\ndanger of their being effaced.\n\n\u201cSuch a freak of those children!\u201d she said gaily. \u201cDo you know what I am\ngoing to do, Honora? I mean to sow little pink quill daisies in those two\nfoot\u2010prints, and show them to Lawrence and Annette when they come back. It\nwas a beautiful thought of them to come to the window, and it shall be\ncommemorated in beauty. The ground is nearly warm enough here now for\nseeds. When they come back, the tracks will be green. I wish flowers would\nblossom in three weeks.\u201d\n\nMrs. Ferrier also heard that day from the travellers.\n\n\u201cI have a particular reason for asking you to be very careful about my\nletters,\u201d Annette wrote. \u201cDon\u2019t let any one see or know of them. I will\ntell you why presently. We are very well. Write me a line as soon as you\nreceive this, and direct to New York. We shall not stop there, but go\nright on out West, probably. And, by the way, if you should wish ever to\nhear from Mrs. Gerald\u2019s relations, seek in New York for a letter directed\nto Mrs. Julia Ward. Say nothing of this now. I will explain.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why should I wish to hear from Mrs. Gerald\u2019s relations?\u201d wondered\nMrs. Ferrier. But she said nothing. The secret was safe with her.\n\nMeanwhile, the travellers had lost no time on their way; and three days\nfrom their leaving Crichton, they were on the ocean. Every stateroom and\ncabin had been taken when \u201cMr. and Mrs. Ward\u201d went to the office of the\nsteamer; but the captain, seeing the lady in great distress on account of\nthe sick friend she was crossing the ocean to see, kindly gave up his own\nstateroom to the travellers.\n\nIt was quite as well for him to do so, indeed; for the very day they\nstarted a storm started with them, and he was too faithful an officer to\ndesert his post on deck. So all night long he watched, courageous and\nfaithful, over the lives committed to his care, while underneath his two\nspecial guests lay helpless and miserable, counting his footsteps, as\nsleepless as he. The engine throbbed beside them, like a heavily\u2010beating\nheart, the long waves lashed the deck, the wind sang and whistled through\nthe ropes, the steamer creaked and groaned.\n\n\u201cI have brought bad luck to the ship, Annette,\u201d said her husband. \u201cIf I\nwere overboard, the storm would cease.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn the first place, my name is Julia,\u201d was the answer from the lower\nberth. \u201cIn the next place, there is nothing mysterious in this storm; it\nis simply the equinoctial gale, which has been threatening for days. I\nknew we should have it. In the third place, your being overboard would\nmake no difference whatever in the weather. Are you sick?\u201d\n\nAnnette knew well that a little chilly breeze would best blow away her\nhusband\u2019s vapors.\n\n\u201cI am sick of lying here,\u201d he said impatiently. \u201cThe rain must be over,\nunless it is another flood. I wonder how it looks out?\u201d\n\nHe drew aside the curtain, and opened the window. The rain had ceased, but\nthe wind still blew, and a pale light was everywhere, shining up through\nthe waves and down through the clouds. As the steamer rolled, Annette,\nlying in her lower berth, could see alternately the gray and tumbled\nclouds of air, and the gray and heaving sea, which was less like moving\nwater than a ruined, quaking earth, so heavily it rose and fell.\n\nLawrence Gerald, closely wrapped in furs, knelt on the sofa, and looked\nout, humming a tune that seemed to be for ever on his lips since his wife\nhad first sung it to him, so that she was sometimes half sorry for having\nsuggested it to him. A few words broke out while she listened:\n\n\n    \u201cFor man never slept\n      In a different bed,\n    And to sleep, you must slumber\n      In just such a bed.\u201d\n\n\nHis thoughts seemed to be so haunted by the image of that cold and\npeaceful slumber that his wife trembled for him. He had not the enduring\nstrength to bear a long trial, but he had that fitful strength which\nprompts to desperate deeds.\n\n\u201cI can see cities built and destroyed yonder,\u201d he said. \u201cThere are white\ntowns between dark mountains, and little hamlets up in the crevices; they\ngrow, and then they are swallowed up. It is like a great earthquake. When\nthe world is destroyed, it will perhaps look like that, pale and ashy.\u201d\n\n\u201cSuppose we should go up on deck, and see what it looks like,\u201d said\nAnnette suddenly, anticipating the wish she knew he would have expressed.\n\u201cIt will be a change after our three days\u2019 imprisonment, and we may think\nthe stateroom a pleasant refuge when we come back.\u201d\n\nThey escaped the crest of a wave that leaped over the rail after them, and\nreached the wet and slippery deck.\n\n\u201cWe mustn\u2019t speak to the officers,\u201d Annette whispered, seeing the captain\nnear them.\n\nHe passed them by without notice, and they hurried on to the shelter of\nthe smoke\u2010pipe, where the heat had dried the planks; and here, holding by\nropes, they could look over the rail and see the long streaks of pale\nblue, where the foam slid under the surface of the water; see the gigantic\nstruggle of the sea, and how the brave ship pushed through it all straight\ntoward her unseen port.\n\nNothing is so perfect a figure of life as a ship on the sea, and one can\nhardly behold it without moralizing.\n\n\u201cSuppose that this ship had a soul of its own, instead of being guided by\nthe will of other beings,\u201d said Annette; \u201cand suppose that, finding itself\nin such a woful case, it should say, \u2018I see no port, no pole\u2010star, no sun,\nnor moon, and I doubt if I shall ever see them again. I may as well stop\ntrying, and go down here.\u2019 Wouldn\u2019t that be a pity for itself and for\nothers?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut suppose, on the other hand,\u201d returned her husband, \u201cthat the ship had\ngot a deadly thrust from some unseen rock, and the water was running in,\nand it could never gain the port. What would be the use of its striving\nand straining for a few leagues further?\u201d\n\n\u201cWe know not where the haven of a soul is set,\u201d said Annette, dropping the\nfigure. \u201cGod knows, for he has set it, near or far; and it may be nearer\nthan we think. It is scarcely worth while for a man to lose his soul by\njumping overboard at ten o\u2019clock, when he may save it, and be drowned too,\nat eleven.\u201d\n\nLawrence drew back as a great wave rose before them. He had only been\nplaying at death; the reality was quite another thing. Chilled and\ndrenched with spray, they hurried down to their stateroom.\n\nIt was a weary journey. After the storm came head\u2010winds, and after the\nhead\u2010winds a fog, through which they crept, ringing the fog\u2010bell, and\nstopping now and then.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Ward did not appear once among the passengers, even when\neverybody crowded up to catch the first glimpse of Ireland, and they were\nthe last to appear when the passengers prepared to land at Liverpool. They\nhad been a fortnight from home, the storm having delayed them two days,\nand they knew not what might have happened in that time. A telegram might\nhave sped under the waves in an hour while they toiled over them, and just\nat the moment of escape their flight might be intercepted.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nDante Gabriel Rosetti.(84)\n\n\nIt is not difficult to understand the title which has been bestowed upon\nMr. Rosetti of the \u201cPoets\u2019 Poet.\u201d His volume is full of delicate\nrhythmical experiments\u2014winding bouts of melody with subtle catches of\nsilence interspersed\u2014which alternately pique and satisfy. No brother of\nthe craft could fail to obtain valuable hints from these studies. But Mr.\nRosetti is no mere word\u2010poiser; he is an artist in the highest sense of\nthe word, whose canvas teems with a thousand nameless lights, which as\nthey cross and disappear make all the difference between the real and the\nunreal.\n\nDuring the two years or more that Mr. Rosetti\u2019s volume has been before the\nEnglish\u2010reading public on both sides of the Atlantic, it has been\nfrequently reviewed. Perhaps the best justification of the present review\nis that, over and above purely literary merits, Mr. Rosetti has peculiar\nclaims upon the interest of Catholic readers, to which we would draw\nattention.\n\nWe gather from the brief notice at the beginning of the volume that many\nof these poems were composed twenty years ago, yet, if we except the\noccasional appearance of a single poem in the pages of a magazine, Mr.\nRosetti has published nothing before. We can hardly believe that even the\nbarbarians of twenty years ago can have combined against his publishing,\nlike Mr. Bazzard\u2019s friends in _Edwin Drood_, and so we must suppose that\nhe was fain to wait for the severest of all criticisms\u2014that passed by a\nmiddle\u2010aged man upon the productions of his youth. And now, having altered\nsomething and burnt more\u2014had he waited, he would have found old age more\nindulgent\u2014he publishes the remnant, all of which, he tells us justly\nenough, is mature, for which his mature age is sponsor.\n\nIt would be far easier to estimate Mr. Rosetti\u2019s position as a poet had he\nwritten more. Nor is this precisely a truism; for one feels at once that\nwhat he has given us is most precisely and emphatically a selection. Every\none of his poems, whatever else it may be, is at least a cunning piece of\nartist\u2019s work in this or that particular style, with a distinct flavor of\nits own and true to itself throughout. If you know, and care for, the old\nScots ballad, you will at once appreciate the specimen he gives you. If\nyou object to the coarseness which shades the tenderness of \u201cStratton\nWater,\u201d your criticism is unlearned. As well complain of the peat flavor\nof a \u201cFinnan haddie.\u201d\n\nPoets who sing because they must sing, who pour into trembling ears great\nheterogeneous floods of song, the reflection of their many moods, things\nbeautiful and rather beautiful, and plain and very plain; all the\nthousand\u2010and\u2010one scraps which have something clever in them, or illustrate\nsomething, or with the composition of which something interesting, whether\npleasant or painful, is associated\u2014take, for instance, any chance volume\nof Wordsworth or Browning\u2014may be in the long run our benefactors, but they\nhave no claim upon the ready\u2010money of thanks; they charm, perhaps, but\nthey often also bore. If a man whose imagination has not been left out is\nbored by Mr. Rosetti\u2019s volume, it is time for him, according to the\nTurkish proverb, to put his trust in God\u2014his wine is running to the lees,\nhis roses wither. And this is true although the generations of poetic\ntaste are so short\u2010lived that almost before a man has reached the _mezzo\ncamino_, and certainly before he has lost his sense of life\u2019s enjoyments,\nhe is apt to find himself somewhat out of harmony with the poetry of the\nday. Mr. Rosetti is no prophet of a new theory of art or master of a new\nphrase\u2010mint, but rather a merchant whose cargo tells a tale of every port\nat which he has touched.\n\nIt is natural to compare, even if only to contrast, any new poet with Mr.\nTennyson, as the poet who has had more immediate, sensible influence than\nany other upon the taste of his day; and although there is a prejudice\nagainst comparisons, it is difficult to see how they can be avoided if one\nis to do something more than point and ejaculate. In the present case,\nthere is at least sufficient resemblance to suggest comparison. Amongst\nliving poets these two are pre\u2010eminently artist\u2010poets, who finish their\nwork and hide well away all their literary shavings. They are almost the\nonly living poets who never go on talking till they can find the right\nword, and who never stammer.\n\nThere is not a scrap of either of these poets that, for the refined work\nthere is in it, it would not be a shame to burn. Again, they are like in\nthis, that they have an intense sensuous appreciation of the medium which\nthey use, which seems to belong rather to the art of the painter or the\nmusician than to that of the poet. It would not be difficult to make a\ncolor\u2010box of Mr. Tennyson\u2019s favorite words, literary formulas for cool\ngrays and bits of scarlet. On the other hand, Mr. Rosetti\u2019s art is rather\nthat of the musician than the painter; he produces his effects rather by\nsubtle changes of manner than by the color of single words, although his\nchoice in these too is exquisite. His modulations remind one of Crashaw\u2019s\nlines in \u201cMusic\u2019s Duel\u201d:\n\n\n    \u201cThe lute\u2019s light genius now doth proudly rise,\n    Heaved on the surges of swoll\u2019n rhapsodies.\n    Whose flourish, meteor\u2010like, doth curl the air\n    With flash of high\u2010born fancies; here and there\n    Dancing in lofty measures, and anon\n    Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,\n    Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs,\n    Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares.\u201d\n\n\nAnd so, having drifted into points of difference, we will continue. They\nare unlike because, although both affect the quaintnesses of medi\u00e6val art,\nthe laureate has done little more than utilize, for poetic purposes, the\nantiquarian and art knowledge of a gentleman of the period with a turn\nthat way. But Mr. Rosetti is a medi\u00e6val artist heart and soul; and, though\nit may not be literally true that he has no end beyond his art, he would\ncertainly feel that he was doing evil that good might come of it if he\nsacrificed a point of art to any object whatsoever.\n\nMr. Tennyson\u2019s pictures of the middle\u2010age, beautiful and lifelike as they\nare, are the less true for their somewhat formal flourish of antiquity,\nwhereby they give themselves, as it were, a modern frame. Of course,\nTennyson\u2019s knights are not modern gentlemen in the sense that Racine\u2019s\nGreeks are French courtiers, but anyhow they are the realized aspirations\nof modern gentlemen of culture and refinement, and measures of fashionable\nreaction against the spirit of the day.\n\nI think the consciousness that he wants a loosely\u2010fitting medi\u00e6valism, or,\nso to speak, the armor without any particular quality of man inside, makes\nMr. Tennyson affect the hybrid medi\u00e6valism of the Round Table in\npreference to the genuine strain of the old chroniclers. His mail\u2010clad\nknights always remind us somewhat of a common scene in a marine aquarium\u2014a\nwhelk\u2010shell inspired with an energy not its own by the intrusion of a\nhermit\u2010crab, who, having disposed of the original occupant, manipulates\nthe shell at his pleasure.\n\nIt may be urged, with some justice, that a poet is no mere collector of\nold china and old lace. He gathers to himself of all precious things, to\nframe for his thought such vehicle as he wants; but he has no duties to\nhis materials that they should be in keeping with one another or with\nthemselves, provided they minister to his design. Yes, but it must be\nremembered that both these poets belong to a school which owes its success\nto the religious observance of such duties, even though self\u2010imposed; and\nit must always remain true that the more a poet can afford to borrow\nwholes instead of parts or aspects, and these plead the poet\u2019s cause each\nin its own tongue, not his, the greater is his triumph. I am not\nindicating any failure on the part of Mr. Tennyson when I speak of his\nArthurian poems as a splendid masque. He knows where his strength lies. He\nhas chosen his legend as a man might choose an antique wine\u2010cooler for his\nwine; but the liquor inside, though superlatively good, is not hippocras\nor metheglin, but port and sherry. On the other hand, if we turn to Mr.\nRosetti\u2019s treatment of medi\u00e6val subjects, \u201cDante at Verona,\u201d \u201cSister\nHelen,\u201d \u201cThe Staff and Scrip,\u201d we find that his medi\u00e6val figures live,\nindeed, with the intensest kind of life, but that that life, from its woof\nto its outermost fringe, is stained with the color of its own day and\ncountry. It is this union of purism and vitality which is Mr. Rosetti\u2019s\ndistinguishing characteristic.\n\nIt is now time for us to examine some of Mr. Rosetti\u2019s poems in detail.\n\u201cThe Blessed Damozel,\u201d the first poem in the volume, were it not for its\ntitle, would be perfect; but we confess that the ultra quaintness of the\ntitle is the one point in the medi\u00e6val dress which does not, to our mind,\nharmonize with the Catholicity of the subject.\n\nThe subject would be trite enough in many hands. A young man has lost his\nlove, and dreams of her night and day, until at length the soul of his\nimagination pierces that heaven into which she has been received ten years\nago:\n\n\n    \u201cHer seemed she scarce had been a day\n      One of God\u2019s choristers;\n    The wonder was not yet quite gone\n      From that still look of hers,\n    Albeit, to them she left, her day\n      Had counted as ten years.\u201d\n\n\nWith the calm, unhesitating realism of Fra Angelico, he paints his lady\nleaning out towards him \u201cfrom the gold bar of heaven,\u201d with stars in her\nhair and lilies in her hand; and the outline is so clear and firm, so free\nfrom the mist of modern sentimentalism, that the paroxysm of doubt which\nbreaks in at the end of the fourth stanza, and which for a moment makes\nthe radiant vision tremulous, is really wanted to remind us of the abyss\nwhich the imagination is spanning:\n\n\n    \u201cIt was the rampart of God\u2019s house\n      That she was standing on,\n    By God built over the sheer depth\n      The which is space begun;\n    So high that, looking downward thence,\n      You scarce might see the sun.\u201d\n\n\n\u201cThe tides of day and night\u201d alternate far down in the abyss beneath her\nfeet, where the earth is spinning about the sun \u201clike a fretful midge.\u201d If\nany one is tempted to doubt if the heavens of modern science, with their\nvast distances and harmonious order, are more poetical than the star\u2010\nspangled cope upon which the Chaldean shepherds gazed, let him read this\npoem. The simple imagery with which Mr. Rosetti clothes the abysses of\nheaven seems, without destroying their immensity, to render them visible:\n\n\n    \u201cFrom the fixed place of heaven she saw\n    Time like a pulse shake fierce\n        Through all the world....\u201d\n\n\nAgain:\n\n\n    \u201cThe sun was gone now; the curled moon\n    Was like a little feather\n      Fluttering far down the gulf.\u201d\n\n\nHe sees that she is looking for him, and then she speaks, not to him, for\nshe sees him not, but of him, of what their life in heaven will be when he\nhas come\u2014for he must come, she says. And again, as she talks of the life\nin heaven, it is Fra Angelico in words; lush meadow\u2010grass, so soft to\nroad\u2010worn feet, and golden\u2010fruited trees, and tender intercourse from\nwhich all the acerbities and conventionalities of life are banished; an\natmosphere in which the freshness of morning and the peace of evening are\nwoven into one eternal day, which, as he says elsewhere, \u201chours no more\noffend.\u201d How thoroughly Dantesque in its homely sublimity is the\nconception of Our Lady and her handmaids at their weaving:\n\n\n    \u201cInto the fine cloth, white like flame,\n      Weaving the golden thread\n    To fashion the birth\u2010robes for them\n      Who are just born, being dead.\u201d\n\n\nWe hardly think that this poem of Mr. Rosetti\u2019s strikes a single false\nchord even to Catholic ears. The utmost that can be said is that the\nblessed soul is too absorbed by her longing for her earthly love. But then\nthe heaven of theology is an assemblage of paradoxes which faith alone can\nknit together; and, in its entirety, wholly without the realm of art. In\nthis poem we have one aspect of the life of the blessed, \u201csecurus quidem\nsibi sed nostri solicitus,\u201d as S. Bernard says, presented to us most\nvividly in the only colors an artist\u2019s pencil can command\u2014those of earthly\nlove. But this love is serene and pure, and, despite its intensity, free\nfrom all pain and impatience. The passion is supplied by the refrain in\nthe earthly lover\u2019s heart, as in his touching commentary upon the\nconfidence of her \u201cwe two\u201d will do thus and thus when he comes:\n\n\n    \u201cAlas! we two, we two, thou sayst!\n      Yea, one wast thou with me\n    That once of old. But shall God lift\n      To endless unity\n    The soul whose likeness with thy soul\n      Was but its love for thee?\u201d\n\n\nHaving ended her description of heaven\u2019s mysterious joys:\n\n\n    \u201cShe gazed and listened, and then said,\n      Less sad of speech than mild,\n    \u2018All this is when he comes.\u2019 She ceased.\n    The light thrilled towards her filled\n    With angels in strong level flight.\n      Her eyes prayed and she smiled.\u201d\n\n\nBut soon the smile fades away as the angelic convoy glides past, for he is\nnot there\u2014\n\n\n    \u201cAnd then she cast her arms along\n      The golden barriers,\n    And laid her face between her hands,\n      And wept (I heard her tears).\u201d\n\n\nIf it be objected that this is too gross a violation of the state in which\nall tears are wiped away, I answer, first, that there are tears and tears;\nsecondly, that if anthropomorphism is allowable in our realizations of\nGod, _\u00e0 fortiori_ is it allowable in our realizations of those who,\nalthough they are raised above the estate of humanity, are still human.\nAgain, even the angels of Christian art have a prescriptive right to\ntears, and is it not written, Isai. xxxiii. 7, \u201cAngeli pacis amar\u00e8\nflebunt?\u201d\n\nAnd now we will say what we have to say of perhaps the most wonderful of\nall Mr. Rosetti\u2019s poems, which somehow, for more reasons than one,\nsuggests itself as a pendant to \u201cThe Blessed Damozel.\u201d He has called it\n\u201cJenny,\u201d and Jenny is the name\u2014neither French nor Greek will mend the\nmatter\u2014of a young prostitute. We freely confess that there are two or\nthree lines in this poem which we heartily wish Mr. Rosetti had never\nwritten; but, take it as it stands, few will be disposed to deny that it\nis a very real sermon against lust, all the more impressive because it is\nindirect. The story, such as it is, is this: A man, young but not in his\nfirst youth, who has been for some years settling down to a student\u2019s\nlife, throws his work aside one evening, and goes off to one of his old\nhaunts. Having spent half the night in dancing, and being smitten with\nJenny\u2019s youthful beauty, he goes home with her. She, poor thing, utterly\ntired, falls dead asleep at supper, and he, watching her, falls to\nmoralizing, half cynically, half tenderly, upon innocence and lust and\ndestiny, until at last the pity of it all wholly possesses him and kills\nevery other thought. And so musing till early dawn, till\n\n\n    \u201cNow without, as if some word\n      Had called upon them that they heard,\n    The London sparrows far and nigh\n      Clamor together suddenly,\u201d\n\n\nhe slips some gold pieces into her hair, and goes with the half\u2010expressed\nhope that, as God has been merciful to him, so he will be merciful to her\nalso.\n\nWhat first touches him is her evident longing for rest:\n\n\n    \u201cGlad from the crush to rest within,\n    From the heart\u2010sickness and the din,\n    Where envy\u2019s voice at virtue\u2019s pitch\n    Mocks you because your gown is rich,\n    And from the pale girl\u2019s dumb rebuke,\n    Whose ill\u2010clad grace and toil\u2010worn look\n    Proclaim the strength that keeps her weak\n    And other nights than yours bespeak,\n    And from the wise, unchildish elf,\n    To schoolmate lesser than himself\n    Pointing you out what thing you are.\u201d\n\n\nThe girl herself, beyond her youth and beauty, is nowise better than her\nfellows, and so she individualizes a larger pathos, and is in some sense a\nmore touching representative of the victims of man\u2019s lust\u2014\n\n\n    \u201cPoor handful of bright spring water\n    Flung in the whirlpool\u2019s shrieking face.\u201d\n\n\nHe is penetrated by the contrast between the fate of this poor girl and\nthat of his cousin, just such another girl in natural disposition\u2014\n\n\n    \u201cAnd fond of dress, and change, and praise,\n    So mere a woman in her ways\u201d;\n\n\nbut in the guarded atmosphere of her home, with every point in her\ncharacter blooming into good.\n\n\n    \u201cSo pure\u2014so fallen! how dare to think\n    Of the first common kindred link?\n    Yet Jenny, till the world shall burn,\n    It seems that all things take their turn,\n    And who shall say but this fair tree\n    May need, in changes that shall be,\n    Your children\u2019s children\u2019s charity?\n    Scorned then, no doubt, as you are scorned,\n    Shall no man hold his pride forewarned\n    Till in the end, the day of days,\n    At judgment, one of his own race,\n    As frail and lost as you, shall rise,\n    His daughter with his mother\u2019s eyes?\u201d\n\n\nMany a man would be fain to listen to such a sermon who would reject any\nother. For the preacher is no missionary in disguise, but a fellow\u2010sinner\nconverted in the presence of his sin, if we may call it conversion; at\nleast, beaten down and overwhelmed by the colossal horror and pity of it,\nas a wild beast is tamed by a prairie\u2010fire.\n\nMany beautiful things have been said by non\u2010Catholic poets of Our Blessed\nLady. Indeed, a very pretty book might be made of these Gentile\ntestimonies, from Milton, Cowley, Crashaw (before his conversion),\nWordsworth, Keble, and many others. It would seem that Parnassus is as one\nof the high places of Baal, where the Spirit of the Lord rushes upon the\npoet, whose eyes are opened and he must needs bless her whom he that\nblesseth \u201cshall also himself be blessed, and he that curseth shall be\nreckoned accursed,\u201d and he cries, \u201cHow beautiful are thy tabernacles,\u201d O\nMary, Mother of God, \u201cas woody valleys, as watered gardens near the\nrivers, as tabernacles which the Lord has pitched as cedars by the water\u2010\nside.\u201d But with Mr. Rosetti it is something more than this. One is tempted\nto fancy that with his Italian name he must have really inherited an\nItalian\u2019s devotion to the Madonna. His poem \u201cAve\u201d is neither more nor less\nthan a meditation upon the joyful, sorrowful, and glorious mysteries of\nOur Lady\u2019s life, and it breathes a devotion as tender and sensitive\u2014in a\nword, as Catholic\u2014as though it had been written by F. Faber. We shall\nventure to transfer the whole of it to our pages, for we cannot otherwise\njustify what we have said, and part of its specific beauty is that it is\nin one breath:\n\n\n    Ave.\n\n    Mother of fair delight,\n    Thou handmaid perfect in God\u2019s sight,\n    Now sitting fourth beside the Three,\n    Thyself a woman Trinity,\n    Being a daughter born to God,\n    Mother of Christ from stall to Rood,\n    And wife unto the Holy Ghost:\u2014\n    Oh! when our need is uttermost,\n    Think that to such as death may strike\n    Thou wert a sister, sisterlike!\n    Thou head\u2010stone of humanity,\n    Ground\u2010stone of the great mystery,\n    Fashioned like us, yet more than we!\n    Mind\u2019st thou not (when June\u2019s heavy breath\n    Warmed the long days in Nazareth)\n    That eve thou didst go forth to give\n    Thy flowers some drink that they might live\n    One faint night more amid the sands,\n    Far off the trees were as pale wands\n    Against the fervid sky; the sea\n    Sighed further off eternally\n    As human sorrow sighs in sleep.\n    Then suddenly the awe grew deep,\n    As of a day to which all days\n    Were footsteps in God\u2019s secret ways:\n    Until a folding sense like prayer\n    Which is, as God is, everywhere,\n    Gathered about thee; and a voice\n    Spake to thee without any noise.\n    Being of the silence: \u201cHail,\u201d it said,\n    \u201cThou that art highly favor\u00e8d;\n    The Lord is with thee here and now;\n    Blessed among all women thou.\u201d\n\n    Ah! Knew\u2019st thou of the end, when first\n    That Babe was on thy bosom nursed?\n    Or when he tottered round thy knee\n    Did thy great sorrow dawn on thee\u2014\n    And through his boyhood year by year\n    Eating with him the Passover,\n    Didst thou discern confusedly\n    That holier Sacrament, when He,\n    The bitter cup about to quaff,\n    Should break the bread and eat thereof?\n    Or came not yet the knowledge, even\n    Till on some day forecast in Heaven\n    His feet passed through thy door to press\n    Upon his Father\u2019s business?\u2014\n    Or still was God\u2019s high secret kept?\n\n    Nay, but I think the whisper crept\n    Like growth through childhood. Work and play,\n    Things common to the course of day,\n    Awed thee with meanings unfulfill\u2019d,\n    And all through girlhood, something still\u2019d\n    Thy senses like the birth of light,\n    When thou hast trimmed thy lamp at night\n    Or washed thy garments in the stream:\n    To whose white bed had come the dream\n    That He was thine and thou wert His\n    Who feeds among the field\u2010lilies.\n    O solemn shadow of the end,\n    In that wise spirit long contain\u2019d!\n    O awful end! and those unsaid\n    Long years when it was Finished!\n\n    Mind\u2019st thou not (when the twilight gone\n    Left darkness in the house of John)\n    Between the naked window\u2010bars\n    That spacious vigil of the stars?\n    For thou, a watcher even as they,\n    Wouldst rise from where throughout the day\n    Thou wroughtest raiment for his poor;\n    And, finding the fixed terms endure\n    Of day and night which never brought\n    Sounds of his coming chariot,\n    Wouldst lift through cloud\u2010waste unexplor\u2019d\n    Those eyes which said \u201cHow long, O Lord\u201d?\n    Then that disciple whom he loved,\n    Well heeding, haply would be moved\n    To ask thy blessing in his name;\n    And that one thought in both, the same\n    Though silent, then would clasp ye round\n    To weep together\u2014tears long bound,\n    Sick tears of patience, dumb and slow.\n    Yet, \u201cSurely I come quickly,\u201d so\n    He said, from life and death gone home.\n    Amen: even so, Lord Jesus come!\n\n    But oh! what human tongue can speak\n    That day when death was sent to break\n    From the tired spirit like a veil,\n    Its covenant with Gabriel\n    Endured at length unto the end?\n    What human thought can apprehend\n    That mystery of motherhood\n    When thy Beloved at length renew\u2019d\n    The sweet communion sever\u00e8d\u2014\n    His left hand underneath thine head\n    And his right hand embracing thee?\n    Lo! He was thine, and this is He!\n\n    Soul, is it Faith, or Love, or Hope,\n    That lets me see her standing up\n    Where the light of the Throne is bright?\n    Unto the left, unto the right,\n    The cherubim, arrayed, conjoint,\n    Float inward to a golden point,\n    And from between the seraphim\n    The glory issues for a hymn.\n\n    O Mary Mother! be not loth\n    To listen\u2014thou whom the stars clothe,\n    Who seest and mayst not be seen\n    Hear us at last, O Mary Queen!\n    Into our shadow bend thy face,\n    Bowing thee from the secret place,\n    O Mary Virgin, full of grace!\n\n\nMr. Rosetti certainly does not affect classical subjects. There is nothing\nin his curious Treasury at all corresponding to those most exquisite of\nall Mr. Tennyson\u2019s poems, \u201cUlysses\u201d and \u201cTithonus.\u201d In the few instances\nin which he does handle classical legend, it is always its quaint\nreflection in the medi\u00e6val mind that attracts him, as in \u201cTroy Town,\u201d but\nhe is at home everywhere. \u201cEden Bower\u201d and \u201cSister Helen\u201d are like and\nunlike enough for comparison. They are both monologues of deadly sin; the\nfirst is spite, the second hate, set to music. The conception of Lilith in\n\u201cEden Bower\u201d is a monstrous waif of rabbinical tradition. She is a sort of\nwoman\u2010snake, supposed to have been Adam\u2019s first wife before the creation\nof Eve, and in her jealousy of the wife who supplanted her is found the\norigin of her conspiracy with the king\u2010snake of Eden which brings about\nthe Fall. The poem is one prolonged musical but most diabolical chuckle of\nLilith over the immortal mischief she is about to perpetrate. She is\nindeed all the while coaxing the serpent to help her, but her tone\nthroughout is one of assured triumph. The woman and the fiend are\ninterwoven with marvellous subtlety\u2014a fiend\u2019s colossal blasphemy and a\nwoman\u2019s petty spite. The fiend does not shrink from declaring open war\nagainst heaven.\n\n\n    \u201cStrong is God, the fell foe of Lilith\n      (And O the bower and the hour!)\u2014\n    Naught in heaven or earth may affright him,\n    But join thou with me and we will smite him.\u201d\n\n\nThe woman thus in anticipation stabs her rival with her husband\u2019s\ncowardice.\n\n\n    \u201cHear, thou Eve, the man\u2019s heart in Adam\n      (And O the bower and the hour!)\u2014\n    Of his brave words hark to the bravest,\n    This the woman gave that thou gavest.\u201d\n\n\nHow she wriggles and gasps and hugs herself at the thought of the woe she\nis to bring upon her victims, gloating over every detail of their desolate\nexile, and forecasting the death of one son and the damnation of another.\nLilith after all is a fiend, and, as a creation of art, a fiend is a\ncreature that lives and revels in wickedness as a salamander was supposed\nto inhabit fire, with a keen sense of pleasure and without moral\nresponsibility; but in \u201cSister Helen\u201d we have something much more dreadful\nbecause more human\u2014\u201cHate born of Love\u201d\u2014hate that has devoured all love,\neven love of self\u2014the hatred that is despair. A ruined girl, dwelling in a\nlonely tower with her little brother, seeks vengeance upon her seducer\nafter the medi\u00e6val manner, by consuming his waxen image before the fire.\nAnd now upon the third night she is nigh upon its achievement, for the wax\nis wasting fast. The child takes a child\u2019s interest in the little figure\nthat was once so plump, but through which the flame is now shining red. He\nprattles about it, but understands nothing, nor yet that there is anything\nto understand. His sister coaxes him out into the balcony to look out and\nsay what he sees, for she knows what must come. And one after the other\nthe brothers and father of the dying man ride up in the wild night and\nimplore her mercy, at first that she will save his life, and then that at\nleast she will forgive and save him from his despair, that body and soul\nmay not perish. There is something simply appalling in the way in which\neach entreaty, as it comes to her repeated by her little brother\u2019s voice,\nis slain by the calm, ruthless, sometimes ironical comment in which she\nconveys her refusal.\n\n\n    \u201c \u2018He calls your name in his agony, Sister Helen,\n        That even dead love must weep to see.\u2019\n        \u2018Hate born of Love is blind as he, Little brother!\u2019\n            (_O mother, Mary mother_,\n    _Love turned to hate, between hell and heaven!_)\n      \u2018Oh! he prays you, as his heart would rive, Sister Helen,\n      To save his dear son\u2019s soul alive.\u2019\n      \u2018Nay, flame cannot slay it, it shall thrive, Little brother!\u2019\n\n            (_O mother, Mary mother,_\n    _Alas, alas, between hell and heaven!_)\u201d\n\n\nAll entreaties are useless, the death\u2010knell sounds, and the riders turn\ntheir horses\u2014\n\n\n      \u201c \u2018Ah! what white thing at the door has cross\u2019d, Sister Helen?\n      Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?\u2019\n      \u2018A soul that\u2019s lost, as mine is lost, Little brother!\u2019\n            (O mother, Mary mother,\n    Lost, lost, all lost, between hell and heaven!)\u201d\n\n\nOne is tempted to say of Mr. Rosetti as was said of his patron Dante, \u201cLo,\nhe that strolls to hell and back at will.\u201d We speak advisedly of his\n\u201cpatron Dante,\u201d for his devotion to his great namesake is of the intensest\nkind. Almost the longest poem in the volume is \u201cDante at Verona,\u201d in which\nevery conceivable detail in the poet\u2019s painful exile at that court is\ndwelt upon with a solicitude that reminds one of an early Christian\nsponging up a martyr\u2019s blood. To appreciate the poem thoroughly, one ought\nto share with Mr. Rosetti in the intimacy of the great Florentine. There\nare, however, many exquisite bits of description in it that must come home\nto every one. Surely the Gran Cane\u2019s jester will live for ever:\n\n\n    \u201cThere was a jester, a foul lout\n      Whom the court loved for graceless arts;\n      Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts\n    Of speech; a ribald mouth to shout\n    In folly\u2019s horny tympanum\n    Such things as make the wise man dumb.\n\n    \u201cMuch loved, him Dante loathed; and so\n      One day when Dante felt perplex\u2019d\n      If any day that could come next\n    Were worth the waiting for or no,\n    And mute he sat amid the din\u2014\n    Can Grande called the jester in.\n\n    \u201cRank words with such are wit\u2019s best wealth.\n      Lords mouthed approval; ladies kept\n      Twittering with clustered heads, except\n    Some few that took their trains by stealth\n    And went. Can Grande shook his hair\n    And smote his thighs and laughed i\u2019 the air.\n\n    \u201cThen facing on his guest, he cried:\n      \u2018Say, Messer Dante, how it is\n      I get out of a clown like this\n    More than your wisdom can provide?\n    And Dante: \u2019Tis man\u2019s ancient whim\n    That still his like seems good to him.\u2019 \u201d\n\n\nWe cannot of course pretend to catalogue all Mr. Rosetti\u2019s beauties. But\nfor the sake of quoting one stanza, we must say a word of the \u201cStaff and\nScrip.\u201d A knight vowed to defend wronged innocence, finds himself, whilst\nreturning from Palestine, in the land of a fair lady, which her triumphant\nfoemen are ravaging, and where all hope of resistance is dead. He goes out\non her behalf, and conquers and dies. This is the description of his\nreturn on the night of his victory:\n\n\n    \u201cThe first of all the rout was sound,\n      The next were dust and flame,\n    And then the horses shook the ground:\n      And in the thick of them\n      A still band came.\u201d\n\n\nNearly a third of Mr. Rosetti\u2019s volume consists of sonnets. Now, a sonnet\nshould be grave but not heavy. It must have a severity tempered by\nsweetness like the breviary character of the Venerable Bede. It must\nlinger meditatively; it must not loiter, or fumble with its meaning. It\nmust be sinuous, never headlong; feeling its rhymes delicately, not\nfalling upon them; for these are less rhymes than the most prominent of\nmany assonances, upon all of which the rhythm hangs. Indeed, the texture\nof the sonnet resembles more that of blank\u2010verse than that of any other\nmetre we possess. Without denying the perfection of some two or three of\nMilton\u2019s sonnets, and perhaps in a lesser degree of about as many of\nWordsworth\u2019s, we may be permitted to say that among our sonnet\u2010writers\nMilton, as a general rule, is too fierce and headlong, as Wordsworth says\nof him, in words of praise which to our ears suggest blame. In his hands,\n\u201cthe thing became a trumpet\u201d; whilst Wordsworth has too poor a vocabulary\nfor a composition in which every word ought to tell. Shakespeare\u2019s sonnets\nare only sonnets in name. They do not fall into two, or rather one and a\nhalf, like an acorn and its cup, but are simply short poems of three\nindependent stanzas of alternate rhymes, the whole concluding with a\nrhyming couplet. The Elizabethan writers who used the genuine\nsonnet\u2014Sidney, Spenser, Drummond, especially the last\u2014attained, we cannot\nhelp thinking, to a more exquisite use of the sonnet than either Milton or\nWordsworth, although the beauty of their sonnets is somewhat marred by the\ntwanging effect of the concluding rhyming couplet to which they\npersistently cling. Many of Mr. Rosetti\u2019s sonnets strike us not only as\nbeautiful poems, but as very finished specimens of the sonnet. He seems to\nhave attained to the Italian delicacy of the best of the Elizabethan\nsonneteers, without loss of originality and force. He is, however, perhaps\nrather too fond of fretting the melody of his lines by a harsh emphasis,\nwhich, effective enough in a liquid medium like Italian, is rather trying\nto the naturally broken music of the English tongue. An example of this\nmay be noted in the sixth line of the following very beautiful sonnet. He\nhas called it \u201cInclusiveness\u201d\u2014a title with which we venture to quarrel,\nfor the phenomenon described is not a quality of anything, but a fact or\nlaw; we would substitute, in spite of its technical flavor,\n\u201cIntrosusception.\u201d\n\n\n      \u201cThe changing guests, each in a different mood\n      Sit at the roadside table and arise:\n      And every life among them in like wise\n      Is a soul\u2019s board set daily with new food.\n    What man has bent o\u2019er his son\u2019s sleep, to brood\n    How that face shall watch his when cold it lies?\n    Or thought, as his own mother kissed his eyes,\n    Of what her kiss was when his father wooed?\n\n    May not this ancient room thou sit\u2019st in, dwell\n    In separate living souls for joy or pain?\n    Nay, all its corners may be painted plain\n    Where Heaven shows pictures of a life spent well;\n    And may be stamped a memory all in vain,\n    Upon the sight of lidless eyes in Hell.\u201d\n\n\nHere is an exquisite vindication of one of the least popular of the\ncondemnations in the Syllabus\u2014that of non\u2010intervention.\n\nIt is called \u201cOn the Refusal of Aid between Nations\u201d:\n\n\n    \u201cNot that the earth is changing, O my God!\n    Nor that the seasons totter in their walk,\u2014\n    Not that the virulent ill of act and talk\n    Seethes ever as a wine\u2010press ever trod,\u2014\n    Not therefore are we certain that the rod\n    Weighs in thine hand to smite the world; though now\n    Beneath thine hand so many nations bow,\n    So many kings:\u2014not therefore, O my God:\u2014\n    But because man is parcelled out in men\n    Even thus; because, for any wrongful blow,\n    No one not stricken asks, \u2018I would be told\n    Why thou dost strike\u2019; but his heart whispers then,\n    \u2018He is he, I am I.\u2019 By this we know\n    That the earth falls asunder, being old.\u201d\n\n\nMr. Rosetti has adopted, as we have already indicated, more fully than a\nCatholic could approve, a principle which is obtaining a very dangerous\nprominence amongst the rising generation of English poets, that art is\njustified of her children\u2014that to the artist all things are chaste. Thus\ninevitably there are some lines one could wish unwritten, and more that\none would not have every one read. Yet for all this the _ethos_ of the\nbook is chaste and noble, nor do we know any poet by whom purity is more\nhonestly appreciated and worshipped. The volume is a remarkable example of\nthe extent to which a love of the Madonna and the ascetic inspiration of\nDante can counteract and restrain the growing sensuousness of English\npoetry.\n\nIf Mr. Rosetti is sometimes obscure, it is not that his touch is ever\notherwise than delicate and precise, but because his art is rather the art\nof the musician than of the painter. His changes of key, so to speak, are\nso swift and subtle, and the harmonies with which the theme is clothed are\nso manifold and so quaint, that his compositions have sometimes the\ndifficulty of a sonata of Beethoven, and require considerable familiarity\nbefore their proportions can be grasped. Indeed, we must confess that\nthere are passages the meaning of which we despair of ever grasping with\nany precision; we must be content to accept them as a sort of\nhieroglyphic, for splendor or purity, like the scroll and lily\u2010work of a\nmedi\u00e6val goldsmith. This is the more provoking, as obscurity is not here,\nas often in Mr. Browning\u2019s poems, covered by an oracular use of certain\ncrabbed expressions, which at least indicate the nut that is to be\ncracked, but coexists with a diction consistently pure and flowing.\n\nAlthough we have compared Mr. Rosetti\u2019s art to that of the musician rather\nthan to that of the painter, we have been told that he is a painter of a\nhigh order. Anyhow, his fondness for painting is proved by the number of\nsonnets which he has made upon pictures, ancient and modern. We cannot\nmore fitly conclude our review than with his sonnet, \u201cFor our Lady of the\nRocks, by Leonardo da Vinci\u201d:\n\n\n    \u201cMother, is this the darkness of the end,\n    The shadow of death? and is that outer sea\n      Infinite, imminent eternity?\n    And does the death\u2010pang by man\u2019s seed sustain\u2019d\n    In Time\u2019s each instant cause thy face to bend\n    Its silent prayer upon the Son, while he\n    Blesses the dead with his hand silently\n      To his long day which hours no more offend?\n\n    \u201cMother of grace, the pass is difficult,\n    Keen as these rocks, and the bewildered souls\n      Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through.\n    Thy name, O Lord, each spirit\u2019s voice extols,\n    Whose peace abides in the dark avenue\n      Amid the bitterness of things occult.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nFor Ever.\n\n\n        Those we love truly never die,\nThough year by year the sad memorial\u2010wreath\u2014\nA ring and flowers, types of life and death\u2014\n        Are laid upon their graves.\n\n        For death the pure life saves,\nAnd life all pure is love, and love can reach\nFrom heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach,\n        Than those by mortals read.\n\n        Well blest is he who has a dear one dead:\nA friend he has whose face will never change,\nA dear communion that will not grow strange:\n        The anchor of a love is death.\n\n        The blessed sweetness of a loving breath\nWill reach our cheek all fresh through fourscore years:\nFor her who died long since, ah! waste not tears\u2014\n        She\u2019s thine unto the end.\n\n        Thank God for one dead friend,\nWhose mother\u2010face no miles of road or sea\nOr earthly bonds can hold apart from me\u2014\n        First friend in life and death.\n\n\n\n\nVisit To An Artist\u2019s Studio.\n\n\nI do not know if, outside his own small circle of patrons and\nacquaintances, any one has heard of the artist Van Muyden. Yet hidden\ntalent is none the less a divine gift because few know it; it gives a more\npathetic interest to a life to know that it is a life harassed with care,\nvexed by non\u2010appreciation, hampered with poverty. Perhaps Van Muyden is\nonly obscure because he would not lower his art to suit the dealers\u2019 terms\nor the public taste. When I visited his studio, he was settled in a small\nhouse in the suburbs of Geneva, Switzerland. His own appearance was\nstriking: the supple form, not very tall, but very spare; the large eyes\nthat seemed to dart through you and search your soul, the high forehead,\nwrinkled and bald, told of a man with an intellect higher than that of his\nfellow\u2010men, an ideal enthroned beyond the region of which they know the\nbearings, and of the cares with which they can sympathize. He was a man\npast the prime of life, eager and enthusiastic\u2014eccentric, perhaps, as the\nworld\u2019s estimate goes; but who is not?\u2014I mean amongst those whose\ncharacteristics are worth studying at all. He wore over his vest and\ntrowsers an old brown dressing\u2010gown, suggestive of the appearance one is\nused to connect with medi\u00e6val scholars and seers. His forte is not\nlandscape\u2010painting, and, indeed, he seemed lost at Geneva, despite the\nsouthern beauty of its environs, for Van Muyden\u2019s predilections were\nevidently for the representation of the human kind. But then, if it was\nman that he loved to copy, it was not broad\u2010cloth man, sleek, respectable,\ndecorous, well\u2010off, but man as you find him in Italy or Spain\u2014picturesque\nas his scanty surroundings; an unconscious artist, a born model; man\nimbued with the spirit of the sun\u2010god; man carolling and trilling without\neffort, believing himself born to sing like the birds; man in himself a\nstudy, a picture, a statue, a marvel.\n\nVan Muyden explained his theories very freely, and they were well worth\nlistening to.\n\n\u201cIn the north, you see,\u201d he said, \u201can artist is forced, if he wishes to be\ntruthful, to copy a thousand pitiful details of upholstery. Such pictures\nare called _genre_; and this realistic, mathematical accuracy, utterly\ndestructive of the picturesque, is lauded to the skies; but, good God!\ncould not a Chinese do as well with his wonderful imitative faculty,\naltogether apart from the _feeling_ of art? The North makes up for the\npicturesque by the comfortable; what a compensation for the artist! But\nmodern art has more to contend with than vitiated taste or the loss of\nthat free and natural life which in simpler times was more conducive to\nartistic inspiration; we have to struggle on without a school or a\nstandard of taste. We no longer have those centres where the traditions of\nart were religiously kept; those high\u2010priests who gathered round them\nnumerous and docile disciples, as of old the Athenian philosophers in the\ngroves of Academe. Even in Italy, in Rome itself, no such centre can be\nfound. A young artist has to make his own solitary way, pursue his ideal\nalone, keep up his enthusiasm by his own unaided exertions, and probably\nfind neither patron nor master to care for his works or guide his\nattempts.\u201d\n\nThe artist was surely right; for the great schools of painting were to art\nwhat the religious orders are to the church\u2014centres towards which a vague\nvocation may be directed and find its true mission, with brethren to share\nits enthusiasm and superiors to guide its aspirations. Most of his\npictures were Italian scenes, some domestic, but mostly treating of the\nmonastic life. The cool cloister, with its ilex or orange\u2010trees seen\ncornerwise through the railings; the old portico, with a monk seated in\nmeditation on the fragment of a sculptured pillar: the noon\u2010day siesta;\nthe begging friar coming home with his sack of food; the preacher starting\nmeekly, staff in hand, for the distant station where he is to preach a\nLent; the novice arranging the altar; the monk digging his own grave in\nthe sunny cloister, or washing the altar\u2010plate in the sparkling fountain,\netc. etc.\u2014such were chiefly the subjects chosen. Why? He was not a\nCatholic, this artist; but it seems to have come to him intuitively that\nthere is more room for artistic expression and artistic liberty in things\npertaining to the old church. His own studio was as perfect a picture as\nany he could have painted; a treasure\u2010house of antiquities carelessly\ndisplayed. It was lighted by two immense windows, one of which was shaded\nby a sort of slanting tester, throwing the light on the easel in the\nmiddle of the room. Between these windows stood a nondescript piece of\nfurniture in carved oak, very black and old\u2014a species of _secr\u00e9taire_,\nwith an \u201cextension\u201d holding a small washing\u2010bowl, surmounted by a\ndolphin\u2019s head, which was crowned for the nonce with a scarlet _berr\u00e9tta_.\nLarge jars of old porcelain were placed here and there, either on the\nground or on substantial _\u00e9tag\u00e8res_, and two corners of the room were\nfilled with high chests equally carved, on whose capacious tops rested a\nmedley of distaffs, horns, helmets, old swords, a spinning\u2010wheel, and a\nconfused mass of tattered garments or drapery, dingy and time\u2010stained,\ncrimson cloaks, blue tunics, purple veils, etc. An array of pipes, hooked\ninto the wall for security, stood on the high mantel\u2010piece, together with\none of those common brass kitchen lamps in use at Rome, with four\nprojections enclosing wicks, and whose shape has never been altered since\nthe days when Nero rode in the arena and the Christians went calmly to the\nstake. On the unoccupied spaces on the wall hung the artist\u2019s pictures,\nsome few representing touching family scenes (all Italian) strewed among\nthe monastic subjects. Right in the centre of the ceiling hung a movable\napparatus, in which was placed a lamp\u2014modern, alas! This came down quite\nclose to the easel, and gave all the light required for night\u2010work. A\ncarved table with curiously\u2010twisted legs, and two high\u2010backed medi\u00e6val\narm\u2010chairs covered with tapestry, completed the furniture, besides a green\nbaize stage for the models. This reminded me of the _palco_ used for\npreaching in Italian churches, even when there is a proper pulpit; some of\nmy readers may remember these miniature stages, raised about five feet\nfrom the floor, and on which the excited orator can promenade like a lion\nin his cage while hurling his burning periods at his awe\u2010stricken\nlisteners. Van Muyden has a wife and nine children, which fact we\nascertained through the reply to a question prompted by the enormous\nquantity of under\u2010linen hung out to dry on the balusters outside the\nstudio. We did not see Mme. Van Muyden, and were thankful we did not; for\nsuch a reckless display of household secrets must argue a woman whose\nappearance would frighten romance out of the veriest sentimentalist that\never lived. So we speculated in silence on this domestic guardian of the\nartist\u2019s peace\u2014an excellent and worthy woman, no doubt, a capital house\u2010\nkeeper, a careful mother, a faithful wife, but scarcely a help\u2010mate, a\ncompanion, a Beatrice, to her husband. How few men of sensitive nature,\nhigh\u2010strung character, aspiring organization, have fit wives! Why is it\nthat they generally take a fancy to peculiarly unsuitable women? Is it\nthat they are so soft\u2010hearted that they cannot resist the attraction of\nthe first pretty face they see, or so rapt above the reach of common\ninterests that they form, as it were inevitably, an incongruous union, and\nonly wake up to find themselves irretrievably tied to a showy slattern, or\na plodding, unappreciative housewife? What perverse fairy casts her spell\non the poor artist\u2019s marriage\u2010day, and makes of the chime of his wedding\u2010\nbells the knell of his possible fame?\n\nPoverty is the safest ladye\u2010love for an artist, as one of Dante\u2019s friends\nwas always telling him. Artists and scholars are the Francis\u2010of\u2010Assisiums\nof the intellectual world, and the same bride as that spiritually wooed by\nthe heroic voluntary beggar, is the most fitting companion for them. With\nher, at least, they can enjoy the perfect freedom from care which alone\nmakes want supportable; they can throw around their destitution that halo\nof romance which the prosaic details of a household invariably strangle\nout of existence. But in the early choice of a wife more hopes go down,\nmore aspirations are smothered, than those whose aim is worldly success\nand the favor of the great. The ideal is the victim _par excellence_; for\nthe struggling artist, tied by his own hasty imprudence to a woman of\ninferior mould, soon feels the spark of genius die within him; the\nincentive to \u201cdo and dare\u201d has dwindled down to the necessity of \u201cearning\nand eating.\u201d A woman with uncomprehensive soul peevishly reminds him at\nevery moment of the world of matter, without even offering him the\ncompensation of a blind and admiring worship of his talents in his own\npeculiar sphere; in short, he is a living example of the adage, \u201cA man\nthat\u2019s married is a man that\u2019s marred.\u201d\n\nFar be it from me to bring this reproach on any particular individual; but\nsuch was the train of thought naturally induced by the unsightly array of\nhouse\u2010linen hung like delusive flags of truce on the balusters of the\nartist\u2019s home. Early marriage is undoubtedly best for the generality of\nmen in the world, but it is intellectual ruin to artists. Let us wish them\nthe rare fortune of a wife that will be a real helpmate to their higher\nand better selves, a staff to lean on up the thorny road to Parnassus, and\nthen recommend early marriage; but unless such exceptions be found, let\nthem beware of the fate typified by the prosaic decoration of Van Muyden\u2019s\nabode at Geneva.\n\n\n\n\nVisions.\n\n\nThe white stars gleamed in the jessamine bush,\n  And the bright stars up in the sky,\nAnd Gilfillan stood at the garden\u2010gate,\n  And so at the gate stood I.\n\nThe apple\u2010boughs bent as we lingered there,\n  And showered their rosy rain\u2014\nIs it all that shall fall in that pleasant path,\n  If we meet at the gate again?\n\nO Gilfillan gay! why seek away\n  From lady\u2010love, kith, and kin\nThe world\u2019s Well\u2010done, or \u2019neath foreign sun\n  The golden spurs to win?\n\nO womanly heart! be still, be still!\n  It is threescore years to\u2010day\u2014\nAnd thou canst throb with this wild, wild tide,\n  And I all withered and gray!\n\nAnd Gilfillan\u2019s bones \u2019neath the kirk\u2010yard stones\n  Of a foreign and far\u2010off land\u2014\nNo preacher so loud of the coffin and shroud,\n  And the house that is built on sand!\n\nOh! a rare, rare castle of human hope\n  We builded aloft in our pride!\nAnd, oh! woe betide so weary a dream;\n  For my lover is by my side.\n\nWe have known no partings, no weary years,\n  We have known no days of sorrow;\nFor I am but seventeen to\u2010day,\n  And we shall be married to\u2010morrow!\n\n\n\n\nA Word For Women.\n\n\nBy One Of Themselves.\n\nIt has been urged that women should refrain from writing for the public,\nand busy themselves with interests more strictly within their own domain\nthan those of literature. The demand might claim respectful notice, if all\nwomen would give heed to it. Since they will not, is there any reason why\nthose who employ their pens in the production of sensational stories and\nother demoralizing works should have the field all to themselves? Or is it\nright that others of equal ability should shrink from entering it in\ndefence of religion and morality?\n\nThe space is ample for all combatants. Our learned and venerable doctors,\nstern champions of truth, who keep their logical and polemical lances ever\npoised to strike the foe, to demolish error, and force conviction upon\nminds firmly closed against less cogent weapons, need not fear being\njostled by humble handmaidens of the same mistress, who have ventured\nwithin the lists. These may do good service, also, with a large class whom\ntheir telling blows shall fail to reach.\n\nOur women and youth, who will read and be influenced for good or evil by\n\u201cfeminine literature,\u201d cannot be amused with metaphysical discussions that\ngain an attentive hearing from men of philosophical tastes, or even by\nmoral essays and reflections, however excellent and edifying.\n\nUnfortunately, it is not a question of forming the tastes of readers.\nAlas! these are already formed by a vitiated literature, flowing from a\ngodless system of education, and carrying the poison through the whole\nlength of its course.\n\nThe only question is, Where shall the antidote be found, and how\nadministered? Certainly not in moral lectures that will not be read, or in\nfiction of the goody\u2010goody sort.\n\nOur only hope\u2014and it is a bright one\u2014for the future of our young Catholics\nlies in the blessed awakening\u2014effected by the clear tones of that\ninfallible voice which never, in any age, gave forth an uncertain\nsound\u2014that is causing schools for Christian culture to spring up through\nthe whole length and breadth of our country. But what for our children of\na larger growth, whose tastes are already perverted?\n\nWe think it is unquestionable that, as the daughters of the first Eve,\naccording to the flesh, have aided powerfully in commending the forbidden\nfruit to the lips of a deluded public, so the daughters of the second Eve,\naccording to the spirit, may do much to remedy the consequences of the\nfatal banquet.\n\nThere are certain influences exercised almost exclusively by women. There\nare certain subjects to the consideration of which the flexibility of her\nnature enables her to bend her efforts with graceful success, and to far\nbetter purpose than the \u201cstern masculinity\u201d of man\u2019s heart, head, and pen\ncan compass.\n\nWell, then, if women _may_ write, it behooves them to treat of such\nmatters, and in such manner, as shall secure readers. For our people must\nand will read. Right or wrong, it is a necessity of the age. From the\nabodes of wealth and leisure, in the metropolis of fashion, to village\nhomes and rural firesides, our people must and will read. Happy for them\nif the nourishment their fevered imaginations so morbidly crave be at\nleast harmless! A highly\u2010seasoned sensational literature has stimulated\nthe craving to a degree of frenzy, if not to actual organic disease;\nhappy, indeed, for them could such mental pabulum, such agreeable viands\nand cooling fruits, be furnished and accepted as would gradually assuage\nthe wild thirst for excitement, until wholesome correctives should become\npalatable!\n\nTo secure success in tilling the field from which so desirable a harvest\nis to be gathered, the most conscientious writers must be content, however\nthey may deplore the necessity, to sharpen their plough\u2010shares in the\ncamps of these Philistines of literature. With no blunt implement can the\nsoil be compelled to yield such harvest.\n\nWe may furnish entertaining and edifying biographies, and gain a few\nreaders. For this department women are by nature peculiarly fitted, if\nthey will guard against the tendency to exaggeration which is their\nbesetting sin. But for one reader of such a book there will be fifty, even\namong Catholics, who will prefer the demoralizing trash in cheap\nnewspapers and dime novels to the best biography that can be produced.\n\nTruth should be presented in a sharp and, to use a phrase of the times,\n_taking_ way which shall compel a hearing. The popular absurdities and\nglaring depravities of this \u201cenlightened XIXth century\u201d should be set\nforth with vehement energy and convincing force.\n\nIt is no shadow, but a real, all\u2010pervading, soul\u2010destroying power with\nwhich the Christian athlete of this day is brought into close conflict.\nThe foe must be met by an attitude as firmly hostile to its evil\nenticements as it assumes against all good influences. \u201cBeating the air\u201d\nwill win no victory. Seeking to compromise or modify the stern principles\nof eternal truth held and proclaimed by the Catholic Church from first to\nlast will only ensure defeat.\n\nIf our women join in the struggle to resist the forces of infidelity which\nthreaten to overwhelm our sons and daughters in temporal and eternal ruin,\nand, in their zealous enthusiasm, step beyond the sphere of domestic\nprivacy and humble retirement that is happily their own; if some literary\nJudith even throws off for the moment the delicate tenderness of her sex,\nand seems to pass the limits of female decorum to strike off the head a\nleading Holofernes, let us not cry, Out upon her for such unwomanly act!\nLet us reflect that it would have been more in accordance with her nature\nand inclination to have remained quietly in her sequestered home and at\nher ease, if she could have forgotten the fearful interests that were at\nstake.\n\nWhat woman could look on with apathy when husband, brother, or child was\nexposed to certain death, from which her strongest effort might possibly\nsnatch the dear one, or listen to the remonstrance that it was unbecoming\nand improper for a woman to put forth such effort, and that it must prove\na very feeble and faulty one at the best? And shall we ask her to fold her\nhands in ease, and remain silent in fitting retirement, when the souls of\nher beloved are exposed to eternal death? No; it is her inalienable right\nto speak and act when by word or deed she may possibly rescue souls.\n\nShould sentiments of mere human feeling, and affections from which it is\nmost difficult to detach the heart of woman, enter into, imbue, and even\ncontrol the means she uses to promote interests dearer than mortal life,\nshe has nothing to fear but the critics. Her heavenly Judge will never\ncondemn her for using such weapons as he has endowed her withal in his\nholy cause.\n\nHoney is sometimes better than vinegar, feminine sentiment often more\neffective than masculine wisdom, and fervor always to be preferred to\napathy.\n\nWe need not fear that the Catholic woman will be carried too far by her\nfervent zeal in resisting the \u201cspirit of the age.\u201d She can never be led\ninto the mistakes of the so\u2010called \u201cstrong\u2010minded.\u201d Our vigilant and\nloving mother, the Holy Catholic Church, arms her daughters with\ninvulnerable shields against all fanaticism. She holds also in her hands\nthe power to sanctify all influences by which souls are attracted to her\nembrace; to transmute all metals into gold.\n\nIf an appeal to the sentimental and emotional element in the heart of a\nstranger to her fold has drawn the wanderer to her maternal bosom, her\ngentle, all\u2010prevailing inspiration soon condenses feeling into principle,\nand the romantic visionary stands clothed in the panoply of a martyr.\n\nIf fitting words bravely spoken have called hither a soul from the slough\nof transcendentalism, spiritism, free love, or from the ranks of the\n\u201cstrong\u2010minded,\u201d there is no fear that it may prove less docile to the\ngenial influence than that of the dreamer, or fail to be speedily invested\nwith all the delicate attributes and simple dignity of the true woman.\n\nAll honor to the Catholic women in our own country and in Great Britain\nwho are striving, each in her own way, to promote the interests of a sound\nand truly Catholic literature. When there were but few of these in\nAmerica, our sisters beyond the Atlantic reached their hands across the\ngreat waters to rescue souls. It will be known only at the great\naccounting day how many they first attracted to the consideration of\neternal verities. From that time they have increased in number, and have\ncontinued to enrich British Catholic literature by their contributions,\nwhile encouraging their American co\u2010workers.\n\nA feminine Catholic literature may not be faultless, and yet gain numerous\nreaders, and prove a power for good, not only within the church, but\nbeyond her pale. Women are human, and therefore liable to imperfection.\n\nWhen we notice the faults of female writers, we must not forget the\ndifficulties which encompass them. Few American women who write are exempt\nfrom a multitude of vexatious household cares, or even from kitchen\ndrudgery. Many are oppressed with poverty, have no power to earn a\nsubsistence but by the pen, with helpless families dependent upon their\nliterary exertions. Among the most favored, scarcely one can be found who\nhas not some invalid\u2014a husband, parent, or child\u2014who requires her\nattentions by night and day. It may be safely asserted that such literary\nleisure as men devoted to these pursuits ordinarily enjoy is unknown to\nAmerican women. With all their disadvantages, the marvel is, not that\ntheir performances should be imperfect, but that they have really\naccomplished so much under the shadow of the crowding cares and duties\nwhich surround them in their various domestic relations.\n\nLet them take courage, then, and persevere in their laudable efforts,\nstriving diligently to make the productions of their pens more and more\nperfect. And to this end let them bestow their cordial smiles and most\ngraceful bows of acknowledgment upon their best friends\u2014the critics who\nwill take the pains to examine and pass honest and intelligent verdicts\nupon their productions. Acute criticism is the purging fire of literature,\nwithout which it would soon become overburdened with nonsense. As the\nfriend who kindly admonishes us of our faults is entitled to the warmest\ncorner in our hearts, so the critic who frankly sets forth the defects of\nany production may justly claim the most sincere gratitude of its author.\n\n\n\n\nNew Publications.\n\n\n    STATE CHARITIES AID ASSOCIATION. Report of a Committee on a new\n    Bellevue Hospital. New York: American Church Press Co., 4 St.\n    Mark\u2019s Place. 1874.\n\n\nThis pamphlet is worth reading by all who are interested in hospitals. The\nneed of reformation in this branch of philanthropic work is only too well\nproved. The gentlemen and ladies who interest themselves in the care of\nthe sick poor merit both honor and gratitude. All that is written or done,\nhowever, by the most zealous and disinterested persons who seek to\naccomplish their end outside of the Catholic Church only adds to the\nevidence that the church alone is competent to deal with great social\nevils and miseries. The state is cold, selfish, and merciless, except so\nfar as it is Christianized. Mercenaries are always lacking in the\nqualities necessary to secure a truly faithful and charitable care of the\nsick and miserable. Division among those who are seeking to carry out the\nprecepts of Christian charity, and the want of organization and of\nreligious institutions among those who are out of the one true church,\nparalyze their efforts. It is only Christian unity which can give the\nproper remedy for this lamentable state of things, and without Catholic\nfaith and obedience this unity is impossible. Religious orders are alone\ncapable of carrying out great works of charity, and they cannot exist and\nflourish except in the Catholic Church. If modern society does not return\nto the bosom of the church, its evils are incurable, however much\nindividuals may do in a partial way. Nevertheless, these partial and\nimperfect efforts ought to be encouraged; and during this past winter we\nhave had occasion to admire and rejoice in the outflow of a stream of\nbeneficence upon our suffering population in New York which has relieved\nan immense amount of misery. In so far as the special subject of this\npamphlet is concerned, it is obvious that the erection of a new Bellevue\nHospital is imperatively demanded, and we trust that it will be\naccomplished.\n\n\n    UNIVERSITE LAVAL. SIXIEME CENTENAIRE DE SAINT THOMAS D\u2019AQUIN A S.\n    HYACINTHE ET A QUEBEC. Quebec: Cot\u00e9 et Cie. 1874.\n\n\nWe are rejoiced to see that the six\u2010hundredth anniversary of S. Thomas was\ncelebrated with due splendor and solemnity in at least these two places on\nthe American continent. The same was done in private at the college of the\nJesuits, at Woodstock. The Quebec pamphlet, besides the two excellent\ndiscourses of M. l\u2019Abb\u00e9 B\u00e9gin and the Rev. F. Prior Bourgeois, O.S.D.,\ncontains a very remarkable poem by a religious of the Congregation of the\nPrecious Blood at S. Hyacinthe. We tender our thanks for the courtesy of\nthe friend who sent us this interesting memorial of a religious _f\u00eate_\nwhich does honor to the taste and piety of the devout and cultivated\nCatholics of Lower Canada.\n\nThe two discourses contained in the pamphlet are of a high order of\nexcellence in regard both to thought and diction. We have accidentally\nomitted to notice among the other discourses that of Professor P\u00e2qu\u00e8t,\nwhich is fully worthy of the brilliant occasion on which it was delivered,\nviz., the soir\u00e9e which took place in the evening in the grand hall of the\nuniversity.\n\n\n    TRUE TO TRUST. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The\n    Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nThis story, the epoch of which is placed during the reign of Henry VIII.,\nis almost worthy of Lady Georgiana Fullerton, and its style frequently\nreminds us of that accomplished writer of fiction. The character of\nCatharine Tresize is truly beautiful and original. We recommend this story\nas one of the best which has lately appeared.\n\n\n    IN SIX MONTHS; OR, THE TWO FRIENDS. By Mary M. Meline. Baltimore:\n    Kelly, Piet & Co. 1874.\n\n\nThe story of the two friends, who are two young Americans converted to\nCatholicity in Europe, has the advantage of appearing upon tinted paper,\nin a neat form, suitable to the polished, ornate diction and poetic fancy\nof the lady author, a near relative of the late Mr. Meline, who was one of\nour favorite contributors. Miss Meline has a cultivated literary taste and\na decided talent for writing stories. She has, moreover, the genuine\nCatholic spirit of fervent devotion to the Holy Father, and in the present\nstory describes some scenes connected with the invasions of Rome under\nGaribaldi and La Marmora. We trust Miss Meline will not suffer her pen to\nlie idle, but keep it busily at work.\n\n\n    DR. COXE\u2019S CLAIMS TO APOSTOLICITY REVIEWED. Right Rev. Bishop\n    Ryan\u2019s Reply to the Attack of the Episcopal Prelate. Buffalo:\n    Catholic Publication Co. Price 15 cents.\n\n\nDr. Coxe is a prelate who has always been conspicuous for arrogance and\nreckless assertion in maintaining the pretensions of the High Church party\nin the Protestant Episcopal denomination, and for his vituperative and\ndefamatory assaults on the Catholic Church. In this temperate but severe\ncriticism, Bishop Ryan has made an end of his claims to possess episcopal\ncharacter and mission, and has refuted him out of his own mouth. We trust\nthat this able and valuable pamphlet will not be permitted to go into\noblivion, as pamphlets are wont to do, but be carefully preserved and made\nuse of by clergymen and others who have to deal with Episcopalians\nsearching after the true church, of whom there are so many in these days.\n\n\n    COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT\u2019S LETTERS TO A SCHOOLFELLOW. 1827\u20101830.\n    Translated from the French by C. F. Audly. London: Burns & Oates.\n    1874. New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.\n\n\nGoethe somewhere remarks that many of an author\u2019s best thoughts are to be\nfound in his letters to his intimate friends; written, not for the public,\nnot for fame but from the strong desire to communicate that which is most\nliving within him to a kindred spirit.\n\nIn the confidential correspondence of great minds there is a yet greater\ncharm. We feel a kind of personal interest in men who have exercised great\nintellectual power over us; they become our heroes, and we endow them with\nimaginary qualities, from lack of more certain information concerning\nthem. The minutest details in their lives become to us affairs of moment.\nHow they looked, how they dressed, what they thought about the most\ntrifling subjects, seem to us to be matters worthy of becoming a part of\nhistory. There is a still higher interest in the story of the unfolding of\na powerful intellect. It contains a lesson in psychology more instructive\nthan any which can be learned from abstract treatises on this subject.\nThis it is that gives the chief value to autobiographies of philosophers,\npoets, and theologians. Yet an autobiography can never be a mirror in\nwhich we may behold the workings of the human mind. It is an after\u2010\nthought, a reflex judgment, the expression of what men now think they once\nfelt or thought. It does not give us the process of intellectual growth,\nbut a theory concerning what that process must have been; and a theory\nformed by the individual concerning the flux and reflux of the currents of\nhis own life can never be wholly trustworthy. Autobiography is necessarily\nsubject to all the vices inherent in special pleading.\n\nThe truest history of the intellectual and moral development of a man is\nto be found in his letters to his intimate friends. There we have, not\nwhat in after\u2010years he thinks he thought and felt, but what he really did\nthink and feel; and in this view of the matter, the egotism which is\nalways so prominent in letters to friends gives them an additional value.\nInstead of being offended with the writer for talking so much about\nhimself, we are grateful for the weakness which gives us a truer insight\ninto his character.\n\nThese considerations will prepare our readers for a favorable criticism\nupon the volume before us. Few men have lived to whom we more gladly give\nthe homage of admiration and respect than to Charles de Montalembert; and\nthough we strongly condemn certain words which he uttered when his mind\nwas troubled by suffering and disease, and which, had he lived longer, he\nhimself would have been the first to wish unsaid, he was yet so great a\nman that we willingly forget that he made this blunder.\n\nThese _Letters_, of which Mr. Audly has given us an excellent English\ntranslation, were first published in the _Contemporain_ (June, 1872, to\nMarch, 1873).\n\nThey run from 1827 to 1830, and, as the work of a youth from his\nseventeenth to his twentieth year, are of course fresh, frank, and ardent;\nbut they also reveal in the future orator and historian a depth of feeling\nand a command of language rarely to be met with in one of so tender an\nage.\n\nThey are addressed to M. L\u00e9on Cornudet, whom Montalembert calls the friend\nof his soul, his dearest friend; to whom he is bound by a common sympathy\nin every noble feeling and high aim; whom nor time nor absence can make\nhim even for one moment forget. What chiefly strengthens him in his faith\nin the permanency of this friendship is the fact that it is based on\nreligion, which becomes the immortal mediatrix between his soul and that\nof his friend.\n\nWhen he travels and contemplates the beauties of nature, his only regret\nis that his friend is not near him; when he reads a poem, and his soul is\nborne aloft on the wings of inspiration, he exclaims, \u201cOh! if he were but\nhere to share my delight.\u201d He never dreams of the future, of battling for\nreligion and freedom, of victories won and defeats nobly borne, that he\ndoes not behold his friend by his side; and when, picturing to himself the\nvicissitudes of life, he imagines that possibly, in spite of his high\nresolves and strong purposes, he may fail, may be doomed to obscurity and\nthe contempt of the world, he seeks for consolation in the thought that in\nthe heart of his friend he will find a better world.\n\nHis friend is, as it were, his other self, which gives to him a twofold\nlife; making him feel always that \u201cjoy was born a twin,\u201d and that all who\njoy would win must share it, and that sorrow, too, longs to pour itself\ninto the heart of love.\n\nThis strong friendship\u2014\u201cthe only impulse of the soul admitting of\nexcess\u201d\u2014which, like a thread of gold, runs through all these letters, wins\nat once our sympathy and our confidence.\n\nThere is something noble and great in the youth who is capable of such\npure and deep love. After all, it is the heart that reaches highest and\ndeepest, and through it man attains to the best.\n\nOf course there is in these letters much that is immature; were it not so,\nthey would not be the letters of a mere boy; but the infinite faith in the\npossibility of divine realities even on earth, the lofty contempt for what\nis mean and ignoble, the self\u2010confidence that never doubts of itself, the\nrestless activity that no work satisfies, the boundless craving for\nknowledge, the freshness of the heart that falls like dew upon every\nlovely thing, giving it health and beauty\u2014all this so charms and delights\nus that we have no eye for defects.\n\n\u201cA contempt for life,\u201d he writes to his friend, \u201cis, in my opinion, the\nfinest privilege of youth. As we grow older, the more we cling to a frail\nexistence which becomes a burden to ourselves and to others.\u201d\n\nWhat has experience that can compensate for the loss of\n\n\n    \u201cThe love of higher things and better days;\n    The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance\n    Of what is called the world, and the world\u2019s ways;\n    The moments when we gather from a glance\n    More joy than from all future pride or praise\n    Which kindle manhood, but can ne\u2019er entrance\n    The heart in an existence of its own\u201d?\n\n\nYoung Montalembert, with wealth and noble birth, which gave him the\n_entr\u00e9e_ of the highest circles, found no charm in what is called society.\nHis mind was too serious, his ambition too lofty, to permit him to throw\naway the precious time of youth in frivolous amusements.\n\n\u201cPeople usually say,\u201d he writes to his friend during the summer vacations\nof 1827, \u201cthat in youth we ought to give ourselves up to the pleasures of\nsociety. In my opinion, this amounts to downright absurdity. I should\nthink that in youth we ought to plunge into study or into the profession\nwe wish to embrace. When a man has done his duty towards his country; when\nhe can come before the world with laurels won in the senate or on the\nfield of battle, or at least when he enjoys universal esteem; when, again,\nhe is sure of commanding universal esteem and respect, then I can\nunderstand that he has a right to enjoy himself in society, and to mix in\nit with assurance.\u201d\n\nMontalembert had a passion for labor, which is the only sure road to\nexcellence and power, and which is also the greatest evidence of ability.\n\nWe find him, when not yet ten years old, shut up in his grandfather\u2019s\nlibrary, acting as his secretary, helping him in the designs of his\ngeographical maps, and absorbed in the study of the great English orators;\nand later, at college, giving up his recreations, and devoting fifteen\nhours a day to the severest mental discipline. By saving five minutes\nevery morning in his cell at Sainte\u2010Barbe out of the time allowed to the\npupils for rising and dressing, he managed in one year to translate a\nwhole volume of Epictetus. He spent a portion of the summer vacation of\n1827 at La Roche\u2010Guyon, the country\u2010seat of the Duc de Rohan; and though\nthe castle was filled with guests, for whom the duke provided every kind\nof amusement, this intrepid young worker is able to write the following\nlines to his friend:\n\n\u201cWhile you are idling your time away, pray just hear what I shall have\nread during my month\u2019s residence at La Roche: in the first place, all\nByron, which is no trifling job; Delolme, on the _British Constitution_\u2014a\ncapital and highly important work; the whole of the _Odyssey_, twenty\u2010four\ncantos, at the rate of one a day; Thomson, Cowper, Pliny\u2019s _Letters_; the\n_Lettres Provinciales_; the _Life of S. Francis Xavier_, by Bouhours,\nwhich the duke obliged me to read; three volumes of the _Mercure_\nnewspaper; and, lastly, the poetical part of the Greek _Excerpta_.\u201d\n\nEven in Stockholm, whither he went in 1828 with his father, who had been\nappointed French ambassador to the court of Sweden, he is able, in the\nmidst of the endless and tiresome routine of court etiquette, to devote\nsix or seven hours a day to study. \u201cIn the morning,\u201d he writes, \u201cI read\nKant, whom I study deeply, not finding him over\u2010difficult in the\nbeginning. At night I plod in detail over Northern history. In the\nafternoon I devote all the time I can catch to my correspondence, to\nreading a few German poems and novels, and to certain statistical or\npolitical studies.\u201d\n\nNot content with working himself, he seeks to rouse the flagging energies\nof his friend by pointing out to him\u2019 what great things he may be able to\ndo for God and his country. The ruling passion in Montalembert\u2019s heart, in\nthese early years as during his whole life, was the love of the church and\nof freedom.\n\n\u201cReligion, liberty,\u201d he writes\u2014\u201csuch are the eternal groundworks of all\nvirtue. To serve God, to be free\u2014such are our duties. In order to fulfil\nthem, we must use every resource, every means, which Providence has placed\nin our hands.\u201d And again: \u201cI have succeeded in preserving my faith in the\nmidst of one hundred and twenty infidels; I hope that God will not allow\nme to lose my independence of mind in the midst of half a dozen\nabsolutists.\u201d\n\nAnd then he pictures to himself the great good which might be accomplished\nby a writer who, bidding defiance to the prejudices of youth and the\npublic, would raise a bold and eloquent voice in defence of freedom and\nthe church. \u201cWhat a noble part he would have to play!\u201d he exclaims. \u201cWhat\nblessings he would confer upon mankind! What services he would render to\nreligion! Ah! wherefore has not God deigned to give me talent? With what\npassionate ardor I would have embraced such a glorious future!\u201d Who does\nnot perceive here how the thoughts of the boy were father to the deeds of\nthe man?\n\nNo author of our time has written more feelingly or eloquently of Ireland\nthan Montalembert. He was drawn to her by a double attraction\u2014he loved her\nfor her faith, and he sympathized with her because she was wronged. The\nfinest portion of his history of _The Monks of the West_ is that devoted\nto the Irish saints. Nothing could be more beautiful or more consoling\nthan the noble pages which he has devoted to this subject. As his\n_Histoire de Sainte Elisabeth_ opened a new path across the vast field of\nCatholic history, his studies on S. Columba and S. Columbanus called\nattention to the wealth of religious poetry and Christian example which\nwas suffered to remain buried in the archives of the early Irish Church.\nIn these letters we perceive the first awakening of his love for Ireland,\nand are able to trace the causes which led him to study the history of\nthat most interesting but unhappy land.\n\n\u201cBy reading the admirable speeches of Grattan,\u201d he writes in 1828, \u201cI have\ndiscovered, as it were, a new world\u2014the world of Ireland, of her long\u2010\nsufferings, her times of freedom and glory, her sublime geniuses, and her\nindefatigable struggles. The universal interest now felt for Ireland, and\nthe remarkable circumstances in which she is placed at present, have\ntempted me to unfold before the eyes of those Frenchmen who care for\nIreland the highly interesting annals and the sundry revolutions of her\nhistory. My Irish parentage on my mother\u2019s side, my deep knowledge of\nEnglish, and my acquaintance with several families in that country have\nconfirmed my first ideas on this matter, and I have determined upon\nwriting a history of Ireland from the year 1688, and to do it as soon as\npossible, in order that it may be published, if that can be done, before\nthe vital question of the emancipation is solved. There is perhaps no\ncountry presenting such a plentiful harvest of events equally interesting\nand unknown.\u201d\n\nMontalembert was in Sweden when he wrote this letter, and he at once sent\nto England for books, that he might without delay set to work on his\nproposed history of Ireland. In addition to this, he proposed at the end\nof the year to visit Ireland itself, that he might consult libraries and\nmake a thorough study of the people and country. This somewhat ambitious\nproject of the youthful Montalembert led to no other immediate results\nthan an article on Ireland in the _Revue Fran\u00e7aise_, and a journey to the\nEmerald Isle in 1830; but to it we are no doubt in part indebted for the\neloquent chapters on the Irish Saints in _The Monks of the West_. His\nfirst letter from Ireland to his friend is full of the enthusiasm with\nwhich the history of that country had inspired him:\n\n\u201cAs for the Irishwomen,\u201d he writes, \u201cthey are bewitching. They form the\nmost beautiful female population I ever beheld. But I reserve all my\nremarks on the country and the people for our conversations in Paris. For\nthe present I must simply beg of you to pray that my passion for Ireland\nmay not become criminal, for it threatens really to lead me astray from\nthe lawful object of my affections; and I am but too often tempted to turn\naway my thoughts from our France to a country so completely responding to\nmy beliefs, my tastes, and even my most trifling prepossessions.\u201d\n\nHe visited the county Wicklow in September, 1830, and wrote to his friend\nfrom the \u201cmeeting of the waters in the vale of Avoca.\u201d \u201cNo, never,\u201d he\nexclaims, \u201cin France, England, the Netherlands, or even in Germany, have I\nmet with anything comparable to the wild and picturesque defiles of this\nWicklow County.... Only figure to yourself the grandest and yet the most\nlovely landscape; torrents abounding in numberless cascades, struggling to\nmake their way through perpendicular rocks; forests of almost fabulous\ndepths; meadows and swards full worthy of the Emerald Isle; and then old\nabbeys, modern residences, and lodges built in the purest Gothic style.\nPlace, moreover, in such a landscape, the most pious, most cheerful, most\npoetical population in the world. Then, again, say to yourself that\nGrattan passed his childhood here; that he meditated his speeches along\nthese torrents; that one of these residences was bestowed on him by his\nfatherland, and that therein he lived in his old age; that all these\nbeautiful lands were sanctified and immortalized by the Rebellion of 1798.\nWell, figure to yourself all this, and you will still have but a faint\nidea of what I have felt for the last few days.\u201d\n\nAs in his eyes Irishwomen were the most beautiful, and Irish scenery the\nmost lovely, he was prepared to admire enthusiastically the men of the\ncountry. At Carlow College he dined with the celebrated Bishop Doyle and\nseveral of his professors, who, he says, received him with a truly Homeric\nhospitality.\n\n\u201cI really don\u2019t know,\u201d he writes, \u201cwhich I ought to admire most, the\npeople or the clergy. I feel confounded at the sight of this people,\nequally faithful\u2014as I said in my article, whilst myself hardly believing\nit\u2014equally faithful to its old misery and to its old faith, who, of all\nthe possessions of their forefathers, have preserved nothing but their\nreligion, the only relic snatched from the conqueror, without ever\nallowing themselves to be carried away by the invincible attraction of\nimitation.... As for the priests, they are all model priests\u2014manly, open,\ncheerful, energetic. No hypocrisy, no assumed reserve, to be read on their\ncandid and serene countenances; they talk of freedom with all the buoyancy\nof a Paris school\u2010boy, and of their country, of their dear and unfortunate\nIreland, with an accent that would melt a heart of stone. One can see that\nover their hearts religion and patriotism hold equal sway. Indeed, in\norder to comprehend fully what patriotism is, one must hear an Irish\npriest talk of his country.\u201d\n\nIt is a mistake to affirm, as has been done, that Montalembert made this\njourney to Ireland merely, or chiefly even from a desire to see O\u2019Connell.\n\nThe great Liberator had indeed fired his young heart with enthusiasm, and\nhe rode sixty miles through a dreary country to have the pleasure of\ntalking with him; but from these letters it is evident that a feeling,\nhigher and more general than any which could be inspired by an individual,\nhowever great, had drawn him to the Isle of Saints. At Derrynane he found\nO\u2019Connell, surrounded by his twenty\u2010three children and nephews, looking\nlike a plain country farmer. \u201cI was struck,\u201d he writes, \u201cbut not dazzled,\nby him. He is by no means the most interesting object in Ireland.\u201d\n\nHe heard O\u2019Connell speak, and, in spite of his enthusiastic and\nimpressionable nature, was disappointed.\n\n\u201cHe is but a demagogue,\u201d he tells his friend, \u201cand by no means a great\norator. He is declamatory, inflated, full of bombast; his arguments are\nloosely strung together; his fancy is devoid of charm or freshness; his\nstyle harsh, rough, and choppy. The more I see of him, the more I hear\nhim, the more I am confirmed in my first opinion\u2014to wit, he is not stamped\nwith the mark of genius or with true greatness. But he defends the finest\nof all causes. He has before him no mighty antagonist or rival, and\ncircumstances\u2014as is the case with many others\u2014will stand him in lieu of\ngenius.\u201d\n\nWe have given our readers but a faint idea of the warmth, and glow, and\nfreshness that pervade these letters; of the frank and unaffected candor\nwith which their youthful author lays open his whole heart to his friend;\nof the deep spirit of religion and reverence which runs through them; of\nthe noble sentiments and generous resolves which, as from an inexhaustible\nfountain, well up from young Montalembert\u2019s heart. In reading them, we\nhave felt our own heart grow younger and kindle with new fire; we have\nseemed to catch the accent of the olden time, when men lived for honor,\nand were glad to die for faith and truth, rather than the metallic tone of\nthis age, \u201cwhen only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie.\u201d\n\nWe know of no book which we would more gladly see in the hands of our\nCatholic youth who lack enthusiasm and are without the courage which a\nnoble and high purpose in life can alone give.\n\nThey need the education which will lift them above low and petty aims, and\ncause them to take an interest in things of an unselfish kind. They must\nlearn that worth is more than success, and honor better than wealth; they\nmust be taught to outgrow the narrow, calculating spirit of the huckster\nand the shopkeeper, the disposition to sneer at enthusiasm and to\ndepreciate high principles of action; and to this end we know of nothing\nthat is likely to contribute more effectually than the example and\nwritings of such men as Montalembert, who devoted the labor of a lifetime\nto high aims and noble purposes; who loved the truth for its own sake, and\nfreedom, not for himself alone, but for all men; who never worshipped the\nrising sun or paid court to success, but fought for the just cause without\nstopping to reflect whether he would win or lose.\n\n\u201cLet us never forget,\u201d said Montalembert, towards the end of his life,\nspeaking to his friend\u2014\u201clet us never forget that Rio, when we were young,\ncultivated enthusiasm within our souls, and for such a blessing we must be\nbound to him by the deepest gratitude.\u201d This is a debt which many a\nCatholic to\u2010day, not in France alone, but throughout the world, owes to\nCharles de Montalembert.\n\n\n    THE CONSOLING THOUGHTS OF S. FRANCIS OF SALES. Gathered from his\n    writings and arranged in order by the Rev. P\u00e8re Huguet. Boston:\n    Patrick Donahoe. 1874.\n\n\nThis work is really beyond the scope of the reviewer or the critic, as it\nis made up wholly from the writings of a great saint. To every one who\nknows the works of S. Francis of Sales, it will be a fresh pleasure to see\nsuch well\u2010arranged parts of them in an English dress. P\u00e8re Huguet has had\nthe happy thought of choosing from the saint\u2019s spiritual treatises\neverything that could console the sorrowful, strengthen the weak, and\nencourage the doubtful. The translator made it a labor of love to put\nthese thoughts within the reach of many millions of English\u2010speaking\npeople. S. Francis has been read and admired by every one, within or\nwithout the church; and there is between him and the modern mind a\npeculiar sympathy which makes him essentially welcome to men of our day.\nNon\u2010Catholics would call him a thoroughly _reasonable_ saint. Everywhere\nhis counsel will be found on the side of moderation. The \u201csmoking flax\u201d\nand the \u201cbruised reed\u201d need not fear him; his gentle touch is the very\nthing they require. The care with which P\u00e8re Huguet has made this\ncompilation is apparent; for though the sentences that compose one page\nmay, as he says, have been taken from twenty various treatises, they all\nfollow each other in admirable order. The author has also supplemented\nthem with footnotes, consisting of appropriate passages from other\nspiritual writers, ancient and modern, bearing on the same subjects as\nthose treated of by S. Francis. A few of these notes are signed with no\nname, and are probably the adapter\u2019s own. S. Francis has a wonderful power\nof expressing spiritual truths in little terse sayings that might well be\ncalled proverbs. A few quotations will give an idea of this peculiarity of\nhis style:\n\n\u201cPersecutions are pieces of the cross of Jesus Christ; we should scruple\nvery much to allow the smallest particle of them to perish.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not with spiritual rose\u2010bushes as with material ones; on the\nlatter, the thorns remain and the roses pass away; on the former, the\nthorns pass away and the roses remain.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is necessary that all these sentiments should sink deep into our\nhearts, and that, leaving our reflections and our prayers, we should pass\nto our affairs sweetly, lest the liquor of our good resolutions should\nevaporate and be lost, for we must allow it to saturate and penetrate our\nwhole soul; everything, nevertheless, without strain of mind or body.\u201d\n\nSome very beautiful thoughts will be found on death, and the sorrow of the\nliving for the loss of their dear ones; also some merciful and encouraging\nconjectures on the number of the saved, which S. Francis thinks will be\nthe greater number of Christians.\n\n\n    SERMONS, LECTURES, ETC., ETC., OF THE REV. MICHAEL B. BUCKLEY,\n    (LATE) SS. PETER AND PAUL\u2019S, CORK. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1874.\n\n\nThis volume, containing the literary remains of the lamented F. Buckley,\nwill, we have no doubt, be well received by his numerous friends both here\nand in Ireland. Though a young man, he had earned a high reputation as a\nspeaker and a writer; and the contents of this volume prove that his\nreputation was not undeserved.\n\nThe subjects of the sermons and lectures are varied and interesting, and\nare, for the most part, well handled. The memoir of the devoted young\npriest attached to the volume will be found edifying and instructive, and\nthe whole book we deem well worthy the careful perusal of both clergy and\nlaity.\n\n\n    NOVENA TO OUR LADY OF LOURDES; WITH AN ACCOUNT OF THE APPARITION.\n    From the French Edition. Approved by the Bishop of Tarbes.\n    Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. 1874.\n\n\nThe devotion to Our Lady of Lourdes has spread so rapidly, and miraculous\nfavors coming from it have become so common, even in this country, that\nthis little book is extremely welcome, and will, no doubt, be very\npopular. It cannot fail, also, to do much good by making the apparition\nmore generally known, and increasing the love of the faithful for Our\nLady, and their confidence in her intercession.\n\n\n    MEDITATIONS ON THE HOLY EUCHARIST. By Brother Philippe, Superior\u2010\n    General of the Brothers of the Christian Schools. Translated from\n    the French. West Chester: New York Catholic Protectory. 1873.\n\n\nAll who are acquainted with other meditations by the lately\u2010deceased and\nmuch\u2010regretted Brother Philippe will not need to be assured of the\nexcellence of the present work. We have eighty\u2010two meditations on the\nEucharist, admirably chosen and thought out. Among them we are delighted\nto see one entitled \u201cThe Holy Eucharist and the Most Blessed Virgin,\u201d and\nanother upholding \u201cFrequent Communion.\u201d\n\nSubjoined to these meditations are some on the Sacred Heart of Jesus, by\nthe same author. These are twenty\u2010four in number, and will prove of\nservice for instructions and conferences to sodalities of the Sacred\nHeart.\n\nMay our glorious Lady, to whom this volume is dedicated, secure it the\nreception it deserves. We have never seen anything to surpass these\n_Meditations_, which Brother Philippe has left us as a precious legacy.\n\n\n    SNATCHES OF SONG. By Mary A. McMullen (Una). St. Louis: Published\n    by Patrick Fox, No. 14 South Fifth Street. 1874.\n\n\nThere are several reasons which incline us to speak favorably of this book\nof poems. The first, perhaps, is the appearance of its printed pages,\nwhich are neatly executed upon tinted paper. We notice, also, that the red\non the edges does not rub off on our fingers, which is a great source of\nsatisfaction to one who is obliged to handle new books. On turning the\nbook over, it occurs to us that green muslin does not form a pleasant\ncontrast with red edges; but as we notice a gilded harp and shamrock on\nthe cover, the arrangement of color is perhaps intended to be typical of\nthe sentiments of the authoress.\n\nThe book\u2010noticer\u2014for we shall not claim the august title of critic\u2014pauses\nwith instinctive reverence at sight of the works of a poet, and, above\nall, of a poetess. The rhymes must be either good or bad. If good, how\nshall he condense the ecstasies, the harmonies, of one volume into the\nprosaic compass of a notice? If bad, how shall he run the risk of breaking\nby rude treatment the strings of a lyre which is perhaps just working into\ntune, or inflict a wound on those gushing hearts which sing with the birds\nor bubble with the brooks? In the present instance, we are glad to be able\nto say that the verses are not bad. The writer has talent. While there is\nno marked or striking originality in the subjects chosen, and not much of\ndeep and moving pathos, there are many well\u2010turned and pretty stanzas, and\nat times quite a wealth of imagery and illustration. The lines on \u201cThe\nNightingale,\u201d \u201cTo Cashel,\u201d \u201cThe Wayside Shrine,\u201d will furnish instances of\nthis; and the volume will be found agreeable to lovers of poetry. The\nwriter deserves to be encouraged. We wish her success in the fortune of\nher volume.\n\nThere is, however, a tone in some of the strains which grates somewhat\nupon our ears. Although no one suffers from the abuse of arbitrary power\nas greatly as the holy church, it is not her spirit to seek relief by\nviolence, nor is this permitted to her children, even under oppressive\ntyranny, excepting when it promises to be a true remedy. There is much\nmore to be feared in these days from the spirit of lawlessness and\nrebellion than from intelligent submission to governments, even when\nimperfect in form and unjust in practice. Our Holy Father, while branding\nwith his apostolic eloquence the iniquities of which he is the victim, has\nforbidden violent resistance, for the time being, to the oppressors of\nItaly. The Catholics of Germany, under the most diabolical tyranny, have\nnot sought relief by agitating insurrection. And while we do not propose\nto submit to injustice, or to call bad things by good names, we will never\nwilfully stain our hands by unnecessary bloodshed. Under these\ncircumstances, the \u201cHymn to Liberty,\u201d page 39, strikes us as a piece of\nheated declamation.\n\nSome lines which we have noted at intervals, and which seem to look\nforward to the emancipation of Ireland as the work of the sword, though\nhighly gratifying to martial spirits, will not wholly commend themselves\nto those friends of Ireland who are now seeking it by peaceful means, and\ntread in the paces of the great O\u2019Connell. There is no beauty without\ntruth; and those who lose sight of it, even in minor details, run the risk\nof a false inspiration. We are glad to notice, on the other hand, several\npoems in the volume full of Catholic thought and piety. As for the\nmelodies, harmonies, etc., before alluded to, those who wish for them must\nlay aside our notice and read the book.\n\n\n    THE PARADISE OF GOD; or, The Virtues of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.\n    By a Father of the Society of Jesus. Baltimore: John Murphy & Co.\n    London: R. Washbourne. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic\n    Publication Society).\n\n\nThe idea of this book is to show that the lovers of the Sacred Heart find\nin that \u201cmasterpiece of creation\u201d an Eden more beautiful than that from\nwhich sin expelled us. The various chapters treating of the \u201cVirtues,\u201d\nwill be read with delight by all who are capable of appreciating them. The\nbook is one of the \u201cMessenger Series,\u201d and uniform with the _Happiness of\nHeaven_ and _God Our Father_\u2014two works which have been widely read.\n\n\n\nBooks and Pamphlets Received.\n\n\n    From D. & J. SADLIER & Co., New York: Sadliers\u2019 Catholic\n    Directory, Almanac, and Ordo for 1874. 12mo.\n\n    From the AUTHOR: The An\u00e6sthetic Revelation and the Gist of\n    Philosophy. By Benj. P. Blood. 8vo. pp. 37.\n\n    From J. MURPHY & CO., Baltimore: Circular of the Catholic\n    Commissioner for Indian Missions, to the Catholics of the United\n    States. Paper, 8vo, pp. 14.\n\n    From COMPTON & CO., Halifax, N. S. The Evil of our Day: A Lecture\n    by Rev. A. Chisholm. 8vo, pp. 15.\n\n    From the AUTHOR: Speech of Hon. N. P. Chipman in the House of\n    Representatives, Feb. 28, 1874. Paper, 12mo, pp. 31.\n\n    From METCALF & CO., Northampton: Sixth Annual Report of the Clarke\n    Institution for Deaf Mutes. Paper, 8vo, pp. 40.\n\n    From C. LANGE & CO., New York: Fourth Annual Report of the\n    Manhattan Eye and Ear Hospital. Paper, 12mo, pp. 34.\n\n    From J. LOVELL, Montreal: The Labor and Money Questions. By Wm.\n    Brown. Paper, 24mo, pp. 58.\n\n    From J. A. MCGEE: Ireland Among the Nations. By Rev. J. O\u2019Leary,\n    D.D. 12mo, pp. 208.\n\n    From P. FOX, St. Louis: Snatches of Song. By Mary A. McMullen\n    (Una). 18mo, pp. 203.\n\n    From SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO., New York: The History of Greece.\n    By Prof. Dr. Ernst Curtius. Translated by A. W. Ward, M.A. Vol.\n    IV. 12mo, pp. 530.\n\n    From J. MURPHY & CO., Baltimore: The Paradise of God; or, The\n    Virtues of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. By a Father of the Society\n    of Jesus. 18mo, pp. 365.\n\n    From The NEW YORK CATHOLIC PROTECTORY, West Chester: Meditations\n    on the Holy Eucharist, and Meditations on the Sacred Heart of\n    Jesus. By Brother Philippe. 12mo, pp. xvi., 508, 153.\n\n    From P. DONAHOE, Boston: Holy Week in the Vatican. By Thomas Canon\n    Pope. 12mo, pp. xxiv., 416.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XIX., NO. 111.\u2014JUNE, 1874.\n\n\n\n\nThe Principles Of Real Being. VI. Principles of Nominal Realities.\n\n\nThere are beings which are called _real_, not because they have any\nspecial reality of their own, but only on account of their objective\nconnection with real beings. Thus possibilities are called \u201creal,\u201d\nalthough the things possible have no formal existence and no actual\nessence; relations are called \u201creal\u201d when they have real terms and a real\nfoundation, although they are not found to possess (unless they be\ntranscendental) any new and special reality; distinction, too, is called\n\u201creal\u201d from the reality of those things that are distinct, although\ndistinction in itself is neither a new thing nor aught of any real thing.\nHence possibility, relation, and distinction are to be looked upon as\nentities having only a conventional reality, from which their denomination\nof \u201creal\u201d has been desumed. Let us therefore inquire what are the\nprinciples on which these nominal realities depend.\n\n\n\nPrinciples of possible being.\n\n\nIt has been proved, in one of our preceding articles, that every created\nbeing is constituted of an act, of a potential term, and of their formal\ncomplement. It is now to be observed that an act, when conceived as ready\nto be produced and to actuate its term, is called a \u201cfirst act\u201d\u2014_actus\nprimus_; whilst the same act, when already produced and existing in its\nterm, is called a \u201csecond act\u201d\u2014_actus secundus_. In the same manner, the\npotential term, or the potency, when conceived as ready to be first\nactuated by an act and to complete it, is called a \u201cfirst\npotency\u201d\u2014_potentia prima_; whilst the same term, when already actuated and\ncompleting its act, receives the name of \u201csecond potency\u201d\u2014_potentia\nsecunda_.(85)\n\nWhen treating of being as possible, it is evident that we cannot consider\nits act as really actuating a term; for such a real actuation would\nimmediately be followed by the real actuality of the being. Yet the\nquiddity of a possible being is always conceived through the same\nprinciples and the same ratios through which the quiddity of the actual\nbeing is conceivable. For a being is adequately possible when an act is\nterminable or can give existence, when a term is actuable or can receive\nexistence, and when, from the concurrence of the two, one complete\nactuality can result. The act, the term, and the complement are therefore\nimplied in the possible no less than in the actual being; with this\ndifference, however: that in the actual being the act and the term are\nactually existing in one another, whereas in the possible being the act\nand the term are not really existing in one another, but only mentally\nconceived as ready to conspire into one common existence. In other words,\nin the actual being the act is a _second act_, the term is a _second\npotency_, and the complement is a real and formal _result_; whilst in the\npossible being the act is a _first act_, the term is a _first potency_,\nand the complement is a mere _resultability_.\n\nHence the intrinsic possibility of a being may be regarded under two\ncorrelative aspects\u2014that is either as the terminability of a first act, or\nas the actuability of a first potency. Under the first aspect, possibility\ninvolves a positive reality, because it implies a real entity which is\neminently (that is, in a more perfect manner) pre\u2010contained in the entity\nand power of its cause. Under the second aspect, possibility does not\n_involve_ anything positive\u2014unless we speak of the possibility of\naccidents, which require a positive subject\u2014but only _connotes_ something\npositive, to wit, the first act by which the term is to be formally\nactuated. Possibility, under this second aspect, and with reference to\nprimitive beings, is nothing else than the potentiality with which we\nclothe nothingness when we conceive it as a term out of which beings are\neduced by creation; for nothingness thus conceived connotes the act by\nwhich the non\u2010existing term can be brought into being.\n\nEvery possible being has, therefore, a twofold incomplete possibility\u2014the\n_formal_ and the _material_. The formal consists in the terminability of a\nfirst act; the material in the actuability of its term; while the complete\nand adequate intrinsic possibility of the being is a simple result of the\nconcurrence of the two.\n\nIt must be manifest, as a consequence from the preceding remarks, that a\npossible being is not truly, but only _nominally_, real. For its material\npossibility, or its possible term, is only an entity of reason, since it\nmeans nothing more than a non\u2010entity conceived as liable to actuation; and\nits formal possibility, or its possible act, although involving, as we\nhave said, the notion of a positive reality eminently contained in the\nentity of the Creator, is still nothing formally in that line of reality\nto which we refer when we speak of its possibility. Thus the possibility\nof man, so far as it is eminently contained in the entity of the Creator,\nis no human entity at all, but simply God\u2019s entity and power; just as the\npossibility of velocity, so far as it is eminently contained in the entity\nof its cause, is no formal velocity at all, but simply the entity and\npower of the agent by which the velocity can be brought into being.\nCertainly, the velocity with which a drop of rain falls to the ground has\nno formal existence in the earth which produces it, but only in the drop\nitself; it being evident that the attractive power of the earth is not\nvelocity, but the principle of its production. And the same is to be said\nof any other effect inasmuch as it is eminently contained in its efficient\ncause. Nothing, therefore, that is merely possible has any _formal_ being\nin its cause; whence it follows that whatever is merely possible is\nnothing more than an entity of reason\u2014that is, an unreality\u2014whether we\nconsider its material or its formal possibility. All entities, in fact, of\nwhich the act and the term are beings of reason, can have no actuality but\nan actuality of reason. Hence possible beings are themselves only beings\nof reason, and have no reality, either physical or metaphysical. Why,\nthen, are they called _real_? Certainly not for what they are, but simply\nbecause their possibility is the possibility _of real beings_. Many\nphilosophers are wont to style them _metaphysical realities_; but this is\na mistake, for all metaphysical reality implies existence.\n\nPossibles, as mere beings of reason, have neither actuality nor formal\nunity, except in intellectual conception; whence it follows that they do\nnot constitute number, except in intellectual conception. This inference\nis evident. For every multitude is made up of distinct units; and\ntherefore no real multitude can be conceived without real units really\ndistinct. On the other hand, possible beings are not real, but conceptual,\nunits, nor are they really, but only mentally, distinct from one another.\nAs, however, they are distinctly conceived, and have a distinct ideal\nactuality in the intellect that conceives them, they constitute what may\nbe called an _ideal_ multitude. Such a multitude, as seen and exhaustively\ncomprehended by God\u2019s intellect, is absolutely and positively infinite;\nfor possibilities are nothing but the virtual degrees of being which God\u2019s\ninfinite reality eminently contains, and which God\u2019s infinite power can\nproduce outwardly. The range of possibilities is therefore co\u2010extensive\nwith God\u2019s infinity, and thus actually comprises an infinite (not an\n_indefinite_) multitude of distinct terms.\n\nThis infinite multitude is distinctly and _positively_ known to God in the\nperfect comprehension of his own infinite being, which is the\ninexhaustible source of all possible beings; to our intellects, however,\nwhich cannot comprehend infinity, the same infinite multitude is known\nonly _negatively_, inasmuch as we understand that the multitude of\npossible beings admits of no limit whatever. We have, in fact, no positive\nintuition of the infinite, but acquire a notion of it by means of\nabstraction only, as we remove the limits by which any finite reality\ndirectly perceived by us is circumscribed. In other terms, our notion of\nthe infinite is not an intuitive _idea_, as the ontologists assume, but\nonly an abstract _concept_.(86)\n\nThus far we have spoken of what is called _intrinsic_ possibility. Besides\nthis possibility, which is theoretical and absolute, there is also a\nrelative possibility which is _extrinsic_ and practical. Extrinsically\npossible we call that which is in the power of some being to do. With\nregard to God, all that is intrinsically possible is also extrinsically\npossible; for his omnipotence has no bounds. With regard to creatures,\nwhose power is confined to the production of accidental acts, the range of\nextrinsic possibility is very limited, since it is reduced to acts of a\ndeterminate species, and depends on extrinsic conditions. Still, as the\nefficient power of created substances is never exhausted by exertion,\ncreatures virtually contain in their own power a multitude of possible\nacts which has no limit but that of the multitude of terms or subjects\nwhich can be placed within the sphere of their activity. This amounts to\nsaying that the active power of creatures can be exerted, not only\nsuccessively, but even simultaneously, in the production of any number of\naccidental acts of a certain kind. Thus the attractive power of the sun\nsufficiently accounts for the possibility of innumerable movements which\ncan take place at any time and at all times in any number of planets,\ncomets, or particles of matter around it; so that the multiplication of\nthe effects does not require the multiplication of the power, but only\nthat of the number of subjects, or potential terms, in which the acts\nproceeding from that power must be received.\n\nFrom what we have just said of real possibility, it will be easy to\ndetermine in what real impossibility consists. Really impossible we call\nthat which cannot exist in nature. Now, nothing can exist in nature which\nis not an act completed by a suitable term, or a term actuated by a\nsuitable act, or an actuality resulting from the conspiration of an act\nand a suitable term, as we have shown in a preceding article. That,\ntherefore, is absolutely and intrinsically impossible in which this\nessential law of being is not fulfilled. Thus passion without action is\nabsolutely and intrinsically impossible, because a term cannot be actuated\nwithout an act; whiteness with nothing white is absolutely impossible,\nbecause no mode of being is conceivable where there is no being; a\nmaterial form actuating an intellectual term is absolutely impossible,\nbecause the one cannot give that kind of reality which the other should\nreceive, and thus they cannot conspire into one essence; rotundity and\ntriangularity in the same subject are absolutely impossible, because they\nexclude and destroy one another. Generally, whenever the assumed\nprinciples of a thing do not conspire into one essential ratio, the thing\nwill have no essence, and consequently no possibility of existence. Hence\neverything is intrinsically impossible which lacks some constituent, or of\nwhich the constituents cannot meet together.\n\nThings intrinsically impossible are no beings, not even ideal beings; for\nsince they have no essence, they have no objective intelligibility.\nNevertheless, they are said to be _really_, _truly_, _entitatively_\nimpossible, inasmuch as they are the opposite of possible entity, reality,\nand truth.\n\nBesides this intrinsic and absolute impossibility, there is a relative\nimpossibility, which is styled _extrinsic_, arising from a deficiency or\nlimitation of extrinsic power. It is evident that a thing intrinsically\npossible may be extrinsically impossible to causes possessing limited\npower. To God nothing is impossible. When we say that God cannot sin or\nmake a square circle, we do not limit his power, but only point out the\n_intrinsic_ impossibility of the thing. And let this suffice with regard\nto possibles and impossibles.\n\n\n\nPrinciples of real relation.\n\n\nRelative we call \u201cthat which connotes something else\u201d\u2014_id quod se habet ad\naliud_. Thus the greater connotes the less, as nothing can be styled\n\u201cgreater\u201d except as compared with something less; and, similarly, the less\nconnotes the greater, as nothing can be styled \u201cless\u201d except as compared\nwith something greater. Hence greater and less are both relative.\n\nThat one thing may connote another, there must be some link between\nthem\u2014that is, a communication in something that reaches them both, and\nthus connects the one with the other. Hence, to constitute a relative\nbeing, three things are required: 1st, that which is to be related, or the\n_subject_ of the relation; 2d, that to which it is to be related, or the\n_term_ of the relation; 3d, that through which it is related, or the\n_foundation_ or _formal reason_ of the relation.\n\nIt is worth noticing that the word \u201crelation\u201d is used by philosophers in\ntwo different senses. Sometimes it is used as meaning simply \u201cthe respect\nof a subject to a term\u201d; as when we say that the father by his paternity\nis related to his son, or that the son by his filiation is related to his\nfather. Here paternity and filiation are simple _relativities_, which may\nbe called \u201ctransitive relations,\u201d as the one leads to the other. But\nsometimes the word \u201crelation\u201d is used as meaning \u201cthe tie resulting\nbetween two terms from the conspiration of their distinct relativities\u201d;\nas when we say that between the father and his son there is a tie of\nconsanguinity. Relation in this sense is nothing else than the actuality\nof two correlatives, inasmuch as connected by their distinct relativities,\nand may be styled \u201cresultant relation,\u201d or \u201cintransitive relation,\u201d as it\ndoes not lead from the subject to the term, but is predicated of both\ntogether.\n\nThe precise distinction between relativity and resultant relation is\nmarked out by the two prepositions _to_ and _between_. Relativity relates\nthe subject _to_ its term; resultant relation, or correlation, intervenes\n_between_ two terms. Relativity needs completion in a term having an\nopposite relativity, as it is evident that paternity has no completion\nwithout a son; and thus one relativity essentially needs to be completed\nby the other; but correlation is perfectly complete, as it is the result\nof the completion of one relativity by the other. And, lastly, the formal\nreason or foundation of the simple relativity is that which induces the\nconnotation, or the respect of one term to another; whilst the formal\nreason of the correlation is the conspiration of two relativities. Thus\nthe foundation of paternity and of filiation is _generation_, active on\nthe part of the father, and passive on the part of the son; but the formal\nreason of consanguinity is not the generation, but the conspiration of\npaternity and filiation into a relative unity. This shows that these two\nkinds of relation are entirely distinct, though they are essentially\nconnected with one another in the constitution of the relative being.\n\nLet us now inquire in what the _reality_ of relations consists. Here again\nwe have to make a distinction; for among the relations which are called\n_real_, some are real in fact, as the transcendental relations, and others\nare real by denomination only, as all the predicamental relations.\n\nTranscendental relation is that which intervenes between the act and the\nterm, or the formal and the material principles of one and the same being.\nSuch a relation is called \u201ctranscendental,\u201d because it transcends the\nlimits of any particular predicament, and, like _being_, extends to all\npredicaments. This relation is truly real, whether we take \u201crelation\u201d as a\nsimple relativity or as a resultant correlation. For the relativity of an\nact to its term is nothing less than the _actuality_ of the act in the\nsame term; in like manner, the relativity of a term to its act is nothing\nless than the _actuality_ of the term in the same act. We know, in fact,\nthat the common foundation of the two relativities is _actuation_, active\non the part of the act, and passive on the part of the term; and from\nactuation nothing but actuality can result. And since by such an actuation\nthe act and the term are _really_ constituted in one another, hence their\nrelativities need nothing extrinsic for their completion, but the one\nintrinsically completes the other in the same individual being, and both\nconspire into one absolute actuality, which is the formal complement of\nthe same being, as we have shown in another place.\n\nBut with predicamental relations the case is different. The subject and\nthe term of the predicamental relation do not communicate with one another\nthrough themselves immediately, but through something else, and are always\nphysically distinct, as we shall see hereafter; whence it follows that the\npredicamental relativity always refers the subject to a term extrinsic to\nit, and thus needs something extrinsic for its entitative completion. But\nnothing which is extrinsic to the subject can complete anything intrinsic\nto it so as to form a real entity. Therefore the relativity of the subject\nto its term is not a real entity of the subject, but only a real\ndenomination. The minor of this syllogism can be easily proved; for two\nthings which are, and remain, extrinsic to one another cannot conspire\ninto _one_ real unity; but the subject and the term of predicamental\nrelations are, and remain, extrinsic to one another; they cannot,\ntherefore, conspire into one real unity. Hence they cannot give rise to\nany new real entity; for _unity_ and _entity_ are convertible terms.\n\nMoreover, predicamental relations arise between two absolute terms without\nanything new being introduced into them. For if we have two real terms,\n_A_ and _B_, possessing something which is common to both, their\ncommunication in this common thing will make them relative. Yet such a\ncommunication leaves _A_ and _B_ in possession of that reality which is\nsaid to be common, and adds no real entity to them. If _A_ and _B_ are\nboth white, the whiteness which is in _A_ is by no means modified by the\nexistence of whiteness in _B_. The fact that _A_ and _B_ are both white,\nsimply means that whiteness is not confined to _A_; but it does not imply\nany new real entity in _A_, and therefore _A_ remains identically the\nsame, whether there is another white body, _B_, or not; and if there were\none thousand white bodies, _A_ would become related to them all, and\nacquire a thousand relativities, without the least real modification of\nits entity.\n\nNot even the relation between agent and patient, which is the nearest\npossible imitation of the transcendental relation between the essential\nconstituents of absolute being, is a new entity. A being which acts is an\n_agent_; and a being which is acted on is a _patient_. Agent and patient\nare connected by predicamental relation, the _act_ produced by the first,\nand received in the second, being the foundation of their relativities.\nNow, is the relativity of the agent to the patient a new real entity above\nand besides the substance of the agent and its action? By no means. For\nsuch a relativity arises from this only: that the act produced by the\nagent _is received in the patient_; and as the patient is a being distinct\nfrom the agent, the _reception_ of the act in the patient cannot concur to\nthe constitution of any new reality in the agent. Hence the whole reality\nof the agent, as such, consists in its substance and its action; while the\nreception of its action elsewhere can add no real entity to it, but simply\ngives it a real denomination desumed from the reality of the effect\nproduced. For the same reason, the relativity of the patient to the agent\nis no new real entity above and besides the substance of the patient and\nits passion. This relativity, in fact, arises from this only: that the act\nreceived in the patient _comes from the agent_; and as the agent is a\nbeing distinct from the patient, the _coming_ of the act from the agent\ncannot concur to the constitution of any new reality in the patient. Hence\nthe whole reality of the patient, as such, consists in its substance and\nits passion, or reception of the act; while the coming of this act from a\ndistinct being can add no real entity to it, but simply gives it a real\ndenomination desumed from the reality of the causation.\n\nFrom what precedes we may conclude that the reality of predicamental\nrelations requires no new real entity superadded to the real terms and the\nreal foundation of their relativity, and accordingly predicamental\nrelations are only nominal realities.\n\nRelations are either _virtual_, _formal_, or _habitual_. Virtual\nrelativity is predicated of a subject which contains in itself virtually\n(_in actu primo_) something through which it can communicate with a\ndistinct term. Thus everything visible has a virtual relativity to the eye\nbefore it is seen; because all that is visible has the power to make an\nimpression upon the eye. Hence _visibility_ is a virtual relativity, or,\nif we may so call it, a mere referability. In Latin, it is called\n_ordo_\u2014\u201cordination\u201d; and in the language of the schools, the visible would\nbe said to have \u201ca special ordination to the eye\u201d\u2014_visibile ordinem habet\nad oculum_. In the same manner, the eye has a special ordination to the\nvisible, the intellect to the intelligible, etc.\n\nThe formal relativity is predicated of a subject which is formally (_in\nactu secundo_) connected with its correlative by the formal participation\nof a common entity. Thus, when the visible object strikes the eye, the\naction of the one upon the other entails a formal link of relativity\nbetween the two, and it is thus that the previous virtual relativity of\nthe one to the other becomes formal. This formal relativity in Latin is\noften called _respectus_\u2014\u201ca respect\u201d; and the things thus related are said\n\u201cto regard\u201d\u2014_respicere_\u2014one another.\n\nThe habitual relativity is predicated of that which has been brought into\nrelation with its correlative by something in which both originally\ncommunicated, but which, owing to the destruction of one of the two, has\nceased to be common. This relativity in Latin is properly called\n_habitudo_\u2014that is, \u201chabitual connotation\u201d; and the subject thus related\nis spoken of as _habens se ad aliquid_\u2014a phrase which we do not attempt to\ntranslate, and which is used by philosophers in a more general sense to\nexpress all kinds of relations.(87) Thus a murderer is still habitually\nrelated to the man whom he has killed, although the man killed is no more\na man; and, in the same manner, a son is habitually related to his father,\neven after his father\u2019s death; for he is still the same son of the same\nfather, and it would be absurd to pretend that he has lost his own\nrelativity and ceased to be a real son only because his father is no more.\nIt must be remarked, however, that this habitual relativity cannot be\nreal, except when the relation has an intrinsic foundation. For when the\nfoundation is extrinsic, there is nothing formally remaining in the\nsubject which, after the suppression of the term, can keep up its\nrelativity. Thus, if the moon were annihilated, the distance from the\nearth to the moon would totally vanish, as every one will easily admit.\n\nMuch might be said about predicamental relations, both intrinsic and\nextrinsic; but, in a general treatise like this, we cannot well enter into\nmatters of detail. We will only state that relations are divided according\nto their foundations. Intrinsic relations are respectively founded on\nsubstance, on action and passion, on quality, and on quantity; and\ntherefore may be reduced to four kinds. Extrinsic relations also may be\ndivided into four kinds, as they are respectively founded on a common\ncause, on a common region of ubication, on a common duration, or on a\ncommon extrinsic term of comparison.\n\nSubstance, and everything else considered absolutely, founds the relations\nof _unity_ and _plurality_. Action and passion found the relations of\n_causality_ and _dependence_. Quality founds the relations of _likeness_\nor _unlikeness_. Quantity founds the relations of _equality_ or\n_inequality_. All these relations are called _intrinsic_, because their\nfoundation is something intrinsic to the terms related.\n\nA common cause founds the relation which we may call of _collateralness_\nbetween two terms proceeding from it. Thus two brothers are connected in\nmutual fraternity, inasmuch as they are the offspring of the same parents.\nA common region of ubication and movement founds the relation of\n_distance_. A common duration founds the relation of _succession_. A\ncommon extrinsic term of comparison founds the relation of _site_ or\n_situation_. All these relations are called _extrinsic_, because their\nfoundation is extrinsic to the terms related.\n\n\n\nPrinciples of real distinction.\n\n\nDistinction is nothing but a negation of identity; and therefore there\nmust be as many kinds of distinction as there are kinds of identity which\ncan be denied. Hence we cannot properly determine the principles of real\ndistinction without first ascertaining what are the principles of real\nidentity.\n\nIdentity is a _relative unity_, or a relation founded on the _unity_ of a\nthing. For the thing which is to be styled _the same_ must be compared\nwith itself according to that entity on account of which it is to be\npronounced to be identical with itself; and it is evident that such an\nentity must be _one_ in order to be _the same_. Thus if I say: \u201cThe pen\nwith which I am now writing is the very same which I used yesterday,\u201d the\npen with which I am now writing will be the subject of the relation, the\npen which I used yesterday will be the term of the relation, and the\noneness of its entity will be the foundation of the relation and the\nformal reason of the identity.\n\nAs relations, like everything else, are specified by their formal reasons,\nit is clear that there must be as many kinds of identity as there are\nkinds of unities on which the relation of identity can be founded. Now,\nthree kinds of unities can be conceived: first, the formal unity of a\ncomplete being, or a complete unity, which may be called _physical_ unity;\nsecondly, the unity of an incomplete or metaphysical reality, which may be\ncalled _metaphysical_ unity; thirdly, the unity of a being of reason,\nwhich may be called _logical_ unity. Accordingly, there can be three kinds\nof identity, viz., the physical, the metaphysical, and the logical. Let us\nsay a word about each.\n\nPhysical identity is a relation founded on the unity of a physical entity,\nand is the most real of all identities. Some philosophers taught that this\nidentity is merely a logical relation, or a relation of reason, because a\nrelation cannot be real unless its subject be really distinct from its\nterm\u2014a condition which cannot be verified when the subject and the term\nare identical. But they did not reflect that a thing must be called\n_really_ identical with itself then only when it cannot be _really_\ndistinguished from itself, and _inasmuch as_ it excludes real distinction\nfrom itself. It is therefore manifest that real identity excludes real\ndistinction in that in which there is identity. Nevertheless, the thing\nwhich is substantially identical with itself may still really differ from\nitself in the manner of its being, and may, as the subject of the\nrelativity, involve a real entity, which it does not involve as the term\nof the same relativity; and accordingly the substantial identity of a\nthing with itself does not exclude _all_ real distinction. The pen with\nwhich I am now writing, although identical with the pen that lay on the\ntable one hour before, is now in different accidental conditions, and has\nsome real mode, which was wanting one hour ago. And this shows that there\ncan be a sufficient real distinction between the subject and the term of\nthe relation, even though they are substantially identical.\n\nPhysical identity may be divided into _complete_ and _incomplete_. It is\ncomplete, or total, when a being is compared with itself through the unity\nof its physical entity, as in the preceding example of the pen. It is\nincomplete, or partial, when a physical part is compared with a physical\nwhole, or, _vice versa_, as when we compare the whole man with his soul or\nwith his body.\n\nMetaphysical identity is a relation founded on the unity of a metaphysical\nentity, and possesses a metaphysical reality. It may be divided into\n_adequate_ and _inadequate_. It is adequate when a being is compared with\nitself through the unity of some metaphysical reality which belongs to it.\nSuch is the _personal_ identity of John when old with John when young; for\nalthough he has undergone many physical changes in his body, and therefore\nhas not preserved a perfect physical identity with himself, still his\nformal personality, which is wholly due to his soul, has not changed at\nall. The identity will be inadequate when any metaphysical constituent of\na complete being is compared with the being itself, or _vice versa_. Such\nis the identity of the substantial act with the substance of which it is\nthe act, of the matter with the material being, and of any property or\nattribute with the thing of which it is the property or the attribute.\nSuch is also the identity of the divine Personalities with the divine\nessence; for, although the divine Paternity identifies itself perfectly\nwith the divine essence, this latter requires further identification with\nthe divine Filiation and with the passive Spiration; for it must be as\nwhole and perfect in the Second and the Third Person as it is in the\nFirst.\n\nLogical identity, or identity of reason, is a relation founded on the\nunity of a being of reason. It may be divided into _objective_ and\n_subjective_. The objective has its foundation in the real order of\nthings; the subjective has no foundation except in our conception. Thus\nthe identity we conceive between a horse and its owner as to their\nanimality is an identity of reason only, although it is grounded on a real\nfoundation; for animality is indeed to be found really in both, but its\nunity is only a unit of reason; for animality, as common to both, is only\na logical entity, which we call \u201cgenus.\u201d The same is to be said of the\nidentity between Peter and Paul as to their humanity; for humanity, though\nreal in both, is not numerically, but only specifically, one, and its\nunity is therefore a unity of reason; for \u201cspecies\u201d is a logical being. On\nthe contrary, when we say that \u201ca stone is heavy,\u201d the identity between a\n_stone_ and the _subject_ of such a proposition has no foundation except\nin our reason, and therefore is purely subjective; and the same is to be\nsaid of the identity of the verb _is_ with the _copula_ of the\nproposition, of _heavy_ with the _predicate_, etc. It is evident, in fact,\nthat the ground on which these last relations are founded is not a real\nunity, and not even a unity having anything corresponding to it in the\nreal order; since subject, predicate, etc., are mere conceptions and\ncreations of our mind.\n\nWe have thus three kinds of identity: the physical, which is either\ncomplete or incomplete; the metaphysical, which is either adequate or\ninadequate; the logical, which is either objective or merely subjective.\nSince distinction is the negation of identity, it is obvious that the\ndistinction between two terms always results from the non\u2010unity of the\nsame, and is conceived by the comparison of the one with the other\naccording to something which can be affirmed of the one, and must be\ndenied of the other. Those things, in fact, are said to be distinct of\nwhich the one is not the other, or in one of which there is something not\nto be found in the other.\n\nFirst, then, to deny real physical identity is to assert real _physical_\ndistinction. Physical distinction may be either _complete_ or _incomplete_\nas well as physical identity. It will be complete, or major, when,\ncomparing two complete wholes with one another, we deny that the one is\nthe other; as when we deny that the sun is the moon. It will be\nincomplete, or minor, when, comparing together the whole and any of its\nparts, we deny that the whole is any of its parts, and _vice versa_; as\nwhen we deny that Germany is Europe, or that the roof is the house. It is\nevident that incomplete physical distinction always coexists with\nincomplete physical identity.\n\nThe true and certain sign of real physical distinction between two things\nis their separability or their state of actual separation. For when two\nthings are completely distinct as to their physical entity, they are each\nin possession of their own distinct existence; and consequently the\nexistence of the one does not depend on the existence of the other. On the\nother hand, although a physical whole cannot exist as a whole, if its\nparts be separated, yet each of its physical parts can exist separated, as\neach of them has its own existence independent of the existence of the\nwhole.\n\nSecondly, to deny real metaphysical identity is to assert real\n_metaphysical_ distinction. Metaphysical distinction may be either\n_adequate_ or _inadequate_ no less than metaphysical identity. It will be\nadequate, or major, when, comparing together two metaphysical\nconstituents, we deny that the one is the other; as when we deny that the\nact is the potency. It will be inadequate, or minor, when, comparing a\nmetaphysical compound with any of its constituents, we deny that the\nconstituent is the compound, and _vice versa_; as when we deny that\nexistence is the thing existing, or that person is personality. The\ninadequate metaphysical distinction always coexists with an inadequate\nmetaphysical identity.\n\nThirdly, to deny an identity of reason is to assert a distinction _of\nreason_. A distinction of reason may be either _objective_ or merely\n_subjective_, no less than the identity of reason. It will be objective,\nor major, when, comparing together two entities which are really\nidentical, we find in their identical reality a ground for denying their\nconceptual identity; as when we deny that God\u2019s eternity is God\u2019s\nimmensity, or when we deny that in any given being one essential\nattribute, as animality, is another, as rationality. This distinction is\nobjective, because its ground is found in the object itself; and yet it is\nnot real, because each term represents the same thing under two distinct\naspects. Thus, in man, animality really includes a rational soul, and\ntherefore implies rationality. But the distinction will be purely\nsubjective, or minor, when, comparing together two entities, we find no\nground whatever for denying their identity, except in our subjective\nmanner of viewing them. Thus, although _man_ is identical with _rational\nanimal_, we can distinguish man from rational animal as a subject from a\npredicate; and it is evident that this distinction has no ground but in\nour conception.\n\nAccordingly, we have three kinds of distinction: the real physical, which\nis either complete or incomplete; the real metaphysical, which is either\nadequate or inadequate; the logical, or of reason, which is either\nobjective or merely subjective. This division is exhaustive. Some will say\nthat we have forgotten the _modal_ distinction. But the fact is that we\nhave abstained on purpose from mentioning it in connection with any\nspecial kind of distinction, because it may fall under the physical as\nwell as the metaphysical distinction, according as it happens to be\nunderstood; for it is differently understood by different writers.\n\nSome authors consider that there is a modal distinction between the\nspherical wax and its sphericity, between the soul affected by fear and\nits affection, between the finger inflected and its inflection, and\ngenerally _between the modified subject and its mode_. Others, as Suarez,\nseem to admit a modal distinction between the wax simply and its\nsphericity, between the soul simply and its affection, between the finger\nsimply and its inflection, and generally _between the subject simply and\nits mode_. And others, again, admit a modal distinction between the wax\nhaving a spherical form and the same wax having a different form; between\nthe soul affected by a movement of fear and the same soul affected by a\ndifferent movement; between the finger inflected and the same finger not\ninflected; and generally _between a subject having one mode, and the same\nsubject having another mode_.(88)\n\nThese different opinions have been occasioned by an imperfect analysis of\ndistinction. Those who originally treated of this matter called _real_ all\ndistinction which was not a mere distinction of reason, and overlooked the\nnecessity of subdividing real distinctions into physical and metaphysical.\nHence the modal distinction was simply called _real_, without further\nexamining whether it had a physical or a metaphysical character; the more\nso as it was assumed that real modes were physical entities\u2014which would\nconvey the idea that real modal distinction is of a physical nature. But\nthe assumption is not to be admitted, because, as we have remarked in\nanother article, modes cannot be styled \u201cphysical\u201d entities, as they have\nno possibility of separate existence. This being premised, let us briefly\nexamine the three aforesaid opinions.\n\nThe first admits a modal distinction between spherical wax and its\nsphericity. Sphericity cannot exist without a subject; and therefore it\nmust be ranked among metaphysical entities. On the other hand, spherical\nwax is a metaphysical compound of wax and sphericity. Hence, from what we\nhave said above, the distinction of the one from the other is an\n_inadequate metaphysical_ distinction.\n\nThe second opinion admits a modal distinction between the wax simply and\nits sphericity. Sphericity, as we have stated, is a metaphysical entity,\nand so is \u201cwax simply\u201d also; for wax, as such, is not yet spherical,\nalthough, as a subject of sphericity, it excludes every other form. Such a\nwax therefore has no form, and, as such, it cannot exist; and accordingly\nit is an incomplete being. Hence the distinction between the wax simply\nand its sphericity is that which intervenes between two principles of a\ncomplete being, and therefore is an _adequate metaphysical_ distinction.\n\nThe third opinion alone gives the true notion of the _modal_ distinction.\nFor if a piece of wax which is spherical happens to acquire another form,\nsay the cubical, the comparison of the cubical with the spherical wax will\ninvolve two terms physically real; and as the substance of the wax is\nstill the same, no distinction will be found between the two terms, except\nthat which arises from denying the identity of the cubical with the\nspherical form. We have thus a real and physical modal distinction: _real_\nand _physical_, because the spherical wax really and physically differs\nfrom the cubic wax; _modal_, because the negation of identity falls on the\ntwo modes, and not on the substance.\n\nFrom this we learn that neither the first nor the second opinion above\nmentioned gives the true notion of modal distinction. The first denies\nonly the identity of the spherical wax with its sphericity; the second\ndenies only the identity of wax simply with sphericity. Now, it is evident\nthat neither spherical wax nor wax simply is a mode. It is evident,\ntherefore, that neither opinion denies modal identity. But modal\ndistinction cannot be anything else than a denial of modal identity.\nTherefore neither opinion gives the true notion of modal distinction.\n\nAs modes are accidental formalities, the modal distinction may also be\ncalled _formal_. The Scotist philosophers imagined a formal distinction of\nanother kind, which, according to them, was to be admitted between the\nattributes of real being, and which was neither real nor a mere\ndistinction of reason, but something intermediate. They called it \u201cformal\ndistinction arising from the nature of the thing\u201d\u2014_distinctio formalis ex\nnatura rei_. We need not refute this invention. We have already given in\nfull the general theory of distinction, and we have found no room for any\nformal distinction intermediary between real distinctions and distinctions\nof reason; and, as to the attributes of real beings, we have shown, in the\narticle before this, that they are not really distinct from one another,\nbut admit of a simple distinction of reason, which, however, has a real\nfoundation in the thing.\n\nSometimes distinction is styled _formal_ as contrasted with _virtual_.\nThus we may say that there is a formal distinction between two terms\nformally existing\u2014_e.g._, two existing men, and a virtual distinction\nbetween two virtual terms\u2014_e.g._, two possible men. And generally,\nwhenever one and the same thing virtually contains two or more, these\nlatter, as thus contained, are said to be _virtually_ distinct. Thus\nintellect and reason are only virtually distinct, as they are one concrete\npower of acquiring knowledge which can perform its task by two different\nprocesses. This virtual distinction is, of course, nothing but a\ndistinction of reason.\n\nSometimes, again, distinction is called _positive_ as contrasted with\n_negative_. It is positive when the two terms of which we deny the\nidentity are both positive, and it is negative when one of the two terms\nis negative; as when we distinguish the existent from the non\u2010existent.\nNegative distinction is a _real_ distinction; for the negation of _real_\nidentity can be predicated not only of two real beings, but also, and with\ngreater reason, of the existent as compared with the non\u2010existent.\n\nIt may be remarked that _distinction_, _difference_, and _diversity_ are\nnot synonymous. Diversity is most properly predicated of two things that\nare not of the same genus; difference of two things that are not of the\nsame species, and distinction of two things that are not numerically\nidentical. Nevertheless, the terms _distinct_, _different_, and _diverse_\nare very frequently employed for one another, even by good authors.\n\nWe observe, lastly, that distinction, as such, is not a relation; for all\nrelation presupposes some distinction between the terms related, as a\ncondition of its possibility. Yet two positive terms really distinct have\nalways a certain _relative_ opposition, inasmuch as there is always\nsomething common to both (at least their being) which may be taken as a\nfoundation of mutual relativity.\n\nAnd here we close our investigation about nominal realities. We have shown\nthat possibles, relations, and distinctions are no _special_ realities,\nbut are called _real_ from the reality of other things. Real possibility\nis only the possibility of a real being; real relation is only the\nactuality of two terms really communicating in something identical; and\nreal distinction is only the existence of things of which the one is not\nreally the other.\n\nAs this is our last article on the principles of real being, we beg to\nremind the reader that our object in this treatise has been only to point\nout distinctly, and to express with as great a philosophical precision as\nour language could permit, all that concerns the constitution of being in\ngeneral. We may have failed to employ always the best phraseology, but we\nhope our analysis of real being is philosophically correct, and the\nprinciples we have laid down under the guidance of the ancients will be\nfound to shed a pure and abundant light on all the questions of special\nmetaphysics. But the student of philosophy should not forget that the\ngreatest difficulty in the settlement of all such questions arises, not so\nmuch from the nature of the subjects investigated, as from the imperfect\nknowledge and mis\u2010application of philosophical language. And this is the\nreason why we did our best to determine the exact purport of the terms\nmost frequently employed in metaphysical treatises.\n\n\n\n\nAntar And Zara; Or, \u201cThe Only True Lovers.\u201d II.\n\n\nAn Eastern Romance Narrated In Songs.\n\nBy Aubrey De Vere.\n\n\n\nPart II.\n\n\nShe Sang.\n\nI.\n\nI heard his voice, and I was dumb\n  Because to his my spirit cleaved:\nHe called to me from far. I come.\n  Because I loved him, I believed.\n\nHe said, \u201cThough love be secret yet,\n  Eternity its truth shall prove.\u201d\nIt seemed not gift, but ancient debt\n  Discharged, to answer love with love.\n\nII.\n\nThy herald near me drew and knelt:\n  I knew from whom the missive came\nEre yet I saw, ere yet I felt\n  Thy sigil\u2010mark, or kissed thy name.\n\nI read\u2014\u2019twas like a thousand birds,\n  Music confused of Paradise:\nAt last the words became _thy_ words;\n  Thy voice was in them, and thine eyes\n\nAbove them shone in love and power,\n  And flashed the meaning on the whole:\nWe were not severed, friend, that hour:\n  One day shall blend us, soul with soul.\n\nIII.\n\nThat face is valorous and grave:\n  To it, despite thine unripe spring,\nThy spirit\u2019s might the painter gave:\n  It is the countenance of a king.\n\nLook down, strong countenance, strong yet fair,\n  Through all this weak, unstable soul!\nLike stars sea\u2010mirrored, kindle there\n  _His_ virtues\u2014truth and self\u2010control!\n\nNot beauty, nor that youthful grace\n  Uncareful girlhood\u2019s natural dower,\nSuffice. A child of royal race,\n  A hero\u2019s wife should walk in power.\n\nIV.\n\nLike some great altar rises vast\n  That rock whereon our City stands,\nWith gray woods girt; with shade far cast\n  At morn dividing distant lands.\n\nNor war she fears, nor summer drouth,\n  By runnels pierced whose sparkling tide\nIs drawn from mountains of the South\n  O\u2019er myriad arches far descried.\n\nAround her cliff\u2010like, stony zone,\n  From tower to tower, from gate to gate,\nAt eve, when sunset changes stone\n  To gold, her princes walk in state;\n\nAnd priests entoning anthems sweet,\n  The people\u2019s strength; and maiden choirs\nThat, passing, make them reverence meet;\n  And orphaned babes, and gray\u2010haired sires.\n\nHigh up, with many a cloistered lawn,\n  And chapelled gallery widely spread,\nExtends, flower\u2010dressed at eve and dawn,\n  The happy \u201cCity of the Dead.\u201d\n\nThere musing sit I, day by day;\n  I sing my psalm; I pray for thee:\n\u201cIf men could love, not hate,\u201d I say,\n  \u201cHow like to heaven this earth would be!\u201d\n\nV.\n\nLove bound a veil above my brow;\n  He wrapt it round me, o\u2019er and o\u2019er;\nHe said, \u201cMy little nun art thou,\n  My solitary evermore.\n\n\u201cWhere hid\u2019st thou when the falcons fly;\n  The flung jereed in music shrills?\nWhen sweep the Arab horsemen by\n  In valleys of the terraced hills?\n\n\u201cWhere are thy childhood\u2019s blithesome ways?\n  The tales, the dances, and the sports?\nThe bards that sang thy beauty\u2019s praise\n  Amid the hundred\u2010columned courts?\u201d\n\nLove took from me all gifts save one:\n  The veil that shrouds me is his gift:\nLove! say to him I love, \u201cAlone\n  That veil of severance thou canst lift.\u201d\n\nVI.\n\nOn crimson silk, \u2019mid leaf and flower\n  I traced thy name in golden thread;\nA harper harped beneath my bower:\n  I rose, and brought him wine and bread.\n\nHe sang: methought he sang of thee!\n  \u201c_My_ prince!\u201d I cried\u2014\u201chow knew\u2019st him thou?\nHis victories in the days to be?\n  His heaven\u2010like eyes, and king\u2010like brow?\u201d\n\n\u201cO maid! I have not seen thy prince:\n  Old wars I sang; old victories won\nIn my far\u2010distant land long since;\n  I sang the birth of moon and sun.\u201d\n\nVII.\n\nHe culled me grapes\u2014the vintager;\n  In turn, for song the old man prayed:\nI glanced around; but none was near:\n  With veil drawn tighter, I obeyed.\n\n\u201cWere I a vine, and he were heaven,\u201d\n  I sang, \u201cI\u2019d spread a vernal leaf\nTo meet the beams of morn and even,\n  And think the April day too brief.\n\n\u201cWere he I love a cloud, not heaven,\n  I\u2019d spread my leaf and drink the rain;\nWarm summer shower, and dews of even\n  Alike I\u2019d take, and think them gain.\u201d\n\n\u201cI would not shrink from wintry rime\n  Or echoes of the thunder\u2010shock,\nBut watch the advancing vintage\u2010time,\n  And meet it, reddening on my rock.\u201d\n\nVIII.\n\nI often say, now thou art gone,\n  \u201cHow hard I seemed when he was here!\u201d\nI feared to seem too quickly won:\n  Love also came at first with fear.\n\nI sang me dear old songs which proved\n  That many a maid had loved ere I:\nNo secret knew I till I loved:\n  I loved, yet loved reluctantly.\n\nMy heart with zeal more generous glowed\n  When he I loved was Danger\u2019s mate.\nGreat Love in this his greatness showed\u2014\n  He lifted thee to things more great.\n\nIX.\n\nMy childhood was a cloistered thing:\n  No wish for human love was mine:\nI heard the hooded vestals sing\n  The praises of their Love Divine.\n\nThe village maids with rival glee,\n  Flower\u2010filleting their unclipt hair,\nSang thus, \u201cThe meadow flowers are we\u201d:\n  I thought the convent flowers more fair.\n\nYet false I am not. Still I climb\n  Through love to realms this earth above:\nAnd those whom most I loved that time\n  Only for love\u2019s sake fled from love.\n\nX.\n\nDear tasks are mine that make the weeks\n  Too swift in passing, not too slow:\nI nurse the rose on faded cheeks,\n  Bring solace to the homes of woe.\n\nI hear the Vesper anthems swell;\n  I track the steps of Fast and Feast\nI read old legends treasured well\n  Of Machabean chief or priest.\n\nI hear, on heights of song and psalm,\n  The storm of God careering by:\nBeside His Deep, for ever calm,\n  I kneel in caves of Prophecy.\n\nO Eastern Book! It cannot change!\n  Of books beside, the type, the mould\u2014\nIt stands like yon Carmelian range\n  By _our_ Elias trod of old!\n\n\n\n\nThe Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil. Concluded.\n\n\nFrom The Revue Du Monde Catholique.\n\n\n\nXXII.\n\n\nDuring these terrible events, I dare say the combatants were not the most\nto be pitied. They, at least, were in action, in the midst of powder and\nnoise; and if they fell, wounded or dead, they scarcely had time to know\nit. But think of the poor friends and relatives who remained without news,\nand almost without strength to seek any information! They were to be\npitied.\n\nPerhaps you may live in a city, which does not prevent you from sometimes\ngoing to the country; and so you can understand how certain villages are\nisolated from all daily communication. Our hamlet of Ordonniers, although\nnear the large city of Issoudun, was, in this respect, worse off than many\nother places; for when M. le Marquis was absent from the ch\u00e2teau, there\nwas no daily paper, none of the villagers being liberal enough to indulge\nin that luxury. The Perdreaux, in their time, subscribed for a paper,\nwhich came every other day, and gave the market prices and a jumble of\nnews of people and things here and there about a month old. Even this\nresource no longer existed. M. le Cur\u00e9 was the only one who cared for what\nwas going on; but as his means were very limited, he contented himself\nwith a little paper which only came every Sunday.\n\nJudge, then, of the terrible anguish at Muiceron; above all, when they saw\nall the able\u2010bodied men of the commune leave; for you remember that then,\nfor the first time, the provinces showed their teeth at the news of the\nhorrors in Paris, and rose _en masse_ to go and punish the rebellious\nchildren of a city that, in her selfishness, disturbed the whole of France\nwithout any just right.\n\nThe women displayed great bravery. They fitted out their sons, husbands,\nbrothers, and betrothed, and let them leave for the dreadful struggle\nwithout wincing. But the next day\u2014but the following days! What anxiety and\nwhat tears!\n\nIt was touching to see them each morning run before the country stage or\nspeak to the letter\u2010carrier, in hopes of hearing some words to reassure\nthem. Generally, the stage drove rapidly on at a gallop; for stage\u2010drivers\nare not patient, and the poor creatures\u2019 only information was an oath or\nrough word. As for the letter\u2010carrier, he knew nothing positive, and was\ncontent to give the flying reports, which were not enough to quiet those\ntroubled souls.\n\nJeanne and her mother kept at home. They prayed to God and wept, poor\nthings! It was the best way to learn patience; but their hearts sank\nwithin them. It was a hard blow to have been so near happiness, and then\nsuddenly to see it fly, perhaps for ever.\n\nOld Ragaud was miserable that he could not go off with the other men of\nthe neighborhood. He was too old, and this only increased his vexation, as\nhe was but three or four years older than Michou, and he was in the\nbattle! The sadness and ill\u2010humor of the poor old fellow rendered Muiceron\nstill gloomier, and the women neither dared stir nor sigh before him.\n\nThe little they knew was very terrible; and when the private letters began\nto arrive, all the families were plunged in despair and sorrow. Our\ncommune alone lost three men; among them Cotentin, the miller, an honest\npeasant, and father of four children. He was shot dead, almost at the\nmoment of his arrival; and the next day came the news of the death of\nSylvain Astiaud, son of the head\u2010forester, one of our bravest boys. Each\none trembled for his own at the announcement of these misfortunes, and at\nlast silence was considered a sure sign that mourning should be prepared.\n\nJeanne felt all her courage fail. She could no longer either eat or sleep,\nand even feared to question the passers\u2010by. Certainly the good God, who\nwished to sanctify the poor child, and make her a perfect woman, did not\nspare her any suffering. He acted with her like a father who is tender and\nsevere at the same time; who corrects the faults of his child, knowing\nwell that they are more hurtful than death, and then recompenses her when\npetting can no longer spoil her.\n\nTherefore this little Jeannette had to go to the end of her trial before\nrelief came and her tears were dried. And this happened through that\ngiddy, wild Pierre Luguet, who had left, like the others, singing and\nblustering, assuring the people around that he did not believe a word of\nthe current rumors, and that, in one hour after his arrival in Paris, he\nwould find out the whole truth, and send them all the news. But, behold!\nas soon as he was in the midst of smoking and bleeding Paris, he lost his\nsenses, imagined himself killed before he had fired a shot, and wrote in\npencil, on a scrap of blood\u2010stained paper, a letter to his parents, all\nsighs and tears. He bade them farewell, and begged them to pray for his\nsoul, as he would be dead before night; for no one could live in such a\nterrible conflict. If he had only spoken for himself, it might have\npassed; but he added that M. le Marquis, Jean\u2010Louis, and Michou were\ncertainly dead. He had sought for them everywhere, asked everybody, and no\none could give him good news. To crown his stupidity, he added that, among\nthe great heaps of corpses that lay yet unburied, he had recognized Jean\u2010\nLouis\u2019 blouse of gray linen bound with black; and therefore they must weep\nfor the death of that good, brave boy.\n\nPoor Mme. Luguet ran straight to Muiceron to show that foolish letter. If\nthere had been the least degree of cool good sense among them, it would\neasily have been seen they were the words of a brain addled from fear; but\nin the mortal anxiety of the poor Ragauds, they took it all for good coin.\nJeanne fell on her knees, sobbing aloud, and, losing the little courage\nshe still possessed, wrung her hands in despair. Pierrette threw herself\nbeside her daughter, trying to comfort her; and Ragaud wept bitterly,\nalthough he had said a thousand times a man in tears is not worthy to wear\nbreeches. In the evening, the true religion which filled those poor hearts\ncame to support them and give them some strength. They lighted tapers\nbefore the crucifix and around the Blessed Virgin, and all night this\nafflicted family prayed ardently for the repose of the souls of the\nsupposed dead\u2014who were never better.\n\nThe next day you would have been shocked to have seen the ravages grief\nhad made on their honest faces. Jeannette, wearied out with weeping and\nfatigue, slept in the arms of her mother, paler than a camomile\u2010flower.\nPierrette restrained her tears, from fear of awakening the child; but her\nhollow eyes and cheeks were pitiful to see; and the sun shone brightly in\nthe room, without any one taking the trouble to close the shutters.\n\nIt was in this state that M. le Cur\u00e9 found the Ragaud family. His entrance\nat Muiceron renewed the lamentations; but Jeannette was calm, which\ngreatly pleased the good pastor, as he saw that his lessons, joined to\nthose of divine Providence, had borne their fruit.\n\nHe took the little thing aside, and, much affected by her deathlike\nappearance, spoke gently to her, and asked her to walk with him on the\nbank of La Range.\n\n\u201cMy daughter,\u201d said he, \u201cit is not right to sink into such utter despair\nabout news which is yet uncertain. Show a little more courage, for a while\nat least, until we hear something positive.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is dead,\u201d said Jeannette. \u201cMay the will of God be done! Alas! I should\nhave been too happy, if I had seen him again.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy are you so certain? As for me, I confess Pierre\u2019s letter would not\nmake me lose all hope.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey were three together,\u201d said she. \u201cPierre has written; could they not\nhave written also?\u201d\n\nThis argument was not bad. The _cur\u00e9_ could not reply; for, without\nacknowledging it, he did think the silence very strange. He made the poor\nchild sit down by the side of the swift\u2010running stream that glittered in\nthe bright sunshine, and spoke to her for a long time in such soothing,\ntouching words, Jeanne listened with profound respect and piety. He spoke\nof the happiness of this world, which is but for a short time; of the\nnecessity of living and regaining her strength, that she might console her\nparents; of the beautiful day of eternity; of the heavenly home, where we\nwill meet again the loved ones gone before us, never again to be\nseparated.\n\nAt another time, Jeannette would not have understood these words, and\nperhaps might have even found them out of place; but now they fell upon\nher heart like soft caresses.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d said she, \u201cit is only now I understand how dearly I loved him.\nFather, tell me, can he see us from above?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will have it, then, that he is absolutely dead,\u201d said the _cur\u00e9_,\nsmiling.\n\nJeannette, in spite of her grief, smiled in her tears.\n\n\u201cThat is true,\u201d she said; \u201cperhaps he is not dead.\u201d\n\nHope had re\u2010entered her soul with the consolations of the holy priest.\nThey walked down the road to the farm, and Jeannette thanked him with much\ntenderness, and remarked, as it was near sunset, he must return home.\n\n\u201cOne moment,\u201d said the good _cur\u00e9_; \u201cyou are a little egotist. I can\u2019t go\nwithout saying a word to father and mother.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! yes,\u201d said she, \u201cof course you must; but, dear father, I will remain\nhere, and say my rosary in the shade under the trees; the air will\ncompletely restore me.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well, dear child,\u201d replied the _cur\u00e9_; \u201cand may the Blessed Virgin\nconsole you, my daughter!\u201d\n\nJeanne retired under the heavy foliage, and really took her little rosary\nout of her pocket. But this wood recalled many sweet reminiscences. It was\nthere Jean\u2010Louis had found her and saved her life on that stormy night the\nyear before. She looked for the spot, near the woodman\u2019s cabin, where he\nhad taken her in his arms with a father\u2019s care; and as the remembrance of\nall this past happiness, which she had then slighted, came back to her\nheart, she leant against a tree, and hid her face in her hands.\n\nWhether they were tears of repentance, of regret, of love, or of prayer\nthat fell from her eyes God only knows; and surely, in his infinite\ngoodness, he waited for this moment of supreme anguish, which could not\nhave endured much longer, to say to that heart\u2010broken child, \u201cYou have\nsuffered enough; now be happy!\u201d\n\nFor in that same hour Jean\u2010Louis, wild with joy, leaped from the imperial\nof the country stage on the highroad, and ran, without stopping to take\nbreath, toward his beloved Muiceron.\n\nHe also remembered the stormy night, and, from a sentiment you can well\nunderstand, wished to see again the little hut, if only to throw a passing\nglance.\n\nHe reached the spot, and was soon near the tree where Jeannette leant\nmotionless. He recognized her. The beating of his heart almost suffocated\nhim; for, with a lover\u2019s instinct, he immediately knew, if she had come to\nweep in that spot, it could only be on his account.\n\nHe advanced until he stood close behind her.\n\n\u201cJeanne!\u201d said he, so softly he scarcely heard his own voice.\n\nJeannette turned, and gave one scream. Her eyes wandered a moment, as if\nshe had seen a phantom, and she fell half\u2010dead into his arms.\n\n\u201cJeanne! dear, dear Jeanne! don\u2019t you know me?\u201d said he, pressing her to\nhis breast. \u201cI have caused you much sorrow, but it is all over\u2014oh! it is\nall over; tell me, is it not?\u201d\n\nThe poor child could not speak; her emotion and joy were too great. But\nsuch happiness don\u2019t kill; and gradually she revived, although she still\ntrembled like a leaf.\n\n\u201cO Jeannet!\u201d she said at last, \u201cthey wrote word you were dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd was that the reason you were weeping here all alone in this wood, my\npoor, dear darling?\u201d he tenderly asked.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said she, looking down; \u201cI could not be consoled. Why did you not\nsend us some news?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wished to surprise you,\u201d said he, with simplicity; \u201cand now I see I did\nwrong.\u201d\n\n\u201cOne day more, and I would have been dead also,\u201d said she, leaning on his\narm. \u201cCruel boy, go!\u201d\n\nShe looked so lovely, still pale with grief, and yet as lively and\ncoquettish as before, Jeannet was obliged to clasp her once again in his\narms, and even kissed her, for which I hope you will pardon him, as I do.\n\n\u201cHow good God is,\u201d said he, \u201cto permit us to meet again in this very\nplace! This is the second time, dear Jeannette, that I have saved you when\nin great trouble; and I hope it is a sure sign that poor Jean\u2010Louis will\nbe able to comfort and assist you all the rest of his life.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will never leave us again; you will promise that?\u201d she replied. \u201cWhen\nyou are away, all sorts of misfortunes happen. Oh! how much we have\nsuffered.\u201d\n\nAnd as these words suddenly recalled the sad events of the last six\nmonths, her flirtation, her thoughtless conduct, and the lamentable scenes\nthat followed, she blushed, sighed, and leant her face, down which the\ntears were streaming, against Jean\u2010Louis\u2019 shoulder.\n\n\u201cMy own Jeannette,\u201d said he, \u201cyou must no longer think of all that sorrow,\nnow that God has made us so happy again. There is no misfortune which does\nnot carry with it a profitable lesson when we recognize in it the hand of\nthe Lord; and, for my part, although I have been nearly dead with grief, I\nsay that my present happiness has not been too dearly bought, and I would\nconsent to pass again through the same trials, on condition of possessing\na second day like this.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no,\u201d said Jeanne, \u201cI have had enough. I have not your courage, and I\nwill pray to God that I may be spared from such great trials. Come,\u201d added\nshe, taking Jeannet\u2019s arm, \u201cwe must go and surprise our parents. And the\ndear _cur\u00e9_ is just now with them! He told me so\u2014the good, holy man told\nme you were not dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut who set such a report afloat?\u201d asked Jeannet. \u201cFor really I was not\neven in danger.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! what a story,\u201d cried Jeanne. \u201cYou were in the fight; it could not be\notherwise.\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d said Jeannet, \u201cI fought, and did my best; but I never for an\ninstant imagined the good God would let me die without seeing you again.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is very well to have such happy thoughts,\u201d said Jeanne joyfully; \u201cif I\ncould have had them, I would not have been nearly dead with anxiety, and\nhopeless from such great fear. Now I regret my tears, and would like to\ntake them back.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou would not be the richer for it,\u201d said he, laughing; \u201cbut, Jeannette,\ndon\u2019t laugh at me. It was neither presumption nor carelessness made me\nthink so. The good God put the faith in my heart; and then, didn\u2019t I have\nround my neck the silver medal you gave me the day of your first\ncommunion? Wasn\u2019t the image of the Blessed Virgin powerful enough to turn\naside the balls?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d said Jeannette with emotion, \u201chave you still my medal? Is it the\nvery same one? Have you always worn it, in spite ... in spite of all....\nJeannet, show it to me; let me kiss it!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said Jean\u2010Louis, blushing, \u201cnot now. I will show it to you later.\u201d\n\n\u201cRight away; I won\u2019t wait,\u201d said she in the peremptory manner which so\nwell became her. \u201cI like to be obeyed.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d said Jeannet, much embarrassed, \u201cI can\u2019t, because....\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause what?\u201d she replied. \u201cDon\u2019t think you are going to be master here!\nNo, no, not more now than before, when, you remember, my mother said,\n\u2018Jeannette is the boy....\u2019 \u201d\n\n\u201cReally,\u201d answered Jean\u2010Louis, \u201cyou have a good memory. Well, then, since\nJeannette is the boy, and I am the girl, I must submit to her wishes.\u201d\n\nAnd as, in spite of all this talk, he made no attempt to show her the\nmedal, another idea entered her head.\n\n\u201cYou are wounded,\u201d said she, \u201cand you don\u2019t wish me to see it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is not the reason,\u201d he replied, unbuttoning his vest. \u201cI don\u2019t wish\nyou to believe any such thing.\u201d\n\nOn opening his shirt, he showed the medal on his breast, and then the\ncurious Jeannette understood his resistance; for, near the blessed image\nof our dear Mother, she recognized the long tress of blonde hair which had\nbeen cut off during her illness.\n\n\u201cIt has never left me,\u201d said he; \u201cbut I dared not let you see it. Do you\nforgive me? Your poor hair! I said to myself, While it rests upon my\nheart, it is as though my little sister were watching over me. And in the\nfight, I thought that, as the medal of the Blessed Virgin and your\nprecious souvenir were also exposed to the fire, I could not be killed;\nand you see I was not mistaken.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d cried Jeannette, with tears in her eyes, \u201cmy dear Jeannet, I do not\ndeserve such love.\u201d\n\nThey reached Muiceron, arm\u2010in\u2010arm. Oh! how refreshing was the shaded\ncourt\u2010yard and the fragrant hedges! And then, the dear house looked so gay\nin its new white coat, its green shutters, the fresh young vines that hung\nfrom the trellis, and its slate roof newly repaired, all shining in the\nsoft rays of the sinking sun. The songs of the bullfinch and robin were\nmore joyous than the trumpets and horns on a patronal feast; and it seemed\nas though the good God in heaven were well pleased, so beautiful was the\nblue sky, flecked with golden\u2010edged clouds! Was it really the house we saw\nsix months ago? Jeannet, who had long loved it, scarcely recognized it; he\nwas mute with admiration, and, although he had left it in despair, he\naccused himself of having neglected to look at it until now; for surely\nhis memory did not recall anything as joyous and beautiful as he now\nbeheld in his beloved Muiceron.\n\nShall we ask the reason? There is a great artist who can paint, with\ncolors of unparalleled brilliancy, whatever he chooses to place before our\neyes. He is called happiness; and God wishes him to walk beside us, both\nin this world and the other.\n\nThe two dear children began to run as soon as they entered the court\u2010yard\nof Muiceron. Jeannette was the first to spring across the threshold, and\nfell speechless into her mother\u2019s arms. Jean\u2010Louis quickly followed her,\nand stood in the door\u2010way, holding out his hands to his parents. Then\nthere were cries, and tears, and confusion of kisses, and questions\nwithout end and without reason. Their hearts overflowed. The little one,\nas they always called the tall, handsome boy, was covered with caresses,\nstifled with embraces quite overpowering; for country\u2010people drink in joy\nby the bucketful and don\u2019t put on gloves when they wish to show their\nlove. But you can imagine Jean\u2010Louis did not complain. M. le Cur\u00e9 alone\nkept aside, with clasped hands, from time to time putting his handkerchief\nto his eyes, and thanking God, while he waited his turn.\n\nGradually their happiness toned down a little; but the excitement was so\ngreat, each one showed his joy in some particular manner. Old Ragaud\nwhirled around the room, took off his cap to smooth his hair, and replaced\nit, all the while laughing as though he did not know precisely what he was\nabout; and Pierrette forgot to ask the children what they wished to eat,\nwhich was a sure sign her head was completely turned. As for Jeannette, I\nmust tell you that, like all innocent, warm\u2010hearted young girls, she dared\nact, in presence of her parents and M. le Cur\u00e9, as she would not have done\nalone with her brother; she threw her arms around his neck every half\u2010\nsecond, and clung to him so closely he could not stir an inch. Jeannet did\nnot show greater timidity; seeing her act with such _na\u00efvet\u00e9_, he neither\nfrowned nor looked sour, but accepted willingly what was so sweetly\noffered him.\n\nFortunately, Marion, whom no one thought of, and who bellowed with joy in\nchorus with the others, came to her senses sooner than any of them, and\nthought of the supper. Jeannet smelt the butter frying on the stove, and\nacknowledged he was very hungry. This covered Pierrette with confusion.\nShe felt very guilty that she had so neglected her duties, and asked a\nthousand pardons; but Jeannet laughed, as he kissed her, and told her not\nto be excited, as he could easily wait until the next day, being only\nreally hungry to see and kiss her.\n\nRagaud would not let the dear _cur\u00e9_ go home. It was right that he should\nwait until the end of the feast; and as the good pastor, who always\nthought of everything, expressed a fear that old Germaine might be anxious\nabout him, they despatched a stable\u2010boy, with the wagon and quickest mare\nat Muiceron, to fetch her.\n\nWhat a fine supper that was! All these good people recovered their\nappetites, and ate and drank as they had not done for a long while. I\nleave you to imagine the stories that were told of the revolution. But\nJeannet, not wishing to cloud their present joy, was careful to relate\nevents as though all had been a kind of child\u2019s play. Jeannette, however,\npaused more than once as she was about to take a mouthful. She felt that\nJean\u2010Louis stretched a point now and then for love of her, and she showed\nher gratitude by looking tenderly at him, while she pressed his hand under\nthe table.\n\nAt the dessert, they formed plans. They talked of re\u2010establishing the old\norder of things, of living together again in peace and harmony, and that\nthere should be no more separations. Ragaud, especially, dwelt at length,\nand very particularly, upon the happy future in store for all of them;\nthrew meaning glances right and left, in which could be remarked much\nhidden meaning and not a little white wine. Jeannette smiled, blushed,\nlooked down; and, I fancy, Jean\u2010Louis\u2019 heart beat high with hope and\nexpectation of what was to follow.\n\nThe good man ended by being much affected, though he endeavored to pass it\nall off as a joke; for it was his wish always to appear deaf to any kind\nof sentiment.\n\n\u201cAfter all,\u201d said he, tapping Jean\u2010Louis on the shoulder, \u201chere is a boy\nupon whom we cannot depend. He is here now at this very moment; but who\nknows if to\u2010morrow he will not be out of sight as quickly as the stars\nfall from the sky on an August night? Isn\u2019t it so, M. le Cur\u00e9?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is just as you say, Ragaud,\u201d replied the _cur\u00e9_. \u201c \u2018He who has drunk\nwill drink again,\u2019 says the proverb; and as this little one went off once\nwithout giving warning, how can we know but he will do it again?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! what nonsense,\u201d said Jeannet. \u201cMy dear parents, I will never leave\nyou again!\u201d\n\n\u201cHum!\u201d replied Ragaud, \u201cyou said that a hundred times before, and then\nwhat did we see? One fine morning, no Jeannet!\u201d\n\n\u201cWe must tie him,\u201d said old Germaine, laughing; \u201cwhen Jeannette misbehaved\nin school, I used to tie her by the arm to an end of the bench.\u201d\n\n\u201cI remember it well,\u201d said Jeannette; \u201cand more than once I broke the\nstring.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen we must find some other means, if that will not do; think of\nsomething, Germaine,\u201d replied Ragaud, winking over at the children.\n\n\u201cThink yourself, M. Ragaud,\u201d said she. \u201cAre you not master here?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat depends,\u201d replied Ragaud. \u201cIf I were master, I would say to Jean\u2010\nLouis, Marry, my boy; when you will have a wife and children, they will\nkeep you in the country more than all the ropes, even that of our well.\nBut Jeannet has declared he will not hear of marriage; and here is Jeanne,\nwho can\u2019t be relied upon for advice, as she said the same thing not more\nthan a month ago, in presence of M. le Cur\u00e9; so we can\u2019t sing that tune\nany longer.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how do you know? Perhaps by this time they have both changed their\nminds,\u201d said the _cur\u00e9_, smiling.\n\n\u201cLet them say so, then,\u201d replied Ragaud, his eyes beaming with paternal\ntenderness that was delightful to see.\n\n\u201cO father!\u201d said Jean\u2010Louis, rising, \u201cif I dared to understand you, I\nwould be wild with joy!\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you can\u2019t understand me, little one, Jeannette perhaps can be a little\nquicker. Speak, Jeanneton!\u201d\n\nThe child instantly understood his meaning. In a second she was beside\nJeannet, took his hand, and both knelt down before their father.\n\n\u201cMy children, ask M. le Cur\u00e9\u2019s blessing before mine,\u201d said Ragaud\nsolemnly. \u201cHe is the representative of the good God, and it is God who has\nconducted all.\u201d\n\nIt was a touching scene. The good _cur\u00e9_ extended his trembling hands over\nJean\u2010Louis and Jeannette, who bent low before him, weeping; then Ragaud\ndid the same with great simplicity, which is the sign of true piety, and\nthen Pierrette took each of their dear heads in her arms, kissed them, and\nsaid:\n\n\u201cMy poor darlings! May God protect you all the days of your life! You have\nwept so much, you deserve to be happy together.\u201d\n\nThe poor children were overwhelmed with joy so deep and tranquil they\ncould neither move nor speak. They kept close together, and looked\ntenderly at each other with eyes that said much. M. le Cur\u00e9 left them for\nawhile to themselves and their new\u2010found happiness. He knew enough of the\nhuman heart to understand that great display of affection, loud weeping,\nand noisy parade of words and actions are often marks of a very little\nfire in the soul; while love which has been proved by deeds, and which is\nscarcely seen, is always very ardent. As he had never doubted that\nJeannet, hitherto so perfect, would show and feel sincere affection as a\nlover, he was glad to see he was not mistaken, and regarded with much\npleasure this young couple, who were so well matched.\n\nHowever, it was very easy to see our _cur\u00e9_ had something to say. Jean\u2010\nLouis and Jeannette had softly retreated to the corner near the sideboard,\na little out of sight of the parents; and we must imagine that, feeling\nthemselves a little more at ease thus sheltered from observation, the\nfaculty of speech returned to them, as they could be heard whispering and\nlaughing like children at recreation. It was so charming to see them thus\nrelieved from all their difficulties, and swimming in the full tide of\nhappiness, like fish in the river, no one had the courage to disturb them.\n\nBut our _cur\u00e9_ had his own idea, and would not leave until he had made it\nknown; so, as he saw Jean\u2010Louis and Jeannette might chatter away a long\nwhile, he rose, as if to say good\u2010night, which made all the rest rise;\nfor, although intensely happy, they did not forget to be civil.\n\n\u201cMy children,\u201d said the pastor, addressing the old as well as the young,\n\u201cI will go to sleep to\u2010night very happy. For forty years, come next All\u2010\nSaints, that I have been your _cur\u00e9_, never have I assisted at a betrothal\nas consoling as yours, for which I will return thanks to God all my life.\nYou are going to marry as is seldom done in the world nowadays; that is to\nsay, with hearts even more full of esteem than of love, which enables me,\nin the name of the Lord, to promise you as much happiness as can fall to\nthe lot of mortals here below. You know already that a house built without\nfoundation cannot stand, and that the grain sown in bad soil bears no\nfruit. It is the same with the sacrament of marriage, when it is received\nby a soul that is frivolous and vain, and feels neither regret for the\npast nor makes good resolutions for the future. Oh! how happy I am I\ncannot say this about you; and how my old heart, which has pitied all your\nsufferings, now is gladdened at your happiness, well deserved by the piety\nand resignation of the one and the sincere repentance of the other\u2014this is\nfor our betrothed. Great disinterestedness, and all the domestic virtues\nof a Christian life is the praise I unhesitatingly bestow upon you, the\ngood parents! But if this reward is beautiful, if nothing can exceed it,\nsince it is the pledge of a whole life of peace and happiness, know that\nthe Lord will not be surpassed in generosity, and that he has prepared a\ndelightful surprise by my mouth, which will be like the crowning bouquet\non the summit of an edifice just completed.\n\n\u201cMy dear Ragaud, I speak now to you. Twenty years ago, when your generous\nheart received, without the slightest hesitation, a poor, abandoned child,\nit was an honorable and religious act, which deserved the warmest praise;\nbut to\u2010day, when you give your only daughter to this same child, from pure\nesteem of his noble qualities, without regard to the gossip of the people\naround, this second action surpasses the first in excellence, and deserves\na special recompense from our good God.\n\n\u201cWell! you will soon have it. Jean\u2010Louis, my child, as it is generally\nsaid, there is no sky without clouds. Perhaps even at this moment your\nheart may have a little secret grief; for it is not forbidden to feel an\nhonest wish to give the woman you love all possible honor; and that cannot\nbe done when one comes into the world without family or name.\n\n\u201cAlas! for the name. I cannot repair that misfortune; but for the family,\nknow, my friends, that the blood of him whom you call son and brother is\nequal to yours. In the name of my conscience, I here declare that Jeannet\nis the son of Catharine Luguet, who died in my arms sincerely repentant,\nand most piously giving me perfect license to reveal this secret, confided\nin confession, when I should judge it necessary. I have waited a long\ntime, and I do not regret it. At no other time, I think, could you have\nbeen happier to hear me tell such good news. So, Ragaud, embrace your\nnephew; and you, my daughter Jeannette, in taking a perfect husband, you\ngain, at the same time, a good cousin. Too much happiness never hurts any\none!\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said Germaine, wiping her eyes, \u201cit was worth while staying so late\nto\u2010night. I have been tempted half a dozen times to tell what M. le Cur\u00e9\nhas just made known; for I also received the secret from poor dear\nCatharine, and even before my master, although I do not pretend to\ninterfere with his rights.\u201d\n\n\u201cM. le Cur\u00e9,\u201d said Ragaud, \u201cif I am very happy to learn that our dear\nchild belongs to us by nature as much as by friendship, believe me when I\nsay that I am most grateful to God that, without my knowing it, he allowed\nme to repair the too great severity with which I formerly treated my\nniece. Alas! I well remember it, and most sincerely do I regret it; and if\nshe gave us this handsome boy a little too soon, according to the laws of\nGod and man, I have no right to blame her, as I was the cause, from want\nof gentleness and kindness! Come, my son,\u201d added the good Christian,\nextending his arms to Jeannet\u2014\u201ccome, that I may ask your pardon in memory\nof your poor mother.\u201d\n\nJean\u2010Louis threw himself on his father\u2019s breast, whom he could not yet\ncall _dear uncle_, while Jeannette added her embrace, giving herself up to\nthe full joy of _cousining_ her future husband. Pierrette had her full\nshare of kisses, you can well fancy. It was so delightful to feel that he\nreally had a family, and was bound to the country by ties of flesh and\nblood, and also to know that he belonged to the best people in the\nneighborhood, the Luguets and Ragauds, that Jeannet, who in his whole life\nnever had a spark of vanity, felt a little glow of excitement and\nsatisfaction, perfectly natural, flame up in his heart. But his beautiful\nsoul quickly drove out such a feeling, to which he already reproached\nhimself for having listened, even for a moment, although it could be\neasily understood, and was honorable in itself. The remembrance of his\nunknown mother, dying in sorrow and want, and who would have been so happy\ncould she have witnessed his present joy, surmounted any personal\nsatisfaction. He questioned M. le Cur\u00e9, and spoke in the most tender and\nrespectful manner in memory of his poor mother, and wished to know every\ndetail of her death, which was sad, but very consoling at the same time.\n\nEvery one listened with much emotion to poor Catharine\u2019s story. I doubt\nnot that God then permitted her to know something of the loving sympathy\nand compassion that filled those kind, good hearts, which most certainly\nmust have added to her happiness; for, since the church commands us to\nbelieve that souls cannot die, can it be wrong to think that they see and\nhear us, when the Lord allows them?\n\nJeannette, while the _cur\u00e9_ spoke, was often much confused when she\nthought of the dangerous result of coquetry, wilfulness, and too great\nlove of one\u2019s own pretty face and fine dresses. She felt how kind God had\nbeen to her, that she had not gone the same way as Catharine Luguet; for\nshe had walked down the same path, and had nearly fallen as low as she.\n\nBy way of recovering her spirits, she embraced Jeannet, and promised she\nwould be a good housekeeper, and nothing else.\n\n\u201cAnd also a pretty little wife, that will make me very happy,\u201d replied\nJeannet, pressing her to his heart.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said Pierrette, who for several moments had been very silent and\nthoughtful, \u201cI have just found out something that makes me feel how stupid\nI am. I never before noticed that Jeannet is the living image of his dear\ndeparted mother.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is fortunate, Mme. Ragaud,\u201d said Germaine, \u201cthat you have just\nperceived it, after seeing him twenty years; for, in truth, the likeness\nis so striking it has caused M. le Cur\u00e9 and me much embarrassment. It was\nso easily seen that I prayed God would protect him in case of discovery;\nand if there is one miracle in the whole story, it is that such a strong\nresemblance did not sooner strike you.\u201d\n\nAs it had just been mentioned, in the course of the story, that Catharine\nLuguet, in her day, was the most beautiful girl in the country, this\ndeclaration made Jeannet blush, and I dare not affirm it was not from\npleasure. They discovered, also, that Solange had a strong family\nlikeness, and Pierrette, more and more astonished, acknowledged it was\ntrue, and that she was as stupid as an owl.\n\nThey had to separate at last, although no one felt the least fatigued; but\nthey had had enough for one day, and a little sleep after these heavy\nshowers of happiness would injure none of them.\n\nAs the surprises were not yet over, Jeannet had another charming one when\nhe saw his room newly painted and papered, and his bed, with white\ncurtains, perfumed with the iris\u2010root that our housekeepers love to use in\nthe wash. They installed him like a prefect on a tour of inspection, with\na procession of lights, and wishes of good\u2010night, and what do you want,\nand there it was, and here it is; and if he slept quietly is something I\ncannot say positively; but, at any rate, you needn\u2019t worry about his eyes,\nwhether they were open or shut. What I can swear to is that his good angel\nwatched joyfully by his bedside, and took care to drive off all bad\ndreams.\n\n\n\nXXIII.\n\n\nNow, I might make my bow, and wish you good\u2010night in my turn; for I think\nyou are satisfied with the fate of the little ones, and need have no\nfurther anxiety on their account. But just as two beautiful roses in a\nbouquet appear still more beautiful when they are surrounded by other\nflowers and green leaves that rejoice the eye, so our friends will lose\nnothing if I represent them to you for the last time among the companions\nof their adventures who have served as an escort during the whole recital.\nConsequently, if you will be patient a moment and listen to me, I will\ntell you what became of the people and things that have remained in the\nbackground for some time.\n\nIn the first place, according to the proverb, \u201cGive every man his due.\u201d\n\nSo we will commence with our good master, M. le Marquis, whom we left, if\nyou remember, wounded in the arm and seated on a log near the barricade in\nthe bloody days of June.\n\nThis wound, which was believed to be nothing, became inflamed and very\ndangerous, owing to the great excitement of the patient and the extreme\nheat of the summer. The poor marquis was obliged to keep his bed for a\nlong time, and they even feared they would be obliged to amputate the arm.\nWhen the physicians made the proposition, he sprang up with a start on his\ncouch, and, weak and feverish as he was, did not hesitate to tell them, in\nthe most emphatic manner, that the first one who mentioned it again would\ngo out of the window with one turn of the hand that was still sound. They\nadvised him to be quiet and calm himself, all the while giving him to\nunderstand there was no hope for him\u2014which, in my opinion, was not the\nbest means of soothing him; but doctors never wish to be thought in the\nwrong, and, without meaning to offend any one, I may say very many of us\nare doctors on that point.\n\nOur master was brave. He contented himself with saying:\n\n\u201cI prefer to be buried with two arms, rather than to live with one.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat depends on taste,\u201d replied Michou, who nursed his master with loving\nfidelity; \u201cbut he must not be contradicted.\u201d\n\nWhen the doctors left, M. le Marquis said to Michou:\n\n\u201cCome here, old fellow; these idiots of Parisians know as much about\nrevolutions and medicine as planting cabbages. Send for Dr. Aubry. I can\nget along with him.\u201d\n\nM. Aubry was summoned by telegraph, and God so willed it that scarcely had\nhe seen the wound of M. le Marquis than he shrugged his shoulders, and\nsaid he would answer for him; and added, with much satisfaction, that one\nhad to come to Paris to find doctors that talked like asses and acted like\nbutchers.\n\nHe made them bring him a quantity of pounded ice, which he applied to the\nwounded arm, and took care that our master always kept a piece in his\nmouth. In that way his blood was refreshed, and there was no longer danger\nof the flesh mortifying. He added to this remedy another potion not less\nwonderful, which was to distract the mind of the marquis by telling him\nnight and day\u2014for he never slept\u2014all kinds of stories, sometimes lively,\nsometimes serious, but always suitable to his state; and so kept him\nconstantly amused and interested, which prevented him from thinking of his\npoor arm. At the end of a week, he was out of danger, and he could get up,\neat the breast of a chicken, and think of going out in a few days. If I\nwould be a little malicious, I could tell you that the Parisian doctors\nwere not very well pleased at the triumph of their country colleague, and\nperhaps would have been more content to see our master dead than their\nprophecies frustrated; but I had better be silent than wanting in charity,\nand therefore I prefer to let you think what you please about them.\n\nPoor mademoiselle and Dame Berthe, during this painful time of anxiety,\nacted admirably and showed great devotion and love. It was then seen that,\nalthough they had their little defects on the surface, their souls were\ngenerous and good. The old governess forgot her scarfs and embroideries,\nand devoted herself to making lint, and no longer indulged in dreams of\nthe king\u2019s entrance into Paris, but constantly recited fervent prayers,\nwhich had not, I assure you, \u201cthe cause\u201d in view. Mademoiselle received a\nsalutary blow. She became, through this trouble, serious and recollected;\nbegan to see that in Paris nothing is thought of but pleasure and fine\ntoilets, and that, after all, at Val\u2010Saint there were a thousand ways of\npassing her life in a pleasant way worthy of a Christian whom God had so\nliberally endowed with riches.\n\nOne day, when she had gone out to pray and weep in a neighboring church,\nshe returned with her eyes radiant with joy, and said to Dame Berthe:\n\n\u201cAll will be right. My father will be cured. I cannot explain to you why I\nam so confident, but I am sure of it. When I was in the church before the\naltar of the Blessed Virgin, the idea entered into my head to make a vow;\nand I have promised to return to the country, and remain there the rest of\nmy life, to work for the poor, and to occupy myself with all other kinds\nof good works, as my mother used to. I have too long neglected to follow\nher example, and henceforth I will act differently. I depend upon your\nassistance.\u201d\n\nDame Berthe nearly fainted with admiration of her pupil\u2019s saintliness. As\nshe was naturally very good, she was impressed with the beauty of the\nproject, and promised to do all in her power to aid her.\n\nAfter that, mademoiselle looked like another person. She visited churches\nand chapels, conferred with pious priests; and as monsieur improved every\nday, he could accompany her in the carriage; and she took great pleasure\nin confiding to him her new plans, proving to him that he could be much\nmore useful to \u201cthe cause\u201d by instructing the peasants in politics than by\nfighting the rabble in Paris; that, by his great wealth and the high\nesteem in which he was held, he could make himself still more beloved; and\nthat, when they loved him, they would love the nobility which he\nrepresented; so that when the time came\u2014and it would not be far off\u2014for\nthe triumph of his hopes, he could offer to the king a faithful population\ndevoted to good principles, which was scarcely possible in the present\nstate of affairs.\n\nAs she was in this happy frame of mind, you can imagine with what joy\nmademoiselle received the news of the engagement of Jean\u2010Louis and Jeanne.\nShe immediately wrote a letter on the subject which deserved to be put\nunder glass and framed in gold; for not only did she congratulate the\nRagauds with the greatest affection, but she humbly accused herself of\nhaving nearly ruined the happiness of her god\u2010daughter, and thanked God he\nhad directed all in a manner so contrary to her wishes. When you think\nthat this high\u2010born young lady spoke thus to the little daughter of a\nfarmer on her estate, we must admire the miracles of the religion which\nteaches us that those who humble themselves shall be exalted; and I add,\nfor the benefit of those who fancy themselves lovers of equality, and talk\nall kind of nonsense about it, that there never would have been the\nslightest chance of planting a seed of it in the hearts of men, even\nthough it were no bigger than a grain of millet, if they had not\nbeforehand received instructions on that virtue from our dear mother, the\nchurch.\n\nAbout a month afterwards, M. le Marquis being perfectly cured, they all\nreturned to Val\u2010Saint; and it is unnecessary to say how universal was the\njoy. It is equally useless to tell you that their first occupation was the\nmarriage of our children, which was so beautiful, so joyous, so enlivened\nwith the music of violins and songs, it resembled that of a prince and\nprincess in Mother Goose. During a whole week, the boys of the\nneighborhood beat tin pans and fired off guns under the windows of\nMuiceron, as signs of honor and rejoicing. With us peasants, joy is always\nrather noisy, but, at least, it can be heard very far; and, besides, as we\ndon\u2019t often have a chance of amusing ourselves, it is best to let us have\nour own way.\n\nThere remains very little more for me to say, except that mademoiselle\npersevered in her laudable resolutions, and became the angel of Val\u2010Saint.\nOne of her first good acts was to buy the house of the unfortunate\nPerdreaux, which, since the sad end of its masters, had remained deserted\nand shut up, no one daring to put it up at auction. Mademoiselle sent for\nworkmen, who soon transformed it into a fine school\u2010house, divided into\ntwo parts by a garden, where nothing was spared in fruit\u2010trees, flowers,\nand vegetables. The following year the school was ready for occupation,\nand the Sisters were placed in charge of the girls, and a good teacher\nover the boys. By good luck, they were able to obtain Solange, who came\namong the first. Thus all our friends met again, and formed one family, of\nwhich the good God was the true father.\n\nM. le Cur\u00e9 was very old when he died, and Germaine soon followed him. This\ngood pastor left many regrets which are not yet assuaged; but he departed\nfrom this world happy that he saw all his children around him leading\ngood, holy lives; and at the moment he expired, they heard him softly\nrepeat the _Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in\npace_\u2014which is a prayer of compline, printed in all the Breviaries.\n\nMuiceron continued to prosper under the management of good Jeannet and his\ndear wife. The Ragauds passed their old age in a dream of happiness, free\nfrom clouds, amidst the love and respect of the community. Pierrette, who\nhad never sinned but from weakness of heart, was never cured of this\ndefect. On the contrary, it increased; and she devoted herself so\ncompletely to spoiling the beautiful children that Jeanne gave her, that\nmore than once the parents had to cry, Stop! But aside from these little\ntroubles, which did not cause much difficulty, peace and concord never\nceased to reign in this house of benediction.\n\nAs the last flower in the crown, I will tell you that M. Aubry, who was\nnot remarkable for devotion, was taken in hand by Sister Solange, and\nquietly converted. He swore a little at first, as might have been\nexpected, and said it was a shame, at his age, to fall into the net of a\ndoctor in _cornette_ and petticoats, at whose birth he had been present,\nand whom he had vaccinated; but the end of all was, the _cornette_ led him\nby the nose to Mass and confession, where he was seen to weep, although he\ntried to be very firm. As he was a good man, frank and open in all he did,\nonce the step was taken, he did not go back; and I knew him a long while,\nand never saw him act but like a perfect Christian.\n\nAnd now, at this late hour, I pray that God may send down upon you, as\nwell as myself, his choicest blessings, without which, you may truly\nbelieve, there is nothing worth living for here below.\n\n\n\n\nPublic Worship.\n\n\nFew observing persons have failed to remark the great change which within\na few years has been wrought in the ideas of people at large in regard to\npublic worship. It is not confined to any one of the religious\ndenominations around us. It pervades all, from the High\u2010Church\nEpiscopalian to those who still cling to the law of Moses. Insensibly, it\nmay be, but surely, the growth has all been in one direction, as surely as\nthe germ in the earth pushes towards the light.\n\nTime was when the plain, unadorned meeting\u2010house of the Society of Friends\nseemed the type all sought to attain in architecture; painting and\ndecoration would have caused a thrill of horror; Gothic architecture, with\ngroined roof and stained glass, were as far removed from the thoughts and\nideas as the Crusades; and if the sister art of music was admitted within\nthe portals of the room reserved for worship, the execution was of such a\nfearful character that Old Folks\u2019 Concerts make it a sure guide to\nsuccess, to mimic, for the amusement of this generation, the strange\nreligious music of half a century ago.\n\nThen religion, as expressed in public worship, was plain, stern, hard,\nunsympathetic, responsive to none of the finer feelings, the loftier\naspirations, the panting hopes of human nature feeling its misery, but\nstill looking heavenward.\n\nNow the change has come. Insensibly, almost unconsciously, they have all\nmore or less come to confess their error. Just as they are returning to\nthe genuine Lord\u2019s Prayer, after inflicting a spurious one on their\nvotaries for three centuries; just as they are returning to the true\nreading of the Greek Testament, after three centuries\u2019 bondage to the\nReceived Text, so they are returning, after three centuries of dry, hard,\nformal worship, to something more in unison with man\u2019s nature, man\u2019s soul,\nand man\u2019s heart.\n\nBut how? The Reformation, that stern, matter\u2010of\u2010fact revolt, not only\nstripped religion of all its poetry, whether manifested in the carven\nstone, the painted glass or canvas, the strains of more than earthly\nmusic, but it did more: it struck at the life of worship; and the present\nmovement which has made synagogues into temples and meeting\u2010houses into\nchurches\u2014the work of men who \u201cbuilded better than they knew\u201d\u2014yet is but a\nfactitious life; it is placing artificial fruit and leaves and flowers on\na dead trunk that has no vivifying sap to send through all the full,\ngushing tide of life.\n\nWhat is public worship?\n\nIs there really a question of the day that can be brought home to\npractical men like our American countrymen more distinctly than this? Long\ncreeds and the discussion of their various points, the old controversies\nand chopping of texts, seem to have become singularly distasteful to the\nmen of our day. But the divine worship is a point that, presented squarely\nand plainly, is easily grasped, and really involves in itself everything.\nIt is the generating principle, the fountain of faith and works.\n\nAbout a century ago, in London, the question of worship was debated by\nsome of the leading ministers of the day, and the pamphlets form volumes.\nA more vague series of arguments on all sides can scarcely be found; all\nseemed to turn round and round the text that men were to \u201cworship God in\nspirit and truth,\u201d but in what precise way was a matter none seemed able\nto approach, even in the most remote manner. What constituted practically\nthe public worship of the Almighty seemed to be a point that was utterly\nindefinite and indefinable.\n\nSuppose, now, we were to ask the clergymen or laymen of the denominations\naround us, What is the essential element of public worship, as\ndistinguished, on the one hand, from preaching, and on the other from\nfamily worship of prayer? What would the answer be?\n\nPublic worship has, in common ideas, come to be almost identical with\npreaching. The preacher makes the church; his popularity is its success;\nwith his decline in health, vigor, or voice, the church begins to melt\naway, and a new preacher has to be evoked to give it life. But oral\ninstruction of the people, laudable as it may be, is not public worship;\nit is addressed to the people, while worship is addressed to God. The\nprevailing confusion of ideas on this point has turned the extemporaneous\nprayers which in form are still addressed to the Deity really into appeals\nto the people; so that the reporter who spoke of a prayer as being the\nmost eloquent ever addressed to a Boston congregation was correct in fact,\nthough the form was against him.\n\nPreaching does not constitute public worship. The object of preaching is\nthe people; the object of worship is God.\n\nWhat, then, is the essential element? Prayer recited or chanted\u2014prayer\nextemporaneous or in forms grown venerable by use, is common alike to\npublic and private worship, to the worship of the individual in his\ncloset, the family, or the gathering of families. It cannot be the\nessential element of public worship. What, then, is the essential element,\nor, if there be none, how can this public worship have any claim on the\nindividual that may not be satisfied by him alone, as in the case of Dr.\nBellows\u2019 preferring isolation on the steamer\u2019s deck to joining in the\nreligious exercises carried on below?\n\nBut there is certainly an obligation to render public worship to the\nAlmighty. The Sabbath rest prescribed by the Mosaic law was negative and\nsubsidiary to the positive command to worship God. It did not tell what\nwas to be done; that was provided elsewhere with the most detailed\ninjunctions.\n\nEven as ideas have changed on one point, so they have on another.\n\nWith the Reformers of the XVIth century, faith was all and everything. Now\nwe have reached a time when faith has lost its ground; and, in the\nthousands around us, nine out of ten will tell you that it makes no\ndifference what a man believes; if his life is right, he is safe. But yet\nthey make a distinction in works. It is not all works that have value in\nthe eyes of the world; it is those of benevolence\u2014the corporal works of\nmercy. They will shrug their shoulders and allow some little value to the\nspiritual works of mercy, but it will not be much. Yet these works of\nmercy, whether corporal or spiritual, have for their object our neighbor.\nThere is, however, a higher class of works\u2014those which have God for their\nobject.\n\nGood works towards God! some will exclaim; what need has God of our good\nworks? The need may be on our side, and the question is not one of need,\nbut of duty on our part.\n\nLove is the fulfilling of the law\u2014\u201che that loveth me keepeth my\ncommandments.\u201d The Commandments to be kept, the works to be done, are\nwritten on the two tables of the law; and the works to be done towards God\nform the first and greater Commandment, and foremost on it\u2014first of the\ngood works of which God is the object\u2014is worship, public and private.\n\nHave not common ideas, then, perverted the whole order? With the higher\nappreciation of good works that is growing so visibly will come a logical\nplacing of them. The first table will reassert its rights; the great good\nwork towards God, public worship, will take its rightful place, and be\nregarded as the great, imperative act on the part of man.\n\nIf so important, it must have its distinctive characteristics, its\nessential elements\u2014some thymiama exclusively assigned to it, never given,\nwe say, not to any mean use, but to high or holy use or honor of anything\nthat is not God.\n\nShould no one around us tell what this element is, we must go back to the\npast. The first Commandment, in its positive form, is: \u201cThe Lord thy God\nthou shalt adore, and him only shalt thou serve.\u201d In what essentially does\nthis adoration and service consist?\n\nIf we open the two oldest books we have\u2014the Bible, record of a people who\npreserved their faith in God; Homer, describing the life of a nation\nfallen so early into idolatry that it preserved no tradition of the time\nwhen the unity of God was acknowledged\u2014if we open these to see what in the\nearliest ages constituted divine worship, we find the answer clear and\nplain\u2014Sacrifice.\n\nLeave the shores of the Mediterranean, strike to India, China, the islands\nof the Pacific, and ask what constitutes public worship, the answer still\nis, Sacrifice. Reach the western shores of America, question every tribe,\nfrom the more savage nomads of the north and south to the more cultured\nAztecs, to the subjects of the Incas, and the answer never varies; it is,\nSacrifice.\n\nCross the Atlantic as you crossed the Pacific, the Celts of the Isles and\nof Gaul, Scandinavian and German, repeat the burden, Sacrifice, till you\ncome again to the tents of the patriarchs on the plains of the Euphrates\nor Jordan.\n\nAnd what was sacrifice? A rite cruel, repugnant to all our ideas\u2014one that\ncould not spring from man himself. It was the offering of an inferior life\nto the offended Deity as a substitute for man\u2019s life forfeited by sin\u2014a\nsubstitute deriving its value from a human life that was one day to\nappease the Almighty absolutely.\n\nThe whole system is strange, yet the whole is universal. Before man slew\nthe beasts of the field for food, he slew them on the altar. Not Cain,\nunaccepted of God, offers this bloody sacrifice. Doubly the type of sinful\nman\u2014sinful by descent and by act\u2014Cain offers the fruits of the earth\u2014badge\nof sin and toil and sweat of brow; while Abel, pure and gentle, slays the\nlamb that gambols affectionately around him\u2014slays it to find favor with a\nGod of love. It could not have entered into the heart of man to conceive\nthis. Nothing less than a primitive revelation and command can explain\nsacrifice\u2014that offering of domestic animals as a type of the great atoning\nsacrifice of the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world.\n\nNo matter how widely removed from the original seat of the race, no matter\nhow low in the grade of civilization, every known tribe on earth has a\nworship and has sacrifices. The red men of our own land were long\nconsidered as an anomaly in this respect; but they really had the whole\nidea of sacrifice. One example will show it. When F. Jogues, the pioneer\npriest of New York, was taken by the Mohawks in 1642, and reduced to the\ncondition of a slave, he attended a hunting party of the tribe. Ill\nsuccess in war and hunt had befallen the Mohawks, and, ascribing it to\ntheir offended deity, they offered to this demon Aireskoi two bears with\nthis prayer: \u201cJustly dost thou punish us, O demon Aireskoi!... We have\nsinned against thee, in that we ate not the last captives thrown into our\nhands; but if we shall ever again capture any, we promise to devour them\nas we now consume these two bears\u201d\u2014recognizing the idea of substitution\nand the efficacy of human blood as the great means of reconciliation. And\nthe missionary, to his horror, saw two women sacrificed and eaten in\nfulfilment of this vow.\n\nWhile the temple of Jerusalem stood, the Greek, the Roman, the Egyptian,\nthe Gaul, and the German would, on entering, have seen naught removed from\ntheir ideas in the sacrifice offered. They might have wondered at the size\nand beauty of the temple, the rich vestments of the sons of Aaron; they\nmight have been filled with awe at the absence of the image of the deity\nworshipped there so grandly; but in the great rite of sacrifice, there was\nnothing that was not familiar to them. In this the pagan nations were\nstill in harmony with the divine institution; and in default of the Mosaic\nrevelation, its appositeness could be proved by the common consent of\nmankind in a matter inexplicable except on the supposition of a primitive\nrevelation.\n\nThe nearer and more striking the resemblance between the pagan sacrifices\nand those of the people of God, the greater the evidence they bear to\ncorroborate it. Error may be old, but truth is older.\n\nWhat, then, is the meaning of this ancient worship? The answer is plain:\n\u201cJesus Christ, yesterday and to\u2010day and for ever\u201d\u2014\u201cthe Lamb slain from the\nfoundation of the world,\u201d whose death was, when once accomplished in act,\nto be thenceforward shown forth until he came.\n\nThe offering on Calvary alone gave life and efficacy to all the sacrifices\nof Adam, of the patriarchs before and after the Flood, of the sacrifices\nof Abraham, and those who, in his day, still believed in the true God, in\nthe sacrifices of the law promulgated by Moses.\n\nTheir sacrifices were but types and figures\u2014substitutes for that which was\nto be accomplished in the person of the Messias; when that was once\naccomplished, it became the act of public worship, to be offered by man to\nthe end of time.\n\nThe public worship of the new law is the sacrifice of Calvary, not\nrenewed, not repeated\u2014for \u201cChrist dieth now no more\u201d\u2014but \u201cshown forth,\u201d\nmade sensible.\n\nThe essential element of public worship is the death of the Man\u2010God on\nCalvary; and under the new law, this must be shown in something higher and\nnobler than the types and animal sacrifices of the old law. It is the one\nsufficient act of worship, fulfilling all the intentions and designs of\nthe ancient typical sacrifices\u2014adoration, praise, thanksgiving,\npropitiation, and impetration. No public worship that does not directly\nconnect itself with this great sacrifice can be at all a public worship\nacceptable to God.\n\nThe Almighty has certainly instituted a worship showing forth this death,\nand that alone will he accept.\n\nMan cannot set up a public worship for himself. Worship is a debt which\nman owes to the Most High, and it is not for the debtor to fix the mode of\npaying that debt. In the discussion alluded to already, they frequently\nquoted the words of Jesus to the Samaritan woman, but overlooked the great\nlesson of that whole incident. When that erring woman, pressed hard on her\nmoral delinquency, changed the subject, with womanly adroitness, to the\ngreat religious division between the Jews and Samaritans, she asked: \u201cOur\nfathers adored on this mountain; and you say that at Jerusalem is the\nplace that men must adore\u201d\u2014meaning, evidently, \u201coffer the sacrifices of\nthe law.\u201d\n\nChrist answered: \u201cSalvation is with the Jews.\u201d The Mosaic church was the\nark, and out of it there was no salvation. And yet the Samaritans had,\naccording to modern ideas, every requisite. They had the law of Moses, and\nrevered and followed it closely; they had priests of the sons of Aaron,\nwon to their side; they offered all the sacrifices commanded by the law,\nand as the law commanded; and they had and exercised the right of private\njudgment in the matter of the place. And precisely this last point\nvitiated the whole, and made their sacrifices utterly worthless in the\neyes of God. They did not conduce to salvation. To be in the way of\nsalvation, they must be in communion with the high\u2010priest at Jerusalem,\nand their sacrifices could not be vivified by man or angel. They were\nworthless. \u201cSalvation was with the Jews.\u201d\n\nThe essential element of public worship is, then, the sacrifice of\nCalvary; and the public worship of the new law must be connected with that\nact by divine institution. No institution devised by private judgment,\nhowever seemingly fit to human eyes, can have any real value. It is not\nfor man to make, by his private judgment, a form of public worship that\nwill avoid the sentence, \u201cSalvation is not in it.\u201d As the figurative\nsacrifices of the old law derived their value from divine institution as\ntypical of Calvary, so the public worship of the new law must be connected\nwith Calvary by divine institution.\n\nNow, in the popular forms of public worship in our days, there is no\nessential element, either of divine or human creation, to connect it with\nCalvary. It is inferior even to the Samaritan worship, which Christ so\ndecisively condemned. What claims, then, can it have?\n\nThe Catholic who is asked why he cannot attend a Protestant worship finds\nhis answer here. \u201cWhy,\u201d it will be said, \u201cthere can be no harm in it.\nReading the Scriptures, singing psalms out of Holy Writ, and a moral\nexplanation of some part of Scripture cannot but be good.\u201d Even supposing\nthe explanation to contain nothing contrary to faith, a Catholic cannot\naccept it. It is not of God\u2019s institution, and, as unauthorized and human,\nmust be rejected of God. There was no detail in the Samaritan worship that\na Jew could condemn, yet he had to condemn it as a whole; for, by God\u2019s\ninstitution, all this, done on Mount Sion, was acceptable to him and\ncontributed to salvation; done elsewhere, was repugnant and availed not.\n\nSo absolute is the necessity of adhering to divine institution to give any\nvalue to our religious acts that we see in the Acts that the Jewish\npriests, whose authority had been so fully sustained, were, by the\ninstitution of the priesthood of the new law, superseded; and when they\nattempted to exercise functions under the new law, the very devils laughed\nthem to scorn. If men of a priesthood instituted by God had thus lost\npower, how could men self\u2010constituted make themselves more acceptable, or\ncreate a form of worship that could be acceptable, to God?\n\nNor can any such power exist in the civil authority, be it emperor, king,\nparliament, or congress. Saul, usurping the headship of the church and the\nfunctions of the priesthood, only drew down judgment on himself, and his\nrace ceased to rule over the people.\n\nThe only example in the old law that even remotely resembles the liberty\nassumed in the last centuries by men to form modes of worship is that of\nMichas in the Book of Judges, who made his own god, his own temple, his\nworship, and constituted one of his sons as priest till he was able to\nobtain an apostate Levite.\n\nMan, of himself, would have as much right to make his god like Michas as\nto make his worship. He can make neither, and cannot give saving power to\nhis form of worship any more than he can divinity to the deity his brain\nmay devise.\n\nLet us, then, see whether there exists under the new law an institution in\nwhich the one great sacrifice of Calvary is made perpetually present to\nthe end of time. The Reformers, before introducing their own experimental\nforms of public worship, since so varied\u2014now reduced to the plainest form,\nthen more cheering, but all based on the synagogue service of the Jews,\nwhich was not divine worship, as the temple service was\u2014rejected a form of\npublic worship coeval and coextensive with Christendom, full of the spirit\nand echo of the temple service of Jerusalem, that was really and solely\ndivine worship\u2014they rejected the Mass.\n\nThe Jews even now recognize that their synagogue service is not worship;\nthey still admit the necessity of a sacrifice, as witness one of the most\ncommon forms of prayer offered up in the synagogue: \u201cO Lord, in the time\nwhen the temple stood, when a sin was committed the guilty one brought\nsacrifices, and it was atoned unto him; but now, through our sins, we have\nno temple, no altar, no priests to offer up sacrifices which shall atone\nfor our sins. Let the remembrance of our prayers, of the many prayers we\noffer up, O Lord, be acceptable in the place of sacrifices.\u201d\n\nThere had been heresies and schisms before the XVIth century. They had\nbeen almost countless; but Arian and Pelagian, Donatist and Nestorian, all\nretained the Mass, the authority of all tradition, in Asia, Europe, and\nAfrica, making it too daring an attempt for any to endeavor to modify or\nabolish it. By the concurrent testimony of all Christians of every tongue\nand land the Mass was the public worship of God, instituted by the\napostles under the command of Jesus Christ and the direction of the Holy\nGhost; and to this day it is retained in the Oriental lands, where the\napostles and their immediate successors preached, although many of those\ncountries have for centuries rejected the spiritual authority of Rome, and\nwould not adopt the slightest form or ceremony peculiar to the Latin\nChurch.\n\nA movement against the Mass could not arise in any of these lands. It\ncould arise only in nations just emerged from the darkness of paganism,\nwith its spirit still strong within them, and with no apostolic tradition\nto inspire them with reverence.\n\nThe German race, last to accept the Gospel, was the first to reject it.\nThe Real Presence was denied, and with that dogma they cast aside the Mass\nas the great act of public worship, and the whole theory of the Christian\npriesthood. In England alone an attempt was made to keep a hollow form and\na compromise which James I. sneeringly styled an ill\u2010said Mass.\n\nIn each country, government or individuals then attempted to get up\nsomething to take the place of the public worship which had for fifteen\ncenturies gathered Christians around the altar of God, and, while all\ncried for liberty, made the new forms obligatory by civil law; and in\nEngland, the government, by fine and imprisonment, compelled men to go to\nthe churches torn from Catholic worship, in order to follow the newly\u2010\ndevised common prayer; and in New England, men who turned with loathing\nfrom this, punished just as stringently all who dissented from the\nstanding order or refused to attend the congregational form of worship.\nYet both were confessedly mere human inventions, to which no more divine\nsanction could be ascribed than to the form of opening a court of justice.\n\nOf course the first generation of the Reformed recollected the old\nCatholic worship, and kept up some resemblance to it; but as the memory\ndied away, one point after another was cast aside, till every original\ntrace was lost, and everything was made as bald and plain as possible.\n\nThen a new great discovery was made. Satisfied with their own position,\nthey looked at the Catholic worship, now become strange and wonderful in\ntheir eyes, and they discovered a striking analogy between it and pagan\nworship. Middleton, in the last century, expatiated wonderfully on the\npoint; and our readers know how offensively our fluent, superficial\nPrescott, in his _Conquest of Mexico_, draws the comparison. But these men\nnever seem to have thought that God might have his own views of his own\nworship, and that he could not have left the world without a guide on this\npoint; they forgot that one fully explained type of worship of the ante\u2010\nChristian era was before us to guide us in our search.\n\nTake one of our average countrymen, from Prescott\u2019s own State, and set him\ndown in the temple of Jerusalem while the high\u2010priest was still offering\nthe sacrifices of the law. What would his impressions be? He would\ncertainly deem it a very pagan affair; the architecture would, in his\neyes, be unsuited to a meeting\u2010house; the vestments heathenish or\u2014what to\nhim would perhaps be synonymous\u2014popish; the incense clearly so; and a\nradical defect in the whole would be, in his eyes, that the congregation\ntook no part, and that the building was not adapted to preaching.\n\nIf, at the morning hour of prayer, or when the shadow of Mount Sion fell\nlengthening towards the Mediterranean, he entered the sacred enclosure,\nand beheld the priest, in rich robe, enter, incense in hand, to offer it\non the golden altar, while the people were kept rigorously without, he\nwould have found it sadly at variance with his ideas.\n\nIf, as the sun began to gild the golden face of the tower, he saw a devout\nJew coming with his wife and little ones, bearing in his arms a lamb, to\nhave it offered in sacrifice for him or some sick child at home, and\ntaking back part to eat as part of the religious rite, he would think all\nthis needed reforming, and that it was very nearly as bad as the popish\nway of having Masses said.\n\nThe only question would be whether the Almighty was wrong, or whether his\nown stand\u2010point was utterly wrong.\n\nCertainly, neither in the Jewish temple service nor in the worship of any\npagan nation could he find the type of his own. The pagan had strong and\nstriking resemblances with the Jewish; the worship of Christendom grew out\nof the Jewish temple service.\n\nTo this day chants echo through Catholic aisles that were first heard on\nMount Sion. To the Catholic the old temple service would be intelligible;\nthe edifice, the vestments, the incense, the priestly performing of a\ngreat act, would all be in harmony with ideas with which he had been\nimbued from youth; to him there would be the most natural of natural\nthings in having sacrifice offered for him or his; he would kneel without\nin the crowd, offering, through the priest within, the smoking\nincense\u2014offering it, as each one around him did, for his own wants of soul\nor body. In all the ideas of worship of the Jew he would be at home, and\ncould join in the same spirit in every religious act that marked life from\ncircumcision till the Kadisch, or prayer for the dead, poured forth beside\nthe grave in the valley of Josaphat.\n\nThose who find the Catholic worship too like the pagan would have\ncondemned the divinely\u2010instituted worship of the Mosaic law as still more\nlike it. That paganism bears its testimony to the Catholic worship is an\nargument in its favor, not against it; for the pagan worship was a divine\ninstitution, perverted more in its object than in its form. Had it been\npurely the coinage of man\u2019s brain, of man\u2019s private judgment\u2014one of those\nways that seem right unto a man, though the ends thereof lead to\ndeath\u2014there would be no such resemblance.\n\nIs it not a striking fact that the Catholic, trained to the worship of his\nchurch, would be at home in the temple of Jerusalem during that divinely\u2010\ninstituted worship, while to the Protestant it would be utterly repugnant?\n\nThe Mass in Latin, Greek, Coptic, Armenian, Abyssinian, Sclavonic, is\nalmost identical, and in all rites claims to have been instituted by the\napostles by divine authority. The form is the same, though varying parts\nhave varied. The Jewish worship was simply action; the Christian worship\nhas, from the earliest period, combined action and a form of words. The\nlanguage of the Mass is older than any of the books of the New Testament.\nIs it unworthy of the great act? The answer will best be a challenge to\nproduce anything, from the days of the Reformation, which can at all\napproach it in grandeur; in its recognition of all the attributes of God\nand of the nothingness of man in his sight; in all and everything that\ncould embody the idea of worship. It has, perhaps, the most sublime\nthought ever written. Longinus quoted the \u201cLet there be light, and there\nwas light,\u201d as a sublime thought that paganism admired. Yet this record of\nthe creative act is less sublime than \u201cWe thank thee for thy great glory.\u201d\nThat man, the creature of God, should thank him for existence, for his\nintellect and body, for truth imparted, for life, health, happiness, for\nloved ones and their love, for all the blessings ever bestowed on him, or,\nsoaring higher, ever bestowed on men and angels, might be admirable; but\nwhen man, losing sight entirely of himself and of all created things,\nlooks up to God, and, overwhelmed with love, thanks him for his great\nglory, for his attributes, for being what he is, he soars from the depths\nof nothingness to the height of sublimity. One of the modern objections to\nreligion is its selfish character; the Mass answers this by its utter\nabnegation of self, just as it formally disavows the sufficiency of human\nworks.\n\nThe action is worthy of divine worship. A man stands at the altar, not\nself\u2010instituted, but called as Aaron and his race were\u2014stands there with\npowers traced back through the apostles to Christ. He approaches as a\nsinner among sinners, acknowledging his unworthiness, striking his breast\nwith the publican, not vaunting himself with the Pharisee. Then follow\nsoon the glorious canticle, in which the sinner rises, in thought and\nhope, to God, prayer, lessons from the Old Testament or the New, a portion\nof the gospels, a solemn profession of faith. Then properly begins the\nSacrifice, at which, in early days, only the baptized could be present,\nand not even such of them as were subjects of public penance.\n\nBread and wine appear on the altar. Even among the pagans, fruits of the\nearth were offered to inferior deities alone. In the Bible, they mark the\nsinful race, like Cain, or men without the chosen people, like\nMelchisedec. It is in itself an inferior offering, and bears the stamp of\nman\u2019s fall. Bread and wine are doubly suggestive. It is not merely fruits\nof the earth raised by man\u2019s toil and the sweat of his brow; it is food\nprepared by still further toil.\n\nThe priest stands there as the type of fallen man, with such offering as\nfallen man can give; but if this were all, his sacrifice would be but that\nof Melchisedec. His language shows that the sacrifice has, so to speak, no\nbeginning or end; that it is one act, and that time is not regarded. The\nbread and wine are treated, not as what they are, but what they are to\nbecome. It is not that the sacrifice of guilty Cain may become that of the\npious Abel, the sacrifice of the uncalled Melchisedec become that of\nAbraham the elect; not that this sacrifice of fallen man may become the\nPaschal lamb, but Christ our Pasch himself; and such it is in thought\nalready when the priest offers the bread as an immaculate host, and the\nwine as the chalice of salvation\u2014offers them for his own sins and those of\nall Christians; for the salvation of those present and that of the whole\nworld. He offers it again in memory of the passion, resurrection, and\nascension of our Lord, and in honor of all who have faithfully served him\non earth.\n\nHe never separates himself from the people for whom he offers it. From the\ncommencement to the end, it is their sacrifice and his; in fact, as if to\nprevent any forgetfulness of this, he turns, as the awful moment of\nconsecration approaches, to say: \u201cBrethren, pray that my sacrifice and\nyours may be acceptable to God, the Father Almighty.\u201d\n\nThen, with the Preface that sounds like the triumphant march of an\napproaching monarch, comes the consecration. The types of sinful man\ndisappear, and Jesus Christ is all. He is the priest; he is the victim. He\nmakes the only oblation that can take away sin. He offers the only victim\nwhich can render his Eternal Father due adoration, homage, and honor;\nwhich can alone call down graces and blessings.\n\nThe priest and people, adoring the divine High\u2010Priest and Victim, offer\nthrough him that sacrifice of Calvary for all mankind, for the living and\nthe dead, for the church and all its members. Then, repeating the prayer\nhe himself enjoined, the divine Victim is consumed, and the solemn rite\nhastens to a close.\n\nSublime in its conception, sublime in all its parts, sublime alike in\naction and in words, the world has never beheld a more adequate public\nworship of God. In itself, in its antiquity, its wide extent, it is one of\nthe strongest arguments in favor of the church. Its wonderful adaptability\nto all nations and all conditions of social elevation are no less\nstriking. A public worship, in which the most polished and cultivated\nminds of civilized nations can join, absorbed and taking part, while the\npoor peasant enters as well into its spirit, and offers it for all his\nwants; a sacrifice that can come home to the savage and the sage, to men\nof the frozen North and the parching tropics, which makes the church a\nhome in all lands where not a syllable uttered in the streets falls\nfamiliar on the ear\u2014such is the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass of the Catholic\nChurch\u2014a worship distinct from any other service, offered to God alone,\nand combining in the highest degree everything that can be conceived as\nfitting in that great act\u2014divine institution, the character of sacrifice,\nidentity with the oblation of Calvary\u2014the only adequate worship ever\noffered to God.\n\n\n\n\nThe Answered Prayer.\n\n\n\u201cMortal cannot make\nConditions with the Creator.\u201d\u2014_Schiller._\n\nInto my broken heart\n    Pour gracious balm,\nWhere the deep waters start\n    Breathe holy calm;\nOver my weary life\n    Shed deep repose,\nShelter me from the strife,\n    Baffle my foes!\n\nI have not shunned my task\n    Early or late;\nI have not turned to ask\n    \u201cWherefore?\u201d of fate.\nOnly one cry went up,\n    Hopeless at length\u2014\n\u201cFather! to drink thy cup\n    Grant me thy strength.\u201d\n\nNow at the last I stand\n    Waiting from heaven,\nPatient, with outstretched hand,\n    Alms never given!\nGrant me, O God! I pray,\n    One answ\u2019ring sign\nEre I withdraw for aye!\n    Speak! Am I thine?\n\nCometh the sign at last\u2014\n    Bolt hot and red,\nFalling to crush and blast\n    Desolate head;\nDriving the cowering form\n    Wildly across\nLife\u2019s heath, through flood and storm,\n    On\u2014to the cross!\n\n\n\n\nThe Veil Withdrawn.\n\n\nTranslated, By Permission, From The French of Madame Craven, Author Of \u201cA\nSister\u2019s Story,\u201d \u201cFleurange,\u201d Etc.\n\n\n\nIV.\n\n\nFrom that day I resumed my former habits, and, except the liveliness of my\nchildhood, which had disappeared never to return, I became almost the same\nas before. This sudden and unhoped\u2010for restoration brought cheerfulness\nonce more to our gloomy house, and a ray of joy to the sad, anxious face\nof my father. I say anxious; for it was more so, if possible, than sad.\nThere was an anxiety in his look, whenever he turned towards me, that was\nquite inexpressible. Had he so trembled for my life, and afterwards for my\nreason, as hardly to credit I was restored to him? Perhaps so; but if his\nanxiety had really outlived its cause, though that might explain his\nprofound solicitude, it could not account for the coldness of manner he\nnow manifested, instead of the warm affection to which he had accustomed\nme from infancy. And when I endeavored to fathom the cause of this change,\nonly one reason occurred to me, which I repelled with terror, and on which\nmy mind utterly refused to dwell!...\n\nI had not seen my brother (the elder of the two children by my father\u2019s\nfirst marriage) since my illness. When I went to the supper\u2010table for the\nfirst time, he was not there. But this did not cause me any great regret,\nfor I feared Mario more than I loved him. I was glad, therefore, to find\nno one present but my father, my sister Livia, and Ottavia, who, from a\nwaiting\u2010maid, had merited, from her long services, to be promoted to a\nduenna. I say _duenna_, and not governess; for she would scarcely have\nbeen able to teach us to read and write. But she knew many things much\nmore important. She was one of those good, simple souls, so frequently met\nwith in Italy among people of her station, uncultivated from a human point\nof view, but wonderfully conversant with everything relating to the\nprinciples of the Christian religion, the practice of charity, and the\ngrandeur of the Christian\u2019s hopes. Sometimes thoughts came spontaneously\nfrom her heart and lips which were far more admirable than are to be found\nin any book. Therefore my father, notwithstanding her undeniable ignorance\nin many respects, did not consider her useless in the training of his\nchildren, but treated her with a consideration bordering on respect.\n\nHitherto my life had been surrounded by, and, so to speak, permeated with\na mother\u2019s love; and when I was suddenly deprived of this light and\nwarmth, an overpowering grief, as has been related, took possession of my\nsoul, which at first it seemed impossible I could survive. Now I was\ncalmer; but there was still a void, a wretchedness, a grief in my heart,\nwhich, though not as violent as at first, had become fixed and permanent.\nI thought sometimes of young birds, whose mothers had been caught in the\nfowler\u2019s net, left pining alone in their nests, or of poor little fish\ndrawn out of the water and left on the shore in the heat of the sun. I\nseemed to be like them: my heart and soul were out of their element and\ndeprived of their necessary food.\n\nIn this state, Ottavia and my kind sister Livia were the only persons in\nthe house who afforded me any comfort. I always sought shelter beside\nthem; for the sight of my father increased my depression, and I was afraid\nof my brother\u2019s stern and penetrating eye.\n\nMario, at this time, was twenty\u2010seven years of age. He was remarkably\nhandsome at first sight; but his stern, gloomy face, seldom expressive of\nkindness, and never of affection, greatly modified this first impression,\nand it was nearly impossible to feel entirely at ease with him.\nNevertheless, he had many noble qualities, and in some respects resembled\nmy father; but he had not inherited his kindness of heart.... My brother\nwas unyielding and jealous, and, if not bad at heart, at least had an\nunpleasant disposition, and was often in an insupportable humor. He made\nme habitually feel that he regarded me as the child of a different mother,\nand could not forgive Livia, who was his own sister, for loving one who,\naccording to him, had come to rob them of the full share of their father\u2019s\nlove.\n\nAt the time of Fabrizio dei Monti\u2019s second marriage, Mario, then only\ntwelve years old, had manifested so great a repugnance to it, and so much\nill\u2010will towards her who was about to take his mother\u2019s place at their\nfireside, that Fabrizio decided to send him away; and for several years\nMario lived away from home, only returning from time to time for an\noccasional visit. It was only within a year he had become a permanent\nmember of the household. At that time the malady that was to prove fatal\nto my mother had begun its ravages, and the remaining days of her life\nwere already numbered. Whether it was this knowledge, or because he was\nsoftened and disarmed by the charm of her beauty and the angelic sweetness\nof her manner, it is certain he became quite a different person, and, in\nher presence at least, was never harsh or severe towards us. Perhaps this\nchange would have been complete could he have remained longer under the\nsweet influence we were all so unhappily deprived of!\n\nOn the 15th of July\u2014the day that ended so fatally\u2014Mario was absent. He had\nleft home the evening before, and, when he returned, he learned, at the\nsame time, the calamity that had occurred and that which so speedily\nthreatened to follow. I have been assured that he manifested a lively\ngrief at my mother\u2019s death, and had inquired about me, not only with\ninterest, but even with anxiety. But the recollections of the past were\nstill vividly impressed on my memory, and it was not to him my heavy,\nbleeding heart turned for consolation at such a time.\n\nAt the end of our gloomy repast, my sister was informed that there were\nseveral visitors in the drawing\u2010room. It was the hour when my father\nreceived his friends and the clients he had not been able to see in the\nmorning. Livia immediately left the table, and I was about to follow her,\nwhen my father stopped me, and kept me beside him till he had looked over\nsome documents which had just been brought him. He then gave me his arm to\nthe _salon_. This was certainly done with kindness and an air of\naffection, but with a kind of gravity constantly perceptible as he kept me\nbeside him the remainder of the evening. How gladly I would have exchanged\nthis affectionate solicitude, that could not lose sight of me, for one\nsuch look as I used to receive!...\n\nIt was strange! but when I thought of my mother, no remorse was mingled\nwith so affecting a remembrance. I felt as if a constant communication was\nmaintained between her soul and mine; that she _saw_ my repentance, was\naware of my resolutions, and, to sum up my impressions\u2014childish, perhaps,\nbut so lively and profound that they have never been effaced\u2014that _peace\nhad been made between us_. But the thought that my father might be aware\nof all that took place during that hour of fearful memory, or the\npossibility of his knowing the foolish act I committed in my mother\u2019s\npresence, alas! while she was dying, and that he might attribute the\ndreadful catastrophe that followed to that act, inspired me with genuine\nterror, which was only checked by a secret, constant conviction that my\nmother had not been able, during the few short hours of the following\nnight, to divulge my secret to any one, even to him. But then, who could\nhave told him, or what other reason could there be for the change that\nmade me feel as if I had lost my father as well as my mother, and that the\nheavens were darkened on that side also?\n\nThe next day I was alone in my chamber, collecting my books in order to\nresume my studies, as if my mother were still alive to direct me, when my\nsister came in breathless, as if from running. She stopped to take breath,\nand locked the door before speaking.\n\nLivia was two years younger than her brother. She was not handsome; but\nher form was noble and graceful, her eyes were strikingly beautiful, and\nher smile, though somewhat sad, was incomparably sweet. But a nose\nsomewhat too long, a chin a little too short, and thick hair parted on a\nforehead a little too low, made her rather unattractive at the first\nglance, and perhaps caused the absurd notion I shall soon have occasion to\nrefer to. But all who knew Livia regarded her as an angel of goodness, and\nforgot the defects of her face.\n\n\u201cGina!\u201d she hurriedly exclaimed, as soon as she could speak, \u201cmy dear\nlittle Gina! Mario has returned, and is coming up to see you. Listen to\nme,\u201d embracing me as she continued. \u201cI think he means to tell you\nsomething that will distress you\u2014something I wish you could remain for\never ignorant of. But it is useless. He is determined you shall know it,\nand, after all, it may be as well. Only, _carina_, promise to be calm. If\nhe scolds you, or speaks in his usual severe way, do not answer him.\nControl yourself. Let him go on, Gina mia! I beg of you. No matter if he\ndistresses you for a moment; he will soon go away, and I will console\nyou....\u201d\n\nI had no time to answer these incoherent supplications, for at that very\ninstant I heard my brother\u2019s steps in the gallery. He stopped at my door,\nand, finding it fastened, gave a low knock.\n\n\u201cYou need not worry,\u201d I whispered to Livia. \u201cRemain here, and I will do as\nyou wish, I assure you.\u201d\n\nLivia embraced me once more, and then opened the door. Mario entered. I\nadvanced to greet him, and then stopped with surprise at seeing him so\npale and altered. He looked as if he had been ill also. Neither of us\nspoke for a moment, for he likewise seemed to be astonished at my\nappearance. He must, indeed, have found me greatly changed since he last\nsaw me. I had grown so tall during my illness that my face was nearly on a\nlevel with his, and the long black dress I wore made me appear even taller\nthan I really was. I had lost the freshness of my complexion. The thick,\nfair hair of which I had been so proud no longer shaded my face, but was\ndrawn back from my forehead, and confined under a black net. He had no\nreason now to chide me for too much attention to my appearance. He could\nnot make any cutting jests about my hair, as he used to when I arranged it\nlike a crown on my brow, or left it in long curls at the caprice of the\nwind, according to the whim of my vanity. He had left me a child\u2014a child\nwilful and full of freaks, whom he only noticed in order to correct for\nsome fault. He found me a young lady, whose sad, distressed, and somewhat\naustere look seemed the very reverse of the picture left in his memory. He\nseemed affected to find me so changed, and held out his hand with a\ncordiality much more affectionate than usual. Then, after a moment\u2019s\nsilence, he said with a kindness he had never before manifested:\n\n\u201cYou have passed through a great trial, my poor Ginevra. I have felt for\nyou, and participated in your grief, I assure you.\u201d\n\nI was touched by these words, and was about to reply, when he resumed:\n\n\u201cYes, you have suffered, I see; but it seems also to have been a great\nbenefit to you.\u201d\n\nMy heart was ready to burst, and I at once drew myself up: \u201cBenefit to\nlose my mother! O Mario! how can you say so?\u201d\n\nHe frowned. \u201cI do not mean in that sense, Ginevra, as you must be aware.\nBut perhaps I am mistaken,\u201d he continued, resuming his ordinary tone,\nwhich I only remembered too well. \u201cIt may be you have only changed\nexteriorly. I hope it is otherwise, my dear sister, and that your childish\nvanity and foolish coquetry....\u201d\n\n\u201cMario!\u201d murmured Livia in a beseeching tone, scarcely raising her eyes\nfrom her work. This exclamation escaped her almost involuntarily; for she\nknew better than any one else that the least reply only acted as a\nstimulant when he was inclined to be ill\u2010humored or angry. Therefore this\nslight interruption only served to make him continue in a louder tone.\n\n\u201cYes, it is possible her coquettish disposition may not be overcome, and\nit would not be right to spare it. I am only acting as a friend by\nspeaking plainly about the misfortunes it has caused.\u201d\n\nO merciful heavens!... Did he know my fearful secret, and was he about to\ntell me what I dreaded more than anything else in the world to hear? My\nheart throbbed violently, but I breathed once more when he added:\n\n\u201cThank God, Ginevra, in the midst of your tears, for having taken your\nmother out of the world without the least suspicion of your behavior.\u201d\n\nThough these words allayed my chief anxiety, they seemed far more\ninsulting than I merited. A flush rose to my cheeks, and I haughtily drew\nup my head, as I replied: \u201cI never concealed anything in my life from my\nmother, Mario. And now she is gone, who alone had the right to admonish\nme, it belongs to my father, and not to you, I beg you to remember, my\ndear brother.\u201d\n\nI sat down and leaned my head against my hand, that he might not perceive\nthe heart\u2010felt anguish he had caused me. I was by no means prepared for\nwhat followed.\n\n\u201cYou are mistaken, my charming little sister,\u201d he said in a cool, ironical\ntone, \u201cand it is well to tell you, as you seem to be ignorant of it, that\nwhen young ladies play a game that endangers their reputation and the\nhonor of the name they bear, they often oblige their brothers to take a\npart in it.\u201d\n\nNotwithstanding my folly and defects, I was really nothing but a child at\nthat time, and his words conveyed no definite meaning to my mind. I turned\naround and looked him in the face with an air of surprise that showed I\ndid not comprehend him. The eyes that met mine were no longer full of\nmockery, but sad and stern.\n\n\u201cLook at that, sister,\u201d he said in a grave tone, throwing on the table a\nsmall paper package that was sealed. \u201cThe contents of that paper may\nrecall a circumstance you seem to have forgotten, and perhaps make you\nunderstand my meaning.\u201d\n\nI hesitated a moment. I was afraid without knowing why. But finally I took\nup the paper, and tore open the wrapper. A withered flower fell out, which\nI gazed at with surprise, but without the slightest recollection.\n\n\u201cDo you not recognize it?\u201d\n\nI shook my head.\n\n\u201cNevertheless, that flower came from your hands.\u201d\n\nI shuddered. He continued in the bitterest tone:\n\n\u201cIt is true it was then red, ... red as the blood that had to be shed to\nrestore it to you.\u201d\n\nThe horror with which I was filled at these words struck me dumb. I\nclasped my icy hands, and turned deadly pale, without the power of\nuttering a word! Livia sprang from her seat.\n\n\u201cMario, you have no heart, or soul, or mercy! Go away. It was not your\nplace to tell her about this misfortune.\u201d\n\nBut Mario, excited as usual by contradiction, continued without any\ncircumlocution, and even more violently than before.\n\n\u201cNo, no. It is better for Ginevra to learn the truth from my lips; for I\nam the only person that dares tell her the real state of the case. And I\nwill do it without any disguise, for it may cure her. She shall listen to\nwhat I have to say. It will do her good. And I shall conceal nothing....\u201d\n\nI will not repeat the words that fell from his lips like a torrent of\nfire!... Besides, I can only recall their import. All I can remember is\nthat they met the very evening of that fatal day\u2014where and how I do not\nrecollect. Flavio was talking to several other young men, and, without\nobserving Mario\u2019s presence, insolently mentioned my name. My brother\nsnatched the carnation from his button\u2010hole. The next day the encounter\ntook place....\n\nI felt ready to drop with fright and horror. \u201cOh!\u201d I said in a stifled\nvoice, \u201ccan it be that my brother has killed Flavio Aldini with his own\nhand? O my God. my God! My punishment is greater than I deserve!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d he eagerly replied, \u201cit was not I who....\u201d He stopped, ... and\nthen continued in a calmer tone, but somewhat bitterly:\n\n\u201cCompose yourself, dear sister; it was my blood alone that was shed in\nthis encounter.\u201d\n\n\u201cMay God forgive me!\u201d I shudderingly exclaimed with the fervent, sincere\npiety I always manifested with the simplicity of childhood. \u201cAnd may he\nforgive you, too, Mario; for you likewise have committed a deed forbidden\nby God.\u201d\n\nA faint smile hovered on Mario\u2019s lips, but it immediately gave way to a\ngraver expression; for notwithstanding his defects, he was by no means\ndisposed to be impious.\n\n\u201cForbidden by God! That is true, Ginevra; but it is, I would hope, a deed\nhe sometimes excuses, especially when the person insulted gets the worst\nof the encounter.\u201d\n\nAs he said this, he put his hand to his breast, as if suffering from pain.\nI was again struck with his extreme paleness, as well as other traces of\nillness in his altered appearance, and was penetrated with shame and\nremorse. A feeling more akin to affection than I had ever felt for him\nsprang up in my heart, and I said to him humbly:\n\n\u201cMario, you have done right to be plain with me, and I thank you. What you\nhave said will, I trust, effect my entire cure. At any rate, you have done\nyour duty.\u201d\n\nHe had never known me to yield to him before. I had always revolted\nagainst his ill\u2010humor and harshness, whether just or not, and sometimes\nreplied with an impertinence that justified his resentment. He was touched\nat seeing me in this new attitude, and, for the first time in his life,\nclasped me in his arms and kissed me with real affection. He then left the\nroom, making a sign for Livia to follow him. She did so, but returned in a\nfew minutes. Tears were in her eyes, and her lips were slightly\ntremulous\u2014a sure indication in her of some sudden and profound emotion.\n\nMario had not told me every thing. His anger had died away, and he left it\nfor kinder lips than his to communicate the rest.\n\n\n\nV.\n\n\nThe affliction and repentance that so speedily followed the brief moment\nwhen I saw Flavio Aldini for the last time seemed to have effaced the\ntransient impression produced at our only meeting, as a stream, suddenly\nswelled by a storm, washes away every trace left on the sand. I should\nhave met him again with indifference, and perhaps even with aversion; for\nhe would have been always associated with the first misfortune and first\nremorse of my life. Nevertheless, when Livia, after considerable\nhesitation, uttered the words, \u201c_Flavio Aldini is dead_,\u201d a cry almost of\ndespair escaped from my lips; and the horrible thought at once occurred to\nme that Mario had deceived me\u2014that he was the murderer, and that this\nflower, a thousand times abhorred, had cost the life of him who had\nobtained it through my vanity and thoughtlessness!...\n\nThe terrible lesson I had already received was not, however, to be carried\nto such an extent; but it was some minutes before I could be convinced of\nit. Livia herself had some difficulty in clearly relating the account she\nwas charged with. At length I comprehended that Flavio, while pursuing a\nsuccessful career of pleasure, was no less careful to improve every\nopportunity of repairing the inroads made on his fortune. Among these was\nthe proposal to marry a wealthy heiress, which he acceded to without any\nscruple. But though he thus triumphed over a large number of suitors by\nmeans of his good looks and captivating manners, it was, in his eyes, only\na lucky bargain and another light vow. He had been engaged only a few\ndays, and the marriage was about to be publicly announced, when he met me\nat the ball. The sight of a new young face, and especially the _na\u00efve_\ninexperience of a girl it would be easy to dazzle, inspired the wish to\ntry his power once more. But he had been followed to the ball\u2010room, and\nwatched, by one of the unsuccessful suitors of the beautiful heiress. His\nencounter with Mario a few days after confirmed his rival\u2019s suspicions,\nand afforded him a pretext for gratifying his hatred and jealousy.\nConsequently, when Flavio, after leaving Mario wounded on the field,\nreturned to the villa he occupied at a short distance from Messina, he\nfound a new opponent to bring him to an account for his faithlessness to\nhis betrothed, on the plea of a distant relationship that gave him the\nright to declare himself her champion. In this second duel, fortune was\nadverse to Flavio. He lived several weeks, however, and had only died that\nvery morning from the effects of his wounds!... The news had just\narrived.... And this was what Livia had been commissioned to tell me\nof....\n\nIf it is true that our souls are like precious stones that only reveal all\ntheir brilliancy after much cutting and polishing, it is certain that for\nboth the first blow must be the most trying.... My soul, over which my\nmother had watched, and which she said was dearer to her than her own\nlife, or even than mine, was now undergoing this painful process; or,\nrather, had undergone it. But during the last hour, it was no longer the\nknife, but fire, that had been applied to my bleeding heart!\n\nThough I had no direct cause for self\u2010reproach concerning this new\ncatastrophe, as I at first feared, I did not feel myself wholly\nirresponsible. This was sufficient to deepen the solemn gravity of my\nreflections, in which I remained absorbed so long\u2014motionless and\nsilent\u2014that poor Livia was seriously alarmed.\n\n\u201cSpeak to me, Gina, I implore you. Oh! why, tell me why, _carina_, you\nhave kept all this secret from your poor sister? Who could have dreamed\nyou loved this unfortunate man; that you loved any one unbeknown to us\nall? Could we imagine such a thing possible? You know, dear child, I have\nnever found fault with you, and I will not now. So tell me if it is true\nthat you eluded the vigilance of your mother and Ottavia, in order to meet\nFlavio in the garden? Was it there you gave him the flower you wore in\nyour hair? And is it true that more than once....\u201d\n\nExcessive surprise completely roused me from my stupor, and I eagerly\ninterrupted her with a face as red as fire:\n\n\u201cNever! never! never!...\u201d I exclaimed in a tone that would have convinced\nthe most incredulous, for it had the indubitable accent of truth. \u201cI did\nnot love Flavio Aldini, and I never met him alone in my life.\u201d\n\nLivia, in her turn, looked at me with astonishment. \u201cDid not love him?\nNever met him alone? Never gave him a bouquet or a single flower?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will tell you the truth, Livia: once, and then I did not speak to him,\nI threw him from a distance the carnation I wore in my hair.\u201d\n\n\u201cOnce? From a distance? Ah! then tell me when and where you did it?\u201d\n\nI made no reply. A thousand thoughts flashed across my mind with the\nrapidity of lightning.... It was evident that, by some wonderful chance,\nno one knew exactly what had taken place. A vague story had been\ncirculated, founded on Flavio\u2019s exaggerated boasts. My father, brother,\nand sister had accepted this version\u2014so far from the truth\u2014without\nunderstanding the real extent of that which had been alleged against me. I\nfelt that they considered me guiltier than I really was. And yet I would\nnot have undeceived them for anything in the world. They judged me more\nseverely than I deserved, but of what consequence was it? Was I not\nsufficiently culpable to accept this injustice with humility? Was it not\nenough, without complaining of anything else, to be at last assured that\nmy secret was safe with my mother in heaven? Ought I not rather to bear\nall their reproaches without a murmur? There was only one that would have\noverwhelmed me, and that I was spared. All others were easy to bear, and,\nmoreover, were merited by what they were ignorant of, if not by what they\nsupposed true.\n\nLivia patiently waited for me to break my long silence.\n\n\u201cYou know I am incapable of telling you an untruth,\u201d I said to her at\nlast.\n\n\u201cYes, and therefore I always believe you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, I implore you to believe me now, Livia, without asking me\nanything more. And, moreover,\u201d I added in a supplicating tone, \u201cdo not\nrepeat what I have just told you, and make no effort to justify me to any\none.\u201d\n\nMy good sister looked at me attentively for a moment, and then gently drew\nmy head against her shoulder.\n\n\u201cPoor Gina!\u201d she said. \u201cIt shall be as you wish. I believe everything you\nsay, and love you too well to annoy you with any more questions.\u201d\n\nLivia knew me thoroughly; for, notwithstanding her apparent simplicity,\nshe had an eye that could read one\u2019s soul. She saw the sincerity and\nrepentance of mine, and read in my pale face and distressed look the\nextent of my sufferings, and her kind heart melted.... I was, indeed, very\nyoung to experience such a variety of emotions, and was still too weak to\nendure them. The habit of duelling, so unfortunately prevalent in Sicily,\nhad, of course, accustomed me more than would have been the case anywhere\nelse to occurrences similar to that I had just heard about. But to have my\nname connected with so fatal an affair; to feel that I was the cause of\nthe blood shed in one of these encounters, and that the other had resulted\nin the tragical end of one who had flashed for an instant across my path,\nlike one of those meteors that are the ominous forerunners of misfortune\nand death, ... was more than my young heart and feeble frame could endure.\nLivia perceived it.\n\n\u201cCome, _carina_,\u201d she said, \u201clean against me. You need rest.\u201d\n\nI attempted to make my way to an old sofa, covered with red damask, at the\nother end of the vast and scantily\u2010furnished room; but I had no sooner\nrisen than my strength failed me, and I was obliged to lean against a\ntable to keep myself from falling. Livia hastened to procure some cold\nwater, with which she sprinkled my face. I soon recovered, but was still\npale and agitated when Ottavia came in. She had left me quite well an hour\nbefore, and, finding me now in such a state, she exclaimed with mingled\nimpatience and alarm as she advanced: \u201cGood heavens! what has happened to\nher? She was so well this morning.\u201d... And giving Livia a furtive,\ndistrustful glance, she extended the index and little finger of her hand,\nclosing all the others; turning around as she made this gesture, the\nmeaning of which is only too well known in our country.(89) This was done\nso quickly that I hoped I was the only one to perceive it.\n\n\u201cHow foolish!\u201d I angrily exclaimed to Ottavia, seizing her hand and\ncovering it with mine. \u201cAre you going to treat me always as if I were an\ninvalid or an old woman? _Thanks to Livia_\u201d\u2014and I emphasized these\nwords\u2014\u201cI have entirely recovered.\u201d\n\nOttavia, half angry, half sorry, was about to go away; but Livia made a\nsign for her to remain, and, pressing my hand as she embraced me once\nmore, left the room without uttering a word.\n\n\n\nVI.\n\n\nThe little incident I have just related will doubtless excite some\nastonishment, and be regarded as scarcely confirming what I have said\nbefore about Ottavia\u2019s piety and good sense. But whoever has lived in the\nsouthern part of Italy knows there are hundreds of people in that region\nwhose education, and even religious instruction, are in no way deficient,\nand who, nevertheless, are not exempt from the singular superstition I\nhave just referred to.\n\nI leave it to the erudite to prove that Magna Gr\u00e6cia derived it from\nclassical Greece, the mother country; that remote antiquity made use of\nthe same absurd gesture to avert the effects of what it was still more\nabsurd to believe; and that in those days, as well as now, people\nmultiplied this very sign under the form of protective amulets\u2014not only as\njewels to be worn, but in the objects that surrounded them. I likewise\nleave to them the task of explaining why this evil has resisted the\ninfluence of time and the progress of civilization, as well as the spirit\nof Christianity. All that can be said, it seems to me, is that in those\nregions this superstition takes the place of all those that abound in the\nNorth of Europe, and from which Italy is exempt. For instance, we do not\nhear people there, as in Ireland, Scotland, and Sweden, talk of strange,\nweird apparitions, fairies, or malign spirits, under the name of bogies or\nbanshees. They are not afraid, as in Russia, of meeting people clothed in\nblack, of the number thirteen, and a thousand other absurd notions which\nCatholicism has condemned without being able to eradicate, and which\nProtestantism has been much more powerless against. Nor are the ruins, as\nin Germany, associated with wild legends or haunted by spirits. But, to\nmake up for all this, the jettatura holds there its baleful sway. Though\nfrequently ridiculed, it is feared more than any one is willing to admit;\nand there is no one, even among the most reasonable, who would suffer this\ndreaded epithet to be applied to himself, or any one he loved, without\nmanifesting his displeasure. It would be impossible to account for the\ncause of this prejudicial notion in individual cases, or explain why this\nfearful term is sometimes applied to men of special merit, and women who\nare young, lovely, and amiable, as well as to those whom a pretext is\nwanted to avoid, or whose appearance has something repugnant. Sometimes it\nis sufficient that a person has accidentally witnessed some misfortune,\nand, if the same thing is known to occur again, the word escapes from the\nlips, flies from mouth to mouth, and the foolish prejudice is established.\nThis had been the case with poor Livia. An accident once happened to me in\nmy childhood when she was with me; shortly after, she was present when\nanother occurred to one of our young friends; and a third time, she\nhappened, in one of her charitable rounds, to be in the house of a poor\nman at the time of his death. This was spoken of at first as a mere jest;\nbut it gradually became a source of mortification and humiliation to her,\nthough none of us were ever allowed to make the least allusion to it in\nher presence. The repeated troubles of the past few weeks had disturbed\nthe faithful Ottavia\u2019s equilibrium and good sense to such an unusual\ndegree that when she found me, pale and agitated, leaning on my sister\u2019s\nshoulder, the first thought inspired by her terror caused her instantly to\nmake this involuntary gesture.\n\nI was so vexed at this occurrence that for a moment I forgot everything\nelse. I felt angry with Ottavia, and threw myself on the old sofa without\nspeaking, in a fit of mingled sorrow and displeasure.\n\nI had always been fond of Livia, and now all the repressed and pent\u2010up\ntenderness of my heart was poured out on her. She seemed to be the only\nperson in the world that still loved me\u2014the only one that stood between me\nand what appeared like a great void. Yes, my mother was right in what she\nsaid about the great necessity of my nature. As a flower dies, deprived of\nthe sun, so without affection I should soon cease to exist. I placed no\nreliance on the durability of that which my brother had just manifested.\nAs to my father, his love seemed extinct in comparison with that of former\ntimes. And now that I knew the reason of his coldness and severity, I had\nno hope of overcoming them; for I felt sure he would less readily excuse\nthe truth, were it revealed to him, than the error which had caused such a\nchange in his manner.\n\nTherefore for any one to wound the feelings of Livia, my darling sister,\nmy indulgent and faithful friend, was at this time like piercing my very\nheart. I remained with my head on the cushions of the old sofa, while\nOttavia was bustling about the chamber, as if trying to divert my\nattention from what had taken place. At last she approached and tried to\nget hold of my hand. I withdrew it.\n\n\u201cCome, dear signorina,\u201d she said, \u201cforgive your poor old Ottavia. I did\nwrong.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, very wrong, Ottavia,\u201d I replied in a tone almost severe.\n\n\u201cI know it, and feel as if I were listening to the blessed spirit of Donna\nBianca herself when I hear you and see you! You resemble her so much,\nsignorina!...\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Ottavia, what would she say to you, if she had been present?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe would tell me that my fear of the jettatura is both foolish and\nwrong; and that is only what I know myself, what I believe and realize\nwhen I am on my knees before God!... Oh! at such times I really feel that\nhis will alone is everywhere accomplished; I only love that holy will; I\nam afraid of nothing, because I am convinced that will must prevail. And\nyet, after all, ... when my dear signorina seems to be in danger, or I\nimagine some one is going to bring her ill\u2010luck....\u201d\n\n\u201cOttavia!... Ottavia!\u201d... I cried, suddenly interrupting her with an\noutburst that almost frightened her, \u201cit is I, it is I, and not she, who\nbring ill\u2010luck to all I approach....\u201d\n\nI burst into tears as I spoke. This sudden return upon myself effaced,\nwith the mobility of youth, the impression previously received, and\nbrought back, to my confusion and remorse, all the reality of the present.\n\nOttavia, like the rest, had been told of my supposed fault, and was\nignorant of what I had really done; but she was by no means in a mood now\nto add any reproaches to those I had already received from my brother. On\nthe contrary, she tried to soothe me, not by any direct reply, but by\nspeaking of that which she could talk best about. I had always been more\nor less piously inclined from my earliest childhood. How could it be\notherwise under the excellent influence that had hitherto been the life of\nmy life?... This piety did not obliterate my faults, but it existed in\nspite of them, and was to exist through all the perils reserved for me in\nthe future. But it was, if I may so speak, intermittent. Sometimes it grew\ndormant, if not absolutely extinct; at other times it was kindled to a\nlively and ardent degree. Therefore I frequently recited my catechism with\nindifference and _ennui_; but when it was explained by Ottavia in her\npeculiar way; when she spoke of the sacraments, or dwelt on the life and\nsufferings of our Saviour, and more especially on the life to come, I was\nfilled with delight. The loveliness of the natural world around me seemed\nto assume an additional charm; and when I considered that this was only a\nfaint image of a far more beautiful realm, I longed at once to exchange\nthis life for the other....\n\nIt was by such means the good Ottavia now gently endeavored to divert me,\nby speaking of God, of heaven, and various other sacred topics. By degrees\nshe came back to more indifferent subjects, and finally to Livia,\npromising to make her forget the mortification she had experienced, and\nalmost persuading me she had not perceived what had taken place.\n\nI allowed her to talk on in this way without interruption until her\nsomewhat monotonous tone produced a drowsiness that was beneficial to my\nover\u2010excited nerves. As soon as she saw my eyes grow heavy, she placed one\nof the large sofa\u2010cushions under my head, closed the window\u2010shutters to\nexclude the dazzling light, and then, after remaining beside me till she\nwas persuaded I was fast asleep, softly left the chamber.\n\nI was not, however, asleep. But my attitude and the profound silence and\nsolitude of the room were very soothing, and I remained a long time\nabsorbed in a thousand complex thoughts. Long years have passed away since\nthat day, and other and more dangerous temptations have assailed me, but I\nhave never forgotten the reflections of that hour. My vanity had been for\never shattered like the congealed surface of some deep lake by some sudden\nblow. It had not really been a part of my inner nature, but rather on the\nsurface, and therefore not the most dangerous trait of my character.\nDuring the remainder of my life, I can only recall a single hour\u2014and _only\none!_ ... when it again blinded me.... But that hour was long after the\none of which I have been speaking. At this time I could say with assurance\nthat Mario\u2019s wish was fulfilled\u2014that I was effectually and radically cured\nof my vanity. Associated with so many poignant recollections, it had\nbecome horrible in my eyes.\n\nMy health was somewhat affected by the agitation I had undergone, and I\ntook advantage of this to remain several days in my room, only leaving it\nto take the air on the terrace. I only saw my father for a moment, morning\nand night. The remainder of the day I passed with Livia. Whether she had\nforgotten what had distressed me so much, or it was owing to her self\u2010\ncontrol, or she really had not noticed it, it was impossible to tell from\nher manner, and I finally persuaded myself it was as I hoped.\n\nLivia, in spite of her amiable disposition, had great firmness of\ncharacter. She never allowed herself to be induced to tell anything she\nwished to conceal, or to do what was forbidden by others or by her own\njudgment. But what especially characterized her was her self\u2010\nforgetfulness. This did not strike me at that time. When one is only\nfifteen years of age, one receives impressions without defining them: one\nis repelled or attracted by certain natures without being able to analyze\nthem. But in looking back, not only over the events of my past life, but\nwhat transpired in the inner folds of my conscience, I clearly see the\ndifference between my sister\u2019s nature and mine. From her very childhood\nshe had lived a life of self\u2010forgetfulness (sublime and simple way to\nheights but little known!), regardless of her own tastes and inclinations,\nand even of her own sufferings. Whereas, I was constantly endeavoring to\nfathom the workings of my heart and soul and mind, and to find food for\nthem, as one tries to appease one\u2019s hunger and thirst when importunate.\nNot but that I was capable of forgetting myself, and, so to speak, of\nbeing absorbed in the heart of another, as I had been in that of my\nmother, but solely on the condition of being to that other, in return, the\nobject of an infinite predilection; ... for this word of such vast import\ndoes not seem to express more than my heart craved. But in spite of this\ndifference, or rather on the very account of it, Livia and I were always\nat ease with each other, and it was not without regret I was at last\nobliged to resume my usual life. I regretted this the more because it had\nbeen regulated by my father in a way that indicated only too plainly how\nmuch he distrusted me. Nevertheless, I submitted with humility and\ndocility to this unaccustomed _surveillance_, the cause of which was so\nevident.\n\nI was only released from it during the early hours of the day, which I\nspent in my chamber with Livia. I was not allowed to go into the garden,\nexcept under Ottavia\u2019s escort; and I was not permitted to leave the house,\nunless accompanied by my father or Mario. All the rest of my time I passed\nin my father\u2019s cabinet, where he had a table placed for me near his own.\nThere, for hours together, I read, wrote, or worked, varying my\noccupations according to my own tastes, but without any other liberty. To\nhave passed my days in this way beside my father would have been\ndelightful once; but now, though he was often kind and affectionate, there\nwas a certain gravity in his affection that made me feel I was the object\nof unjust suspicion, and tortured me beyond expression. But I submitted to\nthis torture without a murmur, acknowledging, as I did so, that it was\nonly a merited chastisement.\n\nThis cabinet was like a vast hall in form, and, like all the other rooms\nof that old palace, grand in its proportions, but only furnished with what\nwas absolutely essential. One side of the apartment was entirely lined\nwith shelves filled with books and papers, and at each extremity stood a\nrow of arm\u2010chairs. In the middle of the room, opposite two large windows,\nwas my father\u2019s writing\u2010table, near which was mine. Between the windows\nhung a large painting, which was the only ornament in the room; but, to\ncompensate for this, the garden could be seen, and further off, beyond the\nverdure of the orange\u2010trees, stretched the blue outline of the sea.\n\nMy father received many of his friends and clients in the morning, but\nseldom admitted any of them into the room we occupied. A servant half\nopened the door to announce the visitors\u2019 names, and my father went into\nthe adjoining room to receive them. It was only on special occasions he\ngave orders for any one to be admitted where we were.\n\nDuring the long hours I was thus left alone, I sometimes busily employed\nmy time, but more frequently remained with my arms folded, plunged in a\nprofound reverie. At such times I always avoided looking at the large\npainting that hung on the opposite panel between the two windows. This was\na fine copy of Herodias\u2019 Daughter, by Guido, the original of which I\nafterwards saw in the Palazzo Corsini, at Rome. The sweet, charming face\nof the girl who is holding with a smile the bleeding head of S. John had a\nkind of fascination for me. It seemed like the personification of vanity\nin a new form, giddy and thoughtless in its course and fatal in its\nresults, and often inspired me with many silent, gloomy reflections.... I\npreferred looking at the foliage of the orange\u2010trees in the garden below,\nor gazing into the blue, illimitable heavens above. I often amused myself,\nlikewise, before a cage, prettily painted and gilded, that hung in one of\nthe windows, and contained a bird whose company was a great diversion in\nthe life of disguised punishment I was condemned to. This bird, whose\nmelody surpassed that of the nightingale in sweetness and power, was one\nof those called at Sorrento, where they are chiefly found, the _passero\nsolitario_. I was so fond of its sweet music that my father had allowed me\nto hang the cage here, and more than once in the day I climbed up on a\nbench in the embrasure of the window to see there was no lack of the\nsingularly copious and solid food which this bird of angelic notes daily\nrequires.\n\nOne day, while I was thus perched at a considerable height from the floor,\nthe door opened much wider than usual, and the old servant that announced\nthe visitors said with a certain emphasis: \u201cHis Excellency the Duca di\nValenzano.\u201d\n\nMy first thought was to descend from the post I occupied; but before I had\ntime to do so, the visitor entered the room, and stood regarding me with\nan air of surprise. My father rose to meet so unexpected a client; but the\nlatter held out his hand to aid me in my descent, and followed me with his\neyes, without speaking, as I hastily regained my usual seat, blushing with\nconfusion. My father conducted him to the other end of the room, where\nstood the row of arm\u2010chairs, and both took seats. During the long\nconversation that followed, I could only hear the tones of their voices as\nthey rose and fell. Sometimes my father\u2019s predominated, and at other times\nthe deep, sonorous voice of his visitor. I saw it was a question of\nbusiness, for my father rose several times to search for different papers\namong the books arranged on the shelves of the library. Finally the\nconversation ended, and the new client proceeded towards the door. But\nwhen he arrived opposite the cage where my bird was singing, he said:\n\u201cReally, one\u2019s ears are charmed here no less than one\u2019s eyes. It seems\nmore like a palace of fairies than a rendezvous for all the contentions of\nSicily....\u201d\n\nHe was then standing directly before me.\n\n\u201cDon Fabrizio,\u201d continued he, \u201cis not this your daughter, Donna Ginevra,\nof whom I have so often heard? Do me the favor of presenting me to her.\u201d\n\nMy father\u2019s face assumed a severe, dissatisfied expression, and mine was\ncovered with a livelier blush than before. \u201cHeard of me so often?\u201d Alas!\nhe had probably heard me spoken unfavorably of! Perhaps this was the very\nthought that clouded my father\u2019s brow. Nevertheless, after a moment\u2019s\nhesitation, he said: \u201cRise, Ginevra, and pay your respects to the Duca di\nValenzano.\u201d\n\nI rose, but without uttering a word; for I was disconcerted by the fixed,\nscrutinizing eye that seemed trying to read my face. I lowered my eyes,\nwithout being able to distinguish the features of this new acquaintance. I\nonly remarked that he was tall, and had a noble air, in spite of his\npeculiar garb, that made him look more like a travelling artist than a\nperson of high rank.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nOn The Wing. A Southern Flight. III.\n\n\n    \u201cVedi Napoli, e poi mori.\u201d(90)\n\n\nWe left Rome in a storm of thunder and lightning. The rain poured in\nlarge, cold drops, pattering against the windows of the railway carriage,\nand adding considerably to the feelings of gloom and apprehension with\nwhich we thought of Rome\u2014as Rome is now. When should we visit the Eternal\nCity again? And would the veil of sadness which now falls on all that is\ndear and sacred to the Catholic be raised once more in our time? Mary was\nvery silent for some hours of our long journey; and while I, with my\nhabitual curiosity, was peering through the rain\u2010washed window to discover\nthe beauties of the glorious country through which we were rushing, she\nlay back with closed eyes, absorbed in thought; while Frank, with a fixed\nfrown on his face, was reading and rustling, and finally crumpling up, in\nparoxysms of anger, the numerous Italian papers that he had bought by\nhandfuls at the station. Presently Mary opened her eyes once more, and\ncondescended to recognize the great fact that we were travelling further\nand further to the glorious South. I do not think I felt less intensely\nthan my sister the sorrow that attends all reflection on the present\ncondition of the great centre of Christendom and the position of the\nFather of the faithful. But my grief is apt to take another form from that\nof Mary\u2019s or Frank\u2019s. Mary grows silent and outwardly calm. Frank becomes\ngloomy. I am more irritable; and irritability leads to activity. My mind\nwas working with an incessant rapidity, and the impulse to catch sight\nonce more of every shred that could carry me back to happier times, and\nrecall once more the memories of the past, kept me straining my eyes to\nget a glimpse of Albano, where we had spent a long, happy summer when the\nHoly Father was at Castel Gandolfo. Should I catch sight of Lavinia,\n\u00c6neas\u2019 own city, the object of so many excursions in those happy days?\nShould I see those hills covered with chestnuts, bare of leaves now,\nbeneath whose shade I had so often rested? Even Velletri, though not in\nitself a specially interesting place, had the charm of association. I\nremembered how I had gone to spend a long day there, and had wandered to\nthe gates of some private house with a large garden. I had stood looking\nthrough the iron bars on a little paradise, but, as usual in Italy, a\nparadise in disorder. Stone vases stood on a balustrade, filled with\nbright flowers, but also with weeds. The fertile valley lay below, and\nbeyond the blue and purple mountains rose in tiers one above another, with\nsoft, violet shadows and dim blue mists; and here and there a peak of\nrugged rock, on which the sun struck bright and keen. A long avenue of\nshady plane\u2010trees was to my right. A solitary peasant drove his mule, with\nbalanced panniers and pointed ears like two notes of admiration against\nthe sky, far as my eye could reach down the green distance. I longed to\nwander on; to follow the flickering lights along that silent road, and\nknow that it would lead me out to the Pontine Marshes, with the rugged\nAbruzzi beyond. Here, too, rests the body of Hyacinthe Mariscotti, a\nFranciscan nun, who died in 1640, and whose life, less known out of Italy\nthan it deserves, is one of the most marvellous in its union of great\ngraces and great sufferings.\n\nThe rain pelted hard; the lightning made me, from time to time, shrink\nback suddenly; but still I strained my eyes to catch sight of the shifting\nscene, and allowed memories to reawaken and imagination to throw its\nglamour over the past and the future.\n\nMany of the stations along this road are at some distance from the towns\nwhose name they bear; and this, of course, diminishes a little the\ninterest of the journey. For instance, Aquino, the birthplace of the great\nfather of the church, S. Thomas Aquinas, is about a mile off. Near here we\nwere, for a time, to take leave of Frank. He had made up his mind to visit\nthe cradle of the great saint before proceeding to Monte Casino, where he\nhad made arrangements to spend at least a week. Our readers are no doubt\nwell aware that Monte Casino is no longer what it was. Its glories have\nbeen shorn by the present government, as the rays of the sun are shorn by\nthe twilight. There are comparatively very few monks of the order of S.\nBenedict still allowed to reside there. Amongst them, however, Frank had\nformed a real friendship; and for a month previous, at least, Mary and I\nhad heard him descanting upon all the charms that he was to find in that\nwonderful retreat of learning and sanctity. Partly to tease him, and\npartly to be revenged for the fact that I must be for ever excluded, I\ngenerally replied to his enthusiasm by making a wry face and uttering the\nwords, \u201cKid, rancid oil, and garlic.\u201d Then he would toss back that\ntiresome stray lock which is always trying to shade his beautiful violet\neyes, and reply, with a smile, \u201cOh! I shall not mind.\u201d The train stops a\nvery short time at San Germano, the station for the Monastery of Monte\nCasino, and we had a hurried leave\u2010taking. I was endeavoring to collect a\nfew of his newspapers, which I thought he had not half read, and put them\ninto his hand as he left the carriage. \u201cNo, no, dear Jane. Do you think I\nwould pollute those sacred walls by carrying there all that blasphemous\nstuff.\u201d And he leapt out just as we began to move on.\n\n\u201cO Mary!\u201d I exclaimed, \u201chow dreadful it would be, if Frank were to become\na Benedictine monk.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat else do you want him to do?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, live at home, of course, as an English country gentleman should do,\nmarry, and bring up a son to rule after him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat a thorough conservative you are, Jane!\u201d said Mary with a smile.\n\n\u201cI am not so sure of that. I have a dash of the liberal in me at times.\nBut I do love the dirty acres; and I like to see them going down from\nfather to son without a break.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are right there. It is that permanence which is the back\u2010bone of\nEngland. I do not believe in the lasting stability of any country where\nthere is a perpetual and ever\u2010recurring division of property. What a man\n_has_ should always survive what a man _is_, in a sufficiently substantial\nform to make the cradle of a future destiny. And where no one is sure of\ninheriting a large fortune with the large leisure that it secures, it\ntends to make all men equally mercenary. There should always be a class\napart who have no need to fret about making money, but can afford to spend\nit.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what if they do not spend it well?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is an answer which in one shape or another you may make to the\nlaying down of any principle. What if it be abused? It does not prove the\nfalsity of the principle, but only once more calls to mind the truism that\neverything is open to abuse.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose you think there are so many objects on which wealth may be\nadvantageously expended that it is well to have an hereditary body whose\nbusiness it is to do so.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; and I would certainly include the cultivation of hot\u2010house grapes,\nand the elysium of fat porkers who are washed and combed twice a week. It\nis every man\u2019s business to produce the best he can of whatever he has in\nhand, including pineapples and pigs.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell done, Mary. You are a worse conservative than I am. But do you\nreally think that modern civilization, as it is called, has its uses?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy modern civilization, Jane, I conclude you really mean material\nimprovements. Civilization is a term which is so misused that it has\nbecome hardly safe to use it at all. It ought to mean something much\nhigher than increased railway facilities, more looking\u2010glasses and buhl,\nhundreds of daily newspapers, and a French cook.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! of course. Civilization ought to mean the intellectual and spiritual\ndevelopment of mankind from out of the rough block of his animal nature\nand his uneducated mind. If you add to this the refinement which self\u2010\nrespect and a perpetual inner consciousness of a Being greater and higher\nthan ourselves, keeping all the man\u2019s actions in harmony with himself and\nwith a higher law, you have a really civilized man as distinct from a\nsavage.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is not a bad description of what civilization ought to be. But that\nis very different from the idea most people have in their minds when they\nuse the term.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn point of fact, Mary, I mean material progress. How far is it useful?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow people would stare at you, Jane, for that query!\u2014people who think\nthere is nothing more glorious than to have invented a new machine or a\nfresh adjunct to luxury.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, those are just the people who would not the least know what I meant\nby my implied doubts about the value of material progress. But you know\nwhat I mean and why I question its nature and deprecate its increase.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a difficult question to solve. But I have long since come to the\nconclusion that there is never any very great and generally diffused\nadvance made by mankind in any one direction without its having some\ndefinite purpose in the Eternal Mind for the ultimate good of his\ncreation. The progress of science is only second in importance to the\nprogress of religion; and after these two comes the progress of the useful\narts, which are the offspring of science, and often seem only to pander to\nluxury, but are really subsidiary aids in that march, in the\naccomplishment of which man is to fulfil his destiny of possessing the\nearth and filling it. Mankind is in no way benefited by the discovery, for\ninstance, of a new perfume, whereby some silly woman may add to the\nalready exaggerated expenses of her toilet; but the process by which that\nperfume has been produced is, in itself, of the utmost value, and exhibits\nmechanical invention and scientific principles that are of the last\nimportance to mankind. The perfume is an accident\u2014a little of the golden\ndust scattered by the wheels of material progress.\u201d\n\n\u201cJust so; and dust, albeit golden, is not a good atmosphere to breathe\nin.\u201d\n\n\u201cDecidedly not.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen do you think, dear Mary, that material progress, or what we\ngenerally call improvements, conduces, on the whole, to human happiness?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! there lies the really difficult question, and one which I have again\nand again striven to answer satisfactorily to myself. Happiness is a term\ngenerally used to cover more than it has any right to do. There is only\none real happiness, and that is what man finds in himself, in union with\nhis God. That happiness is positive, and there is no other positive. We\nbegin it here, but with great drawbacks and frequent interruptions. We\ncomplete it in the light of glory. But outside that, hanging on to the\nskirts and fringes of real happiness, there are contentment, pleasure,\nease, and last, but not least, comfort. No one can impart happiness, pure\nand simple, to another. The nearest approach to doing so is in a\nreciprocal affection. But God alone can satisfy the soul of man. What we\ncan confer on others and on ourselves are various degrees of those lesser\ngoods which I have enumerated. Now, all these enter into the general plan\nof God\u2019s dealings with his creatures. The animal world is susceptible of\nthem in its degree, and we ourselves in a far higher degree. As they enter\ninto the general scheme, I am at liberty to conclude, not only from my own\nsensations, which might delude me, but from that very fact, that they are\nof very great importance, and that everything which augments the sum of\nthem is a blessing. They are the ore out of which we coin our charities to\nothers. They are therefore essentially God\u2019s gifts, to be given by us\nagain.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know what you mean, Mary. I shall never forget the pleasure I had in\ntaking one of your air\u2010cushions to that poor woman at T\u2014\u2014, who was dying\nof cancer, and to whom the slightest pressure of even an ordinary pillow\nwas so painful. Now, air\u2010cushions are a comparatively modern invention.\nDear mother used to say no one ever heard of mackintoshes and gutta\u2010percha\nin her day.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, Jane, nor yet of lucifer matches. It was terrible work to have to\nnurse the sick through the night, with a flint and steel and tinder as the\nonly way of striking a light. I think I see now my old nurse, with her\nlarge frilled night\u2010cap, hammering away for what seemed to us children a\ngood three minutes, because the rush\u2010light had gone out, and baby was\ncrying. I can remember I had for that flint and steel very much the same\nfeelings an Indian has for his fetish. I used to wonder how the flint hid\nthe fire in its cold bosom, and why sometimes it seemed to require so many\nmore persuasive knocks than at others before it gave out its sparks. But\nfor the matter of that, as a child I had secretly embraced the earliest\nform of religion, the _animism_ of the lower races of savages\u2014and I lent a\nsoul to all inanimate, and even all inorganic, matter. I believe, if we\ncould but find it out, all children do so more or less. The external world\nis so wonderful to them that they vaguely imagine a personality and a\nconsciousness to exist in everything. There is not a little girl who does\nnot, in her heart, believe that her doll is something more than wax and\nsawdust; and I would not give much for her, if she did not. The exuberance\nof faith leads to an exuberance of tenderness; and the girl who believes\nin her doll has the germ of a good mother in her.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou seemed just now to attach a great importance to comfort, Mary. I am\nsurprised at that.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt arises, in a measure, from my own personal experience. Besides which,\ncomfort may mean almost anything; for it is generally whatever we are used\nto. I remember so well, years ago, when the sorrows of my life first\nthreatened to overpower me, how thankfully I felt the warm, soft arms of\nmere outward well\u2010being so closely round me. To me they were no more than\ncomforts, because all my life I had been used to them. To others they\nwould have seemed luxuries. When I used to go up to London alone to my\nfather\u2019s house, and find all ready to my hand\u2014well\u2010appointed servants,\nlarge, warm rooms, and a good table, with nothing of meanness, or sparing,\nor pinching in the unextravagant but perfectly organized home that was\nopen to me\u2014I used often to lean back in my easy\u2010chair, and say to myself,\n\u2018I am very unhappy; but, thank God, I am not uncomfortable!\u2019 Later on, you\nknow, it was not so. I was a Catholic, and doors that had been open to me\nbefore were closed for ever. Then came the time for discomfort. If I\nwanted to go to London, I had to go to a lodging. The furniture was shabby\nand dirty; the fires smoked; the food was badly cooked. I drove about in\nhired vehicles, perished with cold, and shaken to death. I knew I was in\nno way degraded by it all; but it was new and painfully strange to me, and\nI _felt_ degraded by an amount of discomforts which in my youth I had\nnever approached. It did not, in itself, make me unhappy, but it added a\nthousandfold to the suffering from real causes for unhappiness. I used to\nsay they were the splinters of my cross, though not my cross itself. Ever\nsince then, I never see a person in sorrow without being anxious to make\nthem at least comfortable. There is nothing, you see, approaching to\nasceticism in my view, dear Jane; but, at any rate, one is not bound to be\nascetic for others.\u201d\n\nMary and I were sitting side by side in the railway\u2010carriage, I having\ncome from my seat opposite in order the better to hear. But now I returned\nto my old place, just as we paused at the station of Caserta, and saw the\nlargest palace in Europe, now empty and almost deserted, not far off.\n\nThe great object in our visit to Naples was to be as near as possible to\nour friends, the Vernons. We were to go first to a hotel, and then look\nout for a villa at Posilippo, near the one occupied by themselves, which\nwas called Casinelli, from the family of that name to whom it belonged. We\nhad written to Ida Vernon to beg she would choose our hotel and our rooms.\nShe had lodged us at a very comfortable _pension_ on the Chiaja, and wrote\nus word we must, on reaching the station at 10 o\u2019clock at night, look out\nfor their servant, Monica; and that she would wear a red handkerchief\npinned across, gold earrings, and a blue skirt. We were not to expect the\nuniversal black hair and eyes of the Italian woman, as hers were soft\nbrown. The station is very large and very badly lighted. But as soon as I\ngot out, I ran to the grating\u2014a high iron railing, behind which stood the\ncrowd of people, friends, servants, porters, and mere lookers\u2010on, all\npushing and squeezing to catch sight of those they expected by the train.\nI soon made out the blue skirt, and red kerchief, and the amiable, smiling\nface of Monica. She welcomed us exactly as if we had been old friends, and\nthat it was a personal pleasure to herself that we had arrived. She had\nbrought a carriage for us the size of a small house, but which refused\n(through the coachman) to take luggage. That was to follow in another kind\nof conveyance immediately after us. Every sort of injunction was given as\nto its destination, and, persuaded all was right, we rumbled over the\nlarge flags of the streets of Naples to the far end of the Chiaja, where\nwe were to lodge. There were flowers in our room and a note from Ida; and\nthe next morning we were to meet, after a separation of seven years.\nMeanwhile, our _impedimenta_ was slowly grinding its way past our door, up\nthe steep hill of Strada Nuova, on to Posilippo, where our friends\nreside\u2014a good twenty minutes from our abode\u2014down the hill, through the\nvineyard, and up to the door of the Villa Casinelli, where, arriving about\nmidnight, they thundered and thumped till the tired Monica had donned once\nmore the blue skirt, while Lucia was screaming that there were robbers.\nIda came forth in a warm wrapper; Elizabeth\u2019s tall figure was draped in\nwhite; Helen peeped out of the half\u2010open door; and the good Padre Cataldo,\ntheir chaplain, in _beretta_ and _soutane_, had to emerge from his little\nsanctum, at the furthest end of the long, narrow house, before peace could\nbe restored, and our mountain of huge black trunks, portmanteaus, and\nleather bags could be induced to retrace their needless steps, climb again\nthat zig\u2010zag road up the steep tufa rock, and reach us, worn out with\nwaiting and feverish with impatience for night\u2010gear, at about one o\u2019clock\nin the morning.\n\nBrilliant sunshine, streaming into the room the next day, woke us up to\nthe sense of the joyous, bounding life of these delicious climes. O noisy\nNaples! what clamorous cries, what vibrating shouts, what shrill feminine\nvoices, fill thy glaring streets through the livelong day and far into the\nunrestful night. The horses neigh as they do not neigh in any more\ntranquil climes. The usually silent ass is here a garrulous animal. The\ndogs bark and snarl in a dialect special to Naples. The women scream like\ncockatoos, and never address each other in lower tones than as if shouting\na word of command on board a man\u2010of\u2010war in a gale of wind. Their habits\nare not conversational, but _scream_ational; and the most cordial civility\nis communicated like a threat, while an affectionate compliment is\nconveyed in sounds sufficient to startle the most supine into lively\nattention. Young girls hiss and squeal; infants bellow and roar. It is\nnoise, noise, all day long; and over all a remorseless sunshine on white,\nglaring pavements of flag\u2010stones a quarter of a yard square and more, like\nthe pavement of the ancient Romans, such as we still see it in the Via\nSacra near the Colosseum, and which resounds to the metallic tread of\ndonkey, mule, and horse, or to the softer, shuffling pit\u2010a\u2010pat of the\nherds of bearded goats that traverse the city at early morn and eventide.\n\nMary\u2019s bed\u2010room opened into a large _loggia_ full of flowers\u2014geraniums,\npetunias, and carnations in full blossom, though it was only the month of\nMarch; but so had they blossomed more or less all through the winter. A\nfew orange\u2010trees in tubs were there with golden fruit and star\u2010like\nflowers. Then the blue sky and the bluer bay! Yes, it was the plenitude of\nlife that one only knows in the South, with the delicious sense of the\npleasure of mere existence, which tempts one to adopt the _dolce far\nniente_, and makes living and breathing seem a full accomplishment of the\nday\u2019s duties.\n\nIda and Elizabeth Vernon came early to carry us off to Posilippo; first to\ncall on Mrs. Vernon at Villa Casinelli, and then to decide on a lodging as\nnear to them as possible. We found them living in a house whose\nfoundations are washed by the sea, and commanding a view of wonderful\nbeauty. The descent from the main road was too steep for any carriage,\nwinding in and out through vines and fig\u2010trees, oranges and Japanese\nmedlars, ending in a closely\u2010knit avenue of the white mulberry, which in\nthe summer makes a dense shade.\n\nOur friends wanted us to take the villa next to theirs, if only the\nproprietor, a poor and proud _marchese_, would let it to us. We went over\nto look at it, but came away in disgust. There was scarcely any furniture,\nand none that would have satisfied even the most modest requirements. I do\nnot remember seeing any beds, although it is certain the family come there\nfrom time to time for a few days. I asked Ida where they slept, and she\npointed to some roomy sofas and wide divans, on which had been flung the\nashes and the ends of cigars, as the probable resting\u2010place of the\nproprietors. We could only shake our heads in horrified astonishment, and\nthink what a lovely place might be made of this quaint old house. It\nstands partly on the rock and partly on arcades, through which the sea\ncomes rushing when the waves are high, but where, when it is calm, you may\nsit on silver sands or on the stone steps that lead down from the house\nand the upper terraced gardens. We had been so fascinated by the\nappearance of this residence, which looks outside like the fragment of an\nold feudal castle, and inside is bright with sunshine and the glorious\nview it commands, that we had requested Padre Cataldo to write and ask the\nterms before we had gone over it. On our return from doing so, shocked at\nthe dirt and disorder we had witnessed, we were amused to find a\nmagniloquent reply to the effect that the titled owner would \u201ccondescend\u201d\nto let us his dwelling for (and here he named an exorbitant price), solely\nout of an amiable desire to make himself agreeable; and that he would call\nthe following morning to receive the ten weeks\u2019 rent in advance! We\nfinally decided on the villa next but one to that of our friends\u2014the Villa\nR\u2014\u2014 R\u2014\u2014. We did not require more than one floor of the house. The rest was\noccupied by the family, and had a second entrance. We came into our part\nstraight from the Strada Nuova, down a few steps, and in at a large\nfolding door flanked by a Stone seat and two vases with huge aloes. We had\na lovely view of the bay in front, a little garden on a sloping bank on\none side, full of oranges and lemons, now in full fruit and flower; a\n_loggia_\u2014that great desideratum of an Italian house\u2014and a view of Naples\nand Mount Vesuvius. On our return to our apartments, we were met by the\nwoman who attends upon us, telling us that Ann was in her room with a bad\nheadache. Little did we guess what had befallen her! We went in to see\nwhat was the matter, and found her flung upon the bed, with her clothes\non, in a profound stupor. In vain we called her and shook her; we could\nnot rouse her. The landlady presently came and told us that an hour\nprevious poor Ann had been brought home by a _gendarme_ in a carriage;\nthat she was unable to walk up\u2010stairs without assistance, and seemed\ncompletely dazed when spoken to. The _gendarme_ said he had noticed a\nyoung person sitting on a bench in the Villa Reale, the long, narrow\ngarden which runs for a mile along the Chiaja by the sea\u2010shore; that she\nlooked extremely ill; and that, noticing she had valuables about her\n(alluding to her watch and chain), he had asked her address, put her into\na carriage, and brought her home. It was a mercy he had done so. The\nNeapolitan police are not always so honest. But our dismay was increased\nwhen at length, having awakened her, she did not know any of us. She kept\nentreating Mary, who held her in her arms, to take her back to her own\nMrs. Gordon, her good Mrs. Gordon. In vain Mary replied, \u201cBut I am Mrs.\nGordon, Ann. Look at me; don\u2019t you know me?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no; you look something like her, but you have not her voice. Oh!\nwhere is she. Where is Miss Jane, and where is Lulu?\u201d\n\nFortunately, Lulu, Mary\u2019s dog, was in her room, and the probability was\nthat, though she failed to know us, she would recognize Mary\u2019s Lulu from\nany other Lulu. I flew to fetch the little animal, and threw it into her\narms, to poor Lulu\u2019s great astonishment. It succeeded perfectly. She knew\nthe dog, and thus recovered her memory of the faces around her, and her\nconviction that she was in her own room. Evidently she had a vague horror\nthat she might have been taken to the wrong house, and that she had\nawakened among strangers. When she had entirely recovered herself, we\nfound that no trace of what had happened to her remained on her memory\nfrom the moment that she entered the Villa Reale; yet she was found more\nthan half way down it! She must have wandered on partially insensible; and\nit is a blessing that, when the _gendarme_ found her, she had enough\nconsciousness left to give the right address. She had already been out in\nthe morning, and a second walk in the hot sun had been too much for her.\nIt was a sun\u2010stroke; and strangers are more subject to such accidents than\npersons who have become habituated to the climate. It was, however, long\nbefore Ann really shook off the effects of gratifying her over\u2010curiosity\nto visit the beauties of Naples on first arriving.\n\nIn a very short time, we were comfortably settled at Villa R\u2014\u2014 R\u2014\u2014. The\nVernons had arranged everything for us with a forethought for which we\ncould not be too grateful. They lent us the services of Monica as cook,\nassuring us that, if we took a Neapolitan, we should be cheated and\ntormented out of our lives. Monica was a Piedmontese, and as good and\nsimple\u2010hearted a girl as any one could wish to find. Her economical\nscruples were positively amusing. We could hardly induce her to buy the\nparticular articles we desired for our dinner, because, in her estimation,\nthey were at too high a price in the market; and she would beg and entreat\nof us to wait patiently a little longer until they should have gone down.\nIf it had been her own money she was spending, she would not have been so\neconomical; for, as we found out later, she was always ready to lend to\nthose less well off than herself, and would give away more than she could\nafford. The name of the young lad whom the Vernons engaged to act as\nservant was Paolino, a boy of eighteen, with glorious, large brown eyes\nand bright complexion. It was some time before we taught him manners, as\nhe had never been in a gentleman\u2019s family before. His father was a\n_vignaiuolo_ of the name of Camerota. He had several sons and daughters,\nsome of them married. He rented the vineyards of the _marchese_ whose\ndilapidated house we had declined to hire, and each of his children\nmarried from their home with a good substantial dower and a large\n_trousseau_. The eldest girl had not long been a bride when we arrived;\nand, after making the acquaintance of the other members of the family, we\none day called upon her. Their dwelling was built against the tufa rock\nwhich skirts the Strada Nuova. She had three rooms, nicely furnished, with\nmarble tops to the chest of drawers and the table, such as we in England\nshould only expect to find in the houses of the rich, but which here are\ncommon enough. The bedstead was of walnut, and the sheets like the driven\nsnow for whiteness. Ida, who had known the girl for years, told us that\nher _trousseau_ contained a dozen of every necessary article of dress and\nhouse\u2010linen, even to a dozen pairs of stays!\u2014enough to last a life\u2010time.\nThere hung a crucifix at the head of the bed, and a few colored engravings\nornamented the walls of the sitting\u2010room, in which also there stood a tiny\naltar with a statue of the Mater Dolorosa and a few flowers.\n\nThe lower classes here have what we should call strange notions with\nrespect to the sacrament of marriage. It is treated as a deed of darkness.\nThe bride is conveyed late in the evening, or by cock\u2010crowing, to church,\nby her mother and a few respectable matrons. No young girl, not even a\nsister, is allowed to be present, and would endanger her reputation were\nshe to appear on such an occasion. A few days later, the bride once more\nputs on her wreath, and her veil, and her wedding\u2010dress. All the family\nand friends of both sexes are gathered together, and the women and men, in\nseparate carriages, drive fast and furious along the Chiaja up the Strada\nNuova, past Posilippo, by the hour, and finally pause at the Taberna del\nCapo di Posilippo, or some other house of entertainment, and have a merry\nfeast. We held this said Taberna somewhat in horror. On Sundays\u2014the day on\nwhich everybody seems to think his honor and reputation are engaged in\ngalloping up hill and down dale at a break\u2010neck pace for the whole\nafternoon\u2014this was the chief place of meeting; and in the lovely starlight\nevenings, the returning guests would come back with a sadly rollicking\nair, hat on one side, a long cigar in the mouth, and a leg hanging over\nthe side of the frail vehicle, while the spirited little Sardinian horse,\nall blood and sinew, would fly along, with jingling bells and bright brass\nharness, as if his hoofs hardly struck the earth. The drivers of these\n_cittadine_, as the little hired open carriages are called, take great\npride in their harness. The horse\u2010collar more resembles a yoke; and where\nit meets over the horse\u2019s neck, there is often a little brass image of the\nangel guardian\u2014a very necessary angel, indeed, considering the pace they\ngo, and whose guardianship must be severely put to the test by the mad\nrisks of the half\u2010inebriated coachmen. It is very rare to see a Neapolitan\nreally drunk. The wine they take produces a light, joyous, but brief\nintoxication, which makes dare\u2010devils of them for the time, but soon loses\nits effects, and is rarely stupefying. It is the divine _inflatus_ of the\nBacchus of old, and not the coarse, heavy incapacity of the snoring\nSilenus. Nevertheless, though I have spoken so indulgently of the Taberna\ndel Capo di Posilippo, it formed a not unfrequent subject of grave rebuke\nand expostulation in the discourses of our good Padre Cataldo to his\nlittle group of listeners in the chapel in the rock belonging to Villa\nCasinelli. And probably he knew more of its evil influences than we did. I\nremember, one Sunday afternoon, being particularly struck by a carriage\nfull of merry\u2010makers, drawn by the most miserably thin gray mare my eyes\nhad ever beheld. She was nothing but a bag of bones, and must have reached\nthe utmost age that horse ever attains. I was horrified to see so old and\npitiable an object driven so hard and fast, and could only console myself\nby thinking the gallop I then witnessed must surely be the last. But it\nwas not so; far from it. Day after day, but on Sundays especially, my\nRosinante might be seen flinging her wild hoofs into space, amid a cloud\nof dust, and generally in competition with a beautiful, wicked\u2010looking\nblack horse, sleek and well cared for, in dazzling harness, with red\nribbons in his mane\u2014a perfect little devil, as he took the bit between his\nteeth, and seemed to enjoy the eagerness of his driver, albeit the lash\nfell often on his sleek and steaming flanks. I delighted in that little\nblack horse. But to the last Sunday of our abode at Posilippo poor\nRosinante held her ground. And I can see her now, awful to behold, neither\nfatter nor thinner\u2014that she could hardly be\u2014than the first day, devouring\nthe ground beneath her, and flinging out her skeleton leg straight from\nthe shoulder, so that I could hardly see she touched the ground.\n\nThe chief amusement on Sunday afternoons of our own humbler friends and\nneighbors, the _vignaiuoli_,(91) was a game of bowls by the side of the\nroad, and in front of the wide\u2010gaping wooden doors of the strange\ndwellings cut in the rock where the inhabitants of Posilippo reside. Many\nof these are restaurants and taverns on a small and humble scale; and\nPadre Cataldo had been making vigorous efforts, not to discourage the game\nof bowls, but to induce the men to play in an open space near the Villa\nCasinelli, and consequently at some distance from the taverns. Like all\nItalians, and chief amongst them all, the Neapolitans are great gamblers.\nThe tavern\u2010keepers encourage this, because it promotes their trade; and\nthe games being carried on in front of their caverns (for such they really\nare) leads to incessant \u201ctreating.\u201d In this way, what between entertaining\nhis friends and losing his money at play, it often happens that the ill\u2010\nadvised _vignaiuolo_ returns to his home with his pockets empty; and the\nnext day the wife would come in tears to tell her sorrows to the good\nfather. Even our Paolino was never contented without an hour or two at\nbowls on Sunday afternoon. And we did not like to refuse him, for we were\nobliged to take him somewhat on his own terms; and these involved a very\nsmall sense of servitude, and a very large one that he had put us under\nsomething of an obligation by coming to us at all. Had he been a year or\ntwo older, his parents would not have allowed him to enter service,\nthinking it a degradation. But as he was very young, and rather restless\nand wanting change, it was decided that he might be allowed to work off a\nlittle of the exuberance of boyhood in our service. Even this could not\nhave been allowed had we not been friends of the Vernons; but as they are\nadored by all the _vignaiuoli_ and the inhabitants of Posilippo generally,\ntheir request could not be overlooked. Accordingly, Paolino, blushing and\ngrinning, was admitted to form one of our household. His father told us\nexactly what his son\u2019s labor was worth to himself, and that we were to\nhand over to him. It was all to go to the making\u2010up of Paolino\u2019s marriage\u2010\nportion. We were then to pay the lad a little over for himself, as pocket\nmoney. And this was to be done with discretion; not to prove a temptation\nto lavish expenditure. This is the way in which the marriage\u2010portions of\nboth boys and girls are made up. They work for their own parents, and the\nlatter put by the wages for them. When old enough, they are at liberty to\nundertake other and more profitable work. And from time to time there\ncomes a windfall\u2014a little work to be done in addition; or a specially good\nharvest, when the parents add something of the surplus to the portion of\nthe girl or boy then marriageable. There was a deep, dark\u2010eyed maiden, of\nthe ripe age of fifteen, with wayward black locks and a furtive glance in\nher liquid eyes like a startled fawn, about whose conduct there was a\nslight demur. Venturella (for such was her name, and it struck me at the\ntime as of evil omen) was at heart as innocent as a child of five. But\nthere was something in her shy yet daring nature which caused a certain\nuneasiness as to the fate of the timid, impulsive girl in this evil world.\nVenturella was fond of leaning over the low parapet which divided her\nfather\u2019s vineyard from the highroad; and when the brief Italian twilight\nhad sunk in the shades of night, and the brilliant stars, that seem so\nnear in those southern lands, had spangled the dense blue heavens with\ntheir myriad fires, Venturella would pretend she did not hear her mother\u2019s\nvoice calling her to come home. With arms crossed, she would lean on the\nwall, just breast high, and her star\u2010like eyes would seek their sister\u2010\nstars above with a vague, dream\u2010like wonder. What the stars\u2014and perhaps\neven more the moon\u2014said to Venturella we shall never know; but one of them\nmust have carried a message to a certain youthful Franceschino, whose\nhyacinthine locks clustered low over a brow of ivory, beneath which lay\ntwo eyes like the evening sky Venturella was so fond of; and whose teeth\ngleamed in the soft light like the white sea\u2010foam. Nobody knew; and as the\nbirds had all long ago gone to bed, none of them were there to whisper\ntales.\n\nFranceschino was the son of a _vignaiuolo_ who lived on the Vomero, the\nheights above Posilippo; and the little stolen interviews took place as he\ncame back from the city, whither he had been sent on his father\u2019s\nbusiness. From time to time the mother wondered what made her son so late\nin coming home; and one night she thought she would find out for herself\nwhether the dry bush hanging out before the wide doors of one of those\ncavernous taverns had tempted Franceschino to try the red wine within, and\nperhaps take a hand at cards with some other loiterers. Alas! for\nVenturella when the indignant matron found out the charm which had led to\nthe boy\u2019s delay. She was not likely to hold her tongue about it. Nor was\nhis father, who beat and cuffed him well; for boys of nineteen at\nPosilippo will meekly bear a cuffing from a parent, when they would not\ntolerate a finger\u2019s weight from any one else. Then came the rage of\nVenturella\u2019s mother; and spite of Padre Cataldo\u2019s having elicited the fact\nthat no greater wrong had been done than a few silly promises and one shy\nkiss, all Posilippo was loud in crying, Fie for shame! on the fawn\u2010eyed\nVenturella. At length those older than herself and wiser than her mother\ntook the matter in hand. Could nothing be done? Stern fortune answered,\nNothing. Venturella\u2019s marriage\u2010portion was far from being made up. She was\nan idle hussy, and only worked when she could not help it. The rest of the\ntime she paddled with naked feet in the silver sands, tempting the tiny\nwaves to kiss them, or gathered scarlet poppies from among the green corn\nand twisted them in her raven hair. Worse than all, Franceschino was\nequally behindhand with his fortune; and nineteen was too young for a lad\nto marry, though fifteen was none too soon for a Neapolitan maiden.\n\nThere was, however, something in the silent _sauvagerie_ of the strange\ngirl which made it evident to her betters that she could not be thwarted\nwith safety. There was something deeper than words in the sudden flash of\nthose wild eyes when they looked up fiercely, and then fell beneath the\nlong, fringed lids, and lay in shadow like pools in some dense forest.\nVenturella shrank, half angry, half ashamed, at every breath of blame;\nwhile her eyes grew larger and deeper, and the round, full cheeks became\npallid and sunken.\n\n\u201cWhat is to be done with that wayward girl?\u201d was the ever\u2010recurring\nquestion among the Vernons, who seemed to take upon their own charitable\nshoulders every burden that weighed upon their numerous friends, the\nPosilippians. At length a suggestion was made that Venturella should be\nsent to school far away from present associations, where she would have\nnumerous girls of her own age to divert her, and where she might learn\nfine needle\u2010work and embroidery\u2014the only thing, besides paddling in the\nsea and weaving wreaths of wild flowers, for which she had ever shown any\ndisposition. Meanwhile, a _dot_ was to be thought of for her; not so very\nmuch was wanted to make up the necessary sum\u2014about 4,500 francs. And then,\nwhen Venturella should be wiser and Franceschino older, who knows but what\nlove\u2019s young dream may turn out true at last?\n\nIt did not take us long to get intimate with the names and habits of the\nrural population around us. They were quite willing to receive us as\nfriends, and seemed to expect a ready sympathy from us in all their\nconcerns. Unlike the peasants of an English village, the best of whom, at\nleast amongst the women, cultivate so little acquaintance with each other,\nhere everybody knew everybody else; and though I do not pretend to say\nthere was less gossiping among them, it always struck me that there was\nless of that sour ill\u2010nature which is apt to characterize the English\ncottager\u2019s comments on her neighbors. No doubt this arises in a greater\ndegree from the nature of the people than from acquired virtue. It is only\nin northern, damp climes, like the English, that the necessary ills of\nlife are so heightened and intensified by the general sense of moral and\nphysical discomfort which a heavy atmosphere and a gray sky produce. We\nall know what it is to wake in the morning with a vague sense of\napprehension, as if the post were about to bring us a distressing letter\nwhich our imagination foresaw. We all know the ceaseless and unreasoning\nfeeling of being out of spirits which also tempts us to be out of temper.\nWe are acquainted with the blue\u2010devils, and we are generally taciturn and\ninclined to gloom. The Italian knows nothing of this. The very great and\nconstantly\u2010pervading influence these feelings have over our daily life is\nabsolutely beyond the limits of his experience, unless, of course, he is\nsuffering from a deep sorrow or a real physical malady. To the age of\neighty, he wakes in the morning with the same sensation of joyous energy\nor placid pleasure which we were beginning to lose before we were eight.\nHe is passionate; but he is not irritable. He has paroxysms of despair,\nbut he knows no constant gloom. Our impatience, our tendency to being \u201cput\nout,\u201d are enigmas to him. The small hindrances of every day and every hour\nare less a great deal to him than the swarms of his pestering southern\nflies are to us. _Pazienza_ (patience) is for ever on his lips; and it is\nno vain word, for patient he is to a degree which is exasperating to\nbehold. When he is waiting, he is not gnawing an invisible bit, as we are\ndoing, and grinding his teeth to powder. He is simply enjoying the being\nalive; and it does not much matter to him whether he chews the delicious\ncud of existence waiting at your door or sitting in his own home. You may\nmake him furiously angry; and as likely as not he will stab you in the\nback and in the dark. But you cannot make him cross, or fretful, or\npeevish, or low\u2010spirited. Depend upon it, if he is ever any one of these\nthings, it is high time to call in the doctor, who probably will declare\nhis case already hopeless. On the other hand, if anything\u2014and it may often\nbe a trifle\u2014thoroughly rouses a Neapolitan, it is fearful. It becomes a\n_rabbia_ (a rage), as they themselves express it; and then they are blind\nand deaf to reason and expostulation, and run amuck of all that comes in\ntheir way. It is possible that the extraordinary violence which seizes\nthem is, in a measure, purely physical, and that that also in a measure\ndiminishes their responsibility. Evidently, they think so themselves. _Era\nuna rabbia_(92) is considered almost an excuse for the worst crimes, so\nlong as these were committed in the heat of passion. And probably, in the\nlong run, this has seriously affected the moral sense; so that good and\nreasoning people fail to be as much horrified at some murder committed in\na brawl as we should be. They look upon an event of the kind almost in the\nlight of a mutual misfortune between the murdered and the murderer. It is\nat least certain that the line of demarcation which separates inward\nresentment from the outward act of guilt is more easily crossed by these\nchildren of the sun, and does not presume the existence of so much\nprevious demoralization as it would do with us. Yet I am far from\nintending to write an apology for the Neapolitan character. There is a\ngreat deal about them which is very graceful and very attractive; and when\nthey are really good and refined, they are most lovable. But this is\nexceedingly rare. As a people, they are venal, deceitful, mercenary, and\ntreacherous. But with it all, they are exactly like children; good or\nnaughty, as the case may be, but always children.\n\nFrank not being with us, the Vernons had undertaken to procure for us a\ncarriage and a pair of horses, with a well\u2010conducted coachman, to hire by\nthe month. Indeed, had Frank been there, he could not have done it half as\nwell as they did; for all these transactions require you to be acquainted\nwith the current charges and with the character of the people; and Frank\nhad no experience in either. The Vernons concluded the bargain for us with\nPascarillo, the man from whom they always hired a vehicle when they wanted\none; and a fine, handsome\u2010looking fellow he was, with the reputation of\nbeing rather a gay Lothario, but, on the whole, an honest man as\nNeapolitans go. Our carriage was delightfully roomy. It held four with\nadmirable ease, and five at a pinch, together with cloaks and cushions,\nluncheon and drawing materials, whenever we went on an excursion. In the\nevening, we could close it. We had two very fleet horses, not at all fine\u2010\nlooking, and rather undersized for the carriage, but the best little\nbeasts to go I ever saw. Our coachman was a veritable son of Jehu. He was\na miserable object, mean and despicable to look at, diminutive, with\nbleared eyes, a beardless chin, and the expression of a low coward. But\nnever have I sat behind such a coachman as that. I believe he would have\ntaken us up the wall of a house and down the other side in perfect safety.\nIt did not signify what his horses did, or what evident peril we got into,\nhe always managed quite quietly to bring us right again without any\nexpression of vehemence or alarm. Suddenly, one day, our coachman\nvanished. An old man appeared in his stead, and a pair of grays, larger\nthan the little brown horses. We made no remark, supposing it was an\naccident, and that our former equipage would return in time. That day we\nset out for the Vomero\u2014the height above Posilippo, covered with beautiful\nvillas, and commanding a superb view, or rather many views. The horses\njibbed. We were greatly alarmed. They could not be got up the hill, and we\nhad to go home. We sent an indignant message to Pascarillo, and hoped it\nwould never happen again. But it did happen; not once nor twice only. And\nthen Pascarillo was sent for in person to render an account of himself.\nThere he stood, six foot two, with broad chest, a forest of hair, and an\naugust presence. Ida, the universal spokeswoman, with her fluent Italian\nand her determined energy, left him in no doubt as to her opinion of his\nconduct. He heard her out silently and calmly, and then replied that the\n_signorina_ was quite right; he was conscious that his conduct had been\ninexcusable, and that we had serious cause for displeasure. He had not\nkept to his bargain, and he was aware of it. It should not happen again;\nand with a polite bow, he retired. It did not happen again. He had tried\nto take us in, and he had not succeeded\u2014just a little speculation that had\nfailed, and that was all! As for any rancor at being scolded, or any\nhumiliation at having to make an apology, such sentiments did not trouble\nthe breast of Pascarillo for a second. He probably only said to himself,\n\u201cBetter luck next time.\u201d Our little horses came back, and our impish young\ncoachman with them. We had never again to complain. But the impression\nmade on Mary\u2019s imagination by our coachman\u2019s face was such that she had\nscruples of conscience about Paolino being allowed to converse with him on\nthe coach\u2010box. Paolino was, therefore, seriously informed that for a\nfootman to talk to the coachman when the ladies were in the carriage was\nnot good manners. And from that moment silence was maintained; and\nPaolino\u2019s morals were left untainted, as he sat, radiant in clean white\ncotton gloves and a new necktie, enjoying the delights of drives and\npicnics at least as much as the persons on whose account they were\nundertaken.\n\n\n\n\nThe Female Religious Of America.\n\n\nIn this busy world of labor, where mankind seems exclusively bent on the\nacquisition of wealth, fame, or power, on fashion, folly, and empty\npleasures, how seldom we pause to consider seriously the diversity and\nmultiplicity of the elements of humanity by which we are surrounded! How\nfew, in their headlong career after vain desires, ask themselves if this\nworld were made for them alone; if the end and object of life, the first\ngift of a merciful Creator, is merely selfish enjoyment, or whether the\nsocial compact, as well as the laws of God, do not require of us to assist\nin every way possible our less fortunate or more afflicted fellow\u2010\ncreatures.\n\nIt requires little reflection or effort to distinguish the favorites of\nfortune\u2014those whose lot having been cast in pleasant places, shine in the\npublic regard like beings of a superior order. Worldly success is ever\nprominent, and its devotees are always ready to court its notice and extol\nits merits. To be fashionable is to be fawned upon; to be influential,\nsought after; to wield power is to be placated. Not so with the humble,\nthe poor, the ignorant, and the obscure; the victims of physical\naffliction or of moral degradation. They are usually shunned, often\ndespised, and, as far as possible, contemptuously ignored. They constitute\nthe outcasts of \u201csociety,\u201d and, when they come betwixt the wind and its\nnobility, are merely objects of contempt, barren pity, or downright\nloathing. Yet these very unfortunates comprise, even in our own favored\nland, a very large and, in an indirect sense, a potent constituent of our\npopulation. Always with us, no matter how much we may attempt to separate\nourselves from them, they appeal to us for help in the name of all we hold\nsacred; and their supplications, no matter how mutely made, if unheeded,\nare certain to be followed, even in this life, by a blight on our souls as\nwell as a curse to our bodies. The heart of man becomes hardened, the fine\nperception of fraternal love and charity with which he is naturally\nblessed withers and shrivels up, and he becomes a mere embodiment of self,\nan arid isolation, in proportion as he steels himself against the cries\nand sufferings of his kind. The very ignorance he will not help to remove,\nthe want and squalor he refuses to alleviate, rise up in judgment against\nhim, and, developing into crimes against life and property, haunt his\nfootsteps, and but too often mark him for their prey.\n\nAs in all things else, if we want an exemplar for our conduct in relation\nto our fellow\u2010beings, we must look to the church. Following the teachings\nof her divine Founder, from the earliest ages she has recognized the\nexistence of the vast amount of misery, poverty, vice, and ignorance which\nunderlies the surface of civilization, ancient and modern, and has used\nevery effort to mitigate it. While yet the successors of S. Peter were\nstruggling with the effete though polished paganism of the dismembered\nRoman Empire, and the greater part of Europe was enshrouded in the\ndarkness of barbarism, societies of holy men and pious women were\nestablished and sustained by the popes and the fathers of the church, to\nmitigate in some degree, by their prayers and good works, the evils which\nbeset society in its earliest transition state. The principal evils to be\ncombated at that time were the ferocity of heathenism outside the confined\nlimits of Christendom, and, within, the mental obscurity of the barbaric\ncatechumens and neophytes. Physical destitution, in our signification of\nthe term, was but little known beyond the limits of a few great cities;\nfor men\u2019s wants were few and easily supplied before the increase of\npopulation and the unequal distribution of property became general in the\nOld World. Therefore we find that the monks and nuns of the IVth century,\nand for many hundreds of years afterwards, devoted themselves mainly to\npreaching and teaching, to the multiplication of copies of the Holy\nScriptures, and to praying for the conversion of mankind. Thus the order\nfounded by S. Basil, Archbishop of C\u00e6sarea, in Cappadocia, Asia Minor,\nA.D. 362, and that of S. Benedict, Abbot of Norcia, in Italy, in 529, and\nthe numerous cenobitic communities which sprang from them, all more or\nless strictly observing the rules laid down by those great lights of the\nchurch, considered prayer, humility, and obedience the essential\nprinciples of their foundation.\n\nCongregations of women devoted to the worship of God, prayer, and poverty\nwere coeval with, if not anterior to, those of men; for we find that S.\nAnthony, in the latter part of the IIId century, placed his sister in a\n\u201chouse of virgins,\u201d of which she afterwards became abbess; and that on\nChristmas day, 352, in S. Peter\u2019s Church in Rome, Pope Liberius conferred\nthe habit and veil on Marcellina, enjoining on her a life of mortification\nand prayer. A little later, mention is made of SS. Marcella, Lea, and\nPaula as distinguished Roman women who forsook the world, and spent their\nremaining life in prayer and good works; the latter especially, who, with\nher daughter, built a hospital at Bethlehem, erected a monastery for S.\nJerome and his monks, and founded in Palestine three convents for female\nrecluses, of which she took personal charge. S. Basil found many such\nconvents in existence, and established several more within his\njurisdiction, one of which was presided over by his sister Macrina, at\nPontus. S. Chrysostom, Archbishop of Constantinople, up to 407, writes\nthat in Egypt the congregations of women were as numerous as the\nmonasteries; and S. Augustine, Bishop of Hippo (396\u2010430), built a convent\nof nuns, of which his sister was superior, giving it, in 423, a written\nrule, still followed by the religious who bear his name. Four years after,\nS. Benedict founded his monastery at Monte Casino, the rules of which,\nhaving been approved by Gregory the Great, in 595, have been very\ngenerally adopted by many religious bodies of men and women in Europe and\nAmerica.\n\nAt first these religious institutions were confined to Italy and the East;\nbut as the light of the faith gradually extended over Europe, religious\nhouses were multiplied; and though for a long time each convent was\ngoverned by its own inmates, and followed the ancient rules, modified in\nmany instances by peculiar circumstances, it was eventually found\njudicious to form them into distinct orders or congregations, in which all\nthe establishments of a particular foundation were governed by a general\nhead or superior. The strict requirements of prayer, humility, and\nobedience were still observed; but to these were added the education of\nthe children of the poor, alms\u2010giving, and other acts of external\ndevotion. Wherever a church was built, a monastery planted, or a number of\npeople gathered together to worship God, there was generally to be found a\nconvent, wherein the ailing might find relief; the afflicted, consolation;\nand the ignorant of the female sex, enlightenment. There the young whose\nparents were scarcely out of the slough of barbarism were taught their\ncatechism and the beautiful prayers and litanies of the church, as well as\nto weave, spin, and all the other duties of a civilized housewife. While\nthe clergy, secular and regular, went among the adults, preaching,\ninstructing, and baptizing, holy women were near at hand to pray for the\nsuccess of their efforts, and to show, by their gentle charities and meek\ndemeanor, the loveliness and beneficence of the Christian religion.\n\nOne of the greatest glories of the Catholic Church is that she, and she\nalone, freed woman from the grossest slavery, and placed her in her proper\nsphere of usefulness and influence. By the sacrament of marriage, woman\nwas made the honored equal of man; by her commandments and precepts, the\nchurch guarded her liberty and her purity, exalted her authority in the\nfamily, and recognized in her, even in death, the loving protectress of\nher offspring. But the church did more than all this. She gave to woman a\npart in her divine mission, a share in the most glorious task ever\nallotted to humanity\u2014the propagation of the law of the Most High; and the\ndispensation of his mercies and benevolence. We are not surprised, then,\nto learn that in past ages, \u201cwhen faith was young,\u201d the most gifted and\nhigh\u2010born of their sex in every Christian land, daughters of nobles and\nprinces, abandoning all the fascinations of the world, even those of\nroyalty itself, were to be found eager to take part in the great work of\nreligion, and consecrate their lives to prayer, penance, and charity, for\nthe sake of the poor and helpless.\n\nSuch humility and implicit faith in the goodness of God could not have\nbeen unavailing; and we who now enjoy the blessings of true morality, with\nthe refinements and graces of true civilization, seldom cast a thought\nback to the days of semi\u2010barbarism among our forefathers, when the only\nlight that illumined the gloom of the outer world proceeded from the lamp\nof the sanctuary, and the only asylum open to the affectionate and modest\nsoul of woman was the humble convent, where she could surround herself\nwith the innocent and unstained children of both sexes, and teach them the\nway of salvation. Beyond those sacred enclosures, in bygone days, were\nlittle but passion, grossness, and self\u2010indulgence; while within reigned\npeace, delicacy, and that knowledge which is justly called the beginning\nof wisdom. The world at length commences to acknowledge the incomparable\nservices of the monks and doctors, the penmen and preachers of the so\u2010\ncalled dark ages; but who shall count up the debt of gratitude we owe to\nthe thousands upon thousands of holy women who, spurning every earthly\nallurement, abandoning home, friends, and country, have sought, generation\nafter generation, to win an eternal reward by unceasing prayer and\ncontinuous acts of benevolence? Europe is still, as in the past, enjoying\nthe benefits of the labors of her pious daughters; India, China, and the\nfurthest confines of the eastern hemisphere are reaping the advantages of\nthe missionary efforts of the good nuns and Sisters; but America seems\ndestined to be in the future the field whereon the full effulgence of\nGod\u2019s goodness is to be made manifest in the persons of his chosen\nhandmaids.\n\nTo us especially the presence of so many pious and educated women is of\nincalculable advantage. The Catholic body in the United States has to\ncombat a much more insidious and dangerous foe than was ever arrayed\nagainst the church, even in her darkest days of persecution. Then\nChristianity had only to shatter the idol of imperial Rome, already\ntottering to its base; now we have to fight against what may be termed\ncivilized paganism, energetic, unscrupulous, and worldly\u2010wise, which aims\nat mere sensuous enjoyments, cultivates the intellect at the expense of\nthe soul, and even attempts to use the very evidences of God\u2019s works as a\njustification for their contempt of his law, and as argument against his\nexistence itself. At the worst, the rude pagan of Northern and Western\nEurope had a belief in a superior Being, and an acknowledged, innate\ndependence on his will; but the fashionable sceptic of to\u2010day, the learned\ndoubter of our schools and academies, believes in nothing but himself, and\nobeys his own whims as his highest rule of morality. It is a melancholy\nfact, but none the less true, that, according to official authority,\nnearly one\u2010half of the people of this country, male and female,\npractically believe in no form of religion whatever. Disgusted at the\nperpetual wranglings and disagreements of the sects in the name of\nChristianity; trained into mere cultivated animals by a system of public\ntuition which ignores God, or recognizes his existence only to ridicule\nand travesty his word; and freed from all the restraints which the church\nso wisely throws around her children from their earliest infancy, is it\nwonderful that the majority of the youth of this nation should grow up in\nthe actual deification of their own prejudices and passions? With so many\ninstances daily and hourly presented to our eyes, are we to be surprised\nthat persons thus reared should be so active in creating a public opinion\namong us which is not Catholic, nor even Protestant, but simply and\nabsolutely heathenish, without the refinement of the ancient Greeks to\nsoften its grossness, or the pride of the Roman to save it from cupidity\nand dishonor?\n\nHow all\u2010important is it, then, to parents to be able to find schools\nwherein their children\u2014those loved ones whom they have been instrumental\nin bringing into the world, and for whose eternal welfare they are\nresponsible\u2014will be cared for and instructed, taught habits of industry as\nwell as accomplishments, and in which bands of zealous, educated, and\nreligious women are ever ready to plant and nurture the seeds of virtue in\ntheir hearts, while shielding their young minds from even the shadow of\ncontamination. Such guardians of the female youth can only be found in the\nnunneries, convents, and schools of the Catholic Church. There their lives\nare wholly and exclusively devoted to works of benevolence, of which the\nreligious instruction of the ignorant is by no means the least. The world\nfor them has neither cares nor attractions; they move, live, and have\ntheir being in an atmosphere of order, prayer, and tranquillity, their\nvery appearance being in itself a homily of obedience and cheerful\nreliance on the goodness of their Maker.\n\nEven though the educational establishments of the nuns and Sisters are in\ntheir infancy, there are few parents who need deprive their children of\nthe advantages to be gained only in them. A quarter of a century ago, we\ncould only boast of sixty\u2010six such institutions, while now we have nearly\nfour hundred academies alone. What excuse, therefore, is there for a\npiously\u2010inclined mother or a discriminating father to imperil the\nhappiness and faith of her or his children by sending them to secular\nschools where the training they receive is worse than artificial? In the\nconvents they can be taught every accomplishment that befits a young lady,\nno matter how high her station in life, without being made the shallow\ncreature, the mere puppet of fashion, which we find so often \u201cturned out\u201d\nby the modern secular school\u2010mistresses of our time; without heart,\nfeeling, and, we might almost say, with no fixed perception of right and\nwrong.\n\nThen we have two hundred and forty select schools, or an average of four\nfor each diocese, attended by boarders or those living with their\nrelations. These differ from the academies only in degree, being intended\nfor the benefit of children whose position in life does not demand the\nsame elaborate mental culture, or whose school\u2010days are necessarily short.\nStill, they receive the same attention, and are subjected to precisely\nsimilar moral influences, as the others. But the poor\u2014those whose parents\nare unable to pay for their education\u2014are they to have none of the\nadvantages so freely accorded their wealthy neighbors? Must they be thrust\ninto the tainted atmosphere of our public schools, and left to shift for\nthemselves? Not so. The poor have ever been the primary objects of the\ngood Sisters\u2019 solicitude; and though they count their academies by\nhundreds, the number of their free schools, parish, orphan, and\nindustrial, may be reckoned by thousands, and the pupils by myriads.\n\nIn the Diocese of New York there are forty\u2010six of these female schools,\nwith over twenty thousand children, whose tuition is gratuitous, besides\nsome three thousand inmates of orphan asylums and other charitable\ninstitutions for juveniles. In the Philadelphia diocese there are thirty\u2010\nfive Sisters\u2019 free schools, containing nearly ten thousand scholars, in\naddition to the orphans. In Cincinnati, where the school system has been\nbrought to a state of great efficiency, the proportion of the attendants\nto the Catholic population is much greater. We have no means of\nascertaining the total number of pupils in the entire country; but if we\ntake the three dioceses above mentioned as a criterion, it will be found\nthat in the United States there are nearly three hundred thousand girls\ndaily receiving at the hands of the Sisters of various congregations a\nfree, thorough, and practical Catholic education. The expense alone of\nthis great work of charity, if not performed without compensation, would\nbe, judging from the cost of the public schools of New York, at least\neight millions of dollars annually. If we add to the number of girls in\nthe free schools the fifty or sixty thousand pupils in the six hundred and\nforty academies and select schools, we will find that about three hundred\nand fifty thousand female children are, in this year of grace 1874, under\nthe more than maternal care of the religious of the Catholic Church.\n\nWho can estimate the immense amount of good which is accomplished in this\nmanner? Who can measure the beneficent effects to the country produced by\nthese institutions of learning, which annually send to their homes so many\nthousands of children to gladden the hearts of fond parents, not so much\nby their varied acquirements, as by their gentleness of disposition and\nunaffected piety? If we cannot gauge the merits of the Sisters by what we\nsee before us, how much less capable are we of estimating the reward which\ntheir long years of devotion will receive from Him who said of little\nchildren, \u201cOf such is the kingdom of heaven.\u201d\n\nAs to the efficiency of the nuns and Sisters as teachers of the young\npeople of their own sex, there is scarcely a second opinion, even among\nnon\u2010Catholics. Many Protestants and unbelievers, while professing little\nor no religion themselves, but who would not see their fair daughters\nfollow their example, are careful to place them under the charge of the\ndaughters of the church, well knowing that, while their minds will be\namply stored with useful and elegant knowledge, their impressionable\nhearts will be guarded against the follies and sins of the world. If all\nthe communities in the country\u2014in number about forty\u2010five\u2014were to devote\ntheir entire labor alone to this great work of education, what a\nbenediction would they deserve from untold millions!\n\nBut they do not stop here. They go much further, and, with some few\nexceptions, their charity takes a far wider range. There are the poor\nwaifs, left deserted on the highways, to be rescued from impending death\nand nursed into consciousness; the orphan, who has been deprived of its\nnatural guardians, to be cared for; the unfortunate pariah of her sex, to\nbe consoled and encouraged to resume the path of virtue; the jails, where\nlie the agents of passion and crime, to be visited; the aged and infirm to\nbe taken by the hand, and led down the slope of life with tender\nsolicitude. Again, the deaf, the blind, the insane, the wounded, the sick,\nand even the incurable, are, according to their several needs, objects of\nunremitting attention. No evil is so deep\u2010seated, no affliction so bitter,\nno disease, whether of the mind or of the body, so loathsome, that the\nholy women of the church, with God\u2019s assistance, cannot assuage or cure.\n\nTo teach children is doubtless a responsible and laborious occupation, but\nnevertheless not without attractions; but to walk day and night the wards\nof a hospital, and breathe the dire contagion of disease, or, in the\nreformatory, to have the ear filled with the blasphemies and ribaldries\nlearned in the lowest dens of vice, are surely trials to appall the\nstoutest heart, and to test to the very utmost the constancy and zeal of\ndelicately\u2010nurtured women. Yet the capacious bosom of the church has room\nenough, has rest and shelter, for all classes of unfortunates. In the\nsixty\u2010two dioceses and vicariates into which the United States is divided,\nthere are nearly three hundred foundling, orphan, deaf, blind, and insane\nasylums, reformatories, protectories, industrial institutions, homes for\nthe aged, houses of the Sisters of the Poor, as well as infirmaries and\nhospitals; the former numbering over two hundred, and the latter about\nninety, or, collectively, an average of five charitable institutions for\neach ecclesiastical division.\n\nWhat a load of human misery is thus presented to the eye and committed to\nthe relief of the indefatigable followers of Christ! Who can imagine that\nhas not experienced it the daily round of toil, of watching, and\nsolicitude which constantly awaits the footsteps of the gentle Sister, as\nshe goes among her helpless clients in the foundling asylum, listens to\nthe tale of woe and crime from the still youthful lips of the repentant\nMagdalene, or comforts the outcast of his kind at the very foot of the\nscaffold. Watch how lovingly she hushes the deserted babe or the scarcely\nless pitiable orphan to sleep; how kindly she takes the hand so long\nstained by contact with the vicious and the guilty into her own soft palm,\nand breathes words of comfort and encouragement into ears long used only\nto curses and vile speech; how deftly she smoothes the pillow of the sick,\nand smiles on the second childishness of her _prot\u00e9g\u00e9s_, the aged and\ninfirm poor. At her approach, the suffering child forgets its pains and\nstretches forth its little arms for her aid; the hospital loses half its\n_ennui_ and gloom, and even the condemned cell is illumined by a ray of\nsunlight when she enters it. In fact, wherever there is poverty, sickness,\nor suffering of any kind, there is the place for the devoted Sister, and\nthere, in truth, she becomes \u201ca ministering angel.\u201d\n\nThe distribution of these asylums and hospitals is another interesting\nfeature in their capacity for general usefulness. In dioceses having an\nestimated Catholic population of over one hundred thousand, they may be\nthus classified: In Buffalo there is one to every 8,000 Catholics; in\nCleveland, St. Louis, and Louisville, one to 13,000; in San Francisco, one\nto 15,000; Albany, one to 18,000; in Pittsburg, Cincinnati, New York,\nBrooklyn, and Philadelphia, one to 23,000; Newark, Alton, and St. Paul,\none to 25,000; Boston, one to 30,000; Milwaukee, one to 40,000; Chicago,\none to 45,000; Galveston and Providence, one to 60,000; Hartford, one to\n80,000; and in Springfield, one to every 150,000. Of the less populous\ndioceses, Oregon has 1, Burlington 1, Columbus 2, Covington 3, Erie 1,\nFort Wayne 3, Grass Valley 3, Mobile 3, Monterey and Los Angeles 5,\nNashville 2, Natchez 2, Natchitoches 3, Nesqually 4, Portland 2, Richmond\n3, Rochester 5, Santa F\u00e9 2, Savannah 3, Vincennes 4, Wheeling 2,\nWilmington 1, Kansas 2, Nebraska 1, Charleston 2. Green Bay, Harrisburg,\nLa Crosse, Little Rock, Ogdensburg, Arizona, Colorado, Idaho, and North\nCarolina, all small dioceses or sparsely\u2010settled vicariates, have none.\n\nIt is impossible to give anything like an approximate report of the vast\nnumber of persons of all ages and sexes who find relief, advice, and\nprotection in these asylums and hospitals; for we are not aware that there\nis in existence any general or full returns from one\u2010half of the\ncharitable institutions scattered so broadcast over the country. We can\ntherefore only attempt to form an estimate of the whole by taking the\nstatistics nearest us. For example, in this diocese there are 572 girls\nand very young boys in the female protectory, 1,297 in seven orphan\nasylums, 546 penitents in the House of the Good Shepherd; while in one of\nthe four city hospitals, S. Vincent\u2019s, 950 patients were received during\nlast year. In Brooklyn there are 1,041 orphans, 208 penitents, 420\npatients in two hospitals, in addition to nearly 3,000 externs who\nreceived medical and surgical attendance, and 229 old men and women under\nthe charge of the Little Sisters of the Poor.\n\nThe care of these charitable institutions is not confined to any\nparticular community, but, according to locality or peculiar\ncircumstances, falls to the lot of different congregations. Thus of the\nasylums, 5 per cent. are under the charge of the Sisters of Notre Dame; 14\nper cent. under the Sisters of Mercy; 34 per cent. under the Sisters of\nCharity; 8\u2010\u00bd per cent. under the Sisters of the Good Shepherd; 6 per cent.\nunder the Little Sisters of the Poor; 2\u2010\u00bd per cent. each under the Sisters\nof Providence, Holy Cross, Sacred Heart, S. Teresa, and S. Dominic; 5\u2010\u00bd\nper cent. under the Sisters of S. Francis; 10 per cent. under the Sisters\nof S. Joseph; 1\u2010\u00bd per cent. under the Sisters of the Holy Name, S.\nBenedict, and the School Sisters of Notre Dame, besides a few others\nbelonging to different communities. Of hospitals, the Sisters of Mercy\nhave 18 per cent., the Sisters of Charity 37, Providence 2, Holy Cross 1,\nS. Francis 7, Little Sisters of the Poor 2, S. Dominic 5, S. Joseph 11,\nS\u0153ur Hospitali\u00e8res 2, Nazareth 5, and of all others 20 per cent.\n\nOf the teaching orders and communities in the United States who devote\nthemselves solely to the higher branches of education and, when possible,\nto the gratuitous instruction of poor children, we have the Ladies of the\nSacred Heart, the Ursulines, the Visitation, the Immaculate Conception,\nPresentation, and the Sisters of the Precious Blood, Loretto, S. Clare,\nOur Lady of Angels, S. Ann, S. Mary, Sacred Heart of Mary, Poor Handmaids\nof Jesus Christ, Humility of Mary, S. Agnes, Incarnate Word, Holy Child,\nand Daughters of the Cross. The Carmelites, Servite Nuns, and Sisters of\nS. Anthony are contemplative communities, though, in some special\ninstances, the poor are taught and assisted in their convents.\n\nA short account of the origin and growth in this country of some of the\nmost prominent orders and communities may be found acceptable to those who\ntake an interest in the successive developments in the church of works of\neducation and charity.\n\nThe first convent established within the present limits of the United\nStates\u2014if we except some, perhaps, that might have existed long years\nsince in New Mexico and California\u2014was that of the Ursulines, opened at\nNew Orleans in 1727, when that city was a portion of French territory. For\nabout sixty years, the nuns were either natives of France or of French\ndescent, till 1791, when, on the occasion of the revolt of the French\ncolonists in the West Indies, the convent, with its academy, hospital, and\nasylum, received large accessions from San Domingo. This house still\nexists, with an affiliation at Opelousas, and has branches in Pittsburg,\nCincinnati, St. Louis, Alton, Cleveland, Galveston, Green Bay, Mobile, and\nseveral other dioceses; that of New York, situated in what was formerly a\nportion of Westchester County, being the principal, containing forty\u2010seven\nmembers. The Ursuline Order was founded in 1532, at Brescia, Italy, by S.\nAngela of Merici, and was approved by Pope Paul III., in 1544, as a\nreligious congregation under the name of S. Ursula. Eighteen years after,\nat the request of S. Charles Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan, it was obliged\nto enclosure, created an order, and placed under the rule of S. Augustine\nby Pope Gregory XIII. Its special duty is the education of young ladies;\nbut a poor school is, when necessary, attached to each house.\n\nNext in point of time was the Carmelite Nunnery, erected in 1790, near\nPort Tobacco, Maryland, through the exertions of the Rev. Charles Neale.\nThat zealous clergyman, having visited Europe in that year, returned with\nfour nuns, of whom three are said to have been Americans and one English.\nOn account of the difficulties surrounding their locality, the community\nwas afterwards transferred to Baltimore, in 1831, and permitted to open a\nschool, which, however, was soon after discontinued. There are now in all\neight houses of this order in America, of which two\u2014the mother\u2010house and\none in St. Louis\u2014are of the reform of S. Teresa; the others, following the\nless strict rule, add the care of outside schools, asylums, and hospitals\nto their other duties. The Carmelite order of monks was founded in the\nearly part of the XIIIth century under the rule of S. Basil, which was\nexceedingly strict as regards mortification, prayer, and fasting. The\norder of nuns was not created for two centuries after, when John Lorett,\ntwenty\u2010sixth general, founded a female institute under the rule of his\norder, and established several convents in France. In 1452, Pope Nicholas\nV. approved the foundation; and in 1457 Fran\u00e7oise d\u2019Amboise, the widowed\nDuchess of Brittany, built the house at Vannes, in her own possessions,\ntaking the veil and habit at the same time. A hundred years later, S.\nTeresa of Castile, finding that many innovations and relaxations had crept\nin, undertook the work of reform, and her efforts were eventually approved\nby Pope Pius IV. in 1562. Thus there became two branches of the order\u2014the\nMitigated Carmelites, whose rule is not so austere as those of the\nDiscalceated, who follow the reform of S. Teresa. The latter are obliged\nto observe perpetual silence, abstain from the use of flesh\u2010meat, sleep on\nstraw, and wear habits of coarse serge and sandals instead of shoes. Their\nhabit is a brown gown, scapular, and hood, and in choir a white cloak and\nblack veil.\n\nSoon after the arrival of the Carmelites in Maryland, an effort was made\nby a few Catholic young ladies in Philadelphia to establish a religious\ncommunity. The principal movers were Miss Alice Lalor and a couple of\nfriends. Her companions, however, having died before anything tangible\ncould be effected, Miss Lalor left Philadelphia for Georgetown, D. C., in\n1798, and established herself there as a teacher. Gradually she drew\naround her young persons of similar views and tastes, and a community was\nformed, at first simply for the purpose of prayer and education; but when,\nin 1816, their rules had been approved by the Most Rev. Leonard Neale,\nArchbishop of Baltimore, and recognized by the Holy Father, they became a\nregular branch of the Visitation Order, and submitted to solemn vows and\nenclosure. Their houses now number about twenty, and are to be found in\nBaltimore, Brooklyn, St. Louis, Mobile, Covington, Dubuque, and several\ndioceses in the South and Southwest. The order dates back to 1610, when it\nwas founded by S. Francis de Sales and S. Jane Frances, Baronne de\nChantal. It was at first merely a congregation, but by permission of Pope\nPaul V. it was changed into a regular order, the essential principles of\nits rule being the education of the children of the rich, though many free\nschools for the poor are found attached to its convents.\n\nWhile Miss Lalor was working silently in the District of Columbia, there\nwas another pious woman\u2014one whose name is destined to be for ever\nillustrious in the annals of the church in America\u2014nobly struggling\nagainst innumerable difficulties in the same holy cause. This was Mrs.\nEliza A. Seton, the foundress, in the United States, of the glorious\nSisterhood of Charity. Like all men or women whom Providence selects for\ngreat ends, Mrs. Seton passed through a long novitiate of sorrow and\ntrials before she was found qualified to lay the corner\u2010stone of an\ninstitution which, above all others, has made Catholic charity and womanly\nself\u2010sacrifice most useful, most respected and beloved amongst us. Born in\nNew York on the 28th of August, 1774, of wealthy Protestant parents, her\ninfancy and girlhood were passed amid all the scenes of pleasure and\nluxury that family position and affluence could command; and it was not\ntill she had married and entered upon matronhood that she experienced her\nfirst great grief. This arose out of the death of her father, Dr. Bayley,\nwho, in his devotion to the sick immigrants, at that time very numerous,\nfell a victim to ship\u2010fever. His daughter, it would appear, felt for him\neven more than filial affection and respect, and his sudden death made\nsuch an impression on her spirits and such inroads on her health that she\nwas obliged to make a tour in Europe in company with her husband, also an\ninvalid. Her mind had early been imbued with strong religious impressions,\nas well as cultivated by careful study and extensive reading; and during\nher stay in Southern Europe, where she had ample opportunities of visiting\nthe churches and convents, and of seeing for herself the beauties and\nglories of Catholicity, she first began to long for that rest for the\nweary and doubt\u2010distracted soul which is only found in the bosom of the\nchurch. Her husband, dying in December, 1802, was buried in Italy; and\nshe, now left the sole guardian of her children, returned to America. But\nthe thoughts that had come to her in the solemn basilicas of the Old World\nfollowed her to the New, and would not be dismissed. She struggled much\nwith them, prayed fervently, sought the spiritual advice of many pious\nfriends, and finally, in 1805, entered the church. We of this generation\ncan hardly conceive the sacrifices Mrs. Seton made in thus becoming a\nCatholic. So rife and uncompromising was the spirit of Protestant bigotry\nin those days that the moment it was known that she had become a convert,\nevery friend and relative, the companions of her youth and the sharers of\nher blood, shrank from her with positive loathing, as if her touch was\ninfectious. All forsook her except her children. But she was a woman of\nundaunted courage as well as of implicit faith. She resolved to leave New\nYork, and take up her residence in Baltimore, then the only city in the\ncountry where Catholics had either influence or social standing. Here, by\nthe advice of the archbishop, she determined to devote herself to\nteaching, and, to carry out her idea more fully, to establish a community.\nAccordingly, in May, 1809, we find her, with four companions, setting out\nfor Emmittsburg to take possession of a log house and commence her grand\nenterprise. On the first of June, these pioneers of the Sisters of Charity\nin the United States arrived at their destination, and on the day\nfollowing, the Feast of Corpus Christi, they appeared in the little church\nof the college in their habits\u2014\u201cwhite muslin caps with crimpt borders,\nblack crape bands round the head and fastened under the chin, black\ndresses, and short capes similar to those of the religious of Italy.\u201d\n\nAt first the community was called the Sisters of S. Joseph; but in 1810,\nit was agreed to assimilate it to the Congregation of Charity in Europe,\nand, through the influence of the Rev. F. Flaget, it was hoped that some\nSisters might be induced to come from France to take charge of the little\ncommunity. Owing to the disturbed state of the times, F. Flaget failed to\nprocure the desired aid; but he brought with him the rule of the Sisters,\nwhich, having been adopted by the community, was approved by Archbishop\nNeale, January 17, 1812.\n\nThe growth of the new congregation was slow, for many unforeseen\ndifficulties had to be encountered; but having been planted deep in the\nsoil, it gradually grew strong and vigorous, and, when it once commenced\nto throw out offshoots in every direction, they took root and flourished\nwith wonderful vitality. In 1814, some Sisters were sent to Philadelphia\nto take charge of the new Catholic orphan asylum; and in 1817, Mother\nSeton, with Sisters Cecilia O\u2019Conway and Felicit\u00e9 Brady, came to New York,\nat the request of Bishop Connolly, to superintend a similar institution\nestablished by the New York Catholic Benevolent Society. They selected a\nsmall frame house on Prince Street, where now stands their noble asylum.\nHow the houses of this illustrious community have multiplied during the\nlast half\u2010century is truly astonishing, and can only be attributed to the\nhelp of a Power more than human. Nearly one hundred asylums and hospitals\nare now under their charge; about the same number of academies and select\nschools claim their care; free schools and scholars beyond computation\nenjoy the blessings of their pious instruction; and their convents and\nestablishments dot the country in every direction. In New York alone,\nwhere the mother\u2010house of the province is situated at Font Hill, Yonkers,\nthere are attached to it 409 professed Sisters, 92 novices, and 13\npostulants, who conduct 72 different establishments in New York, Jersey\nCity, Brooklyn, New Haven, Providence, and Columbia. In Newark, in the\nmother\u2010house of the diocese, at Madison, N. J., there are 190 members; and\nin almost every section of the country where Catholicity is at all known,\nthe simple black dress and cape, and the small white collar, of the\ndaughters of S. Vincent de Paul are familiar objects. This congregation,\nthough dating only from March 25, 1634, when Louise de Marillac, widow of\nAntoine Le Gras, secretary to Marie de Medicis, the first mother of the\nDaughters of Charity, consecrated her life to God, has now, it is said,\nmore than twenty thousand members throughout the world, all, like their\nsainted founder, Vincent, unremittingly employed in works of divine\ncharity.\n\nNext in order of usefulness, though not in age, come the Sisters of Mercy.\nThis congregation is of Irish origin, having been founded in Dublin, as\nlate as 1827, by Catharine McAuley, a native of that county. Miss McAuley\nwas born September 17, 1787, of Catholic parents; but they dying when she\nwas quite young, her guardianship was assumed by a Protestant family, who\nbrought her up in their own faith\u2014if faith it may be called; but the girl\nearly developed a remarkable inclination towards Catholicity, and, when of\nproper age, reunited herself to the church of her fathers. At thirty\u2010four\nshe found herself the possessor of a large fortune bequeathed to her by\nher adopted father, who had become a Catholic on his death\u2010bed; and this,\nwith all her subsequent life, she resolved to dedicate to the service of\nthe Almighty. She therefore built at her own expense, in the most\nfashionable part of the city, a magnificent convent, and, associating with\nherself several other ladies, commenced the work of instruction and the\nvisitation of the sick poor in their homes and in the public hospitals.\nThe Most Rev. Dr. Murray, Archbishop of Dublin, gave her all the\nassistance in his power, and, after consulting with the Holy See, approved\nthe new foundation. In 1841, Pope Gregory XVI. confirmed the congregation,\nwhich is now so strong in the United Kingdom that it numbers 133 convents,\nbesides numerous charitable institutions. Unlike the Sisters of Charity,\nthis congregation has no superior\u2010general, each convent being independent\nand self\u2010governing.\n\nThough introduced into this country by the late Bishop O\u2019Connor, of\nPittsburg, about thirty years ago, the Sisters of Mercy have spread\nrapidly over the United States. They have already nearly 50 asylums and\nhospitals, 80 academies and select schools, an immense number of free\nschools, convents almost as numerous as those of the Sisters of Charity,\nand considerably over 1,300 members. They are to be found in New York, the\nNew England dioceses, Albany, Philadelphia, Louisville, Pittsburg, most of\nthe old dioceses, and many of the newer ones.\n\nThere are other orders and congregations among us, if not so numerous,\nequally meritorious; for instance, the Ladies of the Sacred Heart, who\nconduct about 30 academies and select schools, in which the very highest\norder of education is imparted; the Sisters of Notre Dame, also a teaching\norder, having the care of 20 houses, in which there are 431 boarders and\nover 1,200 day scholars, besides about 14,000 pupils attending the free\nschools, half that number in the Sunday\u2010schools, in addition to those\ntaught in evening schools and instructed in various other ways. This\ncongregation, though founded in 1804, by Mother Julia Billiart, assisted\nby Marie\u2010Louise\u2010Fran\u00e7oise, Vicomtesse Blin de Bourbon, and Catharine\nDuch\u00e2tel, at Amiens, has so extended its labors that it now counts in\nBelgium, England, and Central America 68 establishments, 12,000 scholars\nin its boarding and day schools, and over 32,000 children gratuitously\ntaught in its free schools. It was introduced into the United States, in\n1840, by the Most Rev. Dr. Purcell, Archbishop of Cincinnati, and, in\nconnection with its convents and academies, has charge of 70 asylums. The\nSisters of S. Joseph, numbering about sixty communities, have, by the\nlatest returns, 42 academies, 20 select schools, 20 asylums, and 9\nhospitals. These latter are specially charged with the instruction of the\ncolored children of the South. Then there are the congregations of the\nThird Order of S. Francis and of S. Dominic, whose duties are equally\nmultifarious; the Sisters of the Good Shepherd, whose mission it is to\nreceive and reform the very outcasts of female society, and to save young\nwomen from lives of vice and crime; and the meek Little Sisters of the\nPoor, who actually go about from door to door, from store to market\u2010place,\nbegging, in the name of holy charity, for the crumbs of our tables to feed\ntheir aged and decrepit dependents who are tottering on the verge of the\ngrave. Besides these, there are many other communities of pious women in\nour midst, quietly and unostentatiously pursuing their career of goodness,\nthe history of whose foundation the limits of an article will not allow us\nto descant upon. Their actions are doubtless recorded in another world,\nwhere lie their trust and promised reward.\n\nThus we have seen how our glorious land is twice blessed by the presence\nof those pure\u2010minded, zealous, and meek followers of their Saviour. We are\nblessed in their prayers and in their active charity. No one is so rich as\nto be independent of their good offices; no one so poor, afflicted, or\ndegraded that they cannot succor and console. The vilest dens of infamy in\nour crowded cities are made almost sacred by their tread; the far\u2010away\nprairies and forests resound with their chants and songs of praise; while\nthe daintily\u2010nurtured daughter of the aristocracy is taught, in some\nconvent of the Sacred Heart, or of the Ursulines, to shine in and adorn\nher social sphere without forgetting that she is a Christian; the poor\nlittle negro children of the everglades of Florida, or the savage Indian\nbabes of the Pacific slope, are kneeling at the feet of some Sister of S.\nJoseph or of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary, lisping their first prayer.\nWithout exaggeration, it may be said that there is no ignorance so dense\nthat they will not succeed in expelling; none of the many ills to which\nflesh is heir that they cannot assuage; and that they, and they alone, of\nall their sex, \u201ccan minister to a mind diseased, and pluck from the heart\na deep\u2010rooted sorrow.\u201d\n\nAnd yet all this toil and pain and solicitude bring with them, even in\nthis world, abundant rewards. Who that has ever entered a convent or a\nreligious house has not been impressed by the gentle air of cheerfulness\nand inward peace that sits on the faces of its inmates? We look in vain\nfor the anxious glance that betrays an unsatisfied mind, or the deep\u2010drawn\nlines that tell a tale of worldly struggle and discontent. No; every\ncountenance is serene, placid, and healthful. This is the reward of noble\nworks well performed, the luxury of doing good, to which the women of the\nouter world are for the most part strangers. But what shall be the eternal\nrecompense for those who thus abandon kindred and home, friends and\ncompanions, the pleasures of the world and the passions of the heart, to\nfollow in the footsteps of the Saviour who was crucified for us, and to\ncarry out his precepts, regardless of all consequences, to the end? Such\nis the holy nun who storms heaven with her prayers for the salvation of\nmankind and the pardon of national crimes; such the humble Sister who\ndevotes the energies of her mind, the years of her life, nay, her very\nlife itself, to the service of God\u2019s poor, helpless, and sinful creatures.\nCan a nobler ambition than this find place in the human mind? Can the\nglory, the charity, and the all\u2010absorbing beneficence of the Christian\nfaith find brighter examples and purer exponents than within the convents\nwhich so numerously overspread and are continuing to increase on the soil\nof our young republic?\n\n\n\n\nSwitzerland In 1873.\n\n\n\u201cGoing to Lyons to\u2010morrow! Impossible!\u201d exclaimed Mrs. C\u2014\u2014, whom my friend\nand I accidentally met in the hall of the Berner Hof Hotel at Berne this\nautumn. \u201cYou cannot surely go without seeing the Lake of Lucerne! I should\nbe quite ashamed to confess that I had been so long in Switzerland and was\nleaving without having been up the Rigi. In fact, if you persist in this\nresolution, you will have to come back again next summer expressly for\nthat, and for nothing else. Think what trouble that may be! And all from\nwant of a little energy now; for I feel quite certain you have no\nappointment to take you to Lyons in such a hurry. I know you cannot have,\u201d\nshe added smiling, and noticing some hesitation on our part, \u201cso you must\njust change your plans again and come off to Lucerne with our party this\nafternoon! You may go to Lyons later, if you like, but there will be time\nenough to think about that!\u201d\n\nIt was quite true. There was no special reason for our starting for Lyons\nthat day, no pressing necessity for our leaving Switzerland just then. The\nLake of Lucerne, moreover, had originally a prominent place in our\nitinerary, and the weather was so fine that there seemed fair hope of the\nprescribed sunrise from the Rigi. But, if the truth were told, we were\nweary\u2014weary not in body but in soul; and had taken such an aversion to the\ncountry, from a spiritual point of view, that a strong antidote\u2014such as\nLyons with its Notre Dame de Fourvi\u00e8res and general Catholic life would\nafford\u2014had become to us absolutely essential.\n\nSix weeks previously we entered Switzerland\u2014two ladies overflowing with\nenthusiasm. The picturesque was certainly a main object in our journey;\nfor where else can it be equalled, or found in such variety? Still, we had\nno intention whatever of leaving religion and devotion behind us, and\nnever doubted for a moment that we should succeed in finding means of\nsatisfying our desires.\n\nIt was our first visit to this region, and our knowledge of it, we are\nbound to confess, was most superficial. But how little does one know of a\nforeign country until either long residence or some special circumstance\nexcites the curiosity or rouses the attention! Catholics even, who as a\nrule interest themselves more than all others about the religious state of\ncountries outside their own\u2014instigated by that principle of universal\nbrotherhood, that bond of spiritual union, which the church so effectually\npromotes\u2014seldom know, notwithstanding, the details of current\necclesiastical foreign events, unless accident brings them to the spot. A\ngreat commotion like the warfare going on in Geneva, and the fact that the\nattitude of the Catholic community in that town was most noble, and those\nwilling \u201cto suffer persecution for justice\u2019 sake\u201d neither few nor faint\u2010\nhearted, had of course a large place in our view of the case. But except\nthis, and the broad facts that Geneva, Berne, and Zurich were Protestant,\nLucerne and its neighborhood Catholic, we are constrained to admit that\nour acquaintance with Swiss matters, geographical, historical, or\necclesiastical, was very limited. It is little wonder, therefore, that we\nlent a willing ear to the thoughtless assertions of fellow\u2010travellers, who\ntold us we should find Catholic churches scattered all over these\ndistricts. Without further questioning, then, we proceeded, commencing by\na few days at Lausanne and along the shores of the lovely Lake of Geneva.\nThence we made our way to Bellalp, Zermatt, the Eichhorn, and, finally,\npassing round to the northern side of the great mountains, wandered on\nfrom the Faulhorn, Scheideck, and Wengern Alps to M\u00fcrren, where we rested\nfor several days, having \u201cdone\u201d sunsets and sunrises, peaks and glaciers,\nuntil our minds were filled with the most magnificent images. Still,\ndespite all these wonderful beauties of nature, which seemed every day to\ndraw us more closely and more humbly towards the Creator, an irrepressible\ndreariness had crept over us, from the absence of all visible signs of\nunion with him or of grateful worship on the part of man. Certain it is\nthat the result our present wanderings had produced by the time we reached\nBerne was a longing for a Catholic land and Catholic churches, where we\nmight pour forth our praises, and give utterance to our thanksgivings for\nthe glorious sights we had seen; a longing that had grown stronger than\nthe mere love of the sublime and beautiful, for its own sake, of which we\nwere, nevertheless, most ardent votaries.\n\nIt may be said that, coming to Protestant cantons as we did, we ought not\nto have expected a profusion of Catholic churches; the Catholic population\nis small, especially in the highland districts, and labors under many\ndisadvantages. True, and after the first disappointment was over, we were\nready to study our excursions, and often to shorten them, in order to hear\nMass on Sundays. Yet even so, more than once we could not even accomplish\nthis; and the difficulty of approaching the sacraments under these\ncircumstances is most distressing to travellers. Besides, to an outside\nobserver, piety does not seem to flourish; or, where it does, the Catholic\ncongregations have that subdued look peculiar to all persecuted\ncommunities, so extremely depressing to witness. Many believe that, for\nthis and other reasons, the battle now raging in Geneva and elsewhere will\nbe productive of great gain, and that Switzerland and Germany will emerge\nfrom a life resembling that of the early Christians in the Catacombs, only\nwith tenfold power and vigor. At the present moment, one is chiefly led to\nreflect on the false interpretation of that freedom so much boasted of by\nthe Swiss Protestants\u2014if one may so style the advanced liberals and free\u2010\nthinkers who come to the surface nowadays\u2014and remember how easily an\nAmerican Catholic could make them blush by his report of how differently\nthese matters are treated across the Atlantic.\n\nOur path had nowhere, as yet, it is true, touched on a Catholic canton;\nand there all _might_ be different, though everything we could glean led\nus to a contrary expectation. An old German who had been coming to\nSwitzerland for the last thirty years, and whom we met _en route_, told us\nit was all the same. \u201cNo religion anywhere. Nothing can be more\nuninteresting than the people,\u201d he asserted. \u201cBent only on money\u2010making\nand fighting about religion\u2014religion, that is to say, in name, but not in\ndeed; the disputes are purely party questions, and have no real,\nsubstantial foundation. Peaks and passes are alone worth a thought,\u201d he\nadded. On these he was inexhaustible, but always dismissed the other\nsubject with contempt. Later, when our own observations in the Catholic\ncantons completely altered our opinions, we also ascertained that he, like\nso many of the summer tourists one encounters nowadays, was perfectly\nindifferent to all forms of worship, and blind to those signs and\nmanifestations of the inner being which still abound in all that region.\nMeanwhile, however, his report, coming from one familiar with every part\nof Switzerland, carried conviction to our untutored minds, as, no doubt,\nhappens in similar cases every day.\n\nBut it was not, perhaps, the difficulty about, and paucity of, Catholic\nservice which so much roused our indignation, once we saw the small number\nof our co\u2010religionists, as the universal aridity, tepidity, nay, coldness,\nof all the inhabitants of these favored regions. Nor could we gain much\nknowledge about them. The ordinary tourist never meets a Swiss above the\nclass of guides and hotel\u2010keepers; the former, in the Protestant cantons,\nare a stolid, uncommunicative race of men, with all their intellects\napparently given to their horses and _Trinkgeld_; the latter too much\nengrossed in the feverish anxiety of drawing up large bills and providing\nfor the passing crowd to give attention to any other matter during the\nsummer season. Besides, the line of interest does not run in the direction\nof the \u201cpeople\u201d; if it did, these men would no doubt also labor to supply\nthe demand; as it is, few have time, or, having time, inclination, for\nanything but scenery, and next to scenery\u2014sometimes first\u2014come food and\nlodging.\n\nIt was unreasonable, many observed, to aspire to more. \u201cA thorough\nknowledge of a nation is not to be picked up in passing\u201d; \u201cOne comes to\nSwitzerland for the scenery only\u201d; \u201cThe people cannot be judged by outward\nappearances,\u201d were phrases which met us at every turn whenever we ventured\nto make a remark. \u201cDoubtless the people _may_ be excellent,\u201d was our\nreply; \u201cbut outward appearances _are_ an index to their minds. In the\nTyrol, Bohemia, Brittany, and other Catholic lands, all who \u2018run may\nread.\u2019 \u201d Mountain chapels, wayside crosses, holy pictures inside and\noutside their dwellings, speak a language common to all Christian hearts;\nand the indifferentism and dryness of soul which their absence betokens in\nthe Bernese Oberland, especially amidst its grandest scenes and greatest\ndangers, cannot fail to leave a most painful impression on every\nthoughtful traveller.\n\nThe only information we found it easy to gather related to everything\nconnected with material subjects. In a surprisingly short space of time,\nwe knew, from our guides, the names of all the peaks, and many, too, of\nthe smaller summits, and, above all, could speak in an authoritative tone\nof the best hotels in different places, the price of _pension_ in each,\nwhether the Kellners were civil, the living better in one than another,\nCook\u2019s tickets an advantage or not, where the carriage\u2010roads ended and the\nriding or walking began\u2014in fine, became very clever on all those points\nwhich form the staple of conversation at all Swiss hotels and halting\u2010\nplaces. Yet we conscientiously employed our eyes and ears, so as to come\nto no wrong conclusion. The more one travels in Switzerland, the more\nnecessary this precaution seems. Whatever efforts we made, however,\nbrought about the same unfavorable result. The whole aspect of the country\nwe traversed justified our German acquaintance\u2019s harsh criticisms. Even\nthe Protestant churches, which, if only from a pure spirit of opposition,\none might expect to show a flourishing exterior, are in Switzerland more\nthan usually bald and cheerless. Unlike English churches of the present\nday, they are completely innocent of the slightest approach to decoration,\nand very often without sign of communion\u2010table or anything even\nrepresenting it. Sometimes a bare slab of marble, without altar\u2010cloth or\ncovering, stands in the middle; but often this is brought out only at\nstated periods for the administration of the Lord\u2019s Supper, and, as a\nrule, the seats are ranged round the pulpit\u2014the only centre of attraction\nin these buildings. Of all nations, the English show the most tangible\nsigns of life. They, at least, bring themselves more prominently forward;\nfor the first paper that strikes the eye on entering every Swiss inn is\nthe list of services and chaplains supplied to Switzerland for the season\nby the English Church Colonial Society. Churches they do not possess,\nexcept in a few favored spots; and many are the lamentations amongst the\nwandering Britons at being obliged to content themselves with the drawing\u2010\nroom or billiard\u2010room of a large hotel, where probably the evening before\nthey had assembled amidst gaiety and laughter. It is an arrangement, too,\noften complained of by the other inmates\u2014one which led to a serious\ndispute in one place, where the German visitors claimed their right to the\nbilliard\u2010table at the hour appointed by the English chaplain for his\nservice. Still, there they are, mindful, at least, of \u201cSabbath worship,\u201d\nwhen the majority of their co\u2010religionists see no necessity for\nremembering it.\n\nCrowds of Anglican clergymen were also found travelling, on their own\naccount, in the Protestant cantons. Five\u2010and\u2010twenty were together one day\nat M\u00fcrren, of all shades and hues, too; from my Lord Bishop, with his wife\nand daughters, to the young Ritualist curate, in his Roman collar and\notherwise Catholic dress, the highest ambition of whose heart is to be\ntaken\u2014or rather _mistaken_\u2014for a true Catholic priest. And very hard it is\nto distinguish him, at first sight, from the genuine character, so exact\nhas he made the superficial copy. After a little conversation, however, it\nis easy to know that such unmitigated abuse of the Episcopal dignitary who\nsits at the other end of the room, and of the whole bench of bishops,\ncannot belong to the true church, which not only enjoins but practises\nsubmission to authority. Intellectual these High\u2010Churchmen always are, and\nwould make pleasant company but for the crookedness of their \u201copinions,\u201d\nand their unconcealed exultation, too, at the assumed progress of the so\u2010\ncalled \u201cOld\u2010Catholic\u201d movement, which they represent as undermining the\nwhole of Switzerland. Catholic Switzerland they always meant; for even\nthey could not blind themselves to the fact that in the Protestant\ndistricts there is little left to take away. One could only wonder how,\nwith their hankering after Catholic things, they could in any way feel\ndrawn towards those cantons; and it more than ever strengthened our\nconviction (though nothing offends them more than such a suggestion) that\nthe sole binding link between these English High\u2010Churchmen and the\nmiscellaneous companies which assemble at the \u201cOld\u2010Catholic\u201d meetings is\ntheir common ground of rebellion to mother church\u2014which, as daily\nexperience infallibly proves, gathers together all grades of belief and\nunbelief outside the Catholic fold, and induces them to ignore all their\nimportant differences in the bond of a hatred which is truly preternatural\nto the spouse of Christ!\n\nWet days at Swiss hotels are proverbially fruitful of talk and discussion;\nand nowadays these religious subjects are certain to be started by some\nnew Ritualistic acquaintance, who evidently presumes on sympathy from\nEnglish\u2010speaking travellers. Above all, should he or she discover that you\nare a \u201cRomanist,\u201d as they choose to call us children of the true church,\nit is most curious to observe what an irresistible secret attraction\nimpels them to follow you, from morning to night, with their arguments and\nspiritual \u201cviews.\u201d Oh! what days of annoyance continued rain has cost us\non those mountain\u2010tops\u2014days of true annoyance unmixed with good; for in no\nsingle instance did we find any permanent impression made on these\nRitualists, who, of all Protestants, are the most hopelessly blinded and\nobstinate. And most fully do we agree with a high ecclesiastical authority\nwho recently remarked to us that all other shades of churchmen, including\nthe evangelical or Low Church, respond to the call of grace more readily\nthan these men and women, whose stand\u2010point is that pride which obscures\ntheir spiritual vision. After two or three such discussions, we foresaw\nthe point exactly when they would dogmatically assert that they, \u201ctoo, are\nCatholics,\u201d and that an irreparable breach was to be the immediate\nconsequence of the solemn protest which it became our duty to make on each\nsimilar occasion. Before we reached M\u00fcrren, therefore, we had learnt to\navoid them. By that time, too, we found that all their information about\n\u201cOld Catholics\u201d was derived either from the English newspapers or those\nforeign ones which, in rainy, stay\u2010at\u2010home weather, are studied in those\nplaces with persevering assiduity.\n\nWe ourselves endeavored to gather from this source some of that\ninformation unattainable elsewhere, but very soon indignantly threw aside\nthese tainted productions. Our German friend was right on this point,\ncertainly; for anything more shameful and less religious than the attacks\non the priesthood in general, the false statements put forward, and the\nundisguised rationalism\u2014not to give it a worse name\u2014of most of these\nforeign newspapers which flood the reading\u2010rooms of Switzerland, it would\nbe difficult to imagine. Not a single Catholic newspaper came under our\neye in the _pensions_ and hotels. If they were taken in, they were\ncertainly hidden away; and the tone of the German press, in particular,\nperfectly justified the assertion which has been hazarded\u2014namely, that it\nhas altogether fallen into the hands of the once\u2010despised Jews. Alas!\nalas! the \u201cIsraelites\u201d of the present day may well exult and lift up their\nheads in the remarkable and daily\u2010increasing manner so noticeable all over\nEurope, where the faith of Christians is so tepid and their sight so weak\nas no longer to distinguish the true from the false in these proud and\n\u201cenlightened\u201d days!\n\nDisheartened by all we saw and heard, we frequently turned to the poor, in\nthe hope of better feelings; and although no outward token of man\u2019s\nhabitual remembrance of his Maker met our observation, we tried to lead\nthe guides and peasants to speak, now and then, on these subjects. In\nvain, however. They appeared to have no thoughts to communicate, no\nfamiliarity with the supernatural, nor other answer but the dry, curt one\nto give: _Wir sind alle Reformirten im Canton Berne_\u2014\u201cWe are all Reformed\nin the Canton of Berne.\u201d\n\nThis hard, unsympathetic tone of mind jarred on our highest and tenderest\nfeelings; and the grander the surrounding scenery, the more painful its\nimpression. It had reached its climax a few days before we met Mrs. C\u2014\u2014 at\nBerne.\n\nHaving slept one night at Lauterbrunnen, and the next morning proving\nlovely, we determined to go on at once to Grindelwald. There had been no\nservice of any kind at the village of M\u00fcrren; but here a bell rang early,\nand we had thus begun the day by lamenting that it did not summon us to\nMass before starting on our journey. But this being a strictly \u201cReformed\u201d\nneighborhood, it was foolish to nourish any such hope. The sparkling rays\nof sunlight on the Staabbart, however, the drive through the magnificent\nvalley, the rushing torrent, and opening views of our favorite mountains,\nfree from the veil of mist that had covered them on the previous day, the\nexhilarating air, and general brightness of a grand nature, gradually\nrestored us to more contented dispositions. The day was splendid. The\nWetterhorn, Finsteraarhorn, Eiger, and Jungfrau stood erect before and\nabove us, as we drove up to the hotel, in all their grandeur, sternness,\nand soft beauty withal; their spotless snows and blue glaciers running\ndown amongst and fringing the green, placid pastures below, whilst\nGrindelwald itself, the pretty village of scattered _ch\u00e2lets_, lay bathed\nin sunshine at their feet. It was the beginning of September; yet the\nvisitors were so few and imperceptible that we felt as if we alone had\npossession of this wonderful scene. Nor was there a breath of wind or a\ncloud in the sky, in an atmosphere of transparent brilliancy\u2014one of those\nrare days which seem lent to us from Paradise, when one\u2019s only thought can\nbe that of thankfulness; one\u2019s only sigh, \u201cLord! it is good for us to be\nhere.\u201d We had been sitting for some time on a grassy slope, drinking in\nall this ethereal beauty, and gazing silently on those \u201cgreat apostles of\nnature, those church\u2010towers of the mountains,\u201d as Longfellow so\nbeautifully calls them, when our thoughts wandered on to the perils\npeculiar to such a spot. Of the two glaciers right before us, one\u2014the\nsmaller one, it is true\u2014had all but disappeared within the last four\nyears. It had melted away gradually during an unusually hot summer, the\nguide had told us, though fortunately without causing any considerable\ndamage in the valley underneath. Very different it would be if the larger\none were to vanish; and we naturally reverted to a description we had\nrecently read, by a well\u2010known dignitary of the English Church, of the\nappalling catastrophe near Martigny, in 1818, when the whole district was\nmade desolate and villages swept away, in consequence of the breaking\u2010up\nof a similar glacier under the Lake of Mauvoisin. We had just said that if\nany people should \u201cstand ready\u201d it certainly was the Swiss, when suddenly,\nas if in response to our meditations, the silvery sound of a church\u2010bell\ncame wafted to us through the balmy air. The building itself was out of\nsight, hidden behind a small knoll; so we hastened at once on a voyage of\ndiscovery in search of it. The day and hour were so unusual that a faint\nhope arose of finding some out\u2010of\u2010the\u2010way Catholic convent, forgotten,\nperhaps, by the old \u201cReformers.\u201d It was only the small church of the\nvillage, however. The bell was still ringing, and the door open, but no\none near; and, entering in, nothing was to be seen save an empty interior\nwith whitewashed walls, where a few benches alone indicated that it served\nany purpose or ever emerged from its present forlorn and desolate\ncondition. Perplexed for an explanation, we appealed to some villagers in\nthe vicinity\u2014old women who, had it been a Catholic church, were just the\nsort of bodies one would have found telling their beads in some corner of\nit at every hour of the day; but blank countenances were all we elicited\nby our first question of why the bell was ringing or what service was\nabout to begin. \u201cService! What service?\u201d they answered inquiringly.\n\u201cDivine service\u201d\u2014_Gottesdienst_\u2014we replied, making the question more\nexplicit, the better to suit their capacities. \u201cDivine service? Oh! that\nis only on Sundays, of course,\u201d was their answer; and it never seemed to\ncross their minds that people ought also to pray on other days. In fact,\nno single person in the place could give any reason for the tolling of\nthis bell (evidently the Vesper\u2010bell of old Catholic times), except that\nit rung regularly on every afternoon at 3 o\u2019clock. A poverty\u2010stricken,\nunhealthy\u2010looking population they were, too\u2014just the class that stand much\nin need of spiritual comforts\u2014of those aids from heaven which the poor\nneed more palpably even than the possessors of material wealth, in order\nto bring them through the troubles of this weary world, and to sustain\ntheir courage at every step. Both here and at Lauterbrunnen, despite all\npolice prohibitions, our carriage was followed by numbers of sickly and\ndeformed children, whose monotonous drone was unenlivened by one bright\nlook, by any petition \u201cfor the love of God,\u201d or any of those touching\nvariations of the Catholic beggar in every part of the world, which, no\nmatter what one may say at the time, do appeal to a Christian heart more\nthan any one is aware of until made sensible of their impression by the\nchilly effects of their absence on such occasions.\n\nBut our spirits revived, as we returned to Interlachen, at sight of the\nold Franciscan convent standing embosomed in its stately trees. Hitherto\nwe had only passed through the place on our way to and from the mountain\nexcursions; but to\u2010morrow would be Sunday, and the Catholic service, we\nhad ascertained, was in the convent church. Away, therefore, with our\nsaddened hearts and dismal musings! The plain would evidently treat us\nmore charitably than the highland country had hitherto done! Beautiful,\nlovely Interlachen! lying amidst its brown, flowery meadows, under its\nstately walnut\u2010trees; the white\u2010robed Jungfrau rising opposite in all her\ndignified beauty, unaccompanied by Monk or Eiger, or any of her snowy\ncompeers. The sun was setting as we drove up to the hotel Victoria just in\ntime to see its deep\u2010red, crimson farewell, thrown across the brow of the\ngrand mountain, melt gradually into the most tender violet, as if in\nmourning for his departure. And as we sat on the balcony all that evening\nin the stillness of the autumnal air, watching the full moon shining on\nthe \u201cpale Virgin,\u201d making her glitter like silver, and stand out, in all\nher majesty, from the dark, enclosing line of intervening hills, we felt\nonce more how glorious is God\u2019s creation in all its simple magnificence!\nHow grand, how awful it can be! And again, at dawn, we beheld the same\nspotless peak receive with a tender, pink blush the first rays of the\nreturning sun, to dazzle us henceforward during all that day by her\ntranscendent loveliness through an ethereal veil of transparent delicacy,\nand to draw our thoughts heavenward, pointing upwards like a faithful\nangel guardian anxious to remind us that all this earthly beauty is as\nnaught compared to the bright visions which await us beyond!\n\nIt was nine o\u2019clock that morning before the church\u2010bell sounded; but then\nwe sallied forth with full hearts, and made our way along the beautiful\navenue of walnut\u2010trees towards the old convent. With elastic gait we\nascended the ancient steps of the ivy\u2010mantled church, rejoicing in the\nsign\u2010post which boastfully pointed \u201c\u00e0 l\u2019Eglise Catholique\u201d! But vain were\nour illusions! How could we have been so sanguine! This fine old convent,\nas perfect as at the time of its suppression in 1527, is far too valuable,\nthink the authorities, to be given up by an antagonistic government to the\nsuccessors of its original owners. A large part of the dwelling portion,\ntherefore, is used by the commune of Interlachen for its public offices,\nwhilst the remainder is divided between the different foreign\n\u201cpersuasions\u201d that visit Interlachen every summer. That high\u2010sounding\ntitle, \u201cl\u2019Eglise Catholique,\u201d belonged only to a small chapel constructed\nout of one end of the church\u2014the smaller end\u2014and floored, moreover, up to\nhalf its height. The other and larger portion was given up for the English\nChurch service, whilst the Free Kirk of Scotland and \u201cl\u2019Eglise Evang\u00e9lique\nde France,\u201d were installed here and there amongst the cloisters. Most\ncorrectly, then, did an old man, who was found sweeping out the passages,\ndescribe himself as employed by _tous les cultes_.\n\nNor was the Catholic congregation more permanent than the others. It\nappeared to consist chiefly of strangers, and the priest, a Frenchman, who\nspoke in feeling accents of the persecution going on throughout the\ncountry, announced that although the following day would be a holiday,\nthere could be no Mass; for he had to quit Interlachen on that same\nevening.\n\nAs we came out from the convent, sad and gloomy, a pretty sight awaited\nus: hundreds of boys and girls, of all sizes and ages, marching to the\nstrains of a band towards a large meadow hard by, where gymnastic and\nother games were about to commence. Orderly and bright\u2010looking they all\nwere, accompanied by half the population of the town and neighborhood,\nchiefly attired in the picturesque Bernese costume, and including,\nevidently, the fathers and mothers of the young generation. It was a most\nbrilliant yet soothing picture, as we beheld them passing on under the\nshade of the wide\u2010spreading, lofty walnut\u2010trees; the little maidens in\ntheir fresh summer dresses, embroidered muslin aprons, and hats crowned\nwith masses of flowers, standing out against the green background of the\nnearer mountains, whilst the lovely Jungfrau beyond shone out resplendent\nbeneath the rays of a dazzling sun. Long stood we watching them; for it\nwas a scene to enjoy and treasure up in one\u2019s memory. What a pity that the\nrecollection should be darkened by the after\u2010knowledge that none of this\nmerry crowd had begun the day by divine worship! And noteworthy was this\nfact, making all the difference between this and the Catholic practice in\nsuch matters. Nor shall we fail to remember, if ever again taunted by\nthose Protestants who consider it a sin to be light\u2010hearted on the\nSabbath, that this mode of keeping Sunday is not sanctioned by a Catholic,\nbut by one of their own cherished \u201cReformed\u201d cantons. Catholic the\nproceedings truly were, in being orderly, innocent, healthful, and\nrational; but most _un_catholic in not having even allowed the time\nnecessary for religion. No Catholic ecclesiastical authority sanctions\nsuch amusements on Sundays without the whole population having had the\nopportunity of hearing Mass first\u2014a matter that is not left optional, but\nmade obligatory on every member of the church. Here, on the contrary,\nthere is only one service in the Protestant church, and that at 10 o\u2019clock\nA.M.; so that, even had they wished it, none of these merry\u2010makers could\nhave been present. Nor, during the whole of that day, did we hear any\nneighboring village\u2010bells summoning their flocks to prayer. Indeed, many\nof the villages are without any churches. There is none, for instance, at\nM\u00fcrren, nor in many of the hamlets along the Lake of Brienz, nor in\nvarious other spots which might easily be named. One hears a vast deal\nabout Swiss \u201cpasteurs,\u201d and pretty stories are written wherein they figure\nlargely; but it is only natural to conclude that if there are numberless\nvillages without churches, they are equally without \u201cpasteurs\u201d; and one\ncannot help wondering how the sick and poor fare in these distant parts in\nthe ice\u2010bound winter weather, nor avoid fearing that there is much truth\nin the dreary suggestions we often heard expressed, that they constantly\ndie and are buried without any spiritual ministrations whatsoever.\n\nAnd yet the Swiss, and especially the people of this neighborhood, did not\nalways voluntarily abandon the ancient church, nor lapse of a sudden into\nthe indifferentism now so general. But no doubt the present apathy is the\ninherited result of the mixed notions which actuated their forefathers,\nand the absence amongst them of that pure attachment to their faith and\nthe unconquerable steadiness and manliness by which the adjoining cantons\nof Unterwalden and Uri have so eminently distinguished themselves up to\nthe present hour.\n\nWhilst meditating over all we had seen and heard, we accidentally opened\nZschokke\u2019s _History of Switzerland_ at the page where he speaks of those\nmixed feelings which were perceptible in all the religious divisions\nbetween 1527 and 1528. The writer is a Protestant, and therefore his\nversion is all the more interesting, as admitting the coercion it was\nnecessary to use for the introduction of the new doctrines\u2014doubly\ninteresting, too, as read here, at Interlachen, on the spot and by the\nlight of the similar system\u2014for there is nothing new under the sun\u2014at\npresent in full operation in so many of these same cantons.\n\nAfter speaking of various disputes, he says: \u201cFor of those who raised\ntheir voices against the new creed, thousands upon thousands were\nactuated, not by piety or love of the good and true, but by interested\nmotives under pretence of religion. Amongst the country people, many\nexpected greater liberties and rights by the introduction of the recent\ndoctrines; and when these were not granted to them, they returned to the\nCatholic faith. The moment the town council of Berne suppressed the\nconvent at Interlachen, and appointed preachers of the reformed church,\nthe peasants, highly pleased, thought and said: \u2018No convent mesnes, no\ntaxes, no feudal service.\u2019 But when the town only transferred the taxes\nand service to itself, the peasants, through pure anger, became Catholic\nagain, drove away the Protestant preachers, and marched in armed bodies to\nThun. Berne hereupon appealed to its other subjects, offering to leave the\nmatter to their arbitration; for the town desired peace, knowing well that\nneither quick nor efficient aid could be counted on by them from the\nneighboring cantons, which were all Catholic. These subjects of Berne,\nflattered by the confidence reposed in them by the authorities, decided in\ntheir favor, saying: \u2018The worldly rights of the convent go to the worldly\nauthorities, and are in no wise the property of the peasants.\u2019 On hearing\nthis, the rebellious country\u2010folk of Grindelwald returned to their homes,\nbut in no contented mood, although the town had relieved them from many\nburdens, in favor of their suffering poor.\u201d And curious it was to note the\ntight hold still retained on these same worldly goods by the commune of\nInterlachen, and to see, after a lapse of three centuries, their _bureaux\nadministratifs_ still located in the cloisters; nor can it be supposed\nthat the \u201csuffering poor\u201d of Grindelwald have reaped much benefit from\ntheir three centuries of secular masters, if we may judge by the\nnumberless beggars who now over\u2010run that whole district.\n\nHaving then related that much discontent at the state of affairs was felt\nby the monks of Interlachen, the abbot of Engelberg, and the inhabitants\nof Oberhasli\u2014a district which, though under the protection of Berne, held\nmany rights and privileges independent of that town\u2014Zschokke proceeds:\n\u201cWhen the commune of Oberhasli, encouraged by the monks of Engelberg and\ntheir neighbors of Unterwalden, likewise drove away the Protestant\nparsons, and sent to Uri and Unterwalden for Catholic priests, those of\nGrindelwald did the same; Aeschi, Frutigen, Obersimmel, and other villages\nfollowed their example, and the Unterwaldeners even sent them military\nassistance across the Brunig. But Berne flew to arms at once, and her army\nmarched on rapidly, before the secession had time to increase. The timid\nand discontented peasants fled in a panic, and even the Unterwaldeners\nretreated over the mountain. Berne then punished Oberhasli severely\u2014took\naway its public seal and many other privileges for a long period; for ever\ndeprived the valley of the right to elect its own landamman; had the\nringleaders of the movement executed, and forced the others to plead for\npardon on their knees, surrounded by a circle of armed soldiers. Frutigen,\nthe Simmenthal, and others were also brought back by main force to the\nProtestant faith\u201d\u2014if \u201cfaith\u201d that can be called, we may add, which shows\nno sign of life in all these places.\n\nIn no happy frame of mind we pushed on next day to Berne, half inclined to\nabandon the remainder of our Swiss tour\u2014an inclination which had ripened\nto a determination by the time we met our friend in the hall of the Berner\nHof on the following morning.\n\nIn Berne, as in other of the large Swiss towns, Catholicity has made\nitself both seen and felt of late years, and a handsome church has\nrecently been built there, in place of the one which was formerly shared\nwith the Lutherans in that extraordinary manner still in operation in one\nor two Protestant parts of Germany. Some friends of ours, who had passed\nthrough Berne about fifteen years ago, had been at Mass early one Sunday\nmorning, and, returning at a later hour, found the same church in\npossession of the Protestants, the only difference observable being the\n\u201ccommunion\u2010table,\u201d then placed at the end opposite to the Catholic altar,\nand the chairs turned round in that direction. This anomalous state of\nthings has now ceased, and the new Catholic church is both pretty and well\nserved. But the week\u2010day congregation is very small, and the half\u2010past\nseven o\u2019clock Mass we found but thinly attended. Still, there it is, even\nso, in striking contrast to the Protestant cathedral. In pleasing\ncontrast, were more truly said; for this beautiful pre\u2010Reformation\ncathedral, with its splendid porch of the Wise and Foolish Virgins, its\nelaborately\u2010carved choir, and its old stained\u2010glass History of the Blessed\nEucharist, is lifeless and colorless in its present aspect. Though we went\nthere at an early hour, every door was closed, except one at the side,\njealously guarded by a cross old woman, who hindered all entrance until we\nhad each paid thirty centimes. Then we were handed on to another\nwoman\u2014between them they had charge of the church\u2014who ran from one party of\nsight\u2010seers to another, showing off the different points in a loud voice,\njust as if it were a museum or any other secular building! Had it been an\nEnglish cathedral church even, there would probably have been a daily\nservice; but then such a pious practice seemed quite as unfamiliar as to\nthe peasants of Grindelwald. The old guardian stared at us in blank\nsurprise on our asking the question, and\u2014seeming to imply that she\ndetected we were \u201cPapists\u201d\u2014proudly answered, \u201cCertainly not! Only on\nSundays, and then at nine o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\nAs usual, no communion\u2010table stood in the place of the high altar, but\nhere, as in many other Swiss churches, a large black marble table which\nserves for this purpose stands right in front of the choir and pulpit, and\nthe stalls immediately near were assigned to the \u201cGuardian of the Holy\nSupper\u201d and one or two other of the church functionaries. In the cathedral\nsquare outside, the town has recently placed the beautiful statue of\nRudolf von Erlach, the great hero of Laupen, one of the starting\u2010points of\nits history, in 1339. It was impossible, as we passed it, not to remember\nthat the most glorious victories of Berne were fought and won in those\nolden days of the true faith, when her sons knew how to unite the love of\nfreedom with devotion to the church and obedience to her authority, and\nthat one of the prominent causes of that great and victorious battle was\ntheir refusal to recognize the Emperor Louis of Germany, simply because\nthe pope had recently excommunicated him. Those golden days of Bernese\nhistory! of which her Protestant historian, Zschokke, is constrained to\nsay that \u201cthe town, which was threatened with entire destruction, became\nso victorious as henceforward to threaten destruction to all her enemies.\nHer citizens had fought with one thousand iron arms against ten thousand;\nall with one mind and one heart; no one for himself, but all for the good\nof the town. In this manner alone can wonders be effected.\u201d\n\nFull of sad thoughts on the degeneracy of her present children, who strive\nto use their powerful influence over the rest of their confederates for\nthe persecution and suppression of their former faith, we turned to seek\ninformation at the railway station about the trains to Lyons or M\u00e2con,\npersuaded that a further stay on Swiss ground would only increase our\ndiscontent; and, truly, our wrath grew to fever heat when, passing by the\nbook\u2010stall, we found it filled with the most shocking caricatures\u2014and\nworse\u2014of everything Catholic, nay, everything religious. Illustrated\n_Lives of the Saints_, _Of the Pious Helen_, and such like titles, got up\nin the most attractive form, first caught our eyes and rejoiced our hearts\nwith the hope of better things; but anything more scandalous than the\nscenes there depicted, the low, disgraceful ideas put forward, in the\ncoarsest style, by both pen and pencil, we never before beheld exposed in\nany civilized community. In England the police would at once have\ninterfered and seized the whole establishment. Here they covered the book\u2010\nstall; and the woman who presided showed us undisguisedly that they were\nwritten and printed in Germany, and sent here for sale. What hope is there\nfor populations who, in the name of religion, can countenance such\nwickedness?\n\nIt was at this stage of our perambulations and in this condition of mind\nthat, on returning to the hotel, we had encountered Mrs. C\u2014\u2014. She was no\nCatholic, but, entering into all our feelings, she protested that we\nshould find everything quite different in the Catholic cantons, if we only\n_would_ make the experiment. She had been there often, and knew that we\nshould be delighted with them. To every objection we made she had a ready\nanswer. Besides, what is more magical than the bright faces and kind looks\nof friends\u2014above all, of old friends, when met abroad? As a natural\nconsequence, therefore, it was not surprising to us to find ourselves,\nafter all, seated with this pleasant party in the train which that\nafternoon was leaving for Lucerne. Our equanimity, it is true, was\ndisturbed at the junction at Olten\u2014by the sight of that manufacturing town\nfull of the \u201cfree thought\u201d and advanced liberals of modern society, the\nhead\u2010quarters of Old\u2010Catholic meetings, and the only place where, at that\ndate, the parish church had been given up to one of the few rebellious\npriests, whilst its true pastor was obliged to live in a small private\nhouse, where he still ministered to his old flock as in the days of early\nChristian persecution. But we soon reached Lucerne and a Catholic\natmosphere, and what befell us in that quarter, what we saw and heard from\nits people, shall be related in the following chapters to our kind and\nindulgent readers.\n\n\n\n\nEpigram on Abraham Lincoln.\n\n\nScivit in extremis statuum defendere f\u0153dus:\nReddidit optatam collecto milite pacem.\n\n\n\n\nGrapes And Thorns. Chapter XII. A Taper Lighted, And A Taper Blown Out.\n\n\nBy The Author Of \u201cThe House Of Yorke.\u201d\n\nOur two travellers did not know how far removed they were from the common\nways of life till they were again on land. The strangeness of a sea\u2010voyage\nhad made their own strangeness less apparent; but when they saw homes, and\nall the daily interests of life moving on as once they had moved for them,\nfamiliar things assumed in their eyes a certain grotesque appearance, and\nthey scarcely knew themselves or each other. How hollow sounded the\ncareless laugh they heard, how terrible the jest! How impossible they\nfound it to comprehend how business and pleasure could absorb men\u2019s souls!\nTo them this gay and busy world was wandering recklessly on the brink of\nan unseen precipice which they alone could see.\n\nAnnette Gerald had adopted her husband\u2019s inner, as well as his outer,\nlife\u2014had, as it were, stepped inside his guilt, and wrapped it round her,\nand his world was henceforth her world. With his eyes she saw a leafless\nand flowerless England sweep behind her as they sped onward to London; and\nshe shrank, even as he did, when the thick fog of the great city took them\nin and shut them as if in walls of stone.\n\n\u201cWe cannot stay here,\u201d her husband said. \u201cI should lose my senses in\ntwenty\u2010four hours. This fog makes me feel like a smoky house. Are you too\ntired to go on? Do let us have sunshine, at least.\u201d\n\nNo, she was never too tired to go on with him.\n\nThey had a compartment to themselves, and, weary as they were, started on\nagain, a little relieved in mind. No one had accosted them in either of\nthe great cities, and there seemed to be no immediate danger. Overcome\nwith fatigue and loss of sleep, they both leaned back in the soft\ncushions, and slept soundly till some sound or a slackening of their speed\nawakened them.\n\nThe London fog was far away, and they found themselves passing slowly and\nsmoothly through a cloud\u2010world of blue and silver. There was no land in\nsight. The window at one side showed them a cliff that might be alabaster,\nand might be an illuminated cloud. At the other side, a deep\u2010blue sea,\nfoam\u2010flecked, and a deep blue sky half\u2010veiled in silvery mists, were so\nentangled with each other that only where the full moon rode could they be\nsure that it was sky, and only where the wave ran up and curled over in\nfoam almost within their reach could they be sure that it was water.\n\n\u201cThe fairies have taken possession of Dover,\u201d Annette said. \u201cI hope they\nhave not whisked the steamer away. No; here it is. We will stay on deck,\nLawrence. It is not cold.\u201d\n\nAs they steamed out into the channel, another scene of enchantment took\nthe place of the ordinary view. As they withdrew from the town, it showed\nonly a crescent of lights; lights clustered all over the foamy water, and\nstars clustered in openings of the fleecy clouds above, so that they moved\nas if swimming through constellations.\n\n\u201cI hardly know which is up and which is down,\u201d Lawrence said. \u201cIs Europe\nmade of clay and rock, like America?\u201d\n\nHis wife was leaning on his arm, and they stood looking over the rail of\nthe little steamer. \u201cWe might come this way a hundred times, and not see\nsuch a sight,\u201d she replied. \u201cBut there is land beyond. That is France\u2014that\nlow, dark line. In a few hours we shall be in Paris. I shall be glad to\nrest when we get there.\u201d\n\nBut when they reached it, Paris was as much too light as London had been\ntoo dark. In the one city a foe might stumble upon them at any moment; in\nthe other, he might see them from afar. They went to a dingy little hotel\nin the old part of Paris, and stayed there one day, trying to find rest,\nbut in vain. Every sound made their hearts beat more quickly; every glance\nand sudden step near them sent the blood to their faces. Besides, the\nquiet of the place afforded them no distraction from their thoughts. The\nnoises in the narrow street on which the hotel was built were all shut out\nby the heavy portal, and the quadrangle was as still as a forest solitude.\nIvy climbed about the windows, a tiny fountain overflowed and ran in a\nstream across the pavement, and the only persons who appeared were the\nclergymen who were the chief patrons of the house, and now and then the\nuniversal waiter and servant of servants, Fran\u00e7ois, who shuffled across\nthe view, a napkin over his arm, and his heavy head dropped forward, so\nthat only a great ball of frowzy dark hair was visible.\n\n\u201cWe cannot stay here,\u201d Annette said, as they stood by the window the first\nevening after their arrival. \u201cIt is too much like a prison.\u201d She felt her\nhusband start, and made haste to add: \u201cIt is stupid, and I fancy the air\nis not good. Besides, Paris is too gay, if we go out into the city. We do\nnot want gaiety, Lawrence. We want some earnest employment for our time.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe will go to Rome,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cRome!\u201d she hesitated. \u201cOne meets everybody there,\u201d she said; \u201cand there\nare so many idlers, too, who have nothing to do but talk of other people\u2019s\naffairs. Are you sure you wish to go to Rome, dear?\u201d\n\n\u201cI must go! I have an object in going there,\u201d he exclaimed, excited by the\nfirst show of even slight opposition. \u201cI stake all on Rome. Whatever\nhappens to me, let it happen there.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe will go, then,\u201d she answered soothingly. \u201cAnd we may as well set out\nto\u2010night. Nothing is unpacked, and we have three hours before the train\nstarts.\u201d\n\nHe walked to and fro over the stone floor of their little sitting\u2010room,\nwhich allowed only half a dozen paces, so narrow was it. \u201cThree hours!\u201d he\nmuttered. \u201cIt is too much! Cannot we go out? There must be a church near.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; in France and in Italy there is always a church near.\u201d\n\nThey went into the fading sunset, and soon found themselves entering the\nold church of S. Etienne du Mont. Inside, the pale gloaming was changed to\na richly\u2010tinted gloom that grew every moment deeper. Here and there a lamp\nmarked some picture or shrine held in special veneration, and far away in\nthe apse of the church, where the shadows stretched off till they seemed\nreaching out to eternity, burned a single point of light, as small as a\nstar.\n\nAnnette clasped her hands over her husband\u2019s arm, and leaned her cheek\nclose to his shoulder, as they stood near the door and looked at this\nlittle beacon. \u201cO Lawrence!\u201d she whispered, \u201cit is like the light the\nmother sets in the window to guide her children home at night. O me! O\nme!\u201d she cried pitifully. \u201cWhat is to become of us!\u201d\n\nA crown of tapers burned about the shrine where the body of S. Genevi\u00e8ve\nhad once lain, and an old woman sat near by with her prayer\u2010book,\npresiding over a table piled with tapers of different lengths, her white\ncap showing like a little heap of snow in the place.\n\n\u201cPeople buy tapers for a sou or two, and set them by the shrine to honor\nS. Genevi\u00e8ve and remind her of their needs,\u201d Annette said softly as they\napproached this illuminated space. \u201cWould you like to offer one?\u201d\n\nLawrence Gerald had been wont to mock somewhat at such observances in the\nold time before life had been shattered about him and shown eternity\nbetween its gaps. Now he went eagerly forward, selected a taper, lighted\nit, and placed it, whispering a prayer while his fingers lingered on it.\nAnnette followed his example, placing her offering beside his, and making\nher request also.\n\nAs they were turning away, a sacristan approached them from the next\nchapel, and asked if they had any article they would like to have touched\nto the inside of the shrine. Annette immediately gave him her rosary,\nwhich he laid an instant where the saint\u2019s body had lain.\n\n\u201cAsk him if I can put my hands in,\u201d Lawrence whispered.\n\n\u201cCertainly you can!\u201d she answered with dignity, seeing the man look rather\ncuriously at him.\n\nShe held the lid open, and her husband put both his hands in, and\ninstantly drew them back, his eyes dilating and his color rising, as if he\nhad put them into fire.\n\nThey walked on past the grand altar, and knelt in a nook by a\nconfessional. The daylight faded, and the smouldering fires of the windows\nwent out in black and ashen gray. But when no outer brightness was left to\nenter and show the glories of that house of God, the lamps and tapers\ninside burned with a clearer flame. They shed a faint illumination through\nthe vast twilight; they spread a soft gilding up the height of the\nclustered pillars, and made tender the gloom brooding in the roof that\narched over their capitals; they sparkled on the crowns of the saints, and\ntouched marble faces with such a holy radiance that a soul seemed to shine\nthrough them.\n\nA slight stir in the confessional near them showed that a priest was\nthere. \u201cLawrence,\u201d said Annette suddenly, \u201cmay I go to confession?\u201d\n\n\u201cWait a minute,\u201d he answered. \u201cI will go first, and then you will only\nneed to say that you are my wife.\u201d\n\nHis tone revealed a bitter pain; for unconsciously her question had shown\nthat there was no weight on her conscience save that which he had placed\nthere, and that she was more in need of consolation than of forgiveness.\n\nShe sank on to her knees again. \u201cO my God!\u201d she murmured, \u201chas it come to\nthis, that I must enter thy house without being able to find comfort\nthere?\u201d\n\nIt was nearly half an hour before Lawrence joined her, and they went out\ntogether. \u201cI have no wish to go now,\u201d she said when he offered to wait\nwhile she went to confession. \u201cBesides, there is no time, if we are to\nstart to\u2010night.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you know, Annette, what I prayed for when I put the taper up in honor\nof S. Genevi\u00e8ve?\u201d her husband asked when they were again in the street. \u201cI\nasked that my mother may die in peace before the month is out. That will\nbe in less than two weeks.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy poor Lawrence!\u201d she sighed.\n\n\u201cAnd can you guess the reason why I wish, above all things, to go to Rome,\nand don\u2019t much care what may happen after?\u201d he went on. \u201cOf course you\ncannot. Well, I want to receive absolution from the Pope. I go to\nconfession, and pour out my story there, and I feel no better for it; or,\nif I feel better than I should without confession, I am still not at\npeace. I don\u2019t feel absolved. Yet I want to go to confession every hour of\nthe day. I am like the Ancient Mariner, who had to tell his story to every\none he met. I want to tell mine to every priest in the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, dear Lawrence,\u201d she said, \u201cthat will not be so easy to compass.\nDon\u2019t expect such a privilege too confidently. You know we cannot have an\naudience, because we cannot go to him under false names. If we could, his\nblessing would satisfy you, would it not? But I see no way, dear, though I\nwould not discourage you.\u201d\n\nFor once her objections did not irritate him. \u201cI have been thinking of it\never since we left America,\u201d he said; \u201cand in one way or another I shall\nsucceed. Yes, his blessing would be enough; and if there were no other\nway, I could tell him my real name. Now, we must make haste. We have just\ntime to reach the station.\u201d\n\nHow many hearts have quickened in their beating as they travelled that\nroad, drawing near to Italy! How many eyes have gazed eagerly at that\nfirst cross, set aloft on the mountain side, at the first shrine of the\nVirgin Mother! And then come the armies of poplars and solemn cypresses.\n\n\u201cThey look as if the dead warriors, and prelates, and poets had risen from\ntheir graves, and were staring out over Italy to see what their degenerate\nsons were doing,\u201d Annette said. \u201cSee how tightly they hold their cold\ngreen robes about them!\u201d\n\nOur travellers slept a few hours at Turin, and, resuming their journey\nbefore daylight, reached Florence in the evening. And here, having some\ntime to wait, they wandered out, hoping to find a church open; but all\nwere closed at this hour. Presently they found themselves standing on the\nbridge of the Holy Trinity, listening to a burst of wild music from many\nbugles, played by some unseen band. So loud and piercing was the strain,\nthe very stars appeared to tremble as it went up. Then, as suddenly as it\nrose, it dropped again, and all was silent. The city was quiet, and the\nArno gleamed across it like a jewelled cestus across a sleeping breast.\nIts waters seemed to have crystallized into a purple enamel about the\ngolden reflections of the lights along its banks, not a ripple showing\nwhich way they flowed. Not far away, another bridge spanned the tide, its\nsoft and dreamlike arches set roundly over the answering arches in the\ndeeps below. A small boat, faintly seen, shot underneath this bridge, and\ndisappeared. It was a vision of Florence as one sees it in history and\npoetry.\n\nThe two strangers leaned on the balustrade of the bridge, and, as they\ngazed, felt the curse upon them grow less sharp, as though they were\nghosts, and their crime some old, old story, touched with a sad splendor\nby poet and painter, and half washed away by the tears of pitying\ngenerations.\n\nStanding there, silent and half comforted, they became aware of a low,\nmurmurous sound of many feet and voices; and then a long line of white\u2010\nrobed figures appeared, carrying torches. A bier was borne aloft in their\nmidst, what it held covered with an embroidered pall that glistened with\ngold. These men recited prayers together as they went, and the river and\nbridge were for a moment bright with the glare of their torches. Then they\ndisappeared, and a star\u2010lighted quiet reigned again over the city of\nflowers.\n\nAnnette touched her husband\u2019s arm, and they reluctantly turned away from\nthat spot where first they had experienced a feeling of peace.\n\nAnd then, all night they plunged deeper and deeper into Italy, till\nmorning and the Eternal City met their faces, and dazzled them.\n\n\u201cThank God! I am in Rome at last,\u201d exclaimed Lawrence. \u201cNow nothing but\ndeath shall tear me away from it.\u201d\n\nYes, there it was! the crumbling, stately city of the past, looking as if\nit had just risen from the bottom of the sea, after having been submerged\nfor centuries. It was all a faded gold color, like autumn leaves, and its\nnarrow streets were chilly, as though death had breathed through them. But\nits heights were warm and sunny, and its dusky trees and hedges were\nsteeped in warmth, and over its magnificent decay the sky was fresh and\nblue, and the morning sunshine flowed bountifully.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said Mrs. Gerald, becoming business\u2010like at once, \u201cwe must first\nengage an apartment, and get our luggage into it. I think I know Italian\nenough for that, thanks to the songs I have learned.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you propose singing an aria to call a cab?\u201d her husband asked. \u201cAnd\nwill you engage an apartment to the tune of \u2018Hear me, Norma\u2019?\u201d\n\nHe smiled, and for a breath looked like his old self. But the next instant\nhis face changed. The thought of his mother was enough to banish the smile\nfor ever.\n\nThat thought had taken full possession of him, filling him with a terror,\nsorrow, and longing that burned in his heart like consuming fire. His\nflight had been made with no feeling but fear for himself; but with the\nfirst breath of the air of the city of saints, he inhaled a penitence\nwhich was without taint of weakness.\n\nWhile his wife, then, arranged their affairs, and attended to the\npreparation of their little _m\u00e9nage_, he took in hand the one work\npossible for him\u2014the study of his own soul. This anguish for his mother,\nwhom he loved deeply, much as he had wronged her, was like a sword that\ncleft the selfish crust of his nature. His whole life came up before him\nwith merciless distinctness\u2014all its ingratitude, its pettishness, its\nlittleness, its sinful waste, its many downward steps leading to the final\nplunge to ruin. He saw, as if it were before him, his mother\u2019s loving,\npatient face; he heard, as if she were speaking at his side, her sad and\ntremulous voice; and more pathetic even than her sorrow were the brief\nmoments of happiness he had given her, her smile of pride in him, her\ndelight when he showed her some mark of affection, her eager anticipation\nof his wishes. As he went back over this past, the self\u2010pity, the\nblindness, the false shame, were stripped away from him, and he saw\nhimself as he was.\n\n\u201cNothing but utter ruin could have brought me to my senses,\u201d he said to\nhis wife one day, when he had been sitting for a long while silent, gazing\nout at a little fountain that sprang into air in a vain effort to reach\nthe laden orange\u2010tree that overshadowed it.\n\nShe made no reply, and he needed none. She had let him go his own ways,\nkeeping watch, but never interfering. She had nothing to do for him now\nbut wait and see what sort of call he would make on her.\n\nHe wandered from church to church, and knelt at every shrine in the city\nof shrines. Wherever the signal lamp told that there some troubled soul\nhad found help, he sent up his petition. He glanced with indifferent eyes\npast the rich marbles and gilding; but when a face looked from marble or\ncanvas with an expression that touched his heart, there he made his\nappeal. The luxuries of life grew loathsome to him; fashion and gaiety\nwere to him like a taunt of the evil one, who had used them as lures for\nhis destruction. He hated the fineness of his own clothes, the daintiness\nof his food. None of the people he saw seemed to him enviable, save the\npoor monks in their coarse brown robes, with their bare feet thrust into\nrough sandals. In his own house he lived like an ascetic.\n\nNow and then he would rouse himself from this stern and prolonged examen\nto think of his wife. She had claims on him which, perhaps, he was\nforgetting.\n\n\u201cYou poor child!\u201d he said, \u201cwe are not in India, that you should immolate\nyourself over my dead hopes. What can I do for you. I would free you, if I\ncould.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are not to think of me,\u201d she replied quietly. \u201cIt is God who now\ncommands you to think of yourself.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cI have made my own instruments of torture. Having\nthought of myself when it was a sin, I am forced to think of myself when\nit is a torment. And I escape that thought only to remember my victims.\nAnnette, but one day is left of the four weeks. O my mother! if space\ncould be annihilated, and I could be with you till it is over! If I could\nbut know what has happened, what will happen, to her!\u201d\n\nHe had spent the whole day in a church near by, sometimes praying before\nan altar, sometimes gazing at the pictures, in search of a divine meaning\nthat might be hidden in them; but oftener, withdrawn to a dusky nook where\nonly a single lamp burned before a head crowned with thorns, he gave\nhimself up to grief.\n\n\u201cIt is useless to wish and repine,\u201d his wife replied sadly. \u201cThat is one\nof the weaknesses we must cure ourselves of. Since it is only a torment to\nimagine what may be taking place at home, let us try to banish the\nthought, leaving all in the hands of God. And now, Lawrence, do you know\nthat you have eaten nothing to\u2010day? When you stay so long again, I shall\ngo after you. In Rome, at this season, it is dangerous to allow the\nstrength to fail. You will soon be ill, if you go on fasting so.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what matter if I should?\u201d he asked.\n\nThe wife waited till the servant had placed the dinner on the table and\ngone out before she spoke, and the moment of consideration had made her\nresolve on a stern answer, however willingly she would have given a tender\none. She had long since discovered that her husband was one of those whom\nthe flatteries of affection enervate instead of stimulating, and she was\nnot sure enough of a radical change having taken place in him to yield to\nher own impulse to soothe and persuade when reproof might be more\neffectual.\n\n\u201cOf all the gifts which God has bestowed on you,\u201d she said, \u201cyou have cast\naway every one but life; but with that life you may yet atone, and become\na blessing to the world. It is your duty to watch over the only means left\nyou of making reparation.\u201d\n\nHe did not show the slightest displeasure at her reproof. On the contrary,\nthere seemed to be something in it almost pleasant to him. Perhaps the\nsuggestion that he might yet be a blessing in the world, incredible as\nthat appeared, inspired him with an undefined hope. He dwelt thoughtfully\non her words in a way that was becoming habitual to him whenever she spoke\nwith peculiar seriousness, and Annette, seeing his humility, was half\nsorry for having put it to the test. With a confused impulse to give him\nat least some pitiful and perilous comfort, she poured a glass of wine,\nand placed it by him, well aware that for weeks he had not drunk any.\n\nHe put it away decidedly. \u201cI would as soon drink poison, Annette,\u201d he said\nreproachfully. \u201cI did not think that you would offer it to me.\u201d\n\nShe withdrew the glass immediately, ashamed of her weakness, and making a\nhasty apology. \u201cIf I had known you had made any resolution on the subject,\nI would not have offered it,\u201d she said. \u201cForgive me! I never will again.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! there was no resolution needed,\u201d he said. \u201cIf you had been burned\nalmost to death once, would you need to resolve not to go into the fire\nagain? I fancy the sight of it would be enough. But I think I may promise\nnever again to take wine, unless I should be commanded to by some one who\nknows better than I.\u201d\n\nHis wife did not reply. This was a degree of asceticism which she had not\nexpected and was afraid to trust. She had expected him to refuse\nindulgences, but not consolations. Indeed, she did not now understand her\nhusband, and her hope of his redemption was but a trembling one. This\nself\u2010denial might be only another illustration of that instability which\nrushes from one extreme to the other, only to return to its first excess.\n\nWe all know how to rely on that natural firmness, which the sad experience\nof mankind has shown to be never so strong but it may fail at any hour;\nbut the supernatural strength of the naturally weak who have cast\nthemselves on God often finds no doubting. We miss the firm lips, the\nsteady eyes, the undaunted brow\u2014those signs of a resolute soul which the\npagan shares with the Christian\u2014and we forget that the tremulous mouth we\ndistrust has sighed out its prayer to Him who is mighty, the shrinking\neyes have looked upon the hills whence help cometh, the timid brow has\nbeen hidden beneath the wing of an angel guardian, and that, faltering\nthough the soul may have been, and may be again, the shield of God is\nbefore it, and it can be conquered by no human strength.\n\nThis soul had made such an advance as to be conscious of some such\nfortitude infused into it. Lawrence Gerald had no fear of falling into his\nformer sins. He might have the misery of seeing the destruction he had\nbrought on others, might be himself destroyed by a sorrow and remorse too\ngreat to bear; but he had an immovable conviction that he could never\nagain return to his old ways nor commit any grave transgression. It was\nthis conviction which had made him say that nothing but destruction could\nhave brought him to his senses.\n\n\u201cI like that church you took me to this morning,\u201d he said, walking slowly\nup and down the room. \u201cThe others, many of them, seem to me fit only for\nthe happy. They are all display and confusion and sight\u2010seers, with\nscarcely a nook in them where a person in trouble can hide. They do not\ngive me any impression of sacredness. But this one is so quiet and sober,\nand there are no people standing about with guide\u2010books, talking aloud\nwhile you are praying or trying to pray. Then there is a little place,\nhalf chapel, half vestibule, between the church and the sacristy, where a\nside door enters the church, with an Ecce Homo in a little shrine; and\nthere you can be quite private, without any one staring at you. I shall go\nto that church altogether.\u201d\n\nThe church he spoke of was Santa Maria della Pace.\n\n\u201cIt is Our Lady of Peace,\u201d his wife said, \u201cand was built to commemorate\nthe peace of Christendom. I thought it would please you. Surely some\nspecial consolation and tranquillity should linger about a temple built\nand cemented with such an intention. I like it, too, better than most\nothers we have visited, though it is not so splendid as many.\u201d\n\nShe did not tell him that, after having left his side, when the early Mass\nwas over, she had lingered in the church till it was closed at noon, not\nto watch him, but to be near him. Requesting the sacristan to withdraw the\ncurtain covering the Four Sibyls of Raphael, she had seated herself before\nthe chapel opposite, and divided her attention between that matchless\nvision and the unquiet figure that moved about the church. Once he had\ncome near, but without seeming aware of her presence, and, standing at her\nside, had gazed with her. And while he gazed, she had seen the trouble in\nhis face grow still for a moment. The noble serenity of that composition,\nso soothing to eyes wearied by the sprawling magnificence of Michael\nAngelo and the ever\u2010present, dishevelled, wind\u2010tossed figures of Bernini,\nlifted his soul to a higher plane. Even when he sighed and turned away, as\nif not willing to allow himself the pleasure of looking at so much beauty,\nhe carried something of that spirit of harmony with him.\n\n\u201cLawrence,\u201d his wife said presently, when she had borne his restless\npromenade as long as she could, \u201cI know that you did not sleep any last\nnight. I wish that you would take a powder that I will give you, and try\nto sleep now. You look worn out. Lie down on the sofa here, and I will\nkeep everything quiet.\u201d\n\nHe shook his head. \u201cI would rather not take anything to make me sleep,\nNinon. And to\u2010night I would not sleep, if I could. But I will lie down\nhere a little while; for I am tired, now I think of it.\u201d\n\nHe threw himself on the sofa, and she placed a screen before him, and\nclosed the window near his head, so that even the soft plashing of the\nfountain was shut out, and the small notes of birds that twittered in the\ngreat pine\u2010tree in the garden. And after a little while, finding him still\nrestless, she went to the piano, and sang how God sent Elias to reassure\nand comfort a doubting and tempted soul. The notes flowed with a soothing\nmurmur from under her fingers, and her voice, no longer the brilliant,\nringing tones he had taken such pride in, was so low it might be a spirit\nsinging:\n\n\n    \u201cTell him that his very longing\n      Is itself an answering cry;\n    That his prayer, \u2018Come, gracious Alla!\u2019\n      Is my answer, \u2018Here am I!\u2019\n    Every inmost aspiration\n      Is God\u2019s angel undefiled;\n    And in every \u2019O my Father!\u2019\n      Slumbers deep a \u2018Here, my child!\u2019 \u201d\n\n\nEnding, she listened a moment, then stole across the room, and looked\nbehind the screen. Lawrence was sleeping, with his head thrown back, his\nbeautiful profile and moist, dark curls thrown out strongly by the garnet\ncushions and pillow.\n\nShe went to the window, and seated herself on a footstool near it,\nwrapping the long red curtains about her, and leaning against the wall.\nThe sculptured marble of that stately _salon_ was cold against her cheek;\na flock of doves wheeling about over the garden caught some last rays of\nthe sun on their wings, and threw them down over her, so that little white\nwings seemed to be fluttering all around the room; the casement slipped\nopen, and the sound of tossing waters and twittering birds again became\naudible; but the watcher there took no note of these things. She was\nlooking at the figure stretched on the sofa, and thinking that in all Rome\nthere was no ruin so mournful and so terrible. He was like some fair\ncolumn stricken from out a temple and cast aside into the dust; not\ntouched by the hand of time, that, with its slow to\u2010and\u2010fro of days and\nnights, and seasons and years, lulls all the pain of decay to sleep, but\nbroken and scathed, as if by lightning.\n\nWhile she looked, he stirred, and opened his eyes; and the sympathetic\npain with which she saw how he came back to a consciousness of his\nposition almost drew an outcry from her. The first tranquil, half\u2010\nwondering glance which saw, instead of the familiar surroundings of his\nchildhood and youth, that immense room, with its profuse hangings and\npainted ceiling, and the long windows opening like doors; then the brief\nflash of startled questioning; lastly, the anguish of full recollection.\n\n\u201cO my God! my God!\u201d he exclaimed, and hid his face in the cushions again.\n\nShe was at his side in a moment.\n\n\u201cLet us go out for a long drive, Lawrence,\u201d she said. \u201cThere will be a\nbright moonlight to\u2010night, and we can see so many places by it. Come! I\nwill send for a carriage at once. There is nothing else for either of us\nto do.\u201d\n\nNothing could have shown more clearly the change in Lawrence Gerald than\nhis manner of receiving this proposal. Instead of expressing at once his\naversion, and reproaching his wife that she could believe it possible for\nhim to go sight\u2010seeing at such a time, he stopped to consider if what she\nthought best might not be best, however it should seem to him.\n\n\u201cYou must think for me now, Annette,\u201d he said with a sort of despair. \u201cYou\nknow I do not wish to seek pleasure nor distraction; but I suppose I must\nlive.\u201d\n\nShe sent for a carriage at once, and they went out under the full moon\nthat was beginning to replace, with its pearly southern lights and\nnorthern shadows, the fading cross\u2010lights of the sun. They drove to the\nColosseum, not yet despoiled of its sacred emblems, and, kneeling there in\nthe dust, made the stations in their own way. Annette named each one as\nthey reached it, then left her husband to make his meditation, or to utter\nthe ejaculation that started up from his tormented heart, as sharp as a\nblade from its sheath.\n\nAt last they stood together by the crucifix, with the moonlight falling on\nthem and through the great arches in a silvery rain.\n\nAnnette saw her husband wipe his forehead, though the night was cool. He\nbreathed heavily, and looked at the earth beneath his feet, as if he saw\nthrough it, and beheld the martyr lying where he fell centuries before.\n\n\u201cO my dear!\u201d she said, \u201cI know that there is no lion like remorse. But is\nit no comfort to you that you are not alone?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is both a comfort and a pain,\u201d he answered gently. \u201cI should be\ndesolate without you, and I should have done something desperate, perhaps,\nif I had been alone. You must understand my gratitude and my regret\nwithout expecting me to express them. I cannot speak. I know I have\nwronged you bitterly, and that you are an angel of goodness to me; but I\ncan say no more about it. If I were at my mother\u2019s feet this moment, I\nshould be speechless. I cannot pray even. I acknowledge the justice of\nGod, and will endure whatever he sends. That is all I can say.\u201d\n\nHe had forced himself to speak, she perceived, with a great effort. The\nseason of complaints and outcries had gone past, and he had entered on the\nway of silence.\n\nThey went out, and left the ruin to its solemn tenants\u2014the gliding\nshadows, which might be the troubled ghosts of the slayers, and the\nfloating lights, which might be the glorified souls of the slain, visiting\nthe loved spot where they had seen the heavens open for them.\n\nThe streets were nearly deserted when the two returned to them, their\nhorses walking. They stopped at the fountain of Trevi, leaned awhile on\nthe stone rail, and watched the streams that burst in snowy foam all along\nthe front.\n\n\u201cWhat a heap of coals and ashes Rome would be without her fountains!\u201d\nAnnette said. \u201cIt would be like a family of patriarchs where no children\nare seen. And yet the waters do not always seem to me so childish. Theirs\nis the youth and freshness of angels. See how triumphant they look! They\nhave been a long while in the dark, till they may have despaired of ever\nseeing the sun again. It is the way of souls, Lawrence. They walk in\ndarkness and pain, they cannot see their way, and they sometimes doubt if\nlight any longer exists. And at last they burst from their prison, and\nfind themselves in the city of God.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he said, \u201cbut they have not sinned; they have only suffered. I have\nalways thought, Annette, that the saints have the easier life. You know we\nare told that the way of the transgressor is hard.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the saints did not choose that life because it was the easier,\u201d she\nreplied. \u201cThey gave no thought to such a reward, but it was bestowed on\nthem; and probably, when they chose, the other way seemed the easier, in\nspite of what the preacher says. The person who chooses a good life\nbecause it is the easier will never persevere in it; for the devil will\nalways persuade him that he has made a mistake, and, since he chose from a\nselfish motive, God will owe him no help. The saints took what was hard,\nand what seemed the hardest because it was right, and left the\nconsequences with God; and they had their reward. The sinner takes what\nseems the easiest, and thinks only of himself; and he, too, has his\nreward. Do not the waters look lovely? They are so fresh and new! How\nbeautiful an image it is to compare divine grace to a fountain!\u201d\n\nThey drove on through the town, across the bridge of S. Angelo, and saw\nthe angel sheathing his sword\u2014or was he unsheathing it?\u2014against the sky,\nand, leaving their carriage at the entrance of the piazza of S. Peter\u2019s,\nwalked across it to that majestic temple, which, more than any other, and\nat that hour more than ever, seemed worthy of the Spouse of the Spirit.\nGolden and white, the mystical flood of moonlight veiled it, rippling\nalong its colonnades, glittering in its fountains, setting a pavement of\nchalcedony across the piazza and up the wide ascent, and trembling round\nthe dome that swelled upward like a breast full with the divine milk and\nhoney with which the church nourishes her children.\n\nLawrence stopped near the obelisk.\n\n\u201cThe first question the church asked of me when I was brought before her,\nan infant,\u201d he said, \u201cwas what I had come to ask of her, and my sponsors\nanswered for me, Faith. Now once again she asks the same question.\u201d\n\nHe was silent a moment, looking up at the church, but with eyes that saw\nonly the sacred Mother. Tears rolled down his face, and his lips trembled;\nbut there was no sign of that desperate passion which had so worn him. \u201cI\nask for forgiveness and perseverance,\u201d he said.\n\nShe observed that he did not ask for peace.\n\nHe went forward to the steps, and knelt there; and as he wept and prayed,\nhis wife heard ever the same petition that God would have mercy on his\nmother, that in some way he would spare her the blow that threatened to\nfall upon her, and that she might know how he loved her and mourned his\ningratitude.\n\nAnnette withdrew from her husband, and paced to and fro not far away. She,\ntoo, had a mother who was about to be stricken with grief on her account,\nand whom she might never again see in life.\n\nShe had almost forgotten her husband and how time was flying, when she\nheard his voice at her side.\n\n\u201cMy poor Annette, I am killing you,\u201d he said. \u201cCome home. See! the day is\nbreaking.\u201d\n\nThe east was, indeed, growing pale with the early dawn, and the western\ncolonnade was throwing long shadows as the moon declined. It was time for\nthem to return. Chilled and exhausted, they entered their carriage, and\nwere driven home.\n\nThe dawn of that same day, when in its course the sun rose from the\nAtlantic, and brightened the New England shore, saw Mrs. Gerald and Honora\nPembroke go to early Mass together.\n\nF. Chevreuse had visited them the morning before, and requested them to go\nto communion that day, and pray for themselves, their friends, and for his\nintention.\n\n\u201cI have a difficult duty to perform,\u201d he said, \u201cand I want all the help I\ncan get. So make yourselves as saintly as possible, my dear friends.\nConfess and prepare yourselves for holy communion as if it were to be your\nlast, and pray with all your strength, and do not allow a single smallest\nvenial sin to touch you all day.\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse often asked them to pray for his intention, and all they\nobserved in this was his unusual earnestness. It had the effect of making\nthem also unusually earnest in their devotion. Mrs. Gerald was, indeed, so\nabsorbed that she failed to notice that when Honora came from the priest\u2019s\nhouse, where she had been just before evening, she did not look quite\nwell. F. Chevreuse had requested her to come there from her school, before\ngoing home, and she had been with him nearly an hour.\n\n\u201cSo you have been to confession,\u201d Mrs. Gerald said, arranging the tray for\ntheir tea. \u201cI thought we would go there together this evening.\u201d\n\nShe spoke in a very gentle, almost absent way; for she had been saying, as\nshe went about, all the short prayers she could remember to the Blessed\nVirgin, and would resume them presently.\n\n\u201cSo we will go together,\u201d Miss Pembroke replied. \u201cBut I wanted to see F.\nChevreuse this afternoon.\u201d\n\nShe seated herself in a shady corner of the room, and opened her prayer\u2010\nbook; but it trembled so in her hand that she was forced to lay it aside,\nand pretend to be occupied with her rosary instead. Now and then she stole\na glance at her companion, and saw with thankfulness that she was entirely\noccupied with her devotions. As she went about, preparing with dainty care\ntheir simple meal, her lips were moving; and sometimes she would pause a\nmoment to bless herself, or to kiss the crucifix suspended from her neck,\nor to dwell on some sweet thought she had found hidden in a little prayer,\nlike a blossom under a leaf.\n\nAnd later in the evening, when the two returned from the priest\u2019s house,\nthere was nothing to attract attention in Miss Pembroke\u2019s manner; for they\nsat reading and meditating till it was bed\u2010time. It was their custom,\nsince they lived alone, to prepare thus strictly for the reception of the\nHoly Eucharist.\n\nMrs. Gerald stood a minute before the embers of the dying fire, when they\nwere ready to go up\u2010stairs, the hand she had stretched for the bed\u2010candle\nresting on the edge of the mantel\u2010piece near it. \u201cHow peaceful we are\nhere, Honora!\u201d she said in her soft way, yet rather suddenly.\n\nMiss Pembroke was bending to push the few remaining coals back, and her\nreply was indistinct, yet sounded like an affirmative.\n\n\u201cWe have so much to be grateful for,\u201d Mrs. Gerald went on. \u201cI do not think\nthat we could be more comfortable. I am sure that greater riches would\ndisturb me. Indeed, I never wanted riches, except for Lawrence; and now he\ndoes not need them. I can truly say that I have all I desire.\u201d\n\nMiss Pembroke did not reply nor look up. She only stooped lower, and\nstretched her hands out over the coals, as if to warm them. Yet the two\nhad always been so in harmony that her silence seemed to be assent.\n\n\u201cF. Chevreuse spoke beautifully to me to\u2010night,\u201d Mrs. Gerald continued,\nstill lingering. \u201cHe kept me some time talking after I had made my\nconfession; and, what is unusual with him, he spoke of himself. He said\nthat all the favors he has to ask of God are for others; but that when he\ncomes to pray for himself, he can only say, \u2018Amen.\u2019 Now and then, he said,\nhe thinks to ask some special favor; but when he lifts his eyes to heaven,\nonly one word comes: \u2018Amen! amen!\u2019 I did not understand, while he spoke,\nhow much it meant; but I have been thinking it over since I came home, and\nI see that the word may include all that a Christian need say.\u201d\n\nA murmured \u201cYes!\u201d came from Honora, who turned her head aside that the\ncandle might not shine in her face. \u201cAnd now, dear Mrs. Gerald, since we\nare to rise early, we had better go to bed. Can I do anything for you? Is\nthere anything to do to\u2010night?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing, thank you, dear!\u201d\n\nThey went up\u2010stairs together, and, when they parted, Miss Pembroke\nembraced her friend with unusual tenderness. \u201cMay you have a good night\u2019s\nsleep!\u201d she said; and, in the anguish of her heart, could almost have\nadded, \u201cAnd may you never wake!\u201d\n\nFor F. Chevreuse had wisely judged it best to prepare her to sustain her\nfriend when the hour of trial should come; and Honora, better than any\nother perhaps, understood what that shock would be.\n\n\u201cGo out in the morning and dismiss your school for the day,\u201d the priest\nhad said to her. \u201cThen return home immediately, and make some excuse for\nit. You will easily be able to plead a headache, I fancy. Tell Mrs. Gerald\nthat F. O\u2019Donovan is coming to see her, so that she may not go out. And\npray, my child, pray! What else is there for any of us to do in this\nterrible world but pray?\u201d\n\nHonora was obliged to make her excuses before going to school, for Mrs.\nGerald at length noticed her altered looks, and almost insisted on\ndismissing the school for her. But she would not allow that.\n\n\u201cI shall feel better to go out than to sit in the house waiting,\u201d she\nsaid, quite truly. \u201cBut I will come back at once. Pray do not be anxious\nabout me. You know I am strong and healthy.\u201d\n\nWhen she returned, she found that Mrs. Gerald had, with motherly\naffection, made every preparation for her comfort. A deep sofa was pushed\ninto a shady corner of the sitting\u2010room, pillows and a shawl were laid\nready, and, as she entered the room, she perceived the pleasant odor of\npennyroyal, their favorite remedy for colds and headaches.\n\nMrs. Gerald set down the steaming cup she held, and began to remove her\nyoung friend\u2019s bonnet and shawl. \u201cI thought you would rather lie down here\nthan go up stairs by yourself,\u201d she said. \u201cI will keep everything quiet.\u201d\n\nHonora submitted to be made an invalid of, since this tender soul could\nhave no greater pleasure than to relieve suffering; allowed herself to be\nassisted to the sofa; let Mrs. Gerald arrange the pillows under her head\nand cover her with the shawl; then drank obediently the remedy offered\nher. But all the while her heart was sinking with an agony of\napprehension, and she listened breathlessly for a step which was to bring\ndoom to this unconscious victim.\n\n\u201cNow what else can I do for you, dear?\u201d her nurse asked, looking vainly to\nsee what had not been done.\n\nHonora answered, \u201cNothing\u201d; but, recollecting that something might be\nneeded, if not for her, added, \u201cYou might place a glass of water and the\ncamphor\u2010bottle here where I can reach them.\u201d\n\nMrs. Gerald brought them, from the mere pleasure of serving. \u201cBut you must\nnot drink the water, for you are to be kept warm,\u201d she said. \u201cYour hands\nare quite cold now. And, you know, camphor never does you any good.\u201d\n\nShe was about turning away when Honora took her hand, and detained her.\nShe dared not look up, but she held the hand close to her cheek on the\npillow. \u201cDear friend,\u201d she said in a stifled voice, \u201cit sometimes almost\nhurts me to remember how good and kind you have always been to me. I hope\nI have never seemed ungrateful; I have never felt so. But in future I want\nto be more than ever to you. Let me be your daughter, and live with you\nalways. I do not want to go away with any one else.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy daughter!\u201d said Mrs. Gerald, full of loving surprise and pleasure; and\nstooped to leave a kiss on the girl\u2019s forehead.\n\n\u201cAnd now, dear mother,\u201d said Honora, \u201cdo not fancy that I am very sick. In\nan hour, all will be over.\u201d\n\nMrs. Gerald smiled at this promise of sudden cure.\n\n\u201cThen I will leave you quiet a little while, and go out to water my\nplants. The seeds have come up which I sowed in the tracks my other two\nchildren made; and in a day or two, when Lawrence and Annette come home,\ntheir footprints will be quite green.\u201d\n\nShe spoke with a gentle gaiety, for she was happy. So much affection had\nbeen shown her, she seemed to be of such help and value to those she loved\nbest, that life assumed for her an aspect of spring and; youth, and a\ngladness long unknown to her rose up in her heart.\n\nAs she left the room, Honora looked eagerly after her, raising herself on\nher elbow, as soon as she was out of sight, and listening toward the door.\nWhen she heard her step on the veranda, she started off the sofa, and ran\nto look out through a blind into the garden. Mrs. Gerald was on her knees\nby the precious tracks, which she had carefully enclosed with slender pegs\nof wood, and was sprinkling with water the tiny blades of green that grew\nthickly inside. A soft and tender smile played round her lips, and the\nwrinkles that pain and anxiety sometimes drew in her face were all\nsmoothed away. The spring morning hung over her like a benediction, silent\nand bright, not a breath of wind stirring; and in that secluded street,\nwith its cottages and embowering trees, she was as safe from public\nobservation as she would have been in the country.\n\nHonora glanced at the clock. It wanted five minutes of ten.\n\n\u201cFive minutes more of happiness!\u201d she murmured, and, from faintness, sank\non her knees before the window, looking out still with her eyes fixed on\nthat quiet, bending figure.\n\nMrs. Gerald stretched her hand and slowly made the sign of the cross over\neach one of those precious footprints. \u201cMay all their steps be toward\nheaven!\u201d she whispered. \u201cMay angels guard them now and for ever, and may\nthe blessings of the poor and the suffering spring up wherever they go,\nlike these flowers, in their path.\u201d\n\nShe rose and stood looking off into distance, tears of earnest feeling\nglistening in her eyes.\n\n\u201cTwo minutes longer!\u201d murmured Honora, who felt as if the room were\nswimming around her, so that she had to grasp the window\u2010ledge for\nsupport. She could not see, but she heard a step on the sidewalk, and,\nthough it was more measured than usual, there was no possibility of\nmistaking it. Only one step would come in that way and stop at their gate\nthis morning. She heard F. O\u2019Donovan\u2019s voice, and presently the two came\ninto the entry together.\n\n\u201cPerhaps you had better come into the parlor,\u201d Mrs. Gerald was saying.\n\u201cHonora is lying down in there. She has a bad headache this morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cNevertheless, we will go in and see her,\u201d was the reply.\n\nMiss Pembroke started up, frightened at her own weakness. It would never\ndo to fail now, when all the strength she could show would be needed. She\nhad only time to seat herself on the sofa when they entered the room.\n\n\u201cMy dear child! why did you not lie still?\u201d Mrs. Gerald exclaimed. \u201cI am\nsure F. O\u2019Donovan would excuse you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI would rather sit up, if you will come and sit by me,\u201d Honora answered;\nand, taking Mrs. Gerald\u2019s hands, drew her down to the sofa, and sat there\nholding her in a half embrace.\n\nThe lady noticed with surprise that no greeting passed between the priest\nand Honora, and that he had not uttered a word of sympathy for her\nillness, nor, indeed, scarcely glanced at her. He went to the window, and\nopened one of the blinds.\n\n\u201cAllow me to have a ray of sunshine in the room,\u201d he said. \u201cWhy should we\nshut it out? It is like divine love in a sorrowful world.\u201d\n\nMrs. Gerald had hardly time to notice this somewhat unusual freedom of\nmanner on the part of F. O\u2019Donovan, for, as he came and seated himself\nnear her, she was struck by the paleness and gravity of his face.\n\n\u201cAre you ill? Has anything happened?\u201d she asked hastily; but he saw that\nin her anxiety there was no thought of danger to herself. It was a\nfriendly solicitude for him; and she instantly glanced at Honora, as if\nconnecting her illness with his altered appearance. That her young friend\nmight have some cause of trouble seemed to her quite possible; for she had\nnever been able to disabuse her mind of the belief that Honora had become\nmore interested in Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger than she would own, and that she had\nnever recovered entirely from the shock of his disgrace.\n\n\u201cI have great news to tell you,\u201d said F. O\u2019Donovan. \u201cMr. Sch\u00f6ninger is\nproved innocent, and will immediately be set at liberty.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow glad I am!\u201d exclaimed Mrs. Gerald, who immediately believed that she\nunderstood all. \u201cBut how is it known?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe real criminal has confessed,\u201d the priest went on; \u201cand the confession\nand the circumstances are all of a sort to excite our deepest compassion.\nFor it was not a deliberate crime, but only one of those steps which a man\nwho has once consented to walk in the wrong path seems compelled to take.\nThe poor fellow was deceived, and led on as all sinners are. He was in\npecuniary difficulties, and yielded to a temptation to take F. Chevreuse\u2019s\nmoney, intending to repay it. The rest followed almost as a matter of\ncourse. Mother Chevreuse defended her son\u2019s property, and the poor sinner\nhad to secure what he had risked so much to obtain, and escape the\ndisgrace of detection. Others were approaching, and he was desperate. He\ngave an unlucky push, with no intention but to free himself, and the devil\nlooked out for the result. But, if you could know how entirely that poor\nsoul has repented, not only the fatal step in which his errors ended, but\nevery smallest fault that led to it, you would have only pity for him.\nMother Chevreuse died a good and holy woman, full of years and good works,\nand perhaps her death will be the cause of one man being a saint. He\npromises everything for the future, and that with a fervor which no one\ncan doubt. He acknowledges the justice of any contumely and suffering and\nloss which may befall him. The only thought too hard for him to bear is\nthat of the sorrow he has brought on his own family. If he could suffer\nalone, he would not complain; he would suffer tenfold, if it were\npossible, to spare those he loves.\u201d\n\nMrs. Gerald had listened with intense interest to this story, and when it\nwas ended she drew a long breath. \u201cPoor man!\u201d she sighed. \u201cHas he a wife?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; he has a wife who is all devotion to him, and who will follow him to\nthe last. She will never be separated from him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill she go to prison with him? Will she be allowed to do that?\u201d Mrs.\nGerald asked in surprise.\n\n\u201cOh! it is not a question of imprisonment,\u201d the priest replied. \u201cHe has\nescaped, and will probably never be taken. His confession was written,\nsealed, and entrusted to a priest, to be opened at a certain time. It was\nopened this morning.\u201d\n\nThe two watched Mrs. Gerald with trembling anxiety as she sat a moment\nwith downcast eyes, musing over this strange story. Honora did not dare to\nbreathe or stir, lest she should loosen the thunderbolt that hung\nsuspended over their heads, ready to drop, and the priest was inwardly\npraying for wisdom to speak the right word.\n\n\u201cI hope he has no mother,\u201d Mrs. Gerald said, without looking up.\n\n\u201cThat is the hardest part of all,\u201d said F. O\u2019Donovan. \u201cHe has a mother. It\nis that which renders his remorse so terrible. But fortunately she is a\nChristian woman, who will know how to bend to the will of God, and leave\nher afflictions at his feet. She will be comforted by the thought that her\nson is a sincere penitent, and is by this awful lesson put for ever on his\nguard against sins which might otherwise have seemed to him trivial.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! but think of her responsibility!\u201d exclaimed Mrs. Gerald, raising her\neyes quickly. \u201cThink of her remorse and fear when she looks back on her\ntraining of that child, and thinks that all his faults and crimes may be\nlaid at her door. I know a mother\u2019s heart, F. O\u2019Donovan, and I tell you\nthere will be no comfort for that mother. You cannot have seen her. Where\nis she? I would like to go to her.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe does not yet know,\u201d replied the priest, almost in a whisper, and\nstopped there, though other words seemed about to follow.\n\nShe gazed at him in surprise, and her look began to grow strange. She only\nlooked intently, but said nothing; and in that dreadful silence Honora\nPembroke\u2019s arm closed tightly about her waist, and her breath trembled on\nthe mother\u2019s paling cheek.\n\n\u201cCast yourself into the arms of God!\u201d exclaimed F. O\u2019Donovan. \u201cDo not\nthink! Do not fear nor look abroad. Hide yourself in the bosom of God! Sin\nand sorrow are but passing clouds, but heaven and hope and peace are\neternal!\u201d\n\nThose beautiful violet eyes that had wept so many tears, now dry and\ndilating, were fixed upon him, and the face changed slowly. One wave of\ndeep red had flown over it and sunk, and from pale it had grown deathly\nwhite, and over that whiteness had stolen a faint gray shade.\n\n\u201cMother! mother! speak!\u201d cried Honora Pembroke, weeping; but the form she\nclasped was rigid, and the face was beginning to have a blank, unnatural\nexpression.\n\n\u201cLive for your son\u2019s sake!\u201d said F. O\u2019Donovan, taking in his her cold\nhands\u2014\u201clive to see his repentance, to see him win the forgiveness of the\nworld and of God.\u201d\n\nBut that blankness overspread her face, and the light in her fixed eyes\ngrew more dim.\n\nThe priest stood up, still holding strongly one of her hands, and with his\nother made the sign of the cross over her, giving with it the final\nabsolution. Then he seated himself beside her, and, while Honora fell at\nher feet, put his arm around the rigid form, and touched the cheeks with\nhis warm, magnetic hand, and pleaded tenderly and with tears, as if she\nhad been his own mother, now a word of human love, now a word of divine\nhope; and suddenly he stopped, and Honora, with her face hidden in Mrs.\nGerald\u2019s lap, heard him exclaim, \u201cDepart, Christian soul, out of the body,\nin the name of the Father who created thee, in the name of the Son who\nredeemed thee, and in the name of the Holy Ghost who has sanctified thee.\u201d\n\nShe started up with a faint cry, and saw that Mrs. Gerald\u2019s head had\ndropped sideways on to her shoulder, her eyes were half\u2010closed, and her\nrelaxing form was sinking backward, supported by F. O\u2019Donovan.\n\nHow it happened she did not know, but almost at the same instant Mrs.\nMacon entered the room followed by a doctor, and to Honora\u2019s confused\nsense it seemed as though helpers were all about and she was separated\nfrom her friend. She heard F. O\u2019Donovan\u2019s voice repeating the prayers for\nthe dead, and presently the weeping responses of the servant, but she was\npowerless to join them.\n\nShe roused herself only when she heard the priest speak her name. \u201cDid I\nmake any mistake? Did I do well, do you think?\u201d he asked anxiously. \u201cI did\nnot know any better way.\u201d\n\nHonora opened her eyes and looked about.\n\n\u201cThere was no better way,\u201d she said. \u201cThe result would have been the same\nin any case, and she suffered only a minute.\u201d\n\nTears were swimming in his fine eyes.\n\n\u201cShe has, indeed, hidden herself in the bosom of God, where no harm can\nreach her, and it is best so. We can see that it is most merciful for her.\nBut for that unhappy son....\u201d\n\n\u201cDo not name him!\u201d exclaimed Miss Pembroke, shuddering. \u201cI cannot think of\nhim without abhorrence! See what ruin he has wrought wherever he has been.\nWhat has escaped him? Nothing! Do you, can you, believe there is hope for\none whose soul is such an abyss of weakness and selfishness? He has\nstripped from me my dearest friends; he has smitten those who loved him\nbest....\u201d\n\nShe stopped, half from the bitter weeping that choked her words, half\nbecause the priest had laid his checking hand on her arm.\n\n\u201cThe silence of death is in the house,\u201d he said gently. \u201cDo not disturb it\nby anger. Leave Lawrence Gerald to the lashes of his guilty conscience.\nBelieve me, it will be punishment enough. Forgive him, and pray for him.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot yet! I cannot yet!\u201d she protested. \u201cHe has been forgiven too much.\nBut I will say no more. I am sorry I should have spoken so in _her_ home.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome out into the air of the garden a little while; it will refresh you,\u201d\nthe priest urged. \u201cI must go directly to F. Chevreuse, but I will return.\nHe went to Mrs. Ferrier more than an hour ago, and was to wait there for\nme or come this way to learn the result. Poor F. Chevreuse! he is sorely\ntried. Everything rests on him. Don\u2019t sit here in the dark any longer.\nCome!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou had better go, Miss Pembroke. You can do nothing here,\u201d Mrs. Macon\nsaid to her.\n\nShe went out and hid herself in a little arbor that had been a favorite\nretreat of Mrs. Gerald\u2019s on warm summer days, and sitting there, too\nstunned for weeping, now that the first burst of tears was dried, tried to\nrecollect and realize what had happened.\n\nAs she sat there she heard presently the trampling of horses and the roll\nof a carriage, and mechanically leaned forward to see who was passing, but\nwithout in the least caring. The bright bays and the sparkling harness\nwere very familiar to her eyes, and she saw that Mrs. Ferrier herself was\nin the carriage. The woman\u2019s face was red and swollen with weeping and\nexcitement, and as she passed the cottage she put up her hand as if she\nwould have shut it from her sight. Evidently her interview with F.\nChevreuse had been a stormy one, and had left her in anything but a\ncharitable frame of mind.\n\nMiss Pembroke looked indifferently at first, but a moment after she rose\nand took a step forward to see better; for F. Chevreuse and F. O\u2019Donovan\nhad appeared in the street in front of the carriage and stopped it, and\nthe elder priest was speaking sternly to Mrs. Ferrier.\n\n\u201cWhere are you going?\u201d he demanded.\n\n\u201cI am going to the prison to tell them to let Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger go free,\u201d she\nanswered defiantly. \u201cI am going to take him to my house.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are going to do nothing of the sort,\u201d said the priest. \u201cYou have no\nright to, and will only do harm, and disgrace yourself.\u201d\n\n\u201cI couldn\u2019t be more disgraced than I am already, with that ...\u201d she began\nin a loud voice, but F. Chevreuse stopped her.\n\n\u201cSilence!\u201d he said authoritatively. \u201cYou are insane.\u201d\n\n\u201cJohn, drive on!\u201d she called out of the window.\n\n\u201cJohn, you will not drive a step further,\u201d said the priest in a low voice.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019d better do what he says, ma\u2019am,\u201d said John, leaning down from the\nbox. \u201cAnd you\u2019d better not talk so loud. People are beginning to notice.\u201d\n\n\u201cI should like to know what you think of yourself for a priest, making my\nown servants disobey me,\u201d the poor woman cried, relapsing into tears. And\nthen, instantly recovering her spirit, she added, \u201cIf I cannot go to the\nprison, I will know where my poor daughter is. I believe Mrs. Gerald could\ntell. She must know where they are hid. I will have Annette back again.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou had better come in and ask Mrs. Gerald,\u201d F. Chevreuse said calmly.\n\u201cDo not hesitate! It will, perhaps, be better for you to see her.\u201d\n\nShe shrank a little, yet could not bear to remain inactive. To her mind,\nshe had been hushed, and imposed on, and silenced by everybody, in order\nthat this worthless criminal might ruin her daughter\u2019s happiness, and\nobtain possession of her money, and she was burning to pour her anger out\non some one. F. Chevreuse\u2019s authoritative interference, while she yielded\nto it, only exasperated her more. \u201cI will go in and find where Annette\nis,\u201d she said resolutely, and stepped out of her carriage, too much\nexcited to stumble.\n\nHonora Pembroke came forward and stood between her and the door, looking\nin astonishment at the two priests who followed her.\n\n\u201cLet her go in!\u201d F. O\u2019Donovan said.\n\nShe was obliged to, indeed, for Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s strong hand set her aside\nas if she had been a feather.\n\nThe woman entered with a haughty step and a high head, her silks rustling\nabout her through the solemn silence, and walked straight to the sitting\u2010\nroom. Mrs. Macon met her at the door, but she put her aside, and took a\nstep into the room; only one step, and then she stopped short, and uttered\na cry.\n\n\u201cSee how that mother heard the news!\u201d said F. Chevreuse in a low voice at\nher side. \u201cHave you any questions to ask her?\u201d\n\nMrs. Ferrier retreated a step, and leaned against the door\u2010frame. They all\ndrew back and left her a full view of the silent form stretched on the\nsofa, and only Honora Pembroke\u2019s weeping disturbed the silence.\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t say that it killed her!\u201d she exclaimed in a low, frightened\nvoice; then, before they could answer, she threw up her arms, and ran\nacross the room. \u201cYou poor dear!\u201d she sobbed. \u201cYou poor, broken\u2010hearted\ndear!\u201d\n\nShe flung herself on her knees beside the sofa, and embraced and wept over\nthe motionless form there, all her anger, all thought of self, forgotten\nin a generous and loving pity and grief.\n\nF. Chevreuse glanced at his brother priest with a faint, sad smile. \u201cHer\nheart is right,\u201d he said. \u201cIt is always right.\u201d\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nMaterial Faith.\n\n\nGive me a God whom I can prove\n  By certain academic rules,\n  Approved by all the learned schools;\nAnd if he fitteth not our groove,\n  We\u2019ll leave him for unscienced fools\n        To idolize.\nBut if his attributes should be\n  All classed within high Reason\u2019s bound\u2014\n  His origin and parts be found\nWith analytics to agree\u2014\n  This God, whom we can solve and sound,\n        We\u2019ll patronize.\n\nBut still our right we will reserve\u2014\n  A sacred privilege of Science\u2014\n  To herald forth our non\u2010compliance\nWith Scriptural accounts that swerve\n  From our grand basis; such defiance\n        We\u2019ll not endure.\nWe\u2019ll rule out the creation chapter;\n  \u2019Tis so absurd! and lacks support\n  Of brilliant sages in our court\nWhose own hypotheses are apter.\n  So exit Moses\u2019 crude report\n        For something newer.\n\nThe Bible we will not reject\n  _In toto_; no, we\u2019ll let it stand,\n  Lest our fair fame should bear a brand;\nBut when we\u2019ve banished ev\u2019ry sect,\n  Then forth we\u2019ll drag from Lethe\u2019s sand\n        Our fossil link!\nCompleting the material chain\n  By philosophic labor wrought,\n  And beaten out by mighty thought!\nEureka! what a motley train\n  Of dry bones, labelled to a jot,\n        Round Learning\u2019s brink!\n\nSuch wondrous titles ne\u2019er were heard\n  In all the mythologic lore!\n  We\u2019ll drape in gloom of Stygian shore\nAll held as truth; and at our word\n  Darkness, in cloak of Light, shall soar\n        To Reason\u2019s throne!\nThen, when this wheeling globe is ours,\n  We\u2019ll send God forth a wand\u2019ring myth\n  Void, and bereft of son, or kith:\nAnd stone\u2010eyed fossils, robed in flowers,\n  From sea of spice to frozen frith,\n        Shall teach alone.\n\n\n\n\nA Glimpse of the Green Isle. I.\n\n\n\u201cWhat the lady wants, sir, is hair,\u201d said Edward.\n\n\u201cHair!\u201d I repeated scornfully, at the same time glancing at the wealth of\ndark\u2010brown hair which fell dishevelled over the shoulders of the Lady from\nIdaho. \u201c_Hair!_\u201d\n\nIt was evident that no comb had touched that wonderful _chevelure_ for\nseveral days.\n\n\u201cI shall never be able to comb it out again,\u201d said the Lady from Idaho in\na weak, despairing voice. She lay on a sofa in a state\u2010room on board the\ntransatlantic steamer _Lima_, from New York to Liverpool, calling at\nQueenstown. She had been terribly sea\u2010sick. During seven days she had not\neaten enough to keep a buffalo\u2010gnat alive.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t mean \u2018air,\u2019 sir,\u201d said Edward, raising his nose to an altitude of\n45\u00b0, with the lofty dignity of your true English waiter. \u201cI means\n_hair_\u2014wentilation.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! yes. I believe you are right, Hedward.\u201d\n\n_Hedward_ was a steward on board the _Lima_, to whose fostering care the\nwriter was entrusted.\n\nThe Lady from Idaho had reached that point of sea\u2010sickness when one does\nnot want the trouble even of getting better. We carried her on deck,\nhowever, and laid her, well wrapped up, on one of the cushioned seats. The\ncircular horizon of many days was being broken by the Irish coast just\ncoming into view. The mere sight of land seemed to revive the fair Idaho\ntraveller. As we neared the coast, and the green of the fields and trees\ncould be seen, she said:\n\n\u201cOh! what a goodly sight. What a beautiful country! I could chant its\npraises with the most enthusiastic Irishman of them all!\u201d\n\nWe feasted our eyes on the beautiful coast until darkness fell upon it and\nits outline was marked for us only by the lights which traced the curves\nof the shore.\n\nWe exchange rocket\u2010signals with the shore and with other steamers lying in\nthe bay. The land\u2010breeze has set the Lady from Idaho on her feet again.\nThe tug comes alongside to take the mails and those passengers who wish to\nland at Queenstown. All is bustle and excitement. There are regretful\nleave\u2010takings between fellow\u2010passengers whom the traditional \u201cstand\u2010\noffishness\u201d of English\u2010speaking people prevented from enjoying each\nother\u2019s society until it was almost time to part. Among those who go on\nshore at Queenstown are the Lady from Idaho\u2014poor seasick soul! she would\nhave gone on shore days ago, if she could have found any shore to go on; a\nyoung Irishman bringing his American bride home for inspection by his\nfriends in \u201cthe Black North\u201d; some American ladies and gentlemen making\ntheir first European tour, evidently determined to be pleased with\neverything they see; some specimens of young and infant America, and the\nwriter.\n\nThere\u2019s not much provision for the comfort of passengers on board the tug.\nThe night is rather moist, but the cabin is \u201cstuffy\u201d and ill\u2010ventilated,\nand we prefer remaining on deck.\n\nThe \u201cCove of Cork\u201d is certainly a beautiful place by day or night. But the\nnight effect is the finer, _me judice_. The rows of lights rising above\neach other, tier on tier, on the heights, cast a magic glamour over the\nscene.\n\nThe tug has reached her dock. The custom\u2010house officers have come on\nboard. Horrid moment! Worse, however, in anticipation than in reality,\neverywhere except on the trans\u2010Atlantic docks of New York City.\n\n\u201cHave you any cigars or tobacco?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cAny firearms?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, sir,\u201d I answer, and inwardly bless my stars that my better and more\nsensible half has left behind, for lack of room, the \u201csix\u2010shooter\u201d which I\ncarried for ten years in the free land of the West. What a piece of luck!\nI have been assured by Irish friends that had I brought that unhappy \u201csix\u2010\nshooter\u201d with me, I should most undoubtedly have been arrested for some\nundefined bloody intentions with regard to that most susceptible animal,\nthe lion of Great Britain. The lion would have been very much mistaken;\nfor never were the Irish shores visited by any one whose heart was more\nfull of peace and good\u2010will.\n\nIreland is not a safe place for any one who has a trans\u2010Atlantic odor\nabout him during a Fenian paroxysm. The possession of a pocket _derringer_\nis sufficient evidence of belligerent intentions. New\u2010York\u2010made boots are\nobjects of suspicion, and in times of excitement have been the cause of\ntrouble to the wearer. As harmless and commercial an article as a wooden\nnutmeg, carried merely as a patriotic souvenir, may entail considerable\nannoyance on its possessor, and perhaps necessitate the good offices of\nhis consul to enable him to pursue his tourist path of pleasure or\nbusiness in peace. In such periods as anti\u2010Fenian frenzy, English ports\nare the safest and pleasantest; for in Ireland, then, the lion is rampant,\nroaring and seeking whom he may devour. It is better to keep away from his\nsuper\u2010serviceable retainers in Ireland.\n\nBut the political horizon is unclouded. The bloody\u2010minded revolutionists\nof the pen and inkstand are quiescent for the nonce. We find the officials\nkind and polite. They opened only one of our trunks. They gave its\ncontents merely a cursory inspection, and chalked cabalistic characters on\nall our boxes, portmanteaus, satchels, etc. They fished for no fee, nor\nwas any offered them.\n\nIt is nearly midnight when we leave the tug. We step ashore. After a\nquarter of a century of absence, my foot is upon my native heath. My name\nis not MacGregor, dear reader, nor is it Micawber.\n\nI do not think people feel much at the moment that anything happens to\nthem. It is either before or after; in anticipation or retrospection. In\ndescribing their sensations, they tell us what they suppose they are going\nto feel, or what they think they ought to have felt. I have stood bare\u2010\nheaded by the grave of Washington at Mount Vernon. I believe the man and\nhis work to be among the greatest that ever blest the world. What did I\nfeel? A kind of sorrowful, reverential, awe\u2010struck mental numbness; then a\nsad yet selfish pity for my kind, who, however good and great they be,\ne\u2019en to this favor must they come at last. I could not have distinctly\nshaped a thought or given expression to any of the ideas which a visit to\nthe grave of Washington might be supposed to suggest to a conventionally\nsusceptible imagination. Yet my eyes were full of tears. In the evening,\nhowever, in a comfortable room at Willard\u2019s, in an easy\u2010chair by a\ncheerful fire, in the pleasant ease of slippers and cigars, with a quire\nof thick, white, unglazed letter\u2010paper before me, any kind of steel pen (I\nhate a gold pen for literary work; it has a counting\u2010house suggestiveness\nthat seems to disagree with the muses), with mayhap a modicum of _vin\nchaud_ at my elbow, what pages of \u201cThoughts suggested by a visit to the\ngrave of Washington\u201d I could have \u201cknocked off\u201d! But unluckily Jones\nrushed in with the sad news that poor Thompson had been killed on the\nother side of the river, and drove all the intended \u201cThoughts\u201d out of my\nhead. There is no real present. We have only the past and the future.\n\nThe debarkation of a number of ladies, children, trunks, boxes, and\ncarpet\u2010bags is not generative of the softer emotions. The night is damp\nand chilly. It has reached the wee sma\u2019 hours. There is no omnibus or hack\nto take us to the hotel. Some night\u2010birds, with low, flat caps and\nCorkonian accents, offer to carry our luggage and show us the way to the\nhotel. It is \u201conly a step or two.\u201d The cort\u00e9ge sets out for the hotel.\nCorkonian youngsters\u2014who ought to have been in their beds, if they had any\nbeds to go to\u2014come suddenly out of the darkness, and ask, with wonderful\nchromatic elocution, the privilege of carrying our satchels. It is useless\nto tell them we do not need their assistance. They will not be denied.\nThey keep up their chromatics until we succumb. Well, it is sixpence each\nfor them\u2014a treble, or American, gratuity. An American, native or adopted,\nto whom, especially if he have lived in the West, \u201ca quarter\u201d seems the\nlowest gratuity that he can offer to the negro who blacks his boots in a\nsleeping\u2010car, feels an impulse of lavishness on touching Irish ground. He\n\u201cfeels good,\u201d and wishes to make all around him partake of the feeling.\nHalf a dollar seems the least that he can offer the waiter at the hotel\nwith justice to his own dignity and that of the country he has the honor\nto represent. He is not always so generous when he returns at the end of\nhis tour, and the gratuity system of Britain has disgusted him and helped\nto deplete his purse. Then he comes down to the smallest silver coin in\nhis _portemonnaie_. He cannot offer coppers, and never gets as low as the\nEnglishman\u2019s \u201ctuppence.\u201d\n\nThe English and the Irish in Ireland inveigh bitterly against the American\npropensity to give extravagant _douceurs_. They say that Americans are\nspoiling their waiters, porters, servants, etc. They call this liberality\nsnobbishness, desire to display! The fact is, it is partly a matter of\nhabit, partly a want of knowledge of the comparative values of \u201ctips\u201d at\nhome and abroad. What American from the further side of the Mississippi\nexpects to get anything for a penny? Add to this, what I before remarked,\nthat the American in Ireland \u201cfeels good,\u201d and wants to scatter around all\nthe good he can.\n\nWell! here we are at the hotel. A somewhat stupefied porter receives us.\nHe has to see somebody before he can inform us as to the probability of\nentertainment. He has not indicated any room where the ladies and children\ncan sit and take the night\u2010chill off while we await the result of his\nconference with Mr. or Mrs. Boniface. We remain standing in the entry, our\ncarpet\u2010bags and wraps in our hands. At length the comatose porter returns,\nand says that bed\u2010rooms are ready for us!\n\n\u201cCan we have any supper?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, sir. The cook\u2019s gone home, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a cup of tea?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, sir. It\u2019s too late, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt least, we can have some hot Irish whiskey\u2010punch?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, sir. There\u2019s no hot wather in the house, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there any _cold_ water in the house?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf coorse there is, sir,\u201d replies our negative Amphitryon, slightly\nroused by the question.\n\n\u201cThen bring me some Irish whiskey and _cold_ water.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, sir, I\u2019ll thry, sir. I\u2019ll see if the bar\u2010maid isn\u2019t asleep, sir, and\nget the key from her, sir.\u201d\n\nWe were then presented with one\u2010third of a tallow candle each, and\nmarshalled to our respective sleeping\u2010apartments. No chance of a little\npleasant chatter and some gentle exhilaration on our first night on Irish\nsoil.\n\nWe sleep pretty well, however, and pretty long into the forenoon of the\nnext day. Waiter comes to say that we can have breakfast in the coffee\u2010\nroom whenever we desire it. This is a delicate hint that we are not early\nrisers. He wants to know when we wish breakfast and of what we wish it\ncomposed.\n\n\u201cChops and tomato\u2010sauce, ham and eggs\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, sir. _Rashers_ and eggs, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cBeefsteak, tea, and coffee, in half an hour.\u201d\n\nRaining! The view of the bay is rather cheerless. Everything looks\ndankish, dingy, and dull.\n\n\u201cCan you realize that you are in I Ireland?\u201d I inquire of the Lady from\nIdaho.\n\n\u201cNot in the least,\u201d responds the most amiable of her sex. \u201cCan you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, indeed.\u201d\n\nIt is not a good morning for the interchange of ideas. Misty mornings\nnever are. As for certain projected \u201cThoughts on touching Irish soil after\ntwenty\u2010five years\u2019 absence,\u201d their suggesting themselves under such a\nmurky sky is out of the question. They will have to wait for the bright,\ncreative sun. Perhaps, after a good warm breakfast, one may be able to\nthink some \u201cThoughts,\u201d if the railway time\u2010tables will admit of it.\n\nThe \u201ccoffee\u2010room\u201d of \u201cthe best hotel\u201d is cold and cheerless. Smoke without\nfire is obtained from some wet coal\u2010dust, economically caked, according to\nthe mode of thrifty housekeepers in the British Isles, in an infinitesimal\ngrate in a remote corner of the room. Impossible to think any \u201cThoughts\u201d\nhere. Some solemn\u2010looking men, very particular about their chops\u2014I mean\ntheir mutton\u2010chops\u2014are enjoying\u2014or, more correctly, consuming, for there\nis no evidence of enjoyment\u2014their morning meal.\n\nOur breakfast is not a bad one. The chops are excellent; the beefsteak,\nso\u2010so. I have eaten better beef in New York. The bread is hard and heavy,\nbut white and not ill\u2010tasted. I wish the Irish and English waiters would\nadopt the short alpaca jacket and long white apron of the waiters of Paris\nand New York. It is a much neater and cleaner costume. The greasy full\u2010\ndress coat and limp, whity\u2010brown neck\u2010cloth are not only absurd; they are\noften disgusting.\n\nStill raining! The sidewalks are hid from view by the thickly\u2010passing\numbrellas. Let us go and buy some umbrellas! Life seems to be impossible\nwithout them here. In the three kingdoms, umbrellas are indispensable to\nrespectability.\n\n\u201cI hate respectability,\u201d said the Lady from Idaho with a vicious emphasis.\n\nI was rather astonished by this outburst, but I reflected that allowance\nmust be made for ladies\u2019 tempers on draggle\u2010tail mornings.\n\n\u201cSuch weather,\u201d I remarked, \u201cis enough to make one hate anything.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not that,\u201d she retorted. \u201cI hate respectability, rain or shine.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Des go\u00fbts et des couleurs_\u2014you know the old proverb.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is nothing more selfish, more hypocritical, more cowardly, than\n\u2018respectability.\u2019 \u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear madam, I did not take the trouble of coming from the other side\nof the Rocky Mountains for the purpose of chopping logic. I must buy\numbrellas.\u201d\n\nI bought me an umbrella. Thenceforward I was only separated from it during\nsleep and meals while I remained in the British Islands. It was almost\nalways necessary. The wretch who sold it to me, however, saw that I wore\novershoes, and charged me about three Irish prices. I feel certain that\nthe day will come when he will be fitly punished. He will emigrate to the\nUnited States sooner or later, and the hackmen or _restaurateurs_ of New\nYork will avenge me!\n\nSteam is a wonderful leveller. It is destroying national costume and\ntoning down national peculiarities. The same round hat which was worn in\nNew York when I left is worn in Queenstown; the same fashion of winter\novercoat. The up\u2010and\u2010down\u2010the\u2010gamut intonations of the Cork brogue,\nhowever, bring you to a consciousness of your true latitude and longitude.\nThe long, hooded cloth cloaks of the peasant women have some suggestions\nof nationality about them. Occasionally, too, a girl of seventeen or\neighteen with bare feet and short kirtle is seen. This is characteristic.\n\n\u201cBuy a bunch of Irish shamrocks from me, sir? Now, do, sir, if ye plase.\u201d\n\nWe cannot refuse. We lay in a plentiful supply of the chosen leaf of bard\nand chief.\n\n\u201cLong life to you, sir, and to the purty ladies and the beautiful childer,\nand all the blessings in the world on ye. May ye never know what it is to\nwant anything for them!\u201d\n\nThe shamrocks alone were not dear; but with such a prayer added, we felt\nas if we were taking the poor woman\u2019s stock in trade for nothing.\n\nAs a matter of course, I expected to find Ireland rather backward as\nregards women\u2019s rights and that sort of thing. I was somewhat surprised,\ntherefore, on entering the telegraph office, to find a telegraphist of the\ngentler sex. She seemed to be quite a business young lady\u2014quick,\nintelligent, and polite. With the least possible display of conscious\nsuperiority, she instructed me in the mode of filling those absurd British\nblanks for my first British telegrams. With the condescending gentleness\nof an amiable \u201cschool\u2010marm\u201d instructing a good boy of unfortunately\nlimited knowledge and capacity, she \u201cposted\u201d me in the names and location\nof streets in Dublin. She was industrious as well as intelligent. She had\nbrought her knitting. During our conversation, she doubly improved the\nshining hour by rolling into a ball a skein of worsted which a most\nserious and attentive young lady of eight or nine summers held distended\non her outstretched and uplifted hands.\n\nThe hotel at which we stopped was managed by women. I afterwards remarked,\nin my trip through the island, that the internal economy of most of the\nhotels in Ireland is under female direction. The post\u2010offices and postal\u2010\ntelegraph offices are very generally managed by women. There are numerous\ninstitutions for the care of aged, sick, or destitute women, or for the\nrescue and reformation of the poor erring sisters who have been led away\nfrom the paths of purity and peace.\n\n\u201cI really believe, after all,\u201d said the Lady from Idaho to me one day, in\nconversation on this subject, \u201cthat they take better care of their women\nthan we do.\u201d\n\nWe take the cars for Cork. We ride to the \u201cbeautiful city\u201d through the\nloveliest bit of landscape on which the sun ever shone, or, more\nappositely, on which the gentle rain from heaven ever fell. It is indeed a\nland of loveliness and song. The good\u2010natured guard, having remarked our\novershoes doubtless, puts his face to the car\u2010window, and enthusiastically\nasks:\n\n\u201cWell, sir, an\u2019 isn\u2019t this a counthry worth fightin\u2019 for?\u201d\n\nConfound the fellow! even though he be bright\u2010faced and seems good\u2010\nnatured. I wish those people who are eternally talking about fighting and\nnever doing it\u2014except among themselves\u2014would stop talking, or, if they\ncannot do anything better, go out, take a good \u201clicking\u201d manfully, and be\ndone with it. Daring and doing, even if one gets the worst of it, is\nbetter than loud talking and nothing doing. I hate the _vox et pr\u00e6terea\nnihil_. We have had too much of it.\n\n\u201cFaith,\u201d says the guard, \u201cit\u2019s the fine, healthy\u2010looking childer ye\u2019ve\ngot. Shure, they don\u2019t look like Yankee childer at all, at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf by Yankee you mean _American_, my friend, that they undoubtedly are,\u201d\nreplies the gentleman responsible for the little responsibilities who are\ntoo healthy\u2010looking to be like \u201cYankee childer\u201d; \u201cbut they come from ayont\nthe Mississippi, which may account in some degree for their hardy\nappearance.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat town is that on the other side of the water?\u201d\n\n\u201cPassage, sir.\u201d\n\nPassage! Shade of \u201cFather Prout\u201d! How often have we rolled our tongues in\nluscious enjoyment around thy roaring lyric in praise of that wonderful\nborough!\n\n\n    \u201cThe town of Passage\n    Is large and spacious,\n    And situated\n        Upon the Lay;\n\n    It\u2019s nate and dacent,\n    And quite convanient\n    To come from Cork\n        On a summer\u2019s day.\n\n\nUnfortunately, it is not exactly the kind of a day that one would like\n\n\n              \u201cto slip in,\n    To take a dippin\u2019\n    Fornint the shippin\u2019\n        That at anchor ride;\n    Or in a wherry\n    Cross o\u2019er the ferry\n    To Carrigaloe\n        On the other side;\u201d\n\n\nfor it still rains, and Carrigaloe is upon our side, as a sign\u2010board and\nthe voice of the guard informs us: \u201cCarrigaloe!\u201d\n\nWe shall not have an opportunity of testing the reliability of the poet\u2019s\npromise that\n\n\n            \u201cland or deck on,\n    You may surely reckon,\n    Whatever country\n        You come hither from,\n    On an invitation\n    To a jollification\n    With a parish priest\n        That\u2019s called \u2018Father Tom.\u2019 \u201d\n\n\nThe guard blows his whistle. We leave Passage and its satellite,\nCarrigaloe, behind, and with them the pleasant vision of a cheerful\nevening with the hospitable and large\u2010hearted ecclesiastic of the\ninimitable song.\n\nNot in this wide world is there a lovelier piece of landscape than that\nbetween Queenstown and Cork. Here the Lee is bordered by lovely lawns of\nthe freshest green, sloping gently to the water\u2019s edge. Further on it\nflows between verdurous walls of lofty trees. The leaves of their drooping\nbranches kiss the rippling current as it passes. Yonder the Castle of\nBlackrock frowns over its gently\u2010flowing tide. The grass and the leaves\nare green with a vivid greenness that justifies all that the poets have\nsung about the Emerald Island. What glory in thy long, green vistas,\nbeautiful Glanmire!\n\nOur road is bordered on one side by the river; on the other, rich\ndemesnes, bounded by trees, ivy\u2010covered walls, and moss\u2010covered rocks,\nfrom which fall miniature cascades and waves the green and graceful fern.\n\nThe landscape needs only one modest charm to make its loveliness complete.\nI miss the humble cottage, lowly yet lovely, where honest labor finds its\ncomfort and repose. There are rich mansions and umbrageous groves and\nbroad pastures, but no smoke ascends from cheerful hearths of tillers of\nthe soil. The peasantry, whose cottages might grace these lovely glades,\nare building themselves new homes on the broad prairies of the West. The\nhumble wooden sheds or the rough cabins on the brown and treeless plains,\nsacred to the Lares of independence and self\u2010reliance, are far lovelier in\nthe eyes of the lover of his kind than thy greenest glades, beautiful\nGlanmire!\n\n\n    \u201cA bold peasantry, their country\u2019s pride,\n    If once destroyed, can never be supplied.\u201d\n\n\nHere is the beautiful city. It does not do itself justice to\u2010day. The\nrain, which softens and freshens the beauties of the country, blackens and\nbedraggles the town. \u201cGod made the country, and man made the town.\u201d\n\nBut what are those deep, soft tones that reach us through the humid air?\nCan it be? Yes, there is no doubt about it. We are listening to\n\n\n    \u201cThe bells of Shandon\n    That sound so grand on\n    The pleasant waters\n            Of the river Lee!\n\n    \u201cI\u2019ve heard bells tolling\n    Old Adrian\u2019s mole in,\n    Their thunders rolling\n            From the Vatican;\n\n    \u201cAnd cymbals glorious\n    Swinging uproarious\n    From the gorgeous turrets\n            Of Notre Dame;\n\n    \u201cBut thy sounds are sweeter\n    Than the dome of Peter\n    Flings o\u2019er the Tiber,\n            Pealing solemnly.\n\n    \u201cOh! the Bells of Shandon\n    Sound far more grand on\n    The pleasant waters\n            Of the river Lee!\u201d\n\n\nCork, with its fine bridges crossing the branches of the Lee, might, under\nbright atmospheric effects, lay claim to its antique designation; but,\namid mud and rain, the most enthusiastic traveller can see no\nextraordinary beauty even in Paris itself. Church spires and buildings\ndarkened by the rain have a gloomy look. Even the church of S. Anne, which\nmay fairly be said to have \u201ctwo sides to it\u201d\u2014one being of differently\u2010\ncolored stone from the other\u2014has had its peculiar claims to the\ntraveller\u2019s attention somewhat weakened by the effect of the rain.\n\nWe have concluded to wend our way quietly toward Dublin, taking in our\nroute anything that may be of interest. The Great Southern and Western\nRailway runs through one of the most beautiful districts in Ireland. A\nlong panorama of beautiful and characteristic scenes is unrolled as you\nsteam along. Green hedges and slopes, furze\u2010covered fences, century\u2010old\ntrees covered with moss and ivy, rippling streams, a ruined abbey or\ndismantled tower, bits of soft blue appearing through slate\u2010colored\nclouds\u2014the humid atmosphere toning down all harsh lines, and yet spreading\na sweet though melancholy softness over all\u2014this limited by the gentle\nundulations of the ground, whose beautiful curves give life to the\nlandscape, yet circumscribe its horizon, and you have the peculiar\ncharacteristics of an Irish landscape.\n\nThere is an air of solidity about the track and its accessories to an eye\nhabituated to trans\u2010Mississippi railroads. Very pretty are those stations\nof stone, covered with green ivy, every foot of space in front of them\ndevoted to the culture of some sweet, simple flowers. The Lady from Idaho,\nwho has recently been dipping her gentle nose into the cryptogamia, is in\necstasies over the magnificent ferns we have passed at various points of\nour route.\n\nFor an excellent railway dinner, let me recommend Limerick station to the\ntraveller. The best railway breakfast I have ever eaten\u2014and I have eaten\nnot a few in both hemispheres\u2014I ate at Altoona, on the Pennsylvania\nCentral. It was twelve years ago, however. The best railway dinner I have\never eaten I had at Limerick Junction. It would have done credit to many a\npretentious hotel on either continent. It surpassed the _menu_ of private\nhotels in London, \u201cpatronized by officers of both services and their\nfamilies.\u201d It was a better meal than I have had at what is considered one\nof the best hotels in Northern Germany, and did not cost half so much. It\nwas well and comfortably served, _malgr\u00e9_ the ponderous solemnity of the\nBritish style of hotel attendance, which to me is a terrible bore. Plenty\nof time was allowed us to eat and enjoy our meal. Some jovial young\ngentlemen at the table politely caused champagne to be offered us, in\ncompliment to our trans\u2010Atlantic character. They insisted, as far as\npoliteness would admit, on regaling us; but we declined indulgence in the\nlively beverage. Sparkling wines are not good to travel on. One of the\ngentlemen was fascinated by a specimen of infantine America\u2014a member of\nour party, and one of its most important members, by the way. The\nchampagne, probably, had a softening effect on the gentleman. He lamented\nhis childless condition, and expressed his readiness to give fabulous\namounts for the little Columbian stranger. The father of the latter good\u2010\nhumoredly told the gentleman that Young America, white or black, is out of\nthe market, and has been so for some years.\n\nThe bell rings. We resume our seats in the train. We have a carriage to\nourselves. The guard told us, on leaving Cork, that he would try to keep\nus alone. This means that he wants a gratuity at the journey\u2019s end; for\nyour conductor, or \u201cguard,\u201d on European railways is not above taking a\nshilling or a sixpence. He shall have it, so far as we are concerned.\n\nThe manner of starting a train is good. The bell rings\u2014signal to the\npassengers to take their seats. There are two guards, one in front and one\nin rear, each supplied with a whistle. They look along the train to see\nthat the doors of all the compartments are closed. The forward guard,\nseeing all right at his end, blows his whistle. The rear guard, to make\nassurance doubly sure, glances along the entire train, and, finding\neverything in readiness, whistles. The second whistle is the signal to the\nengineer, who then sounds the steam\u2010whistle, and the train starts.\n\nThe trains generally exceed ours in rapidity, but are very much behind\nthem in comfort and elegance. There is no drinking\u2010water in the English or\nIrish carriages. There are no stoves to keep one warm in cold weather or\nduring the chilly hours of the night. If the weather is cold, tin foot\u2010\nwarmers, filled with water which is not always warm, are furnished in the\nproportion of one to two first\u2010class passengers. There is no luxurious\nsleeping\u2010car, where you can sleep comfortably, awake refreshed, find your\nboots ready blacked when you get up, and wash yourself at a marble wash\u2010\nstand. No comfortable hotel\u2010car, into which you can step from the\nsleeping\u2010car in your slippers, and enjoy your beef\u2010steak and fried\npotatoes, or your quail on toast, at the rate of thirty miles an hour.\n\nIn consequence of the absence of arrangements for personal comfort on\ntrains, the British traveller is obliged to weight himself down and half\nfill his compartment with rolls of railway rugs, bottles of water, and\nplethoric lunch\u2010baskets, to his own great inconvenience, as well as that\nof his fellow\u2010travellers. The trouble caused by the want of a proper\nsystem of baggage transportation compels the traveller to carry huge\nleather portmanteaus about five times as large as an ordinary American\ntravelling\u2010satchel. As these are considered \u201cparcels that can be carried\nin the hand,\u201d the traveller is allowed to take them into the carriage with\nhim. By this means he avoids the trouble of watching the \u201cluggage\u2010van\u201d at\njunctions, and the delay of waiting for its unloading at the terminus.\nThen come bundles of umbrellas and canes strapped together, and the\nleather hat\u2010box\u2014that inseparable adjunct of British respectability. Behold\nthe unprotected matron, surrounded by half a dozen family jewels, with any\nquantity of wraps and lunch\u2010baskets, and bottles and umbrellas, and band\u2010\nboxes and multitudinous matters wrapped up in endless newspaper packages!\nHow she glares at you when you step as carefully as you can among the\nformidable piles to three square inches of a seat in the interior corner!\nWoe be to him who displaces one of the parcels sacred to family use. I\nmight be able to stand a Gorgon, but I could not stand that. Please do not\nput me in the carriage with the matron! Rather in the van with the\nuntamable hyena, Mr. Guard, if you please!\n\nImagine a succession of Broadway omnibuses, with windows and doors at\neither end, placed laterally behind an engine, and you have an European\nrailway train. Half the passengers necessarily sit with their backs to the\nengine. The first\u2010class carriages are upholstered in cloth or plush like\nhackney coaches. The benches are divided into two double seats on each\nside, giving seats for eight passengers in each compartment. The\ncompartment is lighted by a small and generally dim and smoky oil\u2010lamp\nplaced in the roof.\n\nIn the second\u2010class carriages the seats are not divided. Six persons are\nsupposed to be accommodated on each bench. On some lines the seats are\nvery thinly cushioned with leather; generally, they are not cushioned. In\nFrance and Belgium the second\u2010class carriages are cushioned and backed\nwith gray cloth, and the difference in comfort between them and the first\u2010\nclass carriages is not worth the difference of fare. This is about one\u2010\nthird greater for first\u2010class tickets. Twelve persons, with a\nproportionate quantity of wraps, bundles, baskets, bottles, umbrellas, and\nportmanteaus, pack a compartment pretty closely. Your European traveller\nmakes as much preparation for a trip of sixty miles as an American would\nfor an all\u2010rail journey from New York to San Francisco. An American\nrailroad car is quite a cheerful \u201cinstitution\u201d; whereas travelling seems\nto be a more serious business on the other side of the Atlantic. A\ncompartment\u2014first or second class\u2014is a gloomy place. In first\u2010class\ncarriages, the \u201cswells\u201d and snobs are afraid to imperil their dignity by\nrisking intercourse with somebody who may be \u201cnobody.\u201d The result is\nsilence and solemnity. In second\u2010class carriages you often find very\npleasant people\u2014clergymen, professional men, young tourists, artists, and\nstudents\u2014who can talk pleasantly and well, and have no snobbish,\nconventional dread of doing so.\n\nIt is a common saying in England that only fools and Americans travel\nfirst\u2010class. I have heard of a crusty old Irish peer, who, being asked why\nhe always travels third\u2010class, replied that he does so because \u201cthere is\nno fourth class.\u201d I think the venerable lord was rather ostentatious of\nhis humility. I would not advise any of my American friends to try third\u2010\nclass travelling in England or Ireland. A third\u2010class car is a cold,\ndirty, noisome place. It is full of tobacco\u2010smoke and the smell of strong\ndrinks of various kinds. It is worse than the forward car on a prairie\nrailroad, filled with immigrants and \u201crailroad hands.\u201d\n\nMail trains are generally composed of first and second class carriages\nonly. Class distinctions meet us everywhere. We find a first and second\nclass waiting\u2010room, first and second class restaurant, third\u2010class\nwaiting\u2010room and third\u2010class restaurant. The waiting\u2010rooms are separate\nfor each sex in each class. You are parted from your wife, sister, or\nsweetheart. If you have something of importance to communicate to your\nfair companion, and should appear near the door of the ladies\u2019 waiting\u2010\nroom for that purpose, a pre\u2010Raphaelite female, armed with a broom, throws\nherself into the breach, and fiercely demands your business, while she\nreduces you almost to a jelly by a Gorgon glare.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nCora.\n\n\nA flower of the pale, sad South:\n  Yet pale nor sad is she;\n  For she blooms on a wonderful tree\nThat knows not blight or drouth\u2014\n  A certain miraculous tree\nOur Lady has planted down South.\n\nA rose let me call you, dear girl\u2014\n  A fadeless and thornless rose;\n  So richly your modesty shows\nIts blushes bejewell\u2019d with pearl\u2014\nAnd a dew\u2010drop of grace every pearl\u2014\n  That I think of the Mystical Rose.\n\nI have seen, and must needs pass on;\n  But this I bear with me away:\nA fragrance that will not be gone,\n  But haunts me, and most when I pray.\n  It comes like the memories of May\nFrom the pure, happy years that are gone.\n\nThen the Lord of the sweet and the fair\n  (For whom is all beauty alone),\nI pray him that floweret so rare\n  No hand may dare cull but his own;\nThat no other bosom may wear\n  This rose of the South than his own.\n\n\n\n\nCharles X. At Holyrood.(93)\n\n\nBy The Comte Achille De Jouffroy\n\nFrom Paris Ou Le Livre Des Cent\u2010Et\u2010Un.\n\nSeveral friends of the exiled royal family, having been led by devotion to\ntheir cause to visit Scotland, have published detailed accounts of the\nresidence at Holyrood. These narratives have left but little untold\nconcerning the august proscribed personages, their situation, their mode\nof life, and their habits, the uniformity of which no important\ncircumstance occurred to modify during the two years of their abode in the\nancient palace of the Stuarts.\n\nThe reader, therefore, must not expect to meet in the following sketch\nwith descriptions which have already been given by others with much\nminuteness, and which have been repeated in various works. Here will be\nfound merely a small number of observations, impartially collected, which\nmay serve to combat prejudices of a diverse nature that have been called\nforth, as well by the assertions of an unjust and bitter hatred, as by the\ninjudicious efforts of a flattering servility.\n\nCertainly, any enemy of the royal family, unless he were insane or wicked,\nhad he been admitted into the privacy of Holyrood, must at least have\nceased to regard them with dislike. Their most prejudiced adversary, no\nmatter to what distinguished rank of society he might belong, could not\nhave learned to know the domestic virtues displayed by these princes in\nadversity without wishing himself to have a father, a son, a wife, a\nsister, or children resembling them. On the other hand, those who, through\nattachment, duty, or interest (for there are political situations which a\nwell\u2010comprehended interest forces some to retain, even after the\noccurrence of disasters)\u2014those, I say, who have made themselves the noisy\napologists of this family have carried exaggeration so far as to attribute\nto them qualities and talents which would have been more than sufficient\nfor ruling even in these difficult times; without reflecting that this\nblindness of zeal in regard to princes who met with so sudden a downfall\nwhile surrounded by a faithful army, and in the midst of devoted\nprovinces, must diminish the confidence due to that portion of the\neulogium which is really just. As private individuals, the Bourbons of the\nelder branch have never merited the smallest of the outrages which it has\nbeen their fate to endure; as sovereigns, it is well known they have been\ngreat chiefly in their fall, and have shown their courage and resolution\nless in their lives than in their deaths.\n\nThe writers of whom I speak, carried away by the feelings of their hearts,\nhave poured them forth in eloquent descriptions. Identifying themselves,\nso to speak, with the misfortunes of which they have been witnesses, they\nhave given us chiefly the recital of their own emotions. I shall not\nimitate them; the spectacle of an entire family, precipitated from the\nmost brilliant of thrones into the miseries of exile, is of itself\nsufficiently touching; it has in it enough of sad sublimity to render it\nuseless to overload the picture with the pretentious ornaments of the\nelegiac style. To put together sentimental phrases for the purpose of\ndescribing a misfortune like this is to place one\u2019s self, no matter what\ntalents one may possess or exhibit, very much beneath the level of the\nsubject.\n\nI have considered this preamble needful in order to avoid being taxed with\ncoldness. To speak with a suitable calmness of the Bourbons may perhaps be\npermitted to one who for fifteen years has defended their cause, and who\nhas followed them into banishment; who has never obtained from them either\nfavors or places, and who also has never betrayed them.\n\nIn quitting France, Charles X. had only carried away with him, after so\nmuch splendor, a sum barely sufficient for a modest subsistence during a\nfew years. The abode at Lullworth was expensive; its vicinity to France\nmade it accessible to a crowd of travellers, many of whom came only to\nsolicit from the king, in return for services past, or in view of services\noffered, the assistance which the unfortunate monarch was no longer in a\ncondition to grant without reducing himself to want. In order to escape\nfrom these importunities, and to withdraw himself from the painful\nnecessity of refusing, he asked and obtained from the British government\nthe enjoyment of the asylum which he had already for a long time inhabited\nduring the period of his first exile.\n\nThe capital of Scotland, in which is situated the palace of Holyrood, is\nin the same latitude as Moscow, but its vicinity to the sea renders its\ntemperature much more endurable. Edinburgh is, in many respects, the most\nagreeable residence which a stranger can select in Great Britain. The\nliberal arts are there cultivated with a particular devotion. It is a\nlarge town, picturesque in the extreme, and sumptuously built. The seat of\nold Edinburgh is worthy of remark; in seeking for a comparison which may\nconvey an idea of it, the device of the arms of the kingdom naturally\noccurs to furnish me with one. Imagine, at the entrance of a deep and\nnarrow valley formed by the hills of Salisbury and Calton, an enormous\nlion, half couched. His head, which is turned towards the rising sun, and\noverlooks the plain, is a peaked rock, three hundred feet in elevation,\nand nobly crowned by the old castle. To the right and left, the houses are\nsuspended from his flanks, like the waves of his mane. The ridge of his\nspine is represented by a long street, which, dividing the two opposite\ndeclivities, begins from the esplanade of the castle, and terminates at\nthe Canongate in front of the portal of Holyrood. The new town occupies\nthe plateau of Calton hill. Larger than the old town, it is also better\nbuilt, and all the streets are laid out in regular squares.\n\nThis city, take it altogether, resembles none other with which we are\nacquainted. It is an assemblage of monuments of every age and in every\nstyle, built of beautiful stone, many of them very carefully constructed,\nand thrown, in the most picturesque manner, upon projections of rugged\nrocks, in the hollows of precipices, on the slopes of valleys. Magnificent\nbridges, gigantic causeways, unite the different parts of the city. The\nancient and the modern are preserved without alteration of character. Here\nrise houses of eleven stories, the highest of which is on a level with the\ngreat street of which we have spoken. There, beside a Greek peristyle, the\nluxury of the boudoir is sheltered by embattled towers. At the sight of\nthis singular town, of this variety of edifices, of these steep mountains,\nof the sea, and of the sky, we can more fully comprehend the genius of Sir\nWalter Scott. Everything here seems created to clothe with form and\nsubstance the conceptions of romance. Here we can walk, if we like, under\nAthenian porticos or in Gothic cloisters, and can pass from the sombre\ntints of a feudal habitation to drawing\u2010rooms freshly decorated in the\nmodern style of luxury; we can leave the modest sidewalks of the\n_bourgeois_ of the XVth century, above which the projecting roofs and\ngables are still in good preservation, to enter upon railways, those\nmarvels of modern invention. At every step our eyes are met by objects\nless precious, perhaps, from the value they represent than from the\nassociations they recall: the crown of gold enriched with jewels, the\nsceptre, and the sword of the ancient kings of Scotland, discovered,\nfifteen years ago, in a walled\u2010up room of the old castle; the furniture\nused by Mary Stuart; the embroidery which occupied the last happy leisure\nhours of this unfortunate queen; the tapestry raised by the assassins of\nRizzio when they entered her apartment; the bed of crimson damask on which\nshe used to sleep. Here we tread on the ashes of a long line of kings, of\na multitude of celebrated personages; and the last circumstance worthy of\nnote, in this abode so suggestive of mysterious traditions and royal\nmisfortunes, is that the wreck of the court of the Tuileries have taken\nrefuge beneath the ancient hereditary roof of James II.\n\nThe palace of Holyrood is nothing but a cold and gloomy cloister, flanked\nat the two extremities of its anterior front by towers. The apartments of\nCharles X., situated on the first floor, extend over one of the sides of\nthe cloister, and over the angle opposite the principal entrance. After\ncrossing a vestibule leading to the chapel, an ante\u2010chamber, an\nunfurnished gallery, a billiard\u2010room, we enter the dining\u2010room\u2014a gloomy\napartment with bare walls, containing only an oval table and chairs. From\nthence we pass into a drawing\u2010room twenty\u2010five feet square, opening upon a\nsmall, uncultivated enclosure called a garden, and furnished in the style\nof the drawing\u2010room of a Parisian _bourgeois_. It was in this apartment\nthat receptions for strangers were held from eleven to twelve o\u2019clock in\nthe morning; and in the evening, all the royal family met here after\ndinner. The persons belonging to the household and the invited guests were\nadmitted to these _soir\u00e9es_, which lasted until about ten o\u2019clock. The Duc\nde Bordeaux(94) and mademoiselle played games together; the king had a\nwhist\u2010table; the dauphiness and her ladies worked at a round table.\nFrequently the conversation became general, and was almost always\ninteresting. The French and English newspapers were read and commented\nupon. Sometimes the king and the dauphin would repair to the billiard\u2010\nroom, and play a few games together. In these _soir\u00e9es_, there was no more\netiquette observed than is usual in the house of a gentleman living on his\nestates.\n\nAt the left of the drawing\u2010room, a door led to an intermediate apartment,\nforming the private study of the king. Into this opened his bed\u2010chamber.\nWith the sleeping\u2010room of the king communicated that of the Duc de\nBordeaux, situated on the same floor, and looking into the courtyard. The\nBaron de Saint Aubin occupied a room at the side; the apartments of\nmademoiselle were on the upper floor.\n\nThe Duc de Blacas, when he was at Holyrood, had the superintendence of the\nhousehold; when he was absent, the details of these functions were\ndirected by the Baron de Saint Aubin. The suite was composed of about\nforty persons, lodged in the town in the vicinity of the palace.\n\nThe equipages of the king were limited to one carriage, hired by the\nmonth. When this was not sufficient, another coach was sent for; and three\nsaddle\u2010horses sufficed for the rides of the king and his family. Charles\nX., having given up the amusement of hunting, and needing exercise to\nmaintain his health, was in the habit of walking every day three or four\nmiles around Holyrood. The table was supplied abundantly, but without\nluxury; the king usually invited two or three strangers, but the number of\ncovers seldom exceeded fourteen or fifteen.\n\nSuch was the mediocrity to which fate had reduced this family, so lately\nsurrounded by the greatest possible luxury and splendor. No sign of\nregret, no trace of vexation, could be perceived on the countenance of\nCharles X. Never did a word of bitterness escape from the lips of these\nillustrious sufferers. The dauphiness, whom some have dared to represent\nas a vindictive and fanatical woman, was gentleness itself. In vain would\nany one have sought, in the expression of her face, so full of goodness\nand resignation, for even the appearance of a pride which nevertheless her\nelevated rank would have sufficiently justified. As to the dauphin, so far\ndid he carry his abnegation of all personal resentment that he was more\nthan once heard to recall with commendation the talents and bravery of\nsome officers whom he had overwhelmed with his favors, but who,\nnevertheless, had been the first to betray him.\n\nEvery one admitted to Holyrood could not but recognize and admire the\npresence of those virtues which form the charm of domestic life. They\ndoubtless do not suffice for those upon whom Heaven has imposed the\nterrible task of governing men. The most marked trait in the character of\nCharles X. is indecision; in that of the dauphin, a pretension to\nacuteness, which has more than once discouraged his friends, without\ninspiring confidence in his enemies. As for the dauphiness, the intensity\nof her misfortunes in this world has led her to fix her hopes upon a\nbetter one. Pious, although tolerant, she herself feels that her counsels\nwould be of little avail in this age of incredulity. In what she desires\nfor France, she never can separate religion from legitimacy. When, at\nHolyrood, she heard of the pillage of the archbishopric, these words fell\nfrom her lips: \u201cAlas! the French have cast off religion, and at length I\nbegin to comprehend why it is they hate us.\u201d\n\nThe Duchesse de Berri was a being apart in the royal family. Young,\nanimated, full of regrets, of desires, and of hopes, she could not pardon\nthose who had prevented her from presenting herself before the Parisians\non the 30th of July, 1830, in order to claim from them the crown for her\nson. Confident in her adventurous courage and in her ability to create for\nherself another future, her irritation for the past and the projects she\nstill contemplated, little agreed either with the calm resignation of the\ndauphiness or with the habitual prudence of the king. She could only\nendure for a few weeks the monotony of the residence at Holyrood. Besides,\nthe rigor of the climate appeared to affect her health, and she repaired\nto the mineral waters of Bath. Here various speculators came to surround\nher, in a manner to take possession of her as of a pledge for their future\nfortunes, and induced her to borrow considerable sums of money on the\nproperty still remaining to her, in order to defray the expenses of the\nprojected expedition. The duchess was brought to London, where the final\narrangements for this loan were to be made. She was concealed in a small\nhouse, and not a single Frenchman, excepting those composing the circle by\nwhom she was surrounded, knew what had become of her until the day of the\nembarkation.\n\nThe announcement of the departure of the duchess was received at Holyrood\nwith a species of consternation. The expedition she was about to undertake\nwas regarded as an act of extreme imprudence. To throw herself into\nFrance, in order to create an insurrection, without arms, without money,\nwithout the prospect of assistance from any European power; to give\nherself up to the chances of inconsiderate promises made by a few men\nwithout influence and without resources; to calculate chiefly upon the\ndefection of an army, recomposed in part, and still agitated by the\npreceding defection into which the sudden departure of the king had\nprecipitated it\u2014this was, in the eyes of the exiles of Holyrood, to\nattempt an enterprise of which the success would scarcely have justified\nthe temerity, and of which the success itself was considered impossible.\nOther reasons for fear, which we may now be permitted to recall, disturbed\nthe heart of the old monarch. He distrusted the impetuosity of the\nduchess, her fiery temperament, her ardent and independent character,\nwhich, even should it not lead her to disregard conventionalities, might\nauthorize those possessing her confidence and affection to overstep their\nlimits in her affairs. He foresaw more than one disaster; he dreaded all\nsorts of misfortunes. The unfortunate princess was destined to experience\nthem all. The Duc de Blacas was commissioned to follow her, and to oppose,\nas far as it might be in his power, the dangerous influence of her\nadvisers; but the resolution of the duchess was too much in unison with\nher tastes and character. Soon the position of M. de Blacas towards her\nbecame no longer tenable, and he returned without having accomplished\nanything, to the great displeasure of the king.\n\nCharles X. never approved of the projects for civil war. When these were\nproposed to him, he did not manifest that aversion which has been\nattributed to him by his flatterers; he simply replied that, in the times\nin which we live, civil war is a thing difficult to undertake and\nimpossible to sustain. He had been a king; he was acquainted with the\nsecrets of the government; he knew that all the forces of the kingdom\nbeing at the present day centralized, the provinces cannot withdraw\nthemselves from the power of the telegraph and of the budget; and that\nnothing but a signal disaffection on the part of the army would be likely\nto produce a second 20th of March. The riots which took place in the\ncapital at first excited his attention; but after the days of the 5th and\n6th of June, he appeared to have ceased to fear, or rather to hope, for\ntheir success.\n\nAs for foreign war, Charles X. never could endure the idea of it. Never\ndid it enter his thoughts to implore the armed intervention of other\nsovereigns. He believed that a third invasion of France, were it to take\nplace, would lead to incalculable disasters; to the partition of the\nterritory. Perhaps, also, he felt that he could not claim the assistance\nof his allies, in virtue of the treaties of 1815; since, during his reign,\nthe government had always been inclined to throw off the yoke of those\ntreaties. The late ministry, in its endeavors to restore France to her\nnatural limits, had excited distrust in the cabinets of London, the Hague,\nBerlin, Vienna, and Turin. It was not, therefore, probable that these\npowers would assist in restoring a government which had placed itself in a\nhostile position to them all, without demanding, in return, ruinous\nsacrifices and humiliating guarantees.\n\nIt is needful to look at things from this point of view, in order to\nappreciate the policy which was followed at Holyrood. With foreign\ngovernments few or no relations were maintained; with the interior,\nvarious correspondences, the authors of which differed in plans, in\nprinciples, and in views. All were received, all were replied to, in\naccordance with their various ideas and modes of thinking. The object was\nto offend no one, to discourage no opinion, in the uncertainty as to which\nopinion would be the most useful.\n\nMany excellent royalists, with the most praiseworthy disinterestedness,\nwrote to place at the disposal of the king their hearts, their fortunes,\nand their lives. If any means were sought for to utilize these generous\noffers, it was frequently discovered that these worthy people possessed\nneither money nor influence, and that many of them were advanced in years.\n\nOthers sent plans of conspiracies which included three\u2010fourths of France,\nbut with lists of names for the most part unknown. They undertook, they\nsaid, to cause Henry V. to be proclaimed all over the kingdom, provided\nCharles X. would send them in advance sufficient sums of money.\n\nSome personages, who still figure on the theatre of politics, took\nmeasures to remit, with great precaution, their offers of service. It is\nworthy of remark that such notes arrived each time there was any rumor of\nrevolt or any prospect of war in foreign countries. These offers were not\nexpressed in as precise terms as the preceding ones; they were always\naccompanied by conditions, of which the principal ones were that the\ndirection of the movement in question should be confided to no one\nexcepting the authors; that a provision should be made of entire approval\nof the measures upon which they might decide; and, above all, that the\nportfolios of the ministry of the restoration should be ensured to them.\nThey alone, they asserted, understood the needs of France and the way to\nrule her. In a few missives of another kind, some old servants set forth\nthe faults which, in their opinion, the king had committed during his\nreign, and ended by offering him advice in case he should regain the\nthrone. Some of these, irritated by what they considered the oblivion of\ntheir former services, permitted themselves to utter bitter reproaches,\nwithout pity for misfortunes the sight of which should have been\nsufficient to disarm even a just resentment. These letters were received\nwith perfect indifference. There were, however, demands which, by dint of\ntheir audacity, obtained greater success.\n\nA person wrote from Paris to one of the servants of the king: \u201cI am about\nto publish a work which will contain the account of various acts of the\ngovernment of Charles X. You know that the offices I held afforded me\nopportunities of knowing many things; the revolution of July has deprived\nme of my situation and my pension; the public loves scandal; the\npublishers will pay a high price for it; and I will furnish it to them\nunless I receive thirty thousand francs, which I cannot do without.\u201d\n\nIf these are not the precise terms of the letter, at least I am sure that\nI have not altered the sense. The author of this letter had been employed\nunder the Restoration; he had received many favors from both the last two\nmonarchs; a compromise was made with him. I do not know what was the sum\nsent, but I do know that the person employed to mediate in this affair was\nsuccessful; the threatened work was never published. Among the offers of\nservices which reached Holyrood, some deserve particular mention for their\nsingularity.\n\nA hero of July, famous during the fatal days, and furious at not having\nbeen able to obtain some office, proposed to rally all the republicans\namong his friends to the cause of Henry V., and concluded his epistle by\nannouncing that he would repair in person to the sea\u2010coast, and with his\nown hands place the plank of debarkation beneath the feet of the\nlegitimate heir to the crown.\n\nA personage who has for a long time figured under the Empire had\ndespatched to England a very active agent, who offered, at the same time,\nhis services to the princes of Holyrood, to the Duchesse de Berri, and to\nthe heirs of Napoleon; meanwhile, the personage in question was\nnegotiating at Paris with the republicans. The result of this quadruple\npiece of diplomacy was that he obtained employment from the government of\nLouis Philippe.\n\nAlready, during the period of their former exile, had the august occupants\nof Holyrood had but too many opportunities to estimate the real value of\nthe offers, the schemes, the demands, the pretext for which was furnished\nby a projected restoration, of a crowd of ambitious and intriguing men.\nWearied, as it were, by the variety of sentiments expressed towards them,\nthe obliging interest they manifested was merely the effect of an\nexquisite politeness. Unhappily, in this indifference they lost sight of\nreal devotion to their cause; they did not appear to have made any very\ngreat progress in the art of estimating men\u2014an art the ignorance of which\nhad been the cause of their second downfall.\n\nAnd, besides, in order to receive these propositions with profit, to give\nthem a useful direction, it would, first of all, have been necessary that\nthe most important political point\u2014that of legitimacy\u2014should be settled\nand proclaimed.\n\nThose who have asserted that there existed on this subject a perfect\nunanimity of opinion among the royal family and among their advisers as to\nthe right to the crown in the present situation of affairs, either have\nnot known all the truth, or else have concealed a portion of it, in\nconformity with their own political views. During his residence at\nHolyrood, Charles X. addressed to the principal courts of Europe a\nconfirmation of his abdication at Rambouillet; but, besides that this\nconfirmation, being declared _free_, indicates that the abdication was\nalways considered as forced, and therefore null, Charles X., in this\nsecond instrument, expressly reserves to himself the regency of the\nkingdom.\n\nThe dauphin, on the other hand, positively refused to give a similar\ndeclaration. \u201cI sign nothing,\u201d said he; \u201cnot that I desire to dispute with\nmy nephew a crown of which I am far from envying him the possession, but,\non the contrary, in order to preserve it for him, in case the follies\nwhich are being committed in his name should render my reappearance\nnecessary.\u201d\n\nLastly, in regard to the Duchesse de Berri, no law, no historical\nprecedent, could have been found to authorize her to consider herself\nregent of the kingdom during the minority of her son. Had not the\nabdication of Charles X. been conditional, and, besides, where could there\nhave been found a states\u2010general legally convoked to recognize madame in\nthis capacity?\n\nThe uncertainty on this point became a source of discussion for the\nvarious members of the suite. The servants of the king, those of the\ndauphin, and those of the Duc de Bordeaux held many grave arguments over\ntheir respective pretensions to the title of the royal household; but we\nmust add that these all ended in discussion. The royal family, who lived\ntogether in a sincere and patriarchal union, appeared to take but little\ninterest in these various opinions; whether it were that these unfortunate\nprinces believed it impossible for them at this time to recover the crown,\nor whether they regarded the possession of it as something little\ndesirable, they frequently conversed upon this subject as if it had been a\nquestion of historic right foreign to themselves. One opinion, one\nfeeling, however, united them all, and this was that all rights to the\ncrown must one day centre upon the head of Henry V., and that it was\nnecessary to educate him in such a manner as to prepare him worthily to\nsustain this high destiny in case Providence should call him to it.\n\nHere we must speak of the education which is being given to the young\nprince under the direction of the Baron de Damas. Much good, and also some\nevil, has been said of him. In the first place, however, it appears to me\nthat too great importance has been attached to his functions. In order\nthat the character of the governor should have any decisive influence over\nthat of his pupil, it would be necessary for the two to live in\ncomparative isolation. Perhaps, surrounded by all the pomp of the\nTuileries, the fetters of etiquette might have tended to produce such\nisolation; but in the greater freedom consequent upon exile, interruptions\nof all kinds prevent this species of influence. At all hours of the day\nthe Duc de Bordeaux is receiving new and varied impressions. He receives\nthem from his teachers, from his professors, from his servants, from the\nstrangers who approach him, from the paternal solicitude of his\ngrandfather, from the gentle piety of his aunt, from the companionship of\nhis young and charming sister; he receives them from his studies, from his\nexercises, from his travels, from his recollections\u2014in short, from his\nmisfortunes; for he is of an age and of an intelligence to understand and\nto feel them. We must take into account the combined influence of all\nthese diverse impressions, in order to draw probable deductions as to the\nprofit he is one day to receive from his present education.\n\nAt all events, if the Baron de Damas does not possess very enlarged ideas,\nhis character is firm and upright. For many things he deserves\ncommendation: he endeavors to prevent all flatterers from approaching his\npupil; from those by whom he is surrounded he exacts nothing but sincerity\nand cheerfulness. And then, he is careful to admit to the presence of the\nyoung prince, in unrestrained confidence, all strangers, and especially\nall Frenchmen, who desire access to him, unless their request should be\nprompted merely by the wish to gratify an impertinent curiosity.\n\nThe office of M. de Damas has been envied, and even sought after, by some\nof those persons who style themselves the courtiers of misfortune, but who\nare perhaps merely the courtiers of greatness expected, or at least hoped\nfor. But it may reasonably be doubted whether this governor could be\nreplaced in a manner advantageous to the young prince. Among the\nnotabilities of the present epoch who might be designated for this\nimportant position, is there one who combines the necessary\nqualifications? Would we seek among the number of those who, by their\ninterested counsels or by their calculated disaffection, contributed to\nthe overthrow of the throne of Charles X., for men to teach his grandson\nthe art of restoring and of preserving the throne? Can we confide in these\nsystem\u2010mongers at a period like this, when all systems have made\nshipwreck? No; all that can be done is to make of the young prince a man\nof learning without pedantry, of sincerity without indiscretion, of\ncourage without temerity. In the present age, in which everything\nindicates the necessity of a power strong enough to restrain the elements\nof anarchy introduced by sophists into society, in which the overthrow of\nancient institutions leaves to power only the force it can obtain from\narmies, what is chiefly to be desired in the king of a nation like ours is\nmilitary qualities combined with liberality, enlightenment, religion,\nprudence, and justice. Now, none of these conditions are wanting in the\neducation which is now being given to the Duc de Bordeaux\u2014neither proper\nmethods on the part of the preceptors, nor the disposition to receive on\nthe part of the pupil.\n\nM. Barande, one of the most learned men of our time, instructs the young\nprince, with admirable precision, in the facts of history, combined with\nchronology and geography. The Abb\u00e9 de Meligny explains to him with\nsimplicity the doctrines of religion. M. d\u2019Hardivilliers inspires him with\na taste for, and a knowledge of, the fine arts. The first elements of the\nscience of war form the subjects of his games and of his recreations.\nYoung Henri rides on horseback, practises fencing, shoots with the pistol,\nspeaks and writes several languages. His memory is unusually excellent;\nhis discernment is beyond his age. The regular distribution of his time\ngives him habits of order and of diligence. His health, watched over by\nDr. Bougon, is robust; his frame, fortified by exercise, is strong and\nagile. In a word, he is an intelligent, sprightly, vivacious child, and\nyet, withal, a reasonable one. There is no mother who would not be proud\nof him; no father whose every wish would not be gratified by the\npossession of such a son. Having thus sketched his portrait, I do not\nintend to imitate the enthusiasm of those who have gathered up and\npublished his most unimportant remarks, and have even, in their\nexaggerated admiration, attributed to him, possibly, speeches of their\nown.\n\nAt the sight of this royal child, proclaimed, at the hour of his birth,\nfuture monarch of a great empire, and now entering upon his adolescence in\nexile, this reflection naturally presents itself: How if he had never been\nborn?\n\nHad he not been born, probably France would not have been disturbed. The\npartisans of the younger branch, certain of one day attaining to power,\nwould have had patience; the republicans of July would not have been able\nto enter by the breach opened by the Orl\u00e9anists and the disaffected\nroyalists. His grandfather and his uncle might have died upon the throne.\n\nHad he not been born, and had the double abdication still become\nindispensable, Louis Philippe would to\u2010day be more firmly seated on his\nthrone than any monarch in Europe; for in him would be found resolved the\ngreat problem of the union of fact and of right, of legitimacy and of\nforce.\n\nHad he not bean born, ... but he has been born, he is growing to manhood,\nand in him are being developed all the characteristic signs of the\nrejuvenescence of his race. In this age of tribulations and of wonders,\nwho may venture to sound the abyss of the future?\n\nThis was what was said at Holyrood, and it was added: \u201cDid not M. Odillon\nBarrot, when, in the drawing\u2010room at Rambouillet, he executed the task\nassigned to him of announcing to Charles X. the hard decree of exile,\npronounce the memorable words: \u2018Sire, watch well over this royal child;\none day he will be of importance to the destinies of France?\u2019 \u201d\n\n\n\n\nNew Publications.\n\n\n    THE LIFE OF S. JOHN OF THE CROSS. By David Lewis. New York: The\n    Catholic Publication Society. 1874.\n\n\nMr. Lewis has certainly deserved well of the inhabitants of Mount Carmel.\nHis translation of that incomparable gem, S. Teresa\u2019s _Autobiography_; his\ntruly splendid work, the translation of the writings of S. John of the\nCross, and now his _Life_ of the latter saint, make up a series of works\nfor which English Catholic literature is deeply indebted to him. The\ndevoted and enthusiastic interest which S. Teresa, the Queen of Carmel,\nhas inspired in modern times is something wonderful, though it cannot seem\nstrange or surprising to any one who is acquainted with her history and\ncapable of appreciating her character. Happily for the world, S. Teresa\nhas found among her devotees several both able and willing to make her\nlife and works known with an intelligent and painstaking zeal for which we\ncannot be too grateful. F. Bouix and Canon Dalton are conspicuous among\nthese devout admirers of the modern glory of Carmel who have labored so\nfaithfully and with so much pious and scholarly learning and taste to\ndiffuse the light and fragrance of her sanctity and doctrine. Mr. Lewis\ndevotes himself more especially to S. John of the Cross; but it was really\nonly a part of the great work of S. Teresa which S. John executed, both by\nhis labors and his writings. He was her spiritual son, the chief\ninstrument of carrying out the reform with which she was inspired among\nthe friars of the order of Carmel; and in his works he was, so to speak,\nS. Teresa\u2019s theologian and expositor. Every one who has been interested in\nS. Teresa\u2019s life must have wished for a good life of S. John of the Cross;\nand whoever has tasted of the delicious fountain of divine doctrine in his\nworks must have desired it still more. Such a life Mr. Lewis has\nundertaken to give us, compiling it from the older Spanish biographies.\nMr. Lewis\u2019s biography of the saint is short and succinct, but very\nprecise, accurate, and complete in its narrative of facts and events.\n\nSo far, it is what was wanted; and to one who has learned to know the\ninterior life of S. John in his writings it is sufficient. It is not,\nhowever, in itself, by any means such a complete and adequate portraiture\nof S. Teresa\u2019s counterpart and companion as we possess of herself, thanks\nto the happy thought of her confessor, who obliged her to write her own\nlife, and to the devoted and affectionate biographers who have supplied so\nfully all that she herself omitted. The number of those who will read this\n_Life_ with pleasure and profit must necessarily be a comparatively small\none. And we forewarn all its readers, even devout Catholics accustomed to\nreading the lives of saints, that it requires a robust faith to avoid\nbeing scandalized or frightened by this one. S. John was most cruelly\npersecuted and maltreated by his own brethren and superiors of the\nMitigated Rule, and even by one unworthy prior of the Reform. Moreover,\nthe austerity of his life and the additional sufferings which God sent\nupon him may easily frighten and dismay most of us, soft and effeminate\nChristians as we are, when they are looked at as presented in a dry\nhistorical narrative, and apart from the inward consolations, the\nsupernatural graces, the high contemplation, which made trials and crosses\nsweet to this great and heroic soul. We cannot, therefore, expect this\nbook to be a favorite with the common run of even pious readers. But those\nwho are capable of enjoying and profiting by it will be greatly rejoiced\nthat it has been written and published.\n\n\n    WHAT IS DARWINISM? By Charles Hodge, Princeton, N. J. New York:\n    Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1874.\n\n\nThere is a great deal of modest wisdom in this small volume from the pen\nof one of the most learned and accomplished of the Princeton gentlemen.\nDr. Hodge chiefly aims at showing what the real _virus_ of Darwinism\nconsists in, and finds it to be the denial of final causes, or virtual\natheism. There is also a very good summary of arguments against the theory\nof evolution, and there are careful, well\u2010studied criticisms upon various\nwriters of distinction upon themes connected with the author\u2019s topic. We\nare glad to see that Dr. Hodge affirms the infallibility of reason\u2014that\nis, its possession of first principles which are unerring, and its\ncapacity of attaining to the knowledge of truth or true science. We do not\napprove, however, of his definition of scientific evidence as that which\nis attained through the senses, or his distinction between science and\ntheology. It is most important to maintain the rights of philosophy and\ntheology as the highest and most certain of sciences, having supremacy\nover all others. We suppose that Dr. Hodge admits this in regard to the\nthings themselves, but we consider it important to retain even the terms\nby which the things are properly designated, and to resist at all points\nthe impertinent as well as futile attempts of modern scientists to\ndethrone the queen of the sciences. The style and tone adopted by Dr.\nHodge in this volume are remarkably quiet and moderate, and we trust that\nthis characteristic of his manner of arguing with persons who are disposed\nto lend an ear to the sophistry of modern infidels will give it a readier\naccess to their minds. There is, however, an excess of amiability in the\npraise which is awarded to Mathilde Blind\u2019s \u201cexcellent translation\u201d of\nStrauss.\n\nWe recommend this book without hesitation as one which, so far as it goes,\nis satisfactory and likely to prove very useful.\n\n\n    MADAME AGNES. By Charles Dubois. Translated from the French by M.\n    P. T. THE FARM OF MUICERON. By Marie Rheil. Translated from the\n    French by Mrs. A. B. S. New York: The Catholic Publication\n    Society. 1874.\n\n\nThis brace of French novels, under one cover, comes very opportunely at\nthis time, when careful teachers are on the lookout for premiums which\nwill be at once attractive and safe to put into the hands of their young\ncharges, and summer tourists are in search of literary provender to stow\naway in their portmanteaus and saddle\u2010bags. Those who have watched the\nprogress of the stories through these pages are aware that the French\nliterature which comes out under Catholic auspices is very different from\nthat which reaches the public through the secular press.\n\nWe are inclined to look on _The Farm of Muiceron_ as somewhat unique among\nrecent works of fiction. The writer, as well as most of her characters,\nspeaks the language of the French peasantry; and, if a more learned\ninterlocutor is introduced, the author frankly tells us \u201cnot to expect her\nto explain the meaning of the big words he uses.\u201d Should the reader thence\nconclude that the plot is weak, and its evolution more so\u2014in fact, that he\nhas taken up a goody\u2010goody book\u2014he will speedily get rid of that absurd\nidea before he proceeds very far; and he will also be convinced that the\ntranslation of such a work requires peculiar qualifications. A knowledge\nof classical French will not alone suffice. An intimate acquaintance with\nprovincial modes of thought and expression, and of such English\nequivalents for the idioms as will best preserve their racy flavor, are\nessential. This advantage we are satisfied the present version has, as the\ntranslator unites to a thorough knowledge of her own tongue a practical\nfamiliarity with the dialect intended to be represented. Every linguist\nknows the wonderful capabilities of the French language in its delicate\nshades and modulations of expression; and if the translation fails to\nreproduce them, the fault must be laid at the door of our unyielding\nvernacular.\n\nWe do not intend to anticipate the pleasure of the reader by any attempt\nto analyze the contents of either story. Some of the scenes of the second\nare laid in the midst of the stormy days of July, 1848, and hence many of\nits descriptions read like a page of contemporary history, and its\npictures of rustic life are full of simplicity and pathos.\n\n_Madame Agnes_ will suit readers of a more serious cast, or the same\nreaders in a different mood; and the two combined may serve as light and\nshade to each other. The solidity and gravity of the one sets off the\nvivacity and _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ of the other. _Madame Agnes_ is decidedly a story\nof real life in its lifelikeness to everyday experience, and its lessons\nmay, perhaps, the sooner find their way to the reader\u2019s heart and\nconscience for that reason.\n\n\n    THE NEW MANUAL OF THE SACRED HEART. Compiled and Translated from\n    Approved Sources. Baltimore: Kelly & Piet. 1874.\n\n\nConfraternities of the Sacred Heart will welcome this additional manual.\nIt contains every kind of devotion that lovers of the Sacred Heart can\nwish for. We hope it will have a wide sale.\n\n\n    SINS AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. By Henry Edward, Archbishop of\n    Westminster.\n\n    WHO IS JESUS CHRIST? Five Lectures. By the Right Rev. Bishop\n    Hedley.\n\n    THE POPE AND THE EMPEROR. Nine Lectures. By the Very Rev. J. N.\n    Sweeney, O.S.B., D.D. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold\n    by The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nArchbishop Manning\u2019s sermons are plain, practical discourses in his usual\nclear and masterly style. Bishop Hedley\u2019s lectures give an exposition of\nthe Catholic doctrine of the Incarnation and the principal heresies which\nhave sought to corrupt and subvert it, with an explanation of redemption\nand the Real Presence. They are both theological and eloquent. Dr. Sweeney\nsketches graphically the contests between the head of the church and the\nimperial power from Jesus Christ to Pius IX. Each of the three volumes is\nof small size, but full of instruction.\n\n\n    THE FRENCH PRISONER IN RUSSIA. Translated from the French by P.\n    S., a Graduate of S. Joseph\u2019s Academy, Emmittsburg. New York: The\n    Catholic Publication Society. 1874.\n\n\nIt has been said that a French novel is either very bad or very good, and\nwe are glad to be able to place the one before us in the latter category.\nIt is the story of a French family, the head of which, an officer in\nNapoleon\u2019s grand army, with his son, is taken prisoner during the Russian\ncampaign, and sent to Siberia. No tidings having been heard from them\nafter the disastrous retreat from Moscow, they are supposed to be dead,\nand the mother and only daughter, a most amiable and gentle girl, are\nthrown upon the world in poverty and sickness. When years have elapsed,\nand the ladies have succeeded in winning an humble competence, news\narrives that the lost ones are alive; so the mother and daughter set out\non a long and dangerous journey to effect their release. How they fared in\ntheir noble mission, and what dangers they encountered on the way, will be\nbest learned from the book itself. The original tale is written in\nexcellent French style, which is ever simple and fluent, and the\ntranslation appears to have been carefully made with proper regard to the\nidiom of our vernacular.\n\n\n    S. JOSEPH\u2019S ASCETICAL LIBRARY. Edited by Fathers of the Society of\n    Jesus. No. IX.: MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN THE YEAR AND THE\n    PRINCIPAL FESTIVALS. By the Ven. F. Lancicius, S.J. London: Burns\n    & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication\n    Society.)\n\n\nThe fact that Jesuits edit this library is its best guarantee and\nrecommendation in respect to the sound and solid character of the works\nwhich will be included in its series. The well\u2010known good taste and\nliterary culture of the English fathers of the society is a warrant for\nthe care and skill with which the editorial work is performed. The present\nvolume is most carefully and tastefully published, and its contents are of\nthe best quality. The work itself is an old and standard one by one of the\nbest writers of the society. The volumes of this library cannot be too\nstrongly recommended to all devout Catholics.\n\n\n    THE HISTORY OF GREECE. By Professor Dr. Ernst Curtius. Translated\n    from the German by Adolphus Wm. Ward, M.A. Vol. IV. New York:\n    Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1874.\n\n\nWe have already given an extended notice of the previous volumes of this\nwork, and we now simply repeat the judgment previously expressed. It is\nthe most complete, and, in many respects, it is the best history of Greece\nyet placed within the reach of the English reader.\n\n\n    GLORY AND SORROW; and SELIM, PASHA OF SALONICA. Translated from\n    the French by P. S. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.\n    1874.\n\n\nHere are more stories for premiums. While the didactic purpose is not lost\nsight of, the narratives are sufficiently enlivened to hold the reader\u2019s\nattention throughout. In the first tale the young student is warned\nagainst the consequences of an excessive ambition for wealth and power;\nand contentment with his position in life is inculcated as a necessary\ncondition of happiness. _Selim_ is a tale of the wars between the\nChristians and Turks in the East.\n\n\n    CATHERINE HAMILTON. A Tale for Little Girls. By M. F. S. New York:\n    The Catholic Publication Society. 1874.\n\n\nWe have no doubt this will prove a very attractive book to the little\nfolks, and would be glad to see it widely circulated among them.\n\n\n    MAY PAPERS. By Edward Ignatius Purbrick, S.J. London: Burns &\n    Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nThis pretty book, just received in this country, was prepared originally\nfor the use of the boys at Stonyhurst College. It is the first attempt, we\nbelieve, in English to adapt the instructions for the month particularly\nto young people, and we therefore think it worthy of special mention.\n\n\n\n\nA Criticism.\n\n\nLAFAYETTE, IND., April 21, 1874.\n\nThe article \u201cOn the Wing,\u201d in THE CATHOLIC WORLD for May, is one of\nunusual merit; but in the haste of composition, the writer, at page 216,\nmakes a mistake in stating that S. Peter\u2019s Church at Rome was \u201cbuilt from\nthe designs of Bernini, and completed by Michael Angelo.\u201d Bernini had\nnothing to do with the edifice proper. He only built the baldacchino over\nthe high altar and the colonnade in the public square adjoining the\nchurch. Michael Angelo completed the piers of the dome, and made a wooden\nframework on which to construct a dome; but the dome was constructed by\nGiacomo della Porta from designs of his own. The edifice proper was\nfinished by Carlo Maderno, and on the plan of a Latin cross, the\nsuggestion of Bramante, overruling Michael Angelo\u2019s suggestion of the form\nof a Greek cross.\n\nIt is very seldom that THE CATHOLIC WORLD is at fault, even in\necclesiology; but I think here is a plain case.\n\nHaving made S. Peter\u2019s something of a study both in Rome and at home, I\nfeel myself at liberty to make you these comments. Yours very truly,\n\nJ. A. WILSTACH.\n\n\n\nThe poem \u201cFor ever,\u201d originally sent to this magazine, and published in\nour May number, was also published in _Lippincott\u2019s_ of the same month,\nthe author concluding, from its non\u2010appearance in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, that\nit had been declined.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XIX., NO. 112.\u2014JULY, 1874.\n\n\n\n\nA Discussion With An Infidel.\n\n\nDr. Louis B\u00fcchner\u2019s work, _Kraft und Stoff_, first appeared in Germany in\nthe year 1855, and met with such a favorable reception by a numerous class\nof ignorant or wicked progressionists(95) that from that year up to the\nend of 1870 it passed through ten German editions, without counting the\nseveral translations into other languages. The present writer had lately\nthe fortune, or the misfortune, to be presented with an English copy of\nthis abominable work,(96) and was informed that the knights of the square\nand the trowel had taken a special interest in its propagation. It could\nnot be otherwise; for the work itself is a masonic work. No one who knows\nthe true character of freemasonry, and has read the book, can have the\nleast doubt of its masonic origin. Only a mason of the blackest dye could\nhave displayed such a cool effrontery, artful dishonesty, and diabolic\nmalice as the author of _Force and Matter_ did in almost every page of his\nlittle volume. Dr. B\u00fcchner is one of those dangerous men who have a great\ntalent for perverting truth. He knows how to dazzle the simple with\nbrilliant quotations, how to perplex the acute with unanswerable riddles,\nhow to entangle the cautious in a web of plausible objections. He knows\nhow to supplant reason by rhetoric; and the more embarrassing his case,\nthe greater is his assurance and the higher his pretension. It is in the\nname of science that he pretends to speak. Such is the fashion just now.\nSecret societies began their open war against the church and against God\nin the name of _philosophy_; when beaten on this ground, they appealed to\n_liberality_, then to _progress_, then to _civilization_, and now to\n_science_. All these words, on their lips, were lies. Freemasons and their\ncognate societies have never been fond of real \u201cphilosophy,\u201d and never had\ntruly \u201cliberal\u201d views. The world never made any \u201cprogress\u201d in the right\ndirection when it followed them; their pretended \u201ccivilization\u201d never\nmeant anything else than the tyrannical subjugation of the church by\n\u201ccivil\u201d powers. And now their \u201cscience,\u201d so far as it is theirs, is only a\ntravesty and prostitution of truth. The world owes nothing to them except\nthe increase of crime, the loss of public honesty, and the threatened\ntriumph of villany.\n\nWith Dr. B\u00fcchner, as with many others of the same ilk, science is a mere\npretext. His real object is to attack God\u2019s existence, a future life,\nhuman liberty, and all those truths which underlie sound philosophy,\nmorality, and religious belief. A work so well calculated to do harm, and\nwhich has already infected with its poison a numerous class of readers,\nneeds refutation, and we will engage in the unpleasant task. We hope we\nshall be able to show that Dr. B\u00fcchner\u2019s _Force and Matter_, all its\npretensions notwithstanding, is, in a philosophical point of view, a\ncomplete failure. One ounce of truth and a cartload of lies is just what\nthe doctor dispenses to his benighted admirers throughout the pages of his\nbaneful production.\n\nTo make things clearer, and to give Dr. B\u00fcchner the best opportunity of\nspeaking for himself, we have thought of putting the whole discussion in\nthe form of a dialogue between the doctor and ourselves. We know that a\nlengthy conversation with such a sworn enemy of truth may prove disgusting\nin a high degree, as he will utter nothing but sophisms or blasphemies.\nBut the sophist must be unmasked and the blasphemer confounded. We hope\nour readers will excuse us for paying such attention to an infidel writer;\nwe would have ignored him altogether, if his work were not as dangerous as\nit is unworthy of a doctor.\n\n\n\nI. Flippancy And Scholasticism.\n\n\n_Reader._ Indeed, doctor, I fear that your _Force and Matter_ will make\nyou a bad reputation. Our most esteemed philosophers say that you are a\nsophist, and that a man of your attainments cannot be a sophist but by\ndeliberate choice. They evidently imply that you are a knave and an\nimpostor. As for myself, I confess that I do not see the cogency of your\nreasonings; but, before declaring you a knave and an impostor, I should\nlike to hear from your own mouth what you may have to say in your behalf.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I am not surprised, sir, at anything said against me. When I\npublished my work, \u201cI knew that my attempt was bold, and that I should\nhave to sustain a fierce struggle with the prejudices of the age\u201d (p.\nviii.) But \u201cthings cannot be represented different from what they _are_;\nand nothing appears to me more perverse than the efforts of respectable\nnaturalists to introduce _orthodoxy_ in the natural sciences\u201d (p. xvii.)\nYou say that our most esteemed philosophers call me a sophist. You mean\nthe schoolmen, of course; in fact, the scholastic philosophy, still riding\nupon its high though terribly emaciated horse, conceives that it has long\nago done with our theories, and has consigned them, ticketed\n_materialism_, _sensualism_, _determinism_, etc., to the scientific\nlumber\u2010room, or, as the phrase goes, has assigned them their _historical\nvalue_. But this philosophy, my dear sir, sinks daily in the estimation of\nthe public, and loses its ground (p. xviii.)\n\n_Reader._ I would remark, with your permission, that the public is not\nnowadays a very acute judge of these matters. For what does the public\nknow of scholastic philosophy?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ By the public I mean the scientific world, sir.\n\n_Reader._ The scientific world, dear doctor, knows very little of\nscholastic philosophy. I am sure you will not deny the fact. Can you tell\nme where, when, for how many years, under what professors, and in what\nbooks, your scientific men had an opportunity of studying scholastic\nphilosophy? They have, no doubt, heard something of it\u2014just enough to\nrealize the fact that there was a science in the world of which they were\nprofoundly ignorant. But this gives them no right to pass a judgment. I\nventure to say that neither you nor Moleschott, Feuerbach, Darwin, Tuttle,\nHuxley, or any of your school, have ever studied, or consulted, or perhaps\neven so much as touched with your hands, a single volume of scholastic\nphilosophy.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ This may be; but it is quite enough for us to know that \u201cthe\nsingular attempts of the old school to construe nature out of thought\ninstead of from observation have failed, and brought the adherents of that\nschool into such discredit that the name of natural philosopher has become\na byword and a nickname\u201d (p. xix.)\n\n_Reader._ No, doctor. This is not true. The name of natural philosopher is\nstill much respected and revered; and I trust nothing will ever succeed in\nmaking it despicable, except, perhaps, the shameless usurpation of it made\nby your friends, the free\u2010thinkers, whose philosophy is nothing but a mean\nconspiracy against truth. It is their fault, indeed, if the name of\nnatural philosopher is sneered at when connected with their own persons.\nWhy should they put on a garb which fits them not? If you call Moleschott\nor Darwin natural philosophers, every one certainly will smile; but call\nAmp\u00e8re or Faraday by this name, and you will see every one take down his\nhat in sign of respect and approbation. Then, you should not imagine that\nbecause a few discoveries have been lately made by our men of science (I\nsay _a few_, because most of them are only new applications of old\ntheories, while many others are mere hypotheses), you should not imagine\nthat we have acquired the right to despise the discoveries and the wisdom\nof all past ages. It was our forefathers who created modern science. Where\nwould you be without a Kepler, a Galileo, a Newton, and scores of others,\nwho laid down the ruling principles of all the branches of science? If\nthey knew less than we do about empirical manipulations, they knew a great\ndeal more about the conditions of legitimate speculation. To construe\nnature \u201cout of thought instead of from observation\u201d has never been their\nmethod; if I wished to retaliate, I could easily prove that it is yours.\n\n_B\u00fcchner_ (_defiantly_). Try, sir.\n\n_Reader._ Well, since you challenge me, I shall ask you whether it is from\nobservation, and not out of thought, that you have construed your\n\u201cuncreated\u201d matter. I know, and you also know, that it is only \u201cout of\nthought.\u201d But we shall have time to do justice to this and other topics.\nThe point I now insist on is, that what you say of the scholastic method\nof \u201cconstruing nature\u201d is a rank calumny. Understand me, doctor. Natural\nscience has two objects in view: the first is to ascertain the truth about\nnatural facts; the second is to discover the nature of the principles and\ncauses to which such facts must be traced. As the first of these two\nobjects is attained by observation and experiments, so is the second by\nthought\u2014that is, by reasonings based on the positive results of\nobservation and experiment. Now, you must admit that the duty of the\nmetaphysician is not to make observations or experiments. This belongs to\nthe physicist. The metaphysician accepts the facts as ascertained by the\nphysicist; and it is from such facts, not from thoughts, that he starts\nhis speculation on the nature of things. Of course, if the physicist be\nwrong in his statement of facts, the metaphysician will be led astray and\nbuild a theory without foundation; yet the fault will not be his. And if\nthe physicist be ignorant of some important law of nature, the\nmetaphysician will be compelled to supply for the law with a guess at a\nprobable hypothesis. This is in the nature of things. With a mutton\u2010chop\nyou cannot make roast beef, can you?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ No, indeed.\n\n_Reader._ I mean that our forefathers had not at their disposal such an\nabundance of means for investigating the secrets of nature as we now\npossess. Certainly, the most important of such secrets, before the time of\nCopernicus, were inaccessible to the metaphysicians. I allow, then, that\nthe theory of the scholastics remained incomplete, and was most imperfect\nso long as universal attraction was unknown and chemistry undeveloped. But\nthis proves nothing. The imperfection of the old physics gives you no\nright to affirm that the schoolmen construed nature out of thought.\nSpeculation always implies thought; but to start one\u2019s speculations from\nthe data of observation, as it was customary with the scholastic\nphilosophers, is not to reject observation.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I demur to this statement, sir. It is well known that the old\nschool was all grounded on the _\u00e0 priori_ method.\n\n_Reader._ Certainly not, my dear doctor. One cannot reason without\nabstract principles; but when such principles are the result of\nexperimental knowledge, it would be folly to pretend that they constitute\nan _\u00e0 priori_ method of construing nature out of thought instead of from\nobservation. Do you demur to this also?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ What I assert, sir, is that \u201cthe times of the scholastic\nbombast, of philosophical charlatanism, or, as Cotta says, of intellectual\njugglery, are passing away\u201d (p. xix.)\n\n_Reader._ You are not serious, doctor. First of all, you know nothing\nabout scholastic bombast. Were you to read one page of any of our great\nscholastic doctors, you would be amazed at the simplicity of their style,\nand at the utter recklessness of your allegation. In the second place, the\ntimes of bombast and charlatanism are not passing away. Read Huxley. Can\nyou find anything more bombastic than his _Lay Sermons_? Read Darwin. Is\nhe not a philosophical charlatan? Read your own _Kraft und Stoff_....\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Brilliancy is not charlatanism, sir. It is a fact that while\nthe pretended high speculations of the old school are hopelessly\nunintelligible, our discoveries, \u201cby directing investigation to facts,\nhave compelled thought to leave the misty and sterile regions of\nspeculative dreams, and to descend to real life\u201d (p. xxii.) Can you\ncondemn us for this? \u201cIt lies in the nature of philosophy that it should\nbe common property. Expositions which are not intelligible to an educated\nman are scarcely worth the ink they are printed with. The philosophical\nmist which envelops the writings of scholars appears intended more to\nconceal than to exhibit their thoughts\u201d (p. xix.)\n\n_Reader._ It is all a mistake, doctor. If you reflect for a moment on your\noracular sentences, you will see that they are mere nonsense. You say that\nit lies in the nature of philosophy that it should be common property. I\nwonder if this can be true. I fancy that philosophy, like any other\nscience or discipline which is acquired by study, is the property of those\nalone who have studied it; and I hope that no man of sense will contest\nsuch an evident truth. You say that philosophical expositions should be\nintelligible to every _educated_ man; but this is true only on the\nassumption that the education of which you speak includes a thorough\ntraining in philosophy; which, unfortunately, is not the case with a great\nnumber of so\u2010called educated men. You say that whatever is clearly\nconceived can be clearly expressed; but you forget that what is clearly\nexpressed for the scholar may still be obscure to the uninitiated. Is it\npossible that a doctor like you, and a president of a medical association,\nshould overlook the fact that every science has a number of technical\nterms and scientific phrases which must be learned in special books and by\nspecial study before its speculations can be comprehended? It is therefore\nsupremely ridiculous to talk of \u201cthe mist that envelops the writings of\nscholars.\u201d Everything is misty to the uninstructed. Let him study, and the\nmist will disappear; for it is not the doctrine that wants clearness, but\nit is the eye of the ignorant that is blurred.\n\nAnd now, what shall I say of that pompous phrase of yours, that modern\ndiscoveries \u201chave compelled thought to leave the misty and sterile regions\nof speculative dreams, and to descend to real life\u201d? I hope you will allow\nme to call it \u201cmodern bombast\u201d and \u201cphilosophical charlatanism\u201d; for I\ncannot call it by any other name. If you mean by such words to denounce\nKant, Hegel, Schelling, and other German dreamers of the same school, I\nhave nothing to say in their defence; but if you intend thereby to\nstigmatize the Catholic schools, to which you Germans, no less than the\nrest of the civilized world, owe your intellectual education, I cannot\nhelp saying, dear doctor, that your hostile insinuations are dictated by\nmalice and hatred of truth. Why do you defame what you know not? How can\nyou call a _sterile_ region that speculative philosophy which formed all\nour great men? or _dreams_ those evident conclusions against which reason\ncannot rebel without slaying itself? Is not this very strange in a doctor?\nYou were confident that \u201cintellectual jugglery,\u201d to use Cotta\u2019s\nexpression, would be stronger than historical truth; but we are quite\nprepared to meet you on this ground as on others; for we Catholic thinkers\nare not afraid of bombastic words. We do not even think that your\n\u201cjugglery\u201d is at all \u201cintellectual.\u201d For is it intellectual to make\nsweeping assertions when you can give no proofs? Or is it intellectual to\nsneer at your opponents, instead of replying to their arguments? I\npresume, dear doctor, that your freemasons alone would see anything\nintellectual in such a proceeding.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ You imagine, sir, that I must be a freemason. I shall not\nanswer that, as it has nothing to do with my book. Yet I wish to inform\nyou that freemasonry everywhere favors the progress of \u201cmodern science\u201d;\nand therefore I would not object to being called a freemason, whether I am\none or not. But as to making assertions of which I give no proofs, I defy\nyou, sir, to substantiate the charge; and as to my not replying to my\nopponents, I am sure you will modify your judgment when you examine the\nprefaces to the various editions of my work.\n\n_Reader._ I accept the challenge. It will not be more difficult to give\nyou full satisfaction on these two points than it has been to rebut your\nflippant denunciations of the scholastic philosophy.\n\n\n\nII. Tergiversation And Jugglery.\n\n\n_Reader._ You say, then, that in the prefaces to the various editions of\nyour work you have replied to your opponents.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Certainly I do.\n\n_Reader._ I have read all your prefaces. In the very first you make this\ndeclaration: \u201cWe will not be in want of opponents; but we shall only\nnotice those who speak from experience and combat us with facts\u201d (p. xx.)\nThis amounts to saying: \u201cWhen we shall be attacked with any sort of arms,\narrows, pistols, knives, swords, guns, and sticks, we shall not defend\nourselves except against sticks.\u201d Against sticks, of course, you may\ndefend yourself by the use of other sticks; but, if you are attacked with\nartillery, will your sticks be to you a sufficient protection? You knew\nvery well, when publishing your book, that you were to be attacked with\n_reasons_. To declare that you would notice only those adversaries who\nwould attack you with _facts_ was to declare that you were not ready to\nmeet your real opponents.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Against fact there is no reasoning.\n\n_Reader._ This is not the question. It is true that against fact there is\nno reasoning; but when we argue against your false conclusions, we do not\nattack your facts, but your sophisms only, most erudite doctor.\n\nThen you add that \u201cspeculative philosophers may fight among themselves\nfrom their own point of view, but should not delude themselves into the\nbelief that they alone are in possession of philosophical truth\u201d (p. xx.)\nThese words reveal your tactics, which are: \u201cLet them fight among\nthemselves, and not against me; but if one of their number attacks me, and\nI cannot hold my ground, let him know that, if he is right, I also am\nright; for he is not alone in possession of philosophical truth.\u201d This is,\ndoctor, the silly plan of defence you have adopted and carried out against\nthe attacks of Catholic philosophers. How can you, then, pretend that you\nhave answered your opponents? I mean your real opponents.\n\nWhen the _Frankfurter Katholische Kirchenblatt_ took you to task for your\nimpious and absurd publication, what did you answer? Here are your words:\n\u201cWe shall pass over the fierce denunciations of the _Frankf\u00fcrter\nKatholische Kirchenblatt_, conducted by the parish priest, Beda Weber. The\nmelancholy notoriety which that individual has acquired, as one of the\nmost eccentric of the ultramontane party, permits us simply to dismiss\nhim. We shall only tell the reader that the _Frankf\u00fcrter Kirchenblatt_\ncarries its hatred against the modern direction of science so far as to\nrecommend the application of the criminal law against its representatives.\nThe public may thus learn what these gentlemen are capable of, should they\never become possessed of power. The same bloody hatred with which science\nwas once persecuted by religious fanaticism would revive anew, and with it\nthe Inquisition, and _auto\u2010da\u2010f\u00e9s_, and all the horrors, with which a\nrefined zealotism has tortured humanity would be resorted to, to satisfy\nthe wishes of these theological cut\u2010throats. We must turn from these\nenemies, quite unworthy of a serious refutation, to another opponent\u201d (p.\nxxiii.) Here, then, you confess that you have cowardly turned your back to\nthe enemy.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Cowardly?\n\n_Reader._ Yes. If you do not like the word, I will say _prudently_. In\nfact, the reason you allege\u2014that such an enemy was unworthy of serious\nrefutation\u2014is a miserable pretext. Whoever is not blind can see that your\nfurious declamation against Beda Weber was an impudent attempt at\ncrushing, if possible, by insults, the man whom you could not defeat with\nreasons. It is mean and disgusting. What can your readers say when you\ndare not even let them know Beda Weber\u2019s objections, on the plea that the\nreverend priest \u201chas acquired a melancholy notoriety as one of the most\neccentric of the ultramontane party\u201d? If such is the verdict of the\nmasonic lodges, we cannot but congratulate Beda Weber for the compliment\npaid to him. His very \u201chatred against the modern (_masonic and infidel_)\ndirection of science\u201d shows that he is a man of sound and clear judgment;\nand his opinion that \u201cthe criminal law\u201d should be applied against the\natheists and the corruptors of youth recommends him to us as a man of\norder and a true friend of civil society; for nothing is more necessary\nfor the preservation of order and the peace of society than the\nenforcement of law. When such men make denunciations, they should not be\n\u201csimply dismissed,\u201d dear doctor. Religious fanaticism, refined zealotism,\ntortures of humanity, persecution of science, and the rest, even if they\nwere not thread\u2010bare lies, would not authorize you to \u201csimply dismiss\u201d a\nlearned opponent as unworthy of serious refutation. I will say nothing\nabout that malicious insinuation concerning \u201cwhat these gentlemen are\ncapable of, should they ever become possessed of power.\u201d Were they capable\nof any monstrosity, this would not help your defence of _Force and\nMatter_. But those gentlemen have been possessed of power for ages, and\nthe nations redeemed from barbarism, and enriched with monuments of art,\nand with scientific, literary, and charitable institutions, show \u201cwhat\nthey were capable of.\u201d Of course freemasonry is capable of something else;\na glance at the present deplorable condition of Germany suffices to show\nwhat _you_ are capable of when you are possessed of power. But, I repeat,\nwere we as wicked, in your opinion, as you are in fact, this would be no\nreason for not answering our arguments. Your book is an attack against\nreligion. The professors of religion are therefore your natural opponents.\nIt is to _them_, therefore, that you owe your explanations. And yet this\nis what you publicly profess yourself unable to do.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I never made such a profession.\n\n_Reader._ You made it very openly. \u201cWith regard to parsons and\necclesiastics,\u201d you say, \u201cwho never cease to enlighten and to assail us\nwith their eloquence, we beg to repeat that we cannot discuss with them\u201d\n(p. lxiv.) Of course you endeavor to cover your retreat, as usual, by\npretending that \u201cthese good people have, from the beginning of the world,\nhad the privilege of using their zeal and ignorance in crying down\neverything that does not suit their business\u201d (_ibid._); but this vile\nlanguage only betrays your inability to cope with them. You are so\ngenerous as \u201cnot to disturb them in their vocation,\u201d because \u201cno rational\nman doubts the total incapacity of these gentlemen to enter upon such\nquestions\u201d (p. lxv.)\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Why should I answer them? They are mere theologians; and I\nmaintain that \u201cthere is no theological or ecclesiastical natural science,\nand there will be none so long as the telescope does not reach the regions\nwhere angels dwell\u201d (p. lxv.)\n\n_Reader._ This is a very poor excuse, dear doctor. Theologians are not\ndebarred from dealing with natural sciences. To mention no others,\nCopernicus was a canon; Secchi is a Jesuit; Moigno is a priest. Moreover,\nthe subject of the question is not natural science, but your sophistry;\nand you cannot deny that ecclesiastical studies make men competent to\njudge of logical blunders. But, leaving all this aside, did you not try to\nrefute the _Allgemeine Zeitung_, though you pretend that \u201cin struggling\nwith such pen\u2010heroes, it seems to you that you are acting like Don\nQuixote\u201d (p. xxviii.)? Did you not fight, also, against Mr. Karl Gutzkow,\nalthough he, \u201cas is well known, has never impeded the daring flight of his\ngenius by the ballast of science\u201d (p. xxix.)? And, to omit others, did you\nnot do your best to answer the _Allgemeine Kirchen Zeitung_, although it\nmeets you, as you say, \u201cwith theological eccentricity and rodomontades\u201d\n(p. xxxvii.)? It would appear, then, that you are not afraid of accepting\nbattle when you have any hope of overcoming your adversary. And therefore,\nwhen you shrink from answering your Catholic opponents, it is evident that\nyou do so only because with them you have no hope of success.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ You are quite mistaken, sir.\n\n_Reader._ No, indeed. I am certain that you cannot hold your ground\nagainst a Catholic opponent, and I am ready to show you immediately that\nsuch is really the case. I have already told you that your _Force and\nMatter_ is a book full of sweeping assertions, of which no proof is given.\nYou challenged me to substantiate the charge, and I have accepted the\nchallenge. I say, then, that your very first proposition, on which all the\nother arguments employed in your work are ultimately based, is one of\nthose assertions of which no proof is or can be given. Do you accept the\nbattle on this ground?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I do.\n\n_Reader._ Please, then, what do you consider to be the fundamental\nproposition of your work?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ It is this: \u201cNo matter without force, and no force without\nmatter\u201d (p. 2).\n\n_Reader._ Is this proposition altogether universal, so as to admit of no\npossible exception?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Yes, sir, absolutely universal, without any possible exception.\n\n_Reader._ Then please tell me on what grounds such an absolute\nuniversality can be established.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ On many grounds. First, as Dubois\u2010Reymond profoundly remarks,\n\u201cfundamentally considered, there are neither forces nor matter. Both are\nmerely abstractions, assumed from different points of view, of things as\nthey are. They supplement and presuppose each other. _Separately they do\nnot exist._ Matter is not like a carriage, to which the forces, like\nhorses, can be put or again removed from. A particle of iron is, and\nremains, the same, whether it crosses the horizon in the meteoric stone,\nrushes along in the wheel of the steam\u2010engine, or circulates in the blood\nthrough the temples of the poet. These qualities are eternal, inalienable,\nand untransferable\u201d (pp. 1, 2).\n\n_Reader._ I would remark that the qualities of matter are not eternal. Of\ncourse, as long as matter continues to exist, its essential constitution\nmust remain intact; but to say that the qualities of matter are eternal is\nto assume not only that matter will last for ever, but also that it has\nexisted from all eternity. Science has no right to make this assumption,\nsince it has no means of ascertaining its truth; for evidently eternity\ndoes not come under observation and experiment. But leaving aside this\nquestion, which we may examine later, I say that your quotation from M.\nDubois does not account for the universality of your proposition.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Hear Moleschott: \u201cA force not united to matter, but floating\nfreely above it, is an idle conception\u201d (p. 1).\n\n_Reader._ This is a mere assertion.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Hear Cotta: \u201cNothing in the world justifies us in assuming the\nexistence _per se_ of forces independent of the bodies from which they\nproceed and upon which they act\u201d (p. 2).\n\n_Reader._ This is no proof. It is quite clear that those forces _which\nproceed from the bodies_ cannot be independent of the bodies. But your\nproposition is that no force _whatever_ can exist without matter; and\ntherefore you should prove that _all_ forces, without exception, are\ndependent on matter.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ First of all, we must admit that there is no matter without\nforce. \u201cImagine matter without force, and the minute particles of which a\nbody consists without that system of mutual attraction and repulsion which\nholds them together, and gives form and shape to the body; imagine the\nmolecular forces of cohesion and affinity removed; what then would be the\nconsequence? The matter must instantly break up into a shapeless nothing.\nWe know in the physical world of no instance of any particle of matter\nwhich is not endowed with forces by means of which it plays its appointed\npart in some form or another, sometimes in connection with similar or with\ndissimilar particles. Nor are we in imagination capable of forming a\nconception of matter without force. In whatever way we may think of an\noriginal substance, there must always exist in it a system of mutual\nrepulsion and attraction between its minutest parts, without which they\nwould dissolve and tracelessly disappear in universal space. A thing\nwithout properties is a non\u2010entity, neither rationally cogitable nor\nempirically existing in nature\u201d (pp. 2, 3).\n\n_Reader._ Very good so far. But this is no recent discovery; it is an old\ntruth constantly taught, and much more exactly expressed, by those\nschoolmen whom you imagine to have been \u201cthe persecutors of science.\u201d Thus\nfar, then, you have only rehearsed the old doctrine. But now you have to\nshow that, as there is no matter without force, so also there is no force\nwithout matter.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Yes. \u201cForce without matter is equally an idle notion. It being\na law admitting of no exception that force can only be manifested in\nmatter, it follows that force can as little possess a separate existence\nas matter without force\u201d (p. 3).\n\n_Reader._ Take care, doctor! You are now assuming what should be proved.\nYou assume a law, _admitting of no exception_, that force can only be\nmanifested in matter.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ The law is known. \u201cImagine an electricity, a magnetism, without\nthe iron or such bodies as exhibit these phenomena, and without the\nparticles of matter, the mutual relation of which is just the cause of\nthese phenomena; nothing would then remain but a confused idea, an empty\nabstraction, to which we have given a name in order to form a better\nconception. If the material particles capable of an electric condition had\nnever existed, there would have been no electricity, and we should never\nhave been able by mere attraction to acquire the least knowledge or\nconception of electricity. Indeed, we may say electricity would never have\nexisted without these particles. All the so\u2010called imponderables, such as\nlight, heat, electricity, magnetism, etc., are neither more nor less than\nchanges in the aggregate state of matter\u2014changes which, almost like\ncontagion, are transmitted from body to body. Heat is a separation, cold\nan approximation, of the material atoms. Light and sound are vibrating,\nundulating bodies. Electrical and magnetic phenomena, says Czolbe, arise,\nas experience shows, like light and heat from the reciprocal relation of\nmolecules and atoms\u201d (pp. 3, 4).\n\n_Reader._ Have you done?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Yes, sir.\n\n_Reader._ Is this all your proof?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Yes, sir.\n\n_Reader._ Then allow me to state that you have not shown what you\npromised. You have proved, indeed, that the forces of matter exist nowhere\nbut in matter; but as every one admits this, there was no need of your\nproof. Your duty was to prove the universal proposition, _no force without\nmatter_; and therefore you had to show that there are no other forces than\nthe forces of matter.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ This is evident; as \u201cforce can as little exist without a\nsubstance as seeing without a visual apparatus, or thinking without an\norgan of thought\u201d (p. 4).\n\n_Reader._ I am afraid, doctor, that you do not speak to the point. The\nquestion is not whether a force can or cannot exist without a substance;\nit is, whether there is no other substance than matter. Before denying the\nexistence of force without matter, you must conclusively show that all\nsubstance is matter.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cNothing but the changes we perceive in matter by means of our\nsenses could ever give us any notion as to the existence of powers which\nwe qualify by the name of _forces._ Any knowledge of them by other means\nis impossible\u201d (p. 4).\n\n_Reader._ I should be glad to know how you can infer from such a remark\nthat all substance is matter. What you perceive in material objects\nproves, indeed, the existence of matter and of the forces of matter; but\nhow does it prove the non\u2010existence of other substances and of other\nforces? You, surely, imagine that our senses are our only source of\nknowledge, and that the supersensible, as unknowable, must be consigned to\nthe region of dreams.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Certainly. \u201cWe maintain that human thought and human knowledge\nare incapable of discovering or knowing anything supersensual. This is the\nnecessary general result of modern investigation\u201d (p. xli.)\n\n_Reader._ A curious result indeed! By which of your senses do you perceive\nabstractions, such as _philosophy_, _morality_, _affirmation_, _veracity_?\nI put you the alternative: either show that you touch, hear, smell, taste,\nor see, with your material eyes, any of such abstract notions, or confess,\naccording to the general result of your ridiculous modern investigations,\nthat you can have none of such notions, and are essentially incapable of\nreasoning.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ You try to draw me out of the real question, sir.\n\n_Reader._ By no means. It is your denial of our capability of knowing\nanything supersensual that draws us out of the question.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ My object was to show that there is no matter without force,\nand no force without matter. This proposition can be established without\nany special reference to our mental operations.\n\n_Reader._ You may try; on condition, however, that our knowledge of the\nsupersensible be not called in question.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ The science of force is _physics_. \u201cThis science makes us\nacquainted with eight different forces: gravitation, mechanical force,\nheat, light, electricity, magnetism, affinity, cohesion, which,\ninseparably united to matter, form and give shape to the world\u201d (p. 18).\nAny force which cannot be reduced to a combination of these forces is\ntherefore to be looked upon as chimerical. Nothing is more evident.\n\n_Reader._ Evident? I think, doctor, if I were you, I would be ashamed of\nuttering such a rank sophism. You beg the question altogether. What right\nhave you to assume that there are no real forces in the universe but those\nmentioned in our physical treatises? To assume this is to assume that\nthere is nothing in the world but matter\u2014the very thing which you should\ndemonstrate. And therefore you are as far as ever from having shown your\nuniversal proposition, _no force without matter_. Indeed, you will never\nshow it. Truth is stronger than you.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Then tell me, sir, on what ground do you base your belief in\nthe existence of supersensual forces?\n\n_Reader._ Excuse me, doctor. We were not discussing the question, \u201cWhat\nare my grounds for believing their existence?\u201d Our question was, \u201cWhat are\nyour own grounds for proclaiming their non\u2010existence?\u201d When a man makes an\nassertion contrary to the common belief, it is his duty to give good\nreasons in its support. If he cannot, let him give up his assertion, and\ngo back to the common belief. Common beliefs, on the contrary, are in no\nneed of special demonstration so long as they are not attacked with\nplausible reasons. That there are supersensual forces is a common belief.\nAs you have failed to adduce any serious proof to the contrary, this\ncommon belief remains unshaken. You ask on what grounds I base my belief.\nI might answer that I base it on the ground of universal consent, and I\nmight show that this universal consent must have a universal foundation,\nwhich cannot be invalidated. But I will tell you a special reason for\nadmitting supersensual forces. It is that there are facts which cannot be\naccounted for by the forces of matter.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ What fact? Do you mean the exploded fact of creation?\n\n_Reader._ I will soon come to the fact of creation, if you wish, and\ncompel you to swallow back your nasty epithet. But the fact I alluded to\nwas that the phenomena of consciousness and of volition are unaccountable,\nif there is nothing besides material forces. This you cannot deny; for you\nsay you \u201ccannot but acknowledge that in the relation of brain and soul,\nphenomena occur which cannot be explained from the simple physical\nrelation of force and matter\u201d (p. lxiv.) As long, therefore, as you admit\nnothing but matter and material force, there are facts which, by your own\nconfession, cannot be explained. Thus, you see, not only have you failed\nto substantiate your fundamental assertion, _no force without matter_, but\nyou are constrained, on your own showing, to admit forces that transcend\nmatter.\n\n\n\nIII. Creation.\n\n\n_Reader._ You say, doctor, that creation is an _exploded_ fact. May I ask\nwhy?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cThose who talk of a creative power, which is said to have\nproduced the world out of itself, or out of nothing, are ignorant of the\nfirst and most simple principle, founded upon experience and the\ncontemplation of nature. How could a power have existed not manifested in\nmaterial substance, but governing it arbitrarily according to individual\nviews? Neither could separately\u2010existing forces be transferred to chaotic\nmatter, and produce the world in this manner; for we have seen that a\nseparate existence of either is an impossibility\u201d (p. 5).\n\n_Reader._ I beg to remind you that we have _not_ seen the impossibility of\nforce without matter. All your efforts to show it have been vain. It is\nchildish, therefore, on your part, to pretend that those who talk of a\ncreative power \u201care ignorant of a first principle founded upon experience\nand the contemplation of nature.\u201d The contemplation of nature is, on the\ncontrary, the ladder by which rational creatures ascend to the knowledge\nof the Creator. You ask: How could a power have existed not manifested in\nmaterial substance? I answer by another question: How could the world have\nexisted, if no such power exists? This is the real question at issue. And\npray, doctor, do not speak of separately\u2010existing forces transferred to\nchaotic matter. This is not the way we account for the production of the\nworld. We do not admit of chaotic matter before creation. And again, do\nnot suppose that we can ever dream of a Creator producing the world out of\nhimself. We are not pantheists; and we know that the world has been\nproduced out of nothing. This is the true notion of creation according to\nboth theology and philosophy.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Very well. But \u201cthe world could not have originated out of\nnothing. A nothing is not merely a logical, but also an empirical non\u2010\nentity. The world, or matter with its properties, which we term forces,\nmust have existed from eternity, and must last for ever\u2014in one word, the\nworld cannot have been created\u201d (p. 5).\n\n_Reader._ These are bold assertions indeed. How can you make them good?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cThe notion \u2018eternal\u2019 is certainly one which, with our limited\nfaculties, is difficult of conception. The facts, nevertheless, leave no\ndoubt as to the eternity of the world\u201d (p. 5).\n\n_Reader._ What facts, if you please?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Here is one fact: \u201cThat the world is not governed, as is\nfrequently expressed, but that the changes and motions of matter obey a\nnecessity inherent in it, which admits of no exception, cannot be denied\nby any person who is but superficially acquainted with the natural\nsciences\u201d (p. 5). Now, if the world is not governed by a superior power,\nwe cannot make it dependent for its origin on any superior power. This\nleaves no doubt as to the eternity of the world.\n\n_Reader._ I wonder, doctor, if you have ever learned or understood the\nfirst principles of philosophy. Young students may teach you that, from\nthe necessity to which matter is subjected of obeying certain laws of\nmotion, it is absurd to infer the necessity of its existence. What is\nsubject to obedience is not independent, and what has a necessity of\nobeying is essentially dependent. Moreover, do you not see that what is\nsubject to change cannot be necessary, and cannot be eternal? You appeal\nto natural sciences. This is ridiculous. There is no need of modern\nsciences to know that the phenomena of the material world follow an\ninvariable law. This was known in all past ages; yet no man in his senses\nhas thought of concluding that therefore matter was a necessary being.\nPagan philosophers, who had lost the primitive traditions of mankind,\nadmitted uncreated matter without further examining the question; but none\nof them pretended to prove the eternity or necessity of matter from its\nsubjection to definite laws of motion. The absurdity of such a deduction\nis manifest. Suppose a geometrician were to argue thus: What follows an\ninvariable and necessary law exists from eternity; but every triangle\nfollows this invariable and necessary law: that the sum of its angles\nequals two right angles; and therefore every triangle exists from\neternity. What would you reply?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I would reply that the laws of geometry are mere abstractions.\n\n_Reader._ And so are all physical laws also. When a thing exists, it\ncannot but be what it is according to its essence. If it is a figure of\ngeometry, it exists according to geometric laws, and has its geometric\nproperties; and if it is a material substance, it cannot but have the\nproperties of matter, and so long as it exists it cannot but retain the\nsame properties. This is evident. But from the fact that a thing existing\nis necessarily subject to the laws of its nature you cannot conclude that\nit necessarily exists, unless, indeed, you are not even superficially\nacquainted with the laws of reasoning. Hence it is clear that your\nargument has no weight.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cBut that a power\u2014taken for the once in its abstract\nsense\u2014could only exist so long as it is active is no less clear. In\nassuming, therefore, a creative absolute power, a primeval soul, an\nunknown x\u2014it matters not what name we give it\u2014as the cause of the world,\nwe must, in applying to it the notion of time, say that it could not have\nexisted either _before_ or _after_ the creation. It could not have existed\n_before_, as the notion of power is not reconcilable with the idea of\nnothing or inactivity. It could not have been a creative power without\ncreating something. We must, therefore, suppose that this power has for a\ntime been inert in the presence of chaotic and motionless matter\u2014a\nconception we have already shown to be absurd. It could not have existed\n_after_ the creation, as rest and inactivity are again incompatible with\nthe notion of force. The motion of matter obeys only those laws which are\ninherently active; and their manifestations are nothing but the product of\nthe various and manifold accidental or necessary combinations of material\nmovements. At no time and nowhere, even in the most distant space reached\nby our telescope, could a single fact be established, forming an exception\nto this law, which would render the assumption of a force external, and\nindependent of matter, necessary. But a force which is not manifested does\nnot exist, and cannot be taken into account in our reasoning\u201d (p. 6). What\ndo you answer, sir?\n\n_Reader._ I answer that this pretended argument cannot entrap any one but\nan ignorant man, or one who desires to be cheated or to cheat himself. And\nfirst I observe that you begin by surmising that the Creator would be \u201can\nabstract power\u201d; now, the surmise is an absurdity. Secondly, you suppose\nthat we \u201cassume\u201d a creative absolute power\u2014which is not the case; for we\ndo not assume its existence, but we prove it. Thirdly, you call the\nCreator \u201ca primeval soul, an unknown _x_\u201d; and both expressions are very\nwrong indeed. Fourthly, you say that we must apply to the Creator \u201cthe\nnotion of time\u201d\u2014which is sheer folly; as every one knows that time has no\nexistence but in the successive changes of created things. Even you\nyourself say that \u201cthe mere application of a limited notion of time to the\ncreative power involves a contradiction\u201d (p. 7). And therefore, when you\naffirm that the creative power \u201ccould not have existed either _before_ or\n_after_ creation,\u201d you commit a great blunder by assuming that before\ncreation there should have been time. But leaving aside all this, and\nsupposing that the phrase \u201cbefore the creation\u201d may be understood in a\nlegitimate sense as expressing the priority of eternity and not of time, I\nwill come directly to your argument.\n\nYou say that a creative power could not exist before creation, \u201cas the\nnotion of power is not reconcilable with the idea of nothing or\ninactivity.\u201d This reason proves nothing, except, perhaps, your ignorance\nof logic. Try to reduce your argument to the syllogistic form, and you\nwill see what it amounts to.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ The syllogism will run thus: A power can exist only as long as\nit is active. But the creative power before the creation was not active.\nTherefore the creative power could not exist before the creation. I hope\nthis proves something else than my ignorance of logic.\n\n_Reader._ And yet your logic is sadly at fault. Do you not see the\nequivocation lurking in the middle term? What do you mean by _active_?\nDoes this word stand for _acting_, or for _able to act_? If it stands for\n_acting_, then your major proposition is false; for a power exists as long\nas it is able to act, although it is not actually acting. This is clear;\nfor have you not a power of talking as long as you are able to talk,\nalthough you may actually be silent? If, on the contrary, the word\n_active_ stands for _able to act_, then it is your minor proposition that\nwill be evidently false; for the creative power, before the creation, was\nable to create the world, although we conceive it as not yet creating\nanything. Hence your nice syllogism is a mere sophism, and your conclusion\na blunder.\n\nYour other assertion, \u201cIt could not have been a creative power without\ncreating something,\u201d is likewise sophistical. For the epithet \u201ccreative\u201d\nin your argumentation means \u201cable to create\u201d; and consequently it does not\nentail actual creation, but only its possibility. Thus the blunder is\nrepeated.\n\nBut you proceed: \u201cWe must, therefore, suppose that this power has for a\ntime been inert in the presence of chaotic or motionless matter.\u201d In these\nfew words I find three mistakes: First, you again introduce time where\nthere can be nothing but eternity; secondly, you assume that a power not\nexercised is inert\u2014which is false, because inertness means destitution of\nself\u2010acting power; thirdly, you put chaotic and motionless matter in the\npresence of the creative power before this power has been exercised\u2014which\nis to assume that chaotic matter was not created, but only received\nmovement. You understand, doctor, that in arguing, as you do, from the\npoint of view of your adversaries, you cannot take such liberties. If you\nwish to refute creation, you must take it as it is understood and defended\nby its supporters; or else you will only refute your own hallucinations.\nBut I will not insist on these latter remarks. I made them only that you\nmay better realize how deficient and miserable is your method of\nreasoning.\n\n_B\u00fcchner_ (_bitterly_). Thank you for the compliment.\n\n_Reader._ However, I have more to say; and I hope, doctor, that you will\nnot lose your temper, if I proceed onward in the same strain. In the\nsecond part of your argument you say that the creative power \u201ccould not\nhave existed _after_ the creation, as rest and inactivity are again\nincompatible with the notion of force.\u201d This is evidently a mere\nreiteration of the sophism just refuted. If the reason you allege had any\nweight, it would follow that, when you have ceased curing a patient, your\nmedical power would vanish, and, when you have ceased talking, your\ntalkative power would be extinct; in fact, rest and inactivity, according\nto you, are incompatible with the notion of power. I say \u201cpower,\u201d although\nyou here make use of the word \u201cforce,\u201d which is calculated to mislead your\nreaders. The word \u201cforce\u201d is frequently used to express a quantity of\nmovement; and, of course, rest and movement exclude one another; hence to\ndesignate the creative power by the name of \u201cforce\u201d may be a dishonest\ntrick, though a very clumsy one, to inveigle readers into the belief that\nrest and creative power are incompatible. Here, however, I must point out\nanother great blunder, which a man of your talent should have been able to\navoid. There is a truth, doctor, of which you seem to be quite ignorant,\nthough certainly you must have heard of it more than once. It is that the\ncreative power, after the production of creatures, does _not_ remain\ninactive. Creatures need positive conservation, and would fall into\nnothingness were they not continually kept in existence by the same power\nby which they have been first brought into being. Hence the creative power\nis always at work. What is, then, your supposition of its inactivity but a\nnew proof of your ignorance?\n\nWhat you add concerning the motion of matter has no importance. I might\nadmit with you that, prescinding from miracles (which you are blind enough\nto deny), \u201cat no time and nowhere, even in the most distant space reached\nby our telescope, could a single fact be established which would render\nthe assumption of a force external, and independent of matter, necessary.\u201d\nThis, however, regards only the stability of the laws of motion; and it\nwould be absurd to infer that therefore the existence of matter and its\nconservation need not be accounted for by an external cause. But you again\ngive a proof of your ignorance by adding that \u201cthe motion of matter obeys\nonly those laws which are inherently active.\u201d What does this mean? Try to\nunderstand the term \u201claw,\u201d and you will see that to call law \u201cinherently\nactive\u201d is an unpardonable nonsense. And hoping that this suffices to show\nthe absolute worthlessness of your pretended argument, I will let you go\non with your other allegations.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ You do not reflect, sir, that in your theory the creative power\nmust have been idle for an eternity; and this cannot be admitted. For \u201cto\nconsider the power in eternal rest, and sunk in self\u2010contemplation, is an\nempty arbitrary abstraction without any empirical basis\u201d (p. 6).\n\n_Reader._ Not at all, doctor. To consider God in eternal rest is not an\nempty arbitrary abstraction; it is a real and necessary conclusion from\nincontrovertible premises. Is it philosophical to assume, as you do, that\ncreation would likely put an end to God\u2019s eternal rest? God always rests\nunchangeably in himself, whether he actually exercises his creative power\nor not. He has in himself his happiness, and in himself he rests for ever\nindependently of creation. This we say without thinking for a moment of\nyour \u201cempirical basis.\u201d For we know that it is a silly thought, that of\nendeavoring to find an empirical basis for a purely intellectual truth.\nBut if by the want of an empirical basis you mean a want of known facts\nfrom which to show God\u2019s existence and infinite perfection, then your duty\nwould have been to substantiate your assertion by showing that such facts\nare not real facts, or have no connection with the existence of a supreme\nbeing. This you have omitted to do, and thus all your argument consists of\nbold assertions, not only without proofs, but without the possibility of\nproof.\n\nIs it not strange, then, that you fancy to have cornered your readers, and\ncompelled them to resort to the most absurd fictions to uphold the\nexistence of a creative power? You say, in fact, that they have no other\nresource but to admit \u201cthe singular notion that the creative power had\nsuddenly and without any occasion arisen out of nothing, had created the\nworld (out of what?), and had again, in the moment of completion,\ncollapsed within itself, and, so to say, dissolved itself in the universe\u201d\n(p. 7). Indeed, were we as stupid as any creature can be, we would still\nfind it impossible to dream of such a foolish assumption. You add that\n\u201cphilosophers and others have ever cherished this latter notion, believing\nthat they could, by this mode of reasoning, reconcile the indisputable\nfact of a fixed and unchangeable law in the economy of the universe with\nthe belief in an individual creative power\u201d (_ibid._) I do not hesitate to\ntell you, doctor, that nothing but hatred of truth could prompt you to\nutter such a gross lie.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Yet \u201call religious conceptions lean more or less towards this\nidea\u201d (p. 7).\n\n_Reader._ This I deny.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Let me explain. Philosophers admit the idea, \u201cwith this\ndifference: that they conceive the spirit of the world reposing after the\ncreation, but yet, as an individual, capable of again suspending his own\nlaws\u201d (p. 7).\n\n_Reader._ This explanation is not to the point. Your assertion implied\nthat philosophers and others ever cherished the notion that the creative\npower had suddenly arisen out of nothing, and that all religious\nconceptions lean more or less towards this idea. This is what I challenged\nyou to show. Does your explanation show it? On the contrary, it shows that\nthe idea towards which religious conceptions lean is quite different.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Be this as it may, \u201cconceptions of this kind cannot concern us,\nnot being the result of philosophical reasoning. Individual human\nqualities and imperfections are transferred to philosophical notions, and\nbelief is made to occupy the place of actual knowledge\u201d (p. 7).\n\n_Reader._ I perceive, doctor, that you are persistently wrong. It seems as\nthough you could not open your mouth without uttering some false or\nincongruent assertion. What are those conceptions which \u201ccannot concern\nus\u201d? Are they not the dreams you have just imagined? How, then, do you\ninsinuate that the existence of a creative power does not concern us,\nbecause your dreams are not the result of philosophical reasoning? And\npray, who ever \u201ctransferred individual human qualities and imperfections\nto philosophical notions\u201d? Has this phrase any intelligible meaning?\nLastly, it is evidently false that, in order to admit a creative power,\n\u201cbelief is made to occupy the place of actual knowledge.\u201d The existence of\nGod is a philosophical truth; now, philosophy is a method of knowledge,\nnot of belief.\n\nI trust I have sufficiently exposed your \u201cintellectual jugglery\u201d to let\nyou see that you are at best a charlatan, not a philosopher.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nDante\u2019s Purgatorio. Canto Fourteenth.\n\n\nNOTE.\u2014This canto, like the preceding (XIII.), illustrates the sin of envy,\nwhich Dante deems a special vice of the Florentines, against whom and the\nother inhabitants of Valdarno he inveighs with a bitterness that savors\nmore of the style of the Inferno than of \u201cthe milder shade of Purgatory.\u201d\n\nIn the Thirteenth Canto, Envy has been rebuked by voices of love and\ngentleness; as, for instance, the kindly comment of the Virgin at the\nmarriage feast of Cana, \u201c_They have no wine_.\u201d These and similar words are\nthe _scourge_ which the envious have to endure. But the _bridle_, Dante\nsays, are tones of a contrary import, such as the terrific voice of Cain,\nwho passes by in a peal of thunder, but invisible, followed by the\ndreadful cry of Aglauros, described in the concluding paragraph of this\ncanto.\n\n  \u201cWhat man is this who round our mountain goes,\nBefore that death has let his pinions free,\n  Who doth at will his eyelids ope and close?\u201d\n\u201cI know not; but am sure not sole is he:\n  Demand _thou_ of him who the nearest art,\nAnd gently ask, that he may deign reply.\u201d\n  Thus to the right two spirits there, apart,\nBent each toward each, conferred as I came nigh;\n  Then turning up their faces as to speak,\nOne said: \u201cO soul! that still in mortal hold\n  Art on the way thy home in heaven to seek,\nFor charity console us, and unfold\n  Whence comest, and who art thou? for the grace\nAccorded thee in us the wonder wakes\n  Due unto things which ne\u2019er before had place.\u201d\nAnd I: \u201cThrough middle Tuscany there flows\n  A brook whose founts in Falterona spring,\nNor do an hundred miles its current close:\n  From that stream\u2019s banks this body of mine I bring:\n\u2019Twere vain to tell you how my title goes;\n  For yet my name hath not much heralding.\u201d\n\u201cIf well I probe the sense thou hast conveyed\n  With intellect,\u201d the first who spake replied:\n\u201cThou meanest Arno!\u201d\u2014and the other shade\n  Said to the former: \u201cWherefore did he hide\nThat river\u2019s name as men are wont to do\n  Of things most horrible?\u201d\u2014and then the one\nWhom that inquiry was directed to,\n  Discharged him thus:\n\nGuido Del Duca.\n\n  \u201cWhy he that name doth shun\nI cannot tell: but meet it is the name\n  Of such a valley perish from the earth!\nSince from its head (where so abounds the same\n  Great alpine chain which cast Pelorus forth,\nWith springs that few spots are impregnate more)\n  To where it seeks, arriving at the main,\nWhat the sky sucks from ocean to restore\n  (Whence rivers have what waters they contain),\nVirtue by all is hunted for a foe\n  As \u2019twere a snake;\u2014whether from fault of place\nOr evil custom goading nature so:\n  Wherefore that miserable valley\u2019s race\nHave changed their kind to that degree \u2019twould seem\n  Circe had pastured them. Among brute swine,\nMore fit for mast than human food, the stream\n  Winds its poor way; then, lower down its line,\nFinds curs that snarl beyond their power to bite,\n  And turns from them his nostril as in scorn.\nFalling it goes, and more it grows in might,\n  The curst ditch finds that of those dogs are born\nA pack of wolves. Through many a whirlpool then\n  He comes to foxes in deceit so deep\nThey fear no catching by more crafty men.\n  What though o\u2019erheard, no silence will I keep!\nAnd well for this man, if in mind he bear\n  What my true spirit unfolds. One of thy blood\nShall hunt those wolves. I see thy grandson there\n  Harrowing the borders of that savage flood;\nAll fly before him, all are in despair:\n  He makes a market of their living flesh,\nThen, like old beasts for slaughter, lays them low:\n  Staining his fame with many a murder fresh;\nHe comes all bloody from that wood of woe,\n  Leaving such wreck that in a thousand years\nTo its primeval state it shall not grow.\u201d\n\n  Like one whose visage alters when he hears\nIll hap foretold, as \u2019twere in dread which way\n  The blow may strike, I saw that other soul\nStand turned to hear, disturbed and in dismay,\n  Soon of those words as he had grasped the whole.\nHis troubled air, and what the other said,\n  To know their names wrought in me such a thirst\nThat I with prayers direct inquiry made.\n  Wherefore the shade who had addrest me first\nBegan again: \u201cThou wouldest that I deign\n  Do thee a grace I did in vain beseech;\nBut since the will of God in thee so plain\n  Doth favor show, I will not stint my speech;\nTherefore know this: Guido del Duca am I.\n  My blood with envy was so burnt, so bad,\nThou mightst have seen me livid grow and dry\n  Had I but seen another\u2019s face look glad.\nSuch of my sowing is the straw I reap!\n  O human race! why bring your wishes down\nTo pleasures that exclude all partnership?\n  This is Rinieri; this the prize and crown\nOf Casa Calboli, whereof no child\n  Hath made himself an heir of his renown.\nNor yet alone hath his blood been despoiled,\n  \u2019Twixt Po, the Pennine, Reno and the shore,\nOf what best needs for truth and happiness;\n  For through those borders there be plenty more\nOf stock so bad, to make their venom less\n  By cultivation \u2019twere but vain to try.\nWhere is good Lizio? and Mainardi? Where\n  Pier Traversaro and Carpigna\u2019s Guy?\nO Romagnuoles! what bastard shoots ye bear,\n  When sprouts a Fabbro in Bologna, when\nBernardin Fosco makes Faenza heir\n  From coarse grass to a growth of gentlemen!\nNo wonder, Tuscan, at my weeping thus\n  While I recall, remembering them so well,\nGuido of Prata when himself with us,\n  And Ugolin of Azzo, used to dwell:\nFrederic Tignoso and his goodly troop;\n  The Traversara, Anastagi race;\nNow disinherited both houses droop!\n  Ladies and knights, the toils repose and grace\nThey wrapt us in of courtesy and love\n  There where the best blood such bad hearts debase!\n\u201cO Brettinoro! why dost thou not move\n  From thy proud seat, thy family wholly gone,\nAnd many more, to shun corruption\u2019s course?\n  Bagnacaval does well to have no son,\nAnd Castrocaro ill, and Conio worse\n  To breed such Counties taking further pains:\nAnd well enough too, when their devil is dead,\n  May the Pagani do, though some remains\nBear witness \u2019gainst them of impureness fled.\n  O Ugolin de\u2019 Fantoli! most sure\nIs thy good name, since no degenerate head\n  Is looked for now its brightness to obscure.\nBut go thy ways now, Tuscan! more delight\n  I find in weeping than in words\u2014too stirred\nBy this talk of our country.\u201d We were quite\n  Sure those dear souls our way\u2019s direction heard,\nAnd from their silence knew that we went right.\n\n  Soon as proceeding we became alone,\nA voice, like lightning when it strikes, did say,\n  Rushing on tow\u2019rds us with its thunderous tone,\n\u201c_Whoever findeth me the same shall slay!_\u201d(97)\n  Then fled as thunder, when the bolt is thrown\nFrom the torn cloud, in rumbling dies away.\n  When on our ears a moment\u2019s truce there fell,\nAnother crash came of like rattling shock\n  As of a rapid thunder, peal on peal:\n\u201c_I am Aglauros, who became a rock!_\u201d\n  On this, I drew back from my forward pace\nTo cling for shelter close behind the bard,\n  And when the air was hushed in all its space,\nHe said to me: \u201cThat was the bit(98) full hard\n  Which should each man within his limit stay.\n_You_ take the bait so fondly that the small\n  Hook of th\u2019 old enemy makes you his prey,\nAnd bridle boots you naught, nor warning call.\n  Heaven calleth to you, and the eternal round\nShows you of beauties that about you roll,\n  And still your eye is grovelling on the ground;\nWherefore He smites you who discerns the whole.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nThe Veil Withdrawn.\n\n\nTranslated, By Permission, From The French Of Madame Craven, Author Of \u201cA\nSister\u2019s Story,\u201d \u201cFleurange,\u201d Etc.\n\n\n\nVII.\n\n\nLorenzo, Duca di Valenzano, belonged to one of the noblest families of\nupper Italy; but his mother was a native of Sicily, and it was from her he\ninherited his title as well as the fortune already in his possession,\nwhich would be considerably increased if an important lawsuit (the usual\naccompaniment of a Sicilian inheritance), which brought a great part of it\ninto litigation, should terminate successfully. His object in coming to\nsee my father was to place this business in his hands; and, after his\nfirst visit, he usually came once or twice a week. At first he merely\nbowed to me as he passed, or, at most, addressed me a few words on leaving\nthe room. The remainder of the time was spent in looking over voluminous\ndocuments with my father. Nevertheless, these visits soon became a little\nincident in my monotonous life, and I began to look forward to them with a\ncertain impatience.\n\nThe duke, at this time, was scarcely more than thirty years of age; but he\nby no means seemed young in my eyes. A few premature wrinkles and an\nobservant, thoughtful look imparted a gravity to his face which was not,\nhowever, its prevailing expression; for it was frequently ironical and\nsarcastic to the last degree, and so mobile that it was not always easy to\ndecide on the impression it left. His general appearance, however, was\nnoble and striking, as well as the tone of his voice, which involuntarily\ncommanded attention to all he said.\n\nSeveral weeks elapsed without any other variety than the few moments, more\nor less prolonged, which he passed at my table at the end of each visit.\nHe generally made some unimportant remarks respecting my lessons, my bird,\nor my flowers, which he noticed I cultivated with a care somewhat unusual\nin our clime. In fact, he only spoke to me as he would to a child. I\nreplied in a corresponding tone, and, very soon, not only without\nembarrassment, but with a pleasure I made no attempt to conceal. I had\nbegun to be devoured by _ennui_ in so inactive and solitary a life, and I\neagerly welcomed any diversion that came in my way. My father, at such\ntimes, remained silent and grave, and seemed somewhat impatient when these\nbrief conversations were prolonged a little more than usual.\n\nOne day, when the duke approached my table as usual, I had a large atlas\nopen before me, and he noticed that I was examining the map of Asia. I was\nstudying without any effort, and yet with a certain interest resulting\nfrom curiosity which, added to an excellent memory, made me an unusually\ngood scholar. The duke looked at the map a moment, and, after some\nobservations that excited my interest, he pointed to a place near the\nHimalaya mountains, and remarked: \u201cOne year ago to\u2010day I was there.\u201d I\nknew his extensive travels had rendered him celebrated, as well as his\nsuccess as a sculptor, doubly surprising in a man of his rank and so\nenterprising an explorer. I had acquired this information from\nconversations respecting the duke since his arrival at Messina, where his\npresence had caused a sensation.\n\nOn this occasion, seeing my interest strongly excited, he seemed to take\npleasure in giving an account of that remote region, which I sometimes\ninterrupted by questions that appeared to surprise him. The facility with\nwhich I was endowed made me really superior in many respects to most girls\nof my age; and as for information, I might have been considered a\nphenomenon in my own country.\n\nThe conversation that day might have been indefinitely prolonged had not\nmy father found a pretext for abridging it by suddenly proposing to take\nthe duke to the further end of the garden, in order to examine some ruins\nand a Greek portico on a height from which there was an admirable view.\nThe duke looked at me, as if he wished I could join in the walk; but my\nfather not seconding this mute suggestion, he was forced to accompany him,\nnot, however, without giving me, as he left the room, a look that seemed\nto express compassion, interest, and respect.\n\nAs soon as I was alone, I abruptly closed my atlas, rose from my seat, and\nabandoned myself to a violent fit of irritation and grief, as I hurried\nwith long steps through the extensive gallery, exclaiming aloud against\nthe undue sternness and severity of my father.... He did not see that he\nwas thus rendering the seclusion he had imposed upon me beyond my strength\nto bear\u2014a seclusion that would have been transformed by one word of\naffection, sympathy, or even kindness. Instead of this, did he not even\nappear to be annoyed that I should receive any from this stranger?\n\nIt was impossible for me to resume my studies. I had an hour to wait\nbefore Ottavia would come, as she did every day, to accompany me to the\ngarden\u2014as if I were a mere child, instead of being allowed to wander at my\nown pleasure till sunset. Hitherto I had endured everything humbly; but my\npatience was now exhausted, and I felt a disposition to revolt which I\nonly repressed with difficulty. Was this merely against a _r\u00e9gime_ of such\nexcessive severity, or was it the result of a slight return of confidence\nin myself inspired by the interest, and almost deference, which this\nstranger had just manifested? It was doubtless both; and the consequence\nwas, I felt an agitation I could not subdue, and an irrepressible longing\nfor any change whatever in a mode of life that had become insupportable.\nTired of walking up and down, I at last took a seat by the window, where I\ncould, at a distance, see my father and his client. I watched them with an\nattention that soon diverted my thoughts and ended by wholly absorbing me.\n\nI at once noticed that, instead of proceeding to the end of the garden to\nsee the ruin my father had spoken of, they had stopped in a broad alley\nleading from the house to a white marble basin, in the form of a vase,\nwhich stood in the centre. This alley, bordered with a clipped hedge of\nbox, extended beyond the basin to a small grove of olive\u2010trees leading to\nthe hill it was necessary to ascend in order to see the ruin. They seemed\nto have wholly lost sight of the proposed object of their walk; for when I\nfirst saw them, they had scarcely reached the basin, and were now slowly\nreturning towards the house. The duke appeared to be listening to my\nfather, every now and then striking the hedge they were passing with a\nstick he held in his hand. All at once he stopped, and, passing his arm\nthrough my father\u2019s, he led him to a bench, on which they both sat down. I\ncould see them distinctly, and, without hearing what they said, could\ndistinguish the sound of their voices. It was the duke\u2019s I now heard. At\nfirst he spoke with his head bent down, as if with some hesitation, but by\ndegrees with more animation and fire, and finally with clasped hands, as\nif pleading some cause or asking some favor.... Once he raised his eyes\ntowards the window where I was, though he could not see me. Was he\nspeaking of me?... Had he ventured to intercede in my behalf?... I looked\nat my father anxiously. His face expressed the greatest surprise as well\nas extreme dissatisfaction, but it gradually changed. He became very\nattentive; and when at last the duke extended his hand, he took it in his,\nand seemed to be making some promise. Then they rose and resumed the way\nto the house, but by a shady path where my eyes could no longer follow\nthem.\n\nThat day our dinner was less gloomy than usual. My father conversed with\nMario as he had not done for a long time, and the latter, with\nsatisfaction, attributed to himself this change (which, to do him justice,\nhad been the object of persevering effort). But Livia, who had more\npenetration, saw there was some other reason; for she speedily observed\nthat this change was especially evident towards me. In fact, for the first\ntime since the fatal day that seemed like a dividing line in my young\nlife, I once more saw in my father\u2019s eyes the fond look I was formerly\naccustomed to; and this paternal and almost forgotten expression gave me\nnew life and a sensation of joy and happiness that made me raise my head\nas a flower beaten down by the storm looks up at the first return of the\nsun.\n\nThe explanation was not long delayed. The next day my father sent for me\nat an earlier hour than I generally went to him, and after a preamble\nwhich I scarcely comprehended, and which by no means served to prepare me\nfor what I was about to hear, he informed me that the Duca di Valenzano\nhad asked for my hand. I remained stupefied with astonishment, and my\nfather continued: \u201cIt was impossible to expect a proposal like this for\none of my daughters; but however brilliant it may be, I should\nunhesitatingly decline it were not the duke personally worthy of love and\nesteem. As to this I am satisfied from all I hear respecting him. But it\nis for you to decide about accepting his hand. I will not impose my will\non you. Consider the subject, Ginevra. The Duca di Valenzano will come\nthis evening to receive your reply.\u201d\n\nMy father might have said much more without my thinking of interrupting\nhim. I was in such a state of utter amazement that I could hardly realize\nwhat he said, and the perspective thus suddenly opened before me conveyed\nno definite idea to my mind. It was easier to believe he was jesting with\nme than to suppose such a man as the duke would propose for me to become\nhis wife!...\n\nI returned to my chamber extremely agitated, and this feeling was not\ndiminished by witnessing my sister\u2019s emotion and Ottavia\u2019s noisy\ndemonstrations of joy when I told them of the proposal that had just been\ncommunicated to me. The Duca di Valenzano was not only a person of high\nrank, but he was thought to possess every accomplishment, and it was\nevident that every one looked upon my consent as a matter of course.\n\n_Un homme accompli!_ Before going any further, I cannot help stopping to\nremark here to what a degree the world, generally so severe, shows itself\nindulgent in certain cases; and how often this indulgence is shared even\nby those who try to think they are not influenced by external\ncircumstances! Assuredly neither my father, nor my sister, nor the simple\nOttavia attributed the favorable impression produced on their minds to the\nbrilliant position of this unexpected suitor, or the special merit he had\nacquired in their eyes, to the mere fact of his having thought of sharing\nhis lot with me.\n\nIt would have been difficult for me to express my own feelings, for I\nhardly understood their nature. I was flattered; I was touched; I was even\nvery grateful, for it was evident that the duke had begun by pleading my\ncause with my father, and hitherto he had been by no means unpleasing to\nme. Why, then, could I not think of him now without a kind of repugnance,\nfear, and aversion? And why did I feel as if I should prefer never to see\nhim again? I asked myself these questions, at first silently, and then\naloud, as was often my habit when with Livia and Ottavia, who, though so\ndifferent from each other, were nevertheless so alike in their affection\nfor me.\n\n\u201cThat is quite natural, _carina_,\u201d replied Livia. \u201cYou scarcely know the\nDuca di Valenzano, and the very word _marriage_ is one of serious import,\nand even fearful, when it falls for the first time on the ears of a young\ngirl. But this will pass away.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you think so?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! yes. I am sure of it. When you know him better, and especially when\nhe, in his turn, comprehends the qualities of your mind, and heart, and\nsoul, he will conceive such an affection for my dear Ginevra that she will\nsoon love him in return, and not a little, I imagine.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think so, too,\u201d said Ottavia, laughing. \u201cThey say he is very\ncaptivating, to say nothing of his being one of the greatest and\nwealthiest noblemen of Italy. Ah! ah! what a different tone those wicked\npeople will assume who say....\u201d\n\nLivia looked at Ottavia, who stopped short.\n\n\u201cLivia! do not stop her,\u201d I exclaimed. \u201cGo on, Ottavia; I insist upon it.\nI wish to know what wicked people you refer to, and what they say.\u201d\n\nOttavia once more regretted her precipitation, and would rather have\nremained silent; but I continued to question her till she acknowledged\nsome people had taken the liberty of saying I should never marry on\naccount of \u201cwhat had taken place.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat a vague, cruel way of speaking!\u201d exclaimed Livia indignantly.\n\u201cEverybody knows now there was nothing, absolutely nothing at all, in that\ngossip; that it was all a mere falsehood.\u201d\n\n\u201cEverybody?\u201d ... I said with sudden emotion. \u201cBut has not my father\ncontinued to treat me as if I were culpable?\u201d Then after a moment\u2019s\nsilence, I added: \u201cDo you think these falsehoods have come to the ears of\nthe Duca di Valenzano?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow can I tell?\u201d replied Livia. \u201cAnd of what consequence is it? His\nproposal shows that he is sure, as well as we, that you have nothing at\nall to reproach yourself for.\u201d\n\nI made no reply. A new thought struck me, and I felt the necessity of\nbeing alone, in order to reflect on what had been suggested by her words.\nI therefore left my two companions abruptly, and took a seat at the end of\nthe terrace on a little parapet that looked on the sea, and there I\nremained nearly an hour.\n\nThat night, when the Duca di Valenzano returned, my father, at my\nsolicitation, told him that, before coming to any decision, I wished to\nhave some private conversation with him. It was not without difficulty I\ninduced my father to convey this message; but the duke immediately\nassented, and with so much eagerness that it might have been supposed my\nrequest had only anticipated a wish of his own.\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\n\nI was in my usual place in the gallery, and alone, when the duke entered\nat the appointed hour. I rose, and extended my hand. He was astonished, I\nthink, to find me so calm, and perhaps so grave, and looked at me a moment\nin silence, as if he would divine what I was going to say to him. Seeing\nthat I remained silent, he at length said:\n\n\u201cDonna Ginevra, I thought myself skilled in reading the expression of your\neyes; but in looking at you now, I cannot tell whether the word that is\nabout to fall from your lips is yes or no.\u201d\n\nI found it difficult to reply; but overcoming my embarrassment at last, I\nsucceeded in saying:\n\n\u201cYes or no?.... If I only had that to say, M. le Duc, I could have charged\nmy father with it.... But before speaking of the reply I am to make, I\nmust make one request. You must tell me sincerely what you think of me,\nand I will afterwards tell you with the utmost frankness wherein you are\nmistaken.\u201d\n\nHe looked at me with an attentive air, and then smiled, as he said:\n\n\u201cTell you what I think of you?... That might lead me to say more than I\nhave yet the right to say. But I will tell you, Donna Ginevra, what I do\nnot think, and, in so doing, I shall, I imagine, comply with your request.\nLet me fully assure you I attach no importance whatever to the words of a\ncoxcomb; and I would call any one a liar, and treat him as such, who would\ndare to repeat them!...\u201d\n\nHe saw, by the expression of joy that flashed from my eyes, that he had\nguessed aright.\n\n\u201cPoor child! ... poor angel!\u201d he continued, \u201cit would be strange indeed if\nI took any other attitude than this before you.\u201d And he was about to kneel\nat my feet, when I eagerly prevented him.\n\n\u201cDo not do that, I beg of you!\u201d I exclaimed. \u201cAnd say, if you like, that I\nam a child, but do not call me an angel.... Oh! no, never say anything so\nfar from the truth! Listen to me, for I requested this interview only that\nyou might know all\u2014what is true as well as what is false.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is true?\u201d he said in a slight tone of surprise.\n\n\u201cYes. Listen to me. I thank you for not having believed what ... what was\nsaid concerning me, for that, indeed, was false. I am, however, culpable,\nand it is right you should know it. Perhaps you will then change your\nmind, and think no more about me.\u201d\n\nHe looked at me again, as if he would read the depths of my soul.\n\n\u201cIs it with this design,\u201d he said, \u201cthat you speak so frankly?\u201d\n\nI knew not what reply to make, for I no longer knew what I wished. I found\na charm in the mingled tenderness and respect of which I so suddenly felt\nmyself the object. Besides, I had suffered greatly from my long seclusion,\nand my heart involuntarily turned towards him who was trying to deliver me\nfrom it.... My fear and repugnance vanished beneath his sympathetic look.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d I said at last, \u201cit is not for that reason.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen speak frankly,\u201d he said, \u201cand let me hear this important revelation,\nwhatever it may be.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd will you promise solemnly never to reveal my secret?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I solemnly promise.\u201d\n\nIn spite of the solemnity of his words, I saw it was with difficulty he\nrepressed a smile. But when he saw the agitation produced by the\nrecollections thus awakened, his expression became serious. For a moment a\ncloud came over his face; but in proportion as I entered into the details\nof that last night of my mother\u2019s life\u2014my thoughtlessness, my shock, and,\nfinally, my despair and repentance\u2014he became affected, and listened with\nso much emotion that his look inspired me with confidence, and I finished\nwithout fear the account I had begun with a trembling voice.\n\nAs has been seen, I thought myself more guilty than I should have been had\nthere been any truth in the vague, unmerited reproaches I had endured; for\nthe slight fault I had really committed seemed indissolubly connected with\nthe fearful calamity that followed!... That was why I thought myself\nunpardonable, and why I preferred to endure the most unfounded suspicions\nconcerning me rather than reveal the truth to any one in the world\u2014above\nall, to my father. But it seemed to me I ought not, for the same reason,\nto conceal it from him who had so generously offered me his hand, whatever\nmight be the result. I therefore continued, and he listened without\ninterrupting me. When I had ended, he spoke in his turn, and what he said\ndecided the fate of my life.\n\nI already felt relieved by the complete revelation of a secret I had\nhitherto kept with an obstinacy that was perhaps a little childish. And in\nlistening to the soft accents of his sonorous, penetrating voice, my heart\nwas more and more comforted, and soon allowed itself to be persuaded into\nwhat it was sweet and consoling to believe\u2014that, as he said, I exaggerated\nthe consequence of my thoughtlessness; that if I had afflicted my mother,\nI had time to ask and obtain her forgiveness; that I was ignorant of her\ndangerous condition, and, when I became aware of it, I supposed I had been\nthe cause; ... but all this was unreasonable.... And as to the flower....\nHere he stopped, and his brow darkened for a moment. \u201cAnswer me frankly,\u201d\nhe said slowly; \u201cif Flavio Aldini were still alive, if he were here under\nthis window to\u2010day, and implored you to give him that little sprig of\njasmine I see in your belt....\u201d\n\nHe had not time to finish.\n\n\u201cIs it possible,\u201d I exclaimed, \u201cyou, who say you understand me, who\npretend to have read my heart, can mention a name that has become so\nodious to me?...\u201d\n\nThen I continued, I imagine to his great surprise:\n\n\u201cYou are the first to whom I have acknowledged the fault he made me\ncommit, for I do not consider the ear of the priest to whom I confessed it\nas that of man. There I experienced the indulgence of heaven, and was\nforgiven by God as well as my mother.... But would you know what cost me\nthe most that day? Not, certainly, my sorrow for the past; not my firm\nresolutions as to the future; nor even the humble acceptation of all the\nhumiliations that have been inflicted on me.... No, what cost me the most\nwas to promise to overcome my resentment, to subdue the bitterness\nawakened by the very name of Flavio, and to utter it every day in prayer\nfor the repose of his soul!...\u201d\n\nI was, in speaking thus, very remote from the regions familiar to Lorenzo.\nWhile I was uttering these words, my face was lit up with an expression\nvery different from any he had ever seen there. He gazed at me without\nseeming to hear what I said, and at length replied with evident emotion:\n\n\u201cI thank you for telling me this, though one look at you is sufficient to\nefface all doubt, as darkness vanishes before the approach of day.\u201d\n\nAfter a moment\u2019s silence, he resumed: \u201cAnd now, Ginevra, I implore you to\ndelay no longer the reply I have come to receive.\u201d\n\nThe recollections of the past had made me forget for a few moments the\npresent; but these words recalled it, and I looked at him as if\nconfounded. There was a moment\u2019s silence. My heart beat loudly. At length\nI silently took from my belt the little sprig of jasmine he had just\nspoken of, and gave it to him.\n\nHe understood the reply, and his eyes lit up with gratitude and joy. I\nfelt happier than I had anticipated. Was not this, in fact, what I had\ndreamed of, what I had longed for\u2014to be loved? And would it not be easy to\nlove in return such a man as this?\n\nAs these thoughts were crossing my mind, and I lowered my eyes before his,\nhe suddenly said:\n\n\u201cDo you know how beautiful you are, Ginevra?\u201d\n\nAt these words I frowned, and a blush rose to my forehead which once might\nhave been caused by gratified vanity, but now was only occasioned by\nsincere, heart\u2010felt displeasure. \u201cNever speak to me of my face, I beg of\nyou,\u201d I said to him, \u201cunless you wish to annoy or displease me.\u201d\n\nHe looked at me with the greatest astonishment, though he felt no doubt as\nto my perfect sincerity, and, taking my hand in his, said:\n\n\u201cYou are a being apart, Ginevra, and resemble no one else in any respect.\nIt will be difficult sometimes to obey your request, but I will do so.\u201d\n\nHad I been able to read Lorenzo\u2019s heart, I should, in my turn, have been\nastonished, and perhaps frightened, at the motives that had induced him to\nlink so suddenly his life with mine.\n\nThe beauty of which I was no longer vain; the talents I possessed without\nbeing aware of it; the strangeness of finding me in a kind of captivity,\nand the somewhat romantic satisfaction of delivering me from it and\nchanging my condition by a stroke of a wand\u2014such were the elements of the\nattraction to which he yielded; and if it had occurred to any one to\nremind him that the girl who was about to become his wife had a soul, he\nwould very probably have replied by a glance of surprise, a sarcastic\nsmile, or a slight shrug of his shoulders, as if to say: \u201cPerhaps so, but\nit does not concern me.\u201d\n\nIt happened in this case, as often happens in many other circumstances,\nthat a word, a look, or the tone of a voice impresses, persuades, and\ninfluences, and yet (perhaps for the happiness of the human race) does not\nreveal the inner secrets of the soul.\n\nMy engagement was announced the next day, and the last of May appointed\nfor the marriage. There was a month before the time\u2014a month the\nremembrance of which still stands out in my life like a season of\nenchantment. The restored confidence of my father, joined to the thought\nof our approaching separation, had revived all the fondness of his former\naffection. Lorenzo had succeeded in making him regret the excess of his\nseverity towards me. Indebted to him, therefore, for the return of my\nfather\u2019s love as well as the gift of his own, he seemed like some\nbeneficent _genie_ who had dispersed every cloud, and restored to my youth\nthe warm, golden light of the sun. I thanked him for this without any\ncircumlocution, and sometimes in so warm a manner that he must have been\nthe most unpresuming of men to suppose me indifferent to the sentiments he\nso often expressed, though not so ardently as to disturb me. He respected\nthe request I made the first day. He suffered me to remain the child I\nstill was, in spite of having experienced such varied emotions. Perhaps\nthe strong contrast he thus found in me formed a study not devoid of\ninterest to a man _blas\u00e9_ by all he had seen and encountered in the world.\n\nThe preparations for so brilliant a marriage completely filled up the time\nof the busy Ottavia, who was charged by my father to omit nothing in the\nway of dress requisite for the _fianc\u00e9e_ of the Duca di Valenzano. Mario,\nprouder than he was willing to acknowledge of an alliance that reflected\nlustre on the whole family, showed himself friendly and satisfied.\nBesides, the transformation that had taken place in my whole appearance\nwithin a few months, as well as in my way of life, had softened his manner\ntowards me; and the more because he attributed the merit of it to himself,\nand often repeated that, had it not been for him, my father would not have\nhad the courage to persevere in a severity that had had so salutary a\nresult. He loved me, however, as I have had occasion in the course of my\nlife to know; but as there are people in the world who are kind, and yet\nare not sympathetic, so there are also many who on certain occasions\nmanifest some feeling, and yet are not kind. Mario was of the latter\nclass. At certain times, on great occasions, he seemed to have a heart\ncapable of affection and devotedness; but, as a general thing, it was\nrather evil than good he discovered in everything and everybody, without\nexcepting even those with whom he was most intimately connected, and\nperhaps in them _above all_.\n\nLivia alone, after the first few days, seemed to have a shade of\nthoughtfulness and anxiety mingled with her joy, and Mario, who observed\nit, unhesitatingly declared it was caused by the prospect of remaining an\nold maid, doubly vexatious now her younger sister was about to ascend\nbefore her very eyes to the pinnacle of rank and fortune. But I knew Livia\nbetter than he, and, though unable to read all that was passing in her\nsoul at that time, I was sure that no comparison of that kind, or any\ndissatisfied consideration of herself, had ever crossed her mind.\n\nBut I did not suspect that her pure, transparent nature, as well as the\ninstinct of clear\u2010sighted affection, enabled her to see some threatening\nsigns in the heavens above me that seemed to every one else so brilliant\nwith its sun and cloudless azure. But the die was cast, and it would have\nbeen useless to warn as well as dangerous to disturb me. She therefore\nconfined herself to reminding me of all my mother\u2019s pious counsels. She\nmade me promise never to forget them, and she, too, promised to pray for\nme. But when I told her she must continue to aid me with her advice, and\nremain true to her _r\u00f4le_ of my guardian angel, she shook her head, and\nremained silent.\n\nOne day, when I spoke in this way, she replied: \u201cDo not be under any\nillusion, Ginevra. Marriage is like death. One may prepare for it, one may\nbe aided by the counsels, the prayers, and the encouragement of friends\ntill the last moment; but once the line is crossed, as the soul after\ndeath finds itself alone in the presence of its God, its heavenly\nbridegroom, to be eternally blessed by his love or cursed by its\nprivation, so the wife finds herself alone in the world with her husband.\nThere is no happiness for her but in their mutual affection. If this\nexists, she possesses the greatest happiness this world can afford. If\ndeprived of it, she lacks everything. The world will be only a void, and\nshe may still consider herself fortunate, if this void is filled by\nsorrow, and not by sin!...\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat you say is frightful.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, it is frightful; therefore I have never been able to covet so\nterrible a bondage. O my dear Gina! may God watch over you....\u201d\n\n\u201cYou terrify me, Livia. I assure you I should never have regarded marriage\nunder so serious an aspect, from the way in which people around us enter\ninto it.\u201d\n\nLivia blushed, and her eyes, generally so soft, assumed an expression of\nthoughtfulness and severity.\n\n\u201cI am nearly twenty\u2010six years old,\u201d she said, \u201cand am therefore no longer\na girl, as you still are. But in a few days you will assume the duties of\nwomanhood. You will place your hand in Lorenzo\u2019s, and pronounce the most\nfearful vow there is in the world. Let me therefore say one thing to you,\nwhich I am sure is the faithful echo of your mother\u2019s sentiments, and what\nshe would certainly tell you likewise. Ginevra, rather than imitate any of\nthose to whom you refer, rather than seek away from your own fireside a\nhappiness similar to theirs, it would be better for God to call you to\nhimself this very hour. Yes,\u201d she continued with unwonted energy, \u201csooner\nthan behold this, I would rather\u2014I who love you so much\u2014I would far rather\nsee those beautiful eyes, now looking at me with so much surprise, close\nthis very instant never to open again!\u201d\n\nI was, indeed, surprised. For were not these words, or at least the idea\nthey conveyed, what I had found written in the little book Livia had never\nread, and was it not my mother herself who actually spoke to me now\nthrough the voice of my sister?...\n\n\n\nIX.\n\n\nThis conversation left a profound and painful impression on me, but it was\ncounteracted by the increasing attachment Lorenzo inspired. During this\nphase of my life I only perceived his charming, noble qualities, the\nunusual variety of his tastes, his mental endowments, and, above all, his\nlove for me, which it seemed impossible to return too fully. It would have\nrequired a degree of penetration not to be expected of one of my age to\nlift the brilliant veil and look beyond. Therefore the natural liveliness\nof my disposition, which had been prematurely extinguished by successive\ntrials of too great a severity, gradually revived. It was no unusual thing\nnow to hear me laugh and sing as I used to. The influence of this new\ncheerful life counteracted the effects of the factitious life I had led\nthe previous year. Under Lorenzo\u2019s protection, and escorted by Mario, I\nwas allowed to take long rides on horseback, which restored freshness to\nmy cheeks, and inspired that youthful feeling which may be called the\npleasure of living\u2014a feeling that till now I had been a stranger to. My\nmind was developed by intercourse with one so superior to myself, and who\nendeavored to interest and instruct me. In a word, my whole nature\ndeveloped and expanded in every way, and for awhile I believed in the\nrealization here below of perfectly unclouded happiness.\n\nA sad accident, however, occurred, which cast a shadow over the brief\nduration of those delightful days. It was now the last day but one before\nour marriage, and for the last time we were to make an excursion on\nhorseback, which was also to be an adieu to the mountains, the sea, and\nthe beautiful shore that had been familiar to me from my infancy. For,\nimmediately after, we were to leave Messina; and though it was to go to\nNaples, I thought more of what I was about to leave than what I was to\nfind, and the melancholy of approaching separation seemed diffused over\nall nature around me. Our horses were waiting at a gate at the end of the\ngarden, which, on that side, opened into the country. Mario and Lorenzo\nhad gone before, and I was walking slowly along to join them, holding my\nskirt up with one hand, and leaning with the other on Livia, who was going\nto see our cavalcade set off.\n\nMario had already mounted his horse, but Lorenzo, on foot beside Prima, my\npretty pony, was waiting to help me mount. He held out his hand. I placed\nmy foot on it, and sprang gaily up. As soon as I was seated, he stepped\nback to mount his own horse, while Livia remained beside me to arrange the\nfolds of my long habit. Just then the wind blew off her light straw hat,\nto which was attached a long, blue veil, and both passing suddenly across\nmy horse\u2019s eyes before I had fairly gathered up the bridle, he took\nfright. I was unable to check him. He sprang madly away, bearing me along\nthe narrow alley leading from the garden to the highway. I heard the\nscreams of those who remained motionless behind, but nothing afterwards\nexcept a hum in my ears. A flash seemed to pass before my eyes, but I\nretained my consciousness. I realized that I was lost. The alley, like\nthat in the garden, was bordered with a thick hedge of box extending to\nthe road, which was here at an immense height along a cliff overlooking\nthe sea and protected by a low parapet. My ungovernable horse was\nevidently about to leap over it and precipitate me below.... I recommended\nmyself to God, dropped the bridle, gathered up the folds of my habit with\nboth hands, and, murmuring the words, _Madonna santa, aiutate mi!_(99) I\nallowed myself to fall on the hedge which bordered the alley. I might have\nbeen killed in this way no less surely than the other; but I escaped. The\nthick, elastic box yielded to my weight without breaking, which prevented\nme from receiving any harm from the fall. I remained stunned and\nmotionless, but did not lose my senses. I know not how many seconds\nelapsed before I heard Lorenzo\u2019s voice. I opened my eyes, and smiled as I\nmet his gaze. I shall never forget the passionate expression of love and\njoy that flashed from his pale, terrified face, which was bending over me!\nHe raised me from the verdant couch where I lay, and pressed me in his\narms with mute transport. I, too, was happy. I felt an infinite joy that I\nhad been saved and was still alive. I leaned my head against his shoulder,\nand closed my eyes. My hat had been thrown off, and my hair, completely\nloosened, fell almost to the ground. In this way he carried me back amid\ncries of joy from those who had followed us. Nothing was heard but\nexclamations of thanksgiving to God and the Virgin when, escorted by a\ncrowd swelled by all on the road or in the neighboring fields, who had\nperceived the accident, we arrived at the principal entrance to the house.\nThere they made me sit down, and in a few moments I was sufficiently\nrestored to realize completely all that had happened.\n\nLorenzo continued to support me, and poured forth his joy in tender,\nincoherent words. My father embraced me. Ottavia wept, as she kissed my\nhands. Mario himself was affected. In the first moment of confusion I did\nnot notice that my sister alone was wanting. But this absence soon struck\nme, and I eagerly asked for her, calling her by name as I looked around\nme. There was a moment\u2019s hesitation, and I saw two of the servants near me\nmaking the odious sign of which I have already explained the\nsignification. And\u2014must it be said?\u2014Lorenzo\u2019s hand that held mine\ncontracted also, and I saw that he, likewise, was so absurd as to wish to\nprotect me in this way. I rose.... I no longer felt the effects of the\nfall I had just had. I pushed them all aside, and him the first. The\ncircle around me opened, and I saw my sister, pale and motionless, leaning\nagainst one of the pillars of the vestibule! I forgot everything that had\noccurred. I thought of nothing but her, and threw myself on her neck.\n\n\u201cDo not be alarmed, my dear Livia,\u201d I said loud enough for every one to\nhear. \u201cI assure you I have received no injury. I thought you were more\ncourageous. It does not seem like you to be so frightened. The Madonna,\nyou see, has protected me. I know you said a fervent _Ave Maria_ for me\nwhen you saw me so swiftly carried away, and your prayer was heard....\u201d\n\nLivia pressed me in her arms without speaking, and tears began to flow\nfrom her eyes. Leaning on her arm, and refusing assistance from any one\nelse, I started to go to my chamber. But just as I was leaving the porch a\nthought occurred.\n\n\u201cAnd my poor Prima,\u201d I said. \u201cWhat has become of her?\u201d\n\nThe reply to this question made me shudder. The poor animal had sprung\nover the parapet, and fallen down the precipice into the sea!... Our\ndelightful excursions had ended in a sinister manner, and more than one\npainful feeling mingled with my joy at having escaped so great a peril. My\nheart felt heavy and oppressed, and my first act on entering my chamber\nwith Livia was to fall on my knees before a statue of the Madonna, which,\nin honor of the month of May, was brilliant with lights and flowers....\nLivia knelt beside me, but her prayer was longer than mine, and I saw that\nshe continued to weep as she prayed.\n\n\u201cCome, Livia,\u201d I said to her at last, not wishing her to suppose I thought\nher sadness could have any other cause than my accident, \u201cyour distress\nconcerning me is unreasonable. You weep as if I had been carried by my\npoor Prima to the bottom of the sea, instead of being here alive with\nyou.\u201d\n\nLivia rose, wiped her eyes, and smiled.\n\n\u201cYou are right, Gina,\u201d she said in a calm tone. \u201cI ought to profit by the\nfew moments we have together, for we shall not be left alone long. I have\nsomething to tell you, dear child\u2014something that will surprise you,\nperhaps\u2014not about you, but myself.\u201d\n\nI looked up in astonishment.\n\n\u201cLet me first put up your long, thick hair, and take off your habit, so\nsoiled and torn. Then you shall sit quietly down there, and I will tell\nyou what I have to say.\u201d\n\nI allowed her to do as she wished, and obeyed her without reply or\nquestion. She appeared thoughtful and agitated, and I saw there was\nsomething extraordinary on her mind.\n\nWhen I had, according to her injunction, taken the only arm\u2010chair there\nwas in my chamber, Livia seated herself on a stool near me.\n\n\u201cListen to me, Gina,\u201d she said. \u201cIt will not take long for what I have to\nsay. Do not interrupt me. You are really here before me,\u201d continued she,\npassing her hand over my hair in a caressing manner, and looking at me\naffectionately. \u201cGod has protected you, and I bless him a thousand times\nfor it. But say if, instead of this, the horror of seeing you disappear\nfor ever had been reserved for me an hour ago\u2014me who love you more than my\nown life\u2014do you know to what the witnesses of this catastrophe would have\nattributed it? Do you know what, perhaps, they think now?...\u201d\n\nI blushed in spite of myself, but made a negative sign, as if I did not\ncomprehend her.\n\n\u201cYou shake your head, but you know very well what Lorenzo and Mario would\nhave thought, and who knows but my father himself, and everybody else?...\nWas I not beside you this time also? Did I not bring you ill\u2010luck?... Did\nnot every one around you just now have this idea in their minds, and were\nthey not ready to exclaim, \u2018Jettatrice\u2019\u2014\u2018_Jettatrice_,\u2019 \u201d repeated she in\na stifled voice\u2014\u201ca name harder to bear than an injury, more difficult to\ndefy than calumny, it is really on her to whom it is applied, and not\nthose she approaches, this fatal influence falls!\u201d\n\n\u201cLivia!\u201d I exclaimed, turning red once more, but trying to laugh, \u201cis it\nreally you, my pious, reasonable sister, who uses such language? The folly\nto which you allude has more than once vexed me to tears, and I must\nconfess I cannot now bear that you should seriously speak to me in such a\nway.\u201d\n\nLivia smiled, as she embraced me, and I saw it pleased her to hear me\nreply in this manner. But she soon resumed more gravely:\n\n\u201cYou know very well, Ginevra, what I think of this myself. Therefore for a\nlong time I despised this folly, and endeavored to overcome the cruel\nimpression it left upon me; for,\u201d continued she, her voice trembling with\nemotion in spite of herself, \u201cit is a peculiarly hard trial, you may\nsuppose, to feel your heart full of tenderness, sympathy, and pity for\nothers, and yet seemingly to bring them danger and misfortune.... For\ninstance, to extend your arms to a child and see its mother hesitate to\nallow you to take it, or even to look at it. But let us change the\nsubject. I have never alluded to this trial, and, if I speak of it now, it\nis not to excite your sympathy, but, on the contrary, to tell you I am no\nlonger to be pitied. The hour that has just passed was horrible, it is\ntrue, but it put an end to my hesitation and doubt. I see my way clearly\nnow, and peace has returned to my soul.\u201d\n\nHer eyes, though still full of tears, wore an expression of celestial joy.\nI looked at her with astonishment, but did not try to interrupt her. She\ncontinued:\n\n\u201cGina, my darling sister, you have found your sphere, and I have found\nmine. May God grant you all the happiness, yes, all the joy, to be found\nin this world! But it will not equal mine. Pity me no longer, I repeat. It\nis to me he has given the better part.\u201d\n\nHer voice, her accent, and her looks expressed more than her words. I\nunderstood her, and was seized with strange emotion. Yes, very strange!\nand a feeling very different from what might have been supposed.\n\nI loved Livia, and my approaching separation from her filled me with so\nmuch sorrow as to dim my happiness. Now I felt that a barrier even more\ninsurmountable than distance was to come between us. It was not, however,\naffliction on my part, or pity for her, that I experienced. It was\u2014shall I\nsay it?\u2014an inexplicable feeling of respect and _envy_\u2014a vague,\nunreasonable wish to follow her; a mysterious aspiration for something\nhigher, nobler, and more perfect than wealth, position, rank, and the\n_\u00e9clat_ so soon to surround me, and more precious than the love itself\nthat had fallen to my lot!\n\nI remained a long time incapable of making my sister any reply, my eyes,\nlike hers, fastened on the far\u2010off horizon, now tinged with the softest\nevening hues.\n\nO my God! a ray of the same light fell on us both at that moment; but for\nher it was the pure, calm light of the dawn; for me it was like a flash of\nlightning which gives one glimpse of the shore, but does not diminish the\ndarkness of the coming night or the danger of the threatening storm.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nAnglican Orders.(100) I.\n\n\nCanon Estcourt\u2019s book is, in all respects, a most remarkable one, and can\nhardly fail to make an era in the controversy. It is a monument, not\nmerely of successful research, but of that intimate acquaintance with a\nvery complicated and difficult subject which nothing but the assiduous\nlabor of years can give. It is perfectly calm and judicial both in its\ntone and in its conclusions; for learning, like charity, is long\u2010\nsuffering. It does not contain, we believe all parties will admit, a\nsingle instance of overstrained or _ad captandum_ argument, whilst moving\nwith measured pace to its unassailable conclusions. So studiously gentle\nhas Canon Estcourt been throughout in his language, and so scrupulous in\nhis choice of weapons, that we can hardly wonder if some of his Catholic\nreaders are startled as though the trumpet had given an uncertain sound,\nand if Anglicans, like the executioner\u2019s victim in the story, hardly know\nat first that the fatal blow has been struck.\n\nThe scope which Canon Estcourt proposes to himself (p. 3) is to ascertain\nthe value of Anglican pretensions to orders as judged by the standard of\nCatholic theology. Anglicans have professed themselves anxious that the\nHoly See should reconsider their case. They insist that the practice of\nordaining converts from the Anglican ministry who aspire to the priesthood\nis, upon Catholic principles, inconsistent with any real knowledge of the\nhistory of Anglican ordinations.\n\nFew things, we suppose, would surprise a Catholic more than to find that\nthe authorities of the church had been pursuing a course in regard to\nAnglican orders which, though morally justified by a host of suspicious\ncircumstances, yet was not in accordance with the real facts of the case.\nStill, such a misfortune, however improbable, is not inconceivable. There\nis nothing incompatible with the principles of the Catholic faith in the\nsupposition that the Holy See may have been practically misled in a matter\nof historical evidence, where such misleading could involve no\nmisrepresentation of truth and no fatal mischief. It would have been\notherwise had a formal decision been given upon any point of doctrine, as,\nfor instance, the validity of this or that form; or, again, if the\ndecision, though merely practical in its form, yet, like the admission of\nGreek orders at Florence, had held an integral portion of church life\ndependent upon its correctness.\n\nWe think Canon Estcourt has proved that Anglican orders, regarded in the\nlight of the latest research into their documentary history, are\nthoroughly untrustworthy; and that any reconsideration of their case by\nthe authorities of the church could only result in a confirmation of the\nancient practice. He shows, 1st, that the consecration, under any form, of\nParker\u2019s consecrator, Barlow, is doubtful, and that it is exceedingly\ndoubtful if the assistance of Bishop Hodgkin at Parker\u2019s consecration\nwould make up for the inefficiency of the consecrator. 2d. That, although\ncertain deficiencies in the Anglican form for the priesthood, upon which\nvarious Catholic controversialists have laid stress, are not _in se_\ninvalidating, yet that, regard being had to the genesis and context of the\nform, and to the theology of those who framed and first used it, it cannot\nbe regarded as an implicit signification of the Catholic doctrines of the\npriesthood and the sacrifice\u2014such as a form consisting of the same words\nmight be, amongst Greeks or Abyssinians\u2014but as an implicit denial of the\nsame. Thus the Anglican form is substantially different from any form\nwhich the church has accounted as even probable, and is quite\ninappropriate for conferring the \u201c_potentiam ordinis_.\u201d\n\nBefore proceeding to examine Canon Estcourt\u2019s treatment of the two main\npoints of the question, the status of Parker\u2019s consecrator, and the value\nof the Edwardine form, it will be well to consider an objection that may\nbe brought against him from the Catholic side. It may be urged that, in\nhis anxiety to do justice to his opponents, he has allowed them to assume\na better position than they have any right to occupy. Anglicans owe the\nassumed assistance of a duly consecrated bishop at Parker\u2019s consecration,\nand the assumed use of a form as Catholic as the Edwardine, to the assumed\ncorrectness of the Lambeth _Register_. This document records that on the\n17th of December, 1559, Parker was consecrated at Lambeth, according to\nthe rite of Edward VI., by Barlow, Coverdale, Scory, and Hodgkin. Of\nthese, Coverdale and Scory had been consecrated by undoubted bishops,\nusing the Edwardine rite; Hodgkin by an undoubted bishop, using the\nCatholic rite. This _Register_ was first produced by Francis Mason in\n1616; and even Canon Estcourt, whilst granting the truth of its main\nstatements, denies that it can be accepted as \u201can authentic and\ncontemporaneous account of the facts as they occurred.\u201d On the other hand,\nthere is a time\u2010honored account which has long passed current amongst\nCatholics, and which still finds able and zealous defenders amongst their\nnumber.(101) According to this account, at a meeting held at the Nag\u2019s\nHead inn in Chepeside, Scory alone performed the ceremony upon Parker and\nsundry other ordinandi, by laying the Bible upon their head or shoulders,\nand saying, \u201cTake thou authority to preach the word of God.\u201d Here,\nwhatever may be said of the consecrator, the form is confessedly\ninsufficient.\n\nCanon Estcourt, following Lingard and Tiernay, simply rejects the Nag\u2019s\nHead account as controversially worthless, and accepts that given by the\nLambeth _Register_ as substantially correct. We think that he is amply\njustified in so doing. Of course, however, each account must stand upon\nits own basis, and the rejection of the one does not involve the admission\nof the other.\n\n\n\nThe Nag\u2019s Head Story.\n\n\nAs Canon Estcourt, in his enumeration of sources of evidence (p. 11),\nremarks, \u201cA story that has passed from person to person merely by verbal\ntradition, even if names are quoted as authority, but without written\ntestimony, cannot be accepted as evidence, nor allowed to have weight as\nan argument, even it considered probable as an historical fact.\u201d Now, it\nis notorious that the Nag\u2019s Head story depends merely upon hearsay\ntestimony, without a particle of documentary evidence. Whatever vague\nrumors may have been current, there is no proof that the story ever\nassumed a \u201cquestionable shape\u201d until F. Holiwood (Sacrobosco) published it\nin 1604. Stapleton, one of our most learned and vigorous\ncontroversialists, in a work published only five years after the date\nassigned to the Nag\u2019s Head consecration, does not mention it; and,\nmoreover, says in so many words that the Anglican bishops were consecrated\naccording to the rite of Edward VI. Neither has Saunders a word of it\namong all his well\u2010merited vituperation of the \u201cParliament bishops,\u201d in\nhis _Clavis Davidica_; nor Rischton, the continuator of his _De\nSchismate_. These writers certainly lacked neither information nor\ncourage. It is true that when once the Nag\u2019s Head story was brought out,\ncontroversialists on either side were apt to interpret the expressions of\nthe earlier Catholic writers as referring to this particular charge; but\nwhen we turn to them, we find nothing more than the general charge of\ninvalidity.(102)\n\nDr. Champneys, who wrote in 1616, relates the story upon the authority of\nF. Bluett, a prisoner in Wisbech Castle, who said he had it from Mr.\nNeale, the eye\u2010witness. This last\u2010named person, being at the time Bishop\nBonner\u2019s chaplain, was sent by him, so the story runs, to inhibit Kitchen\nof Llandaff from consecrating, and thus witnessed the whole irregular\nproceeding. All the threads of tradition\u2014with one exception, which we\nshall notice further on\u2014appear to centre in F. Bluett. He told Dr.\nChampneys; he told, so says Dr. Champneys, F. Holiwood, who printed the\nstory, in a condensed form, in 1604. Dr. Kenrick thought he had discovered\nfrom Pitts(103) another mouth\u2010piece of Neale\u2019s in Neale\u2019s friend, Mr.\nOrton; but it is not so. Pitts, in his biographical notice of Neale, after\nstating that various particulars, which he gives, are upon the authority\nof Orton, proceeds to say of Neale: \u201cThis was the very same man who was\nsent by Bonner,\u201d etc., emphatically marking off the Nag\u2019s Head story as\nnot being one of the things he had heard from Orton, though otherwise\nsufficiently notorious.\n\nOf Bluett nothing is known, except that he was for a long while prisoner\nfor the faith, which of course speaks volumes for his honesty. But a\nlengthened imprisonment is not unfavorable for delusions, especially of a\nreligious character. When we come to consider the character of the reputed\nfirst\u2010hand in the line of tradition, Mr. Thomas Neale, we find ourselves\nupon very different ground. If F. Bluett\u2019s lengthy imprisonment is\ndeservedly reckoned in his favor, what shall we say of a man who was able,\non the accession of Elizabeth, after having been Bishop Bonner\u2019s chaplain,\nto take a public professorship in Oxford, and who, on his giving this up,\nwas in a position to build himself a house opposite Hertford College, long\nknown by the name of Neale\u2019s Buildings? These facts, admitted on all\nhands, sufficiently bear out Anthony \u00e0 Wood\u2019s account of him: that his\nreligion \u201cwas _more_ Catholic than Protestant,\u201d that he dreaded being\ncalled in question \u201cfor his _seldom_ frequenting the church and receiving\nthe sacrament.\u201d \u00c0 Wood is certainly not writing with a controversial\npurpose, and this is hardly the line that a Protestant depreciation of a\nhostile witness would take. The defenders of the Nag\u2019s Head story have had\nto meet the objection that Bonner dared not, whilst a prisoner, have taken\nthe bold step ascribed to him, by an appeal to his notorious fearlessness.\nOn the other hand, every one admits that Neale was an arrant coward; \u201cof a\ntimorous nature,\u201d says \u00e0 Wood; \u201cof a nature marvellously fearful,\u201d says\nPitts. Now, if Bonner showed his courage by inhibiting, what must have\nbeen the courage of the man who ventured into the lion\u2019s den to execute\nthe inhibition, and stood doggedly by to see how far it was obeyed? Surely\nwe should have reason to be surprised if, after such an exhibition of\ncourage, Neale had been afraid to put the matter on paper, or to breathe a\nword of it except to F. Bluett.\n\nIt has been attempted to establish the Nag\u2019s Head story upon another line\nof tradition, independent, not only of Bluett, but of Neale. Mr. Ward, in\nhis _Nullity of the Protestant Clergy_, when mentioning the well\u2010known\nexamination of the Lambeth _Register_, in 1614, by certain Catholic\npriests then in confinement, at the request of Archbishop Abbot,\ncontinues: \u201cBut Mr. Plowden, yet living, does depose that he had it from\nF. Faircloth\u2019s own mouth, with whom he lived many years an intimate\nfriend, this ensuing answer of F. Faircloth\u2019s to Abbot: My lord, said he,\nmy father was a Protestant, and kept a shop in Chepeside, and assured me\nthat himself was present at Parker\u2019s and the four Protestant bishops\u2019\nconsecration at the Nag\u2019s Head in Chepeside,\u201d etc. This is mere hearsay,\nbut we confess that we see no grounds for doubting that F. Faircloth made\njust the answer attributed to him. He was doubtless a firm believer in the\nNag\u2019s Head story as related by Bluett, and his father, who had been a\nshopkeeper in Chepeside, was able to tell him that the Nag\u2019s Head Inn was\nno myth; nay, that there had been a meeting of bishops there; that he,\nFaircloth senior, had seen them. Who does not know how often and how\nhonestly ocular evidence for an unimportant item is accepted as evidence\nof the whole? If old Faircloth had been able to give any real confirmation\nof the story, surely more would have been made of him.\n\nEven if it be admitted that a consecration of some sort did take place at\nthe Nag\u2019s Head, there is an important discrepancy in the versions given by\nHoliwood and Champneys of the Neale and Bluett story, which is fatal to it\nas an accurate account of what took place. Holiwood says that Scory\n\u201ccaused John Jewell to rise up Bishop of Salisbury, and him that was\nRobert Horn before to rise up Bishop of Winchester, and so forth with all\nthe rest.\u201d If this is to be taken as an exact account of what took place,\nno specific form at all was used; and F. Fitzsimon follows to precisely\nthe same effect: \u201cScory orders them all to kneel down; then, taking the\nhand of Parker, says, \u2018Rise, Lord Bishop of Canterbury\u2019; in like manner to\nGrindal, \u2018Rise, Lord Bishop of London,\u2019 \u201d etc. But, according to Dr.\nChampneys, \u201cHaving the Bible in his hand, they all kneeling before him, he\nlaid it upon every one of their heads or shoulders, saying, \u2018Take thou\nauthority to preach the word of God sincerely\u2019 \u201d\u2014a very distinct form\nindeed, however invalid.\n\nWe reject, then, the Nag\u2019s Head story, 1st, as lacking all but hearsay\nevidence, and hearsay evidence is at the command of any cause; 2d, as\nexhibiting various notes of intrinsic improbability; 3d, as wholly\nirrelevant, in the present aspect of the controversy, to the question of\nAnglican orders. It is irrelevant, because, whatever was or was not done\nat the Nag\u2019s Head, it is quite clear that the parties concerned, the\ngovernment, and the bishops were no more satisfied with it than Catholics\nwould have been, but continued to move for Parker\u2019s consecration precisely\nas if nothing had been done. At the same time, we protest against the\nnotion that the Nag\u2019s Head story was a gratuitous lie. For, first, it is\nadmitted that the bishops did meet at this identical inn for purposes\nconvivial or otherwise, and to such meeting\u2014viz., the confirmation\ndinner\u2014both Fuller and Heylin, Strype and Collier, trace the story.(104)\nSecondly, the well\u2010known disbelief in orders prevailing amongst the\nProtestant party; their repeatedly shrinking from the Catholic challenge\nto produce their proofs; their insistence, when speaking of their\nepiscopacy, that ordination by a priest was valid, when taken together,\njustified Catholics in the growing suspicion that there was a terrible\nflaw somewhere, an irregularity which even an Elizabethan conscience\nstickled at. No one who reflects upon the genuine horror and contempt\nwhich the sight of the hen\u2010pecked bishops of England, with their woman\u2010\npope, excited throughout Christendom, can regard the Nag\u2019s Head story as\nan extravagant or gratuitous outcome of Catholic imagination.\n\nThe principal interest of the fable lies in the fact that it fairly got\nthrough the Anglican skin, and forced the production of the Lambeth\n_Register_. All the denials of their orders by controversialists like the\nJesuit Harding, all Saunders\u2019s taunts about petticoat government, affected\nthem no whit. Orthodoxy and honesty might go to the winds, but one virtue\nthey did set store by, and that was Christian gravity; and this tavern\u2010\nstory so stung them that they could keep their counsel no longer.\n\n\n\nThe Lambeth Register.\n\n\nWe shall now proceed, taking Canon Estcourt as our guide, to examine, in\nchronological order, the various documents connected with Parker\u2019s\nconsecration.\n\nOn the 19th of July, 1559, Elizabeth issued the _cong\u00e9 d\u2019elire_ to the\nChapter of Canterbury, that see having been just seven months vacant after\nthe death of Cardinal Pole. On the 9th of August the election took place.\nSeptember 9, a royal commission was issued for the confirmation and\nconsecration of Parker, to whom letters\u2010patent of the same date were\naddressed. The commission was addressed to Tonstall of Durham, Bourne of\nBath and Wells, Pole of Peterborough, and Kitchen of Llandaff, being four\nout of the five remaining Catholic bishops, Turberville of Exeter being\nthe only one omitted. But joined with the above four were the returned\nrefugees, Barlow and Scory. Of the four Catholic bishops, the first three\npositively refused to consecrate, and were shortly after deprived. Kitchen\nof Llandaff, unfaithful though he was, somehow managed to get out of it;\nperhaps on the score of his weak sight\u2014the excuse attributed to him in the\nNag\u2019s Head story.\n\nNext in order comes a paper yet remaining in the State Paper Office, which\nmay be called the programme of the consecration. Canon Estcourt gives a\nfac\u2010simile. It details the various steps to be taken for the consecration\nof Parker, and contains marginal notes in the handwritings of Cecil and\nParker. Cecil\u2019s notes are significant. Upon the direction in the text, in\naccordance with a statute of Henry VIII., that application should be made\nfor consecration to some other archbishop within the king\u2019s dominions, or,\nin default of him, to four other bishops, he remarks: \u201cThere is no archb.\nnor iiij bishopps to be had; wherefore _qu\u00e6rendum_, etc.\u201d Upon the\ndirection that King Edward\u2019s ordinal be used, he remarks: \u201cThis booke is\nnot established by parlement.\u201d\n\nThe second commission, December 6, 1559, was addressed to Kitchen, Barlow,\nScory, Coverdale; Hodgkin, the Suffragan of Bedford; Salisbury, Suffragan\nof Thetford; and Bale, who had been Bishop of Ossory. It concludes with\nthe following dispensing clause: \u201cNatheless supplying by our supreme royal\nauthority of our proper motion and assured knowledge, if there be or shall\nbe aught wanting (in those things which, according to our aforegiven\nmandate, shall be done by you, or any of you, for performing the\naforesaid) of what is requisite or necessary, whether according to the\nstatutes of this our realm or the laws of the church, the quality of the\ntimes and the pressure of circumstances demanding it.\u201d Canon Estcourt\nproduces a fac\u2010simile, \u201ctaken from the original draft extant in the Public\nRecord Office, with the autograph signatures of the civilians giving their\nopinion that the commission \u2018in the form pennyd\u2019 may be lawfully acted\non.\u201d\n\nThe Lambeth _Register_ testifies that, in accordance with the commission,\n\u201cfour of those named\u2014viz., Barlow, Scory, Coverdale, and Hodgkin\u2014did, on\nthe 9th of December, confirm Parker in Bow Church, the elect appearing by\nhis proxy, Nicholas Bullingham; and that, on the 17th, the same four\nbishops performed the ceremony of consecration in accordance, save in one\nparticular, with the ritual of Edward VI. We thus summarize Canon\nEstcourt\u2019s summary of the reasons for giving credence to the above facts\nrecorded by the _Register_: 1. The official minute with Cecil\u2019s and\nParker\u2019s notes. It was never used in the controversy until referred to by\nLingard. It can be no forgery, for the forger would not have been such a\nfool as to forge Cecil\u2019s remarks as to the illegality of the proceeding.\nThis document shows the intention of the parties concerned to proceed as\nthe _Register_ says they did proceed. 2. The letters\u2010patent issuing the\ncommission of December 6, 1559, are enrolled in Chancery on the patent\u2010\nrolls, the highest official test of genuineness. The original draft of the\ncommission is still preserved in the State Paper Office, with Cecil\u2019s\nwriting on it, and the autograph signatures of the civilians. This paper\nhas never been produced in the controversy, and no forger would have taken\nsuch useless trouble. 3. In the recently discovered diary of Henry Machyn,\na merchant tailor in London, we find the following entries: The xxiii day\nof June [1559] were elected vi new Byshopes com from beyond the sea,\nmaster Parker Bysshope of Canturbere, master Gryndalle Bysshope of London,\ndocthur Score Bysshope of Harfford, Barlow [of] Chechastur, doctur Bylle\nof Salysbere, doctor Cokes of Norwyche.\u201d\n\n... Upper part of page burnt away.\n\n\u201cParker electyd bishope of Canterbere.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe xvii day of Desember was the new byshope of [Canterbury] doctur\nParker, was mad ther at Lambeth.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe xx day of Desember afornon, was Sant Thomas evyn, my lord of\nCanturbere whent to Bow Chyrche, and ther wher v nuw byshopes mad.\u201d\n\nThe genuineness of these entries is beyond all suspicion. Had they been\nmade for a controversial purpose, they would have been used earlier in the\ncontroversy. Although the diary contains various inaccuracies\u2014_e.g._, the\ndate assigned to Parker\u2019s election, which is before the real date of his\n_cong\u00e9 d\u2019elire_, and the loose use of the term \u201cmad,\u201d which, in regard to\nthe bishops at Bow Church, should stand for confirmation, and in Parker\u2019s\ncase for consecration\u2014still, it is evidence that on the date given in the\n_Register_ something was done to Parker which could be described as \u201cbeing\nmade bishop.\u201d Bow Church was the regular place for confirmation, Lambeth\nfor consecration. The fact that the five, or rather six, bishops were\nconsecrated on S. Thomas\u2019s day, on the eve of which they had been\nconfirmed, although this last was at Lambeth, and not at Bow Church, makes\nthe confusion in their case not unnatural.\n\n4. There is a detailed memorandum of the consecration, in a contemporary\nhand, preserved among the MSS. of Foxe, who died in 1587, \u201cprobably nearly\nof the same age as the _Register_ itself, perhaps even older\u201d\u2014_i.e._,\nolder than the _Register_ in the condition in which we now possess it.\nThis document has been but recently introduced into the controversy, and\nwill be again appealed to when the actual condition of the _Register_ is\nunder consideration.\n\n5. Stapleton\u2019s assertion that \u201cthe Bishoppes were ordered, not according\nto the acte 28 (25) H. VIII., but according to an acte of Edw. VI.,\nrepealed by Queen Mary, and not revived in the first year of Q. Eliz.\u201d\n\n6. Act 8 Eliz., cap. 1, not only lays down the law for the future, but\nenacts that all acts done \u201cabout a confirmation or consecration, in virtue\nof the queen\u2019s letters\u2010patent, _were_ good and perfect; and that all\npersons consecrated bishops according to the order of 5 and 6 Edward VI.\n_were_ rightly made and consecrated.\u201d This is equivalent to an assertion\nthat such consecration had actually taken place.\n\nIn addition to these proofs, there are various incidental references to\nParker\u2019s consecration on the 17th in contemporary works and letters, which\nhave been carefully collected by Mr. Bailey in his _Defensio_, p. 19.\n\nAltogether, there is no gainsaying the evidence for the substantial\ncorrectness of the Lambeth _Register_. At the same time, Canon Estcourt\nshows, we think, conclusively that the existing Lambeth MS., as we have\nit, is not the original record of what took place, but rather a glossed\nversion thereof, in which certain important and awkward facts are, without\nbeing denied, carefully suppressed. Besides the Lambeth MS., there are two\nothers; one in the State Paper Office, the other in Corpus Christi\nCollege, Cambridge. The former, to judge by its corrections, would seem to\nhave been a rough draft, and was probably submitted to Cecil for approval\nbefore the registration. Canon Estcourt thinks that the Cambridge MS. was\na transcript from that in the State Paper Office, inasmuch as they agree\nin giving the form, \u201c_Accipe Spiritum Sanctum_,\u201d in Latin, whereas that of\nLambeth has it in English. Because of this and other variations, neither\nof these MSS. can be regarded as a transcript from that of Lambeth, or as\ntending to authenticate its present condition.\n\nCanon Estcourt prints the Foxe MS., of which we have spoken, side by side\nwith the Lambeth _Register_; and we see that, whilst in the former Barlow\nis distinctly stated to have been the consecrator, and the rite used that\nof Edward VI., the latter makes no distinction between Barlow and the\nother three, and makes no reference whatever to the ordinal of Edward VI.\n\nWhether the Foxe MS. is a commentary upon the _Register_ or upon the rough\ndraft, or, as Canon Estcourt is inclined to think, is taken from the\n_Register_ as it originally stood, it is, anyhow, the testimony of a\ncontemporary ally of the parties concerned to the existence of important\ncircumstances which the existing _Register_ carefully suppresses.\n\nIt is difficult for us\u2014as, indeed, it was for Catholics of the generation\nimmediately succeeding that of Elizabeth\u2019s accession\u2014to understand the\nnervous anxiety that possessed the Protestant party lest they should give\ntheir enemies the slightest legal pretext against them. The completeness\nof Elizabeth\u2019s triumph naturally tended to obliterate, in the minds of her\nvictims, the precarious condition of parties in the beginning of her\nreign. There is, however, ample testimony that this nervousness did exist.\nWhen Horne, the Elizabethan Bishop of Winchester, tendered Bonner, a\nprisoner in the Marshalsea, the oath of supremacy, the latter demurred, on\nthe ground that Horne was no bishop in the eye of the law, forasmuch as he\nhad been consecrated according to the ordinal of Edward VI.\u2014which had\nnever been legalized after its proscription, 1 Mary, sess. 2, c. 2\u2014and had\nalso contravened the statute 25 Henry VIII., c. 20, requiring as\nconsecrators either an archbishop and two bishops or four bishops. As it\nwas notorious that Horne was consecrated by Parker and two other bishops,\nthis last count was understood as tantamount to saying that Parker was not\nlegally archbishop, on the ground that, of the bishops concerned in that\nceremony, three had been deprived and the fourth deposed. This bold plea\nthat, to use the words of one of Cecil\u2019s correspondents, quoted by Canon\nEstcourt, p. 119, \u201cthere was never a lawful bishop in England, so\nastonished a great number of the best learned that yet they knew not what\nto answer him; and when it was determined he should have suffered, he is\nremitted to the place from whence he came, and no more said unto him.\u201d\n\nAfter this we can understand the persistency with which controversialists\nlike Jewel, who were in the secret, shirked the challenge, so frequently\naddressed them by Catholics, to show the steps of their succession.\n\nIt is highly probable that the Protestant party, in the anxiety caused by\nBonner\u2019s onslaught, so far tampered with the _Register_ as to gloss over\nthe vulnerable points. It is noteworthy that this same paper of Foxe\u2019s\ncontains a summary upon Bonner\u2019s case, showing the connection in the\nauthor\u2019s mind. It would be unreasonable to admit the mere implication of\nthe _Register_, that there was no distinction of consecrator and\nassistants, against the explicit statement of the Foxe MS.\n\nThe one point in which Parker\u2019s consecration, according both to the\nLambeth _Register_ and to the Foxe MS., deflected from the Edwardine\nordinal was this: that whilst the latter prescribes that the consecrator\nalone should hold his hands upon the elect\u2019s head during the prayer of\nconsecration, all four bishops are said to have held their hands upon\nParker\u2019s head.\n\nBut, as Canon Estcourt observes, we are not to suppose that, in acting as\nthey did, Barlow and the others had devised something new and unknown\nbefore, and which therefore requires exceptional treatment. On the\ncontrary, they were following the rubric of the Exeter Pontifical, which\nin this point agrees with the Roman rite.\n\nSupposing, then, Barlow and his companions to stand in the relation of\nconsecrator and assistants, would the incapacity, from want of\nconsecration, of the consecrator be supplied by the capacity of an\nassistant? Mr. Haddan appeals triumphantly to Mart\u00e8ne\u2019s dictum that \u201cthe\nbishops who assist are for certain not merely witnesses but co\u2010\noperators.\u201d(105) But this goes but a little way. It is admitted on all\nhands that the assistants are something more than mere witnesses, although\nthey emphatically fulfil that office. They are at least co\u2010operators by\nthe official signification of their approval and support. Those who held\nup the arms of Moses did something more than witness to the marvels\nwrought by those up\u2010lifted hands. The comparatively small number of\ntheologians who maintain the necessity of three bishops for a valid\nconsecration are the only ones who maintain that the assistants are,\nproperly speaking, consecrators. Anyhow, the action must be regarded as\ntaking place _per modum unius_, for the _opus_ is one, not manifold; but\nonce annihilate the principal consecrator, and the _ratio_ by which the\nassistants coalesce _in unum opus_ is gone. If we may be forgiven a homely\nphrase in connection with a solemn subject, Tom is doing nothing;\ntherefore those who are merely operative in virtue of their assistance of\nhim are merely helping him to do nothing. We do not know any theologian\nwho has said in so many words, or whose theory requires, that the\nassistant should be held as compensating for the inefficiency of the\nconsecrator. Canon Estcourt, with characteristic moderation, urges that it\nis at least probable that no such compensation could take place, and\ntherefore, according to Catholic principles, the safer side would have to\nbe taken, and the ceremony repeated.\n\nIt is, then, of vital importance to the Anglican cause that there should\nbe no doubt whatever about Barlow\u2019s consecration. Canon Estcourt does not\ndeny that it is probable he may have been consecrated. He does not pretend\nto do more than show that there are the gravest reasons for doubting the\nfact of his consecration. We wish to examine fairly the _momenta_ on both\nsides.\n\n\n\nBarlow\u2019s Status.\n\n\nWilliam Barlow had been professed as an Augustinian Canon of S. Osith\u2019s\nPriory, in Essex. He had been early distinguished as the _prot\u00e9g\u00e9_ and\nobsequious servant of Anne Boleyn. \u201cIn October, 1534, he was sent as\nambassador into Scotland, in conjunction with Thomas Holcroft, in order to\npersuade King James to renounce the Pope.\u201d(106) In the early part of the\nnext year, he was again in Scotland, \u201cin company with Lord William Howard,\nwho conveyed the garter to King James\u201d; and January 22, 1536, for the\nthird time went to Scotland, \u201con a joint embassy, again with Lord William\nHoward.\u201d He had been elected to the bishopric of S. Asaph on the 16th, six\ndays before. He was confirmed by proxy either on the 22d or the 23d of\nFebruary. He remained in Scotland during February and March, and seems to\nhave left in the beginning of April. On the 10th of April, Barlow was\nelected Bishop of S. David\u2019s, and on the 21st was confirmed in person in\nBow Church. \u201cThe archbishop\u2019s certificate of the confirmation is dated on\nthe same day, but makes no mention of consecration, nor is the fact\nrecited, as usual, in the grant of temporalities which was issued on the\n26th.\u201d On the 27th, a summons to Parliament is sent: \u201cReverendo in Christo\nPatri W. Menevensi Episcopo.\u201d On the 1st of May, he is installed at S.\nDavid\u2019s, and before the 13th is writing a joint letter, with Lord William\nHoward, from Edinborough, addressed to the king and Cromwell, in which he\nsigns himself Willm\u016ds Menev, the style of Bishop of S. David\u2019s. He calls\nhimself and is called Bishop of S. David\u2019s on and after April 25, but not\nbefore. On this account, several of the defenders of his consecration have\nplausibly conjectured that he was consecrated on April 25, \u201cwhich,\u201d Mr.\nHaddan tells us, \u201cwas a Sunday, and when he was certainly in London.\u201d Mr.\nHaddan himself, however, prefers to follow the order of precedence in the\nHouse of Lords and in the Upper House of Convocation, which places Barlow\n_after_ the Bishops of Chichester and Norwich, who were consecrated, the\nlatter certainly, the former probably, upon June 11, 1536. He assigns June\n11 as the date of Barlow\u2019s consecration. Lord William Howard left\nEdinburgh for England on or before May 23, and Barlow writes to Cromwell\non that same day that he \u201chas protracted his taryaunce somewhat after my\nlord\u2019s departure,\u201d \u201cfor a daye or twayne,\u201d at the request of the Queen of\nScots. From this Mr. Haddan concludes that on June 11, when a consecration\nwas known to have taken place, he was in London. Canon Estcourt, however,\nhas brought to light a warrant of Cromwell\u2019s to the Garter king\u2010at\u2010arms,\nwho had accompanied the embassy, and did not return until June 12, on\nwhich day he presented himself to Cromwell. The warrant is dated June 12.\nThe king\u2010at\u2010arms would doubtless have returned, when the embassy was at an\nend, with Lord William Howard, and therefore before Barlow. But we are not\nleft to conjecture; the warrant speaks of Barlow as \u201cthe bishopp then\nelect of S. Asaph, now elect of S. David\u2019s.\u201d Therefore, on the 12th, he\nwas still unconsecrated.\n\nBarlow\u2019s episcopal register is wanting both at S. David\u2019s, and at Bath and\nWells (to which last he was translated in 1541); and at S. Asaph\u2019s no\nregister at all exists for the period when he nominally held the see.(107)\nThe next consecration of which we have any record\u2014after the 12th of June,\nwhen we know Barlow was unconsecrated\u2014took place on July 2; but on June\n30, Barlow took his seat in the House of Lords, and from that time acts\nand is treated as though he lacked nothing of the episcopal status.\n\nWe are now in a position to collect and estimate the momenta for and\nagainst Barlow\u2019s consecration. On behalf of his consecration, it is urged,\n1st, that it \u201cmust be regarded as certain until it can be disproved\u201d;(108)\nfor no adequate motive can be assigned for the omission of a ceremony\nwhich could not be omitted without incurring severe penalties, to which\nthe archbishop who neglected to consecrate would be also subject. 2d. That\nhe was acknowledged, both by Parliament and by his brother bishops, to be\nin all respects a bishop after June 30, 1530, when he took his seat in the\nHouse of Lords; and that no syllable was breathed against his\nconsecration, either by friend or foe, from that date until Dr. Champneys\nfirst questioned it in 1614, forty\u2010eight years after his death, and eighty\nfrom the commencement of his episcopate. 3d. The fact that his\nconsecration is not recorded in the archiepiscopal register is not much to\nthe purpose, since out of thirty\u2010six consecrations, in Cranmer\u2019s time\neight exclusive of Barlow\u2019s, in his predecessor, Warham\u2019s, time, six out\nof twenty\u2010six are not entered.(109) 4th. His episcopal acts respecting the\nproperty of his sees would have been legally invalid in default of\nconsecration; but although these acts were legally disputed, no one\nsuggested the flaw of non\u2010consecration.\n\nOn the other hand, it must be remembered that the question is really not\nwhether Barlow\u2019s consecration can be \u201cdisproved,\u201d but whether, in spite of\nwhat may be legitimately urged in its behalf, there are not sufficient\ngrounds for suspecting that it never took place. 1. Neither Barlow nor\nCranmer believed in consecration. In their answers to the \u201cquestions on\nthe sacraments\u201d which were submitted to the king, they say that, for\nmaking a bishop, \u201celection or appointing thereto is sufficient.\u201d Barlow,\nin a sermon delivered by him at S. David\u2019s, November 12, 1536, is charged\nwith having said: \u201cIf the king\u2019s gr., being supreme head of the Church of\nEngland, did chuse, denominate, and elect any layman, being learned, to be\na bishop, that he so chosen, without mention being made of any orders,\nshould be as good a bishop as he is or the best in England.\u201d 2. This\ndoctrine was undoubtedly favored by the king; for in another part of this\nsame paper on the sacraments, where the bishops are attempting to take a\nrather more Catholic line, we have notes in the king\u2019s handwriting to this\neffect. The bishops having answered, \u201cMaking of bishopes hath twoo partes,\nappointment and ordering,\u201d his remark is, \u201cWhere is this distinction\nfonde?\u201d and they continuing, \u201cAppoyntament, whiche the appostels by\nnecessyte made by common election, and sometimes by their owne several\nassignment, could not then be doon by Christen princes, bicause at that\ntime they were not; and nowe at these days appertayneth to Christen\nprinces and rulers;\u201d the king\u2019s note is: \u201cNow sins you confesse that the\nappostylles did occupate the won part, whych now you confesse belongyth to\nprinces, how can you prove that orderyng is wonly committed to you\nbysshopes?\u201d\n\n3. Canon Estcourt (p. 69) shows that the other side has no right to assume\nthat Barlow and Cranmer would have incurred any penalties by the _mere\npretermission_ of consecration; for the act 25 Henry VIII., cap. 20,\ndeclares: \u201cIf any archbishop shall _refuse_ or do not confirm, invest, and\nconsecrate, he shall incur a pr\u00e6munire\u201d; and there is no special mention\nof the bishop elect among the persons liable to penalties, the clause\nrunning in general words: if \u201cany person admit or execute any censures,\netc., or other process or act to the contrary or let of due execution of\nthe act.\u201d\n\nThe notion that the leases and other episcopal acts connected with\ndiocesan property would not be legally valid in default of consecration is\na gratuitous assumption. Certainly neither Mr. Haddan nor Mr. Bailey has\nattempted to produce any evidence. What the law really takes cognizance of\nin such questions is the possession of the temporalities, an indisputable\nright to which is given by the writ of restitution.\n\nThe recognition of Parliament, upon which so much stress has been laid,\ncannot be regarded as any proof of consecration, since it naturally and\ninevitably ensued upon the issue of this same writ. This is sufficiently\nproved by the fact that Parliament summoned Barlow to take his seat, and\ngave him his full episcopal title, when, as has been shown above, he\ncertainly was not consecrated. Doubtless some of the more zealous of the\nCatholic party might have made a disturbance had they realized the\nomission; but, as Canon Estcourt observes (p. 78), Gardiner was absent as\nambassador in Paris during the whole of 1536 and 1537.\n\nAs to Cranmer\u2019s register, it is true that it was very carelessly kept; but\nof the nine unrecorded consecrations, Barlow\u2019s would be the only one for\nwhich no collateral evidence whatever can be furnished. No document\nrecites it, and every date that has been as yet conjectured for it has\nbeen exploded. Barlow\u2019s contemporary, Foxe, in his record of the Lambeth\nconsecration, whilst specifying accurately the dates of the consecration\nof the other bishops engaged, is only able to say of Barlow that he was\nconsecrated \u201ctempore Henrici VIII.\u201d\n\nCanon Estcourt points out that although there was no regular register kept\nat S. David\u2019s\u2014and we know that the breviaries and martyrologies which\ncontained records of episcopal succession were burnt in the next reign as\nsuperstitious\u2014yet that it is sufficiently odd that all the chapter books\nhave been lost, and that the _Liber Computi_, still extant, has a break in\nit for several years before 1539.\n\nBut this is not all. Canon Estcourt has found out, on examining the\noriginal document first printed by Mason as the restitution to Barlow of\nthe temporalities of S. David\u2019s \u201cout of the Rolls Chapel in Chancery,\u201d\nthat the enrolment had really been made in the office of the exchequer, as\nthough the matter were purely secular, instead of on the patent rolls in\nchancery. Then, on examining the original form\u2014which Mason reproduced\nimperfectly, so as to conceal its real character\u2014and comparing it with the\nnormal writ of restitution, it turns out to be, no writ of restitution,\nbut \u201ca grant of the custody of temporalities on account of the vacancy of\nthe see,\u201d with the extraordinary addition of \u201cto hold to him and his\nassigns during his life.\u201d These grants of the custody of the temporalities\nof a diocese which had accrued during a vacancy were common enough. The\npeculiarity of Barlow\u2019s grant is that it is a grant of custody made to do\nduty for a writ of restitution. The grant of custody was ordinarily made\nas a preliminary to the writ of restitution. No limit was assigned to it,\nbut it naturally and necessarily merged in the restitution, of which it\nwas a gracious foretaste. In the case of Cranmer, indeed, as Canon\nEstcourt points out, the grant of custody was made after he had received\nthe restitution of the temporalities in the usual form; but the grant is\ncarefully limited to the profits accruing from the commencement of the\nvacancy to the date of restitution. Barlow\u2019s grant is for life, and, by\nanticipating in its completeness all that the writ of restitution could\ngive, it would preclude the crown from making restitution in the proper\nform without a surrender of the grant of custody. Before consecration, a\nbishop cannot sue out a writ of restitution, as the act requires, but the\nking sometimes _ex gratia_ allowed it; the form, however, of such\nindulgence is well known, and is very different from that of the document\nin question.(110)\n\nThe form actually chosen \u201cmay be supposed to have saved the necessity of\nobtaining either the archbishop\u2019s mandate or the archdeacon\u2019s commission\u201d;\nin fact, to have made Barlow free of his see at once without any official\nformalities, and to \u201csecure him in the enjoyment of the temporalities of\nthe see, whether his character of bishop was perfected spiritually or\nnot.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe effect of the grant, both in Barlow\u2019s own mind and in official\nquarters, may be seen from what followed. The next day a writ of summons\nto the House of Lords was issued, and Barlow himself immediately assumed\nthe style and title of bishop.\u201d \u201cIt seems highly probable that this\nspecial and novel form was deliberately adopted as suiting the views of\nall parties, and being highly favorable to any ulterior designs which the\nking might have upon the temporalities of the church at large.\u201d\n\nIt must be remembered, too, that many of the arguments tending to show the\nunlikelihood of the omission, such as its unprecedented character, the\nwant of apparent motive, or, again, the exceedingly imperfect character of\nthe registration, tend to diminish the chances of detection. True, Barlow\nwas not a man inclined to sacrifice much to his convictions; but he had a\nhearty hatred for sacerdotalism, a strong sense of humor, and, if we judge\nfrom his sermon quoted above, the impudence, if not the courage, of his\nopinions. A competitor for a tyrant\u2019s favor must always risk something to\nkeep a front place, and on this point he knew how the king was minded.\nAltogether, he would seem to be by no means an unlikely man to have played\nthe part assigned to him.\n\nWe conceive that these momenta do amply justify grave suspicions of\nBarlow\u2019s consecration, and consequently the repetition of any rites\ndepending for their validity upon his consecration.\n\n\n\n\nGrapes And Thorns. Chapter XIII.\n\n\nBy The Author Of \u201cThe House Of Yorke.\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse had no time to linger in the house of mourning; for it was\nhis duty to inform Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger at once of his deliverance. But that it\nwas necessary to guard the unhappy mother from any chance of hearing the\nnews too abruptly, even the claims of a supreme misfortune like hers could\nnot have been allowed to take precedence of a wrong so deep as that from\nwhich he had suffered. After he was informed, silence would, of course, be\nimpossible; for when Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger knew, the whole world must know.\n\nUntil the evening before, the priest had not permitted himself even to\nguess what might be the contents of the package entrusted to his charge.\nHumanly speaking, he knew nothing. Whatever he might have learned by\nvirtue of his sacred office was hidden in the bosom of God; not even in\nhis most secret thoughts did he suffer his mind to dwell upon it. The only\naction he had taken in the matter was such as might have seemed necessary\nto one who had no more than a faint suspicion of what was about to take\nplace; he had requested F. O\u2019Donovan to be with him that day, and he had\nmade sure that Mrs. Gerald should have the only preparation possible for\nwhatever might threaten her, in a well\u2010made communion.\n\nFor her sake he had opened the package the evening before, in order to be\nable to put Honora Pembroke on her guard. He did not read the confession\nto her, nor did he read it himself, but glanced over the letter which\nAnnette had enclosed to him.\n\n\u201cA great misfortune is about to fall upon our dear friend,\u201d he said, \u201cand\nI trust to your piety and discretion to do what you can for her. Her son\nwill not return home. He has fled from the country, and she may never see\nhim again. To\u2010morrow she will know all, and the world will know all. Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger, who has been unjustly accused and condemned, will be released.\nYou must be strong and watchful. See that nothing disturbs her tonight, or\ninterferes with her making a good communion. Do not think of yourself, but\nof her. There is not much to do; perhaps there will be nothing to do, but\nsimply to stand guard and see that nothing comes near to trouble her mind,\nand to have her at home in the morning at ten o\u2019clock, and without\nvisitors.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt will kill her!\u201d said Honora when she could speak. \u201cIt will kill her!\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse sighed. \u201cI think it will; but there is no help for it.\nJustice must be done.\u201d\n\nIt had indeed killed her, and more quickly, therefore more mercifully,\nthan they had anticipated. And now F. Chevreuse, having been the messenger\nof disgrace and desolation, had to be the messenger of joy.\n\nHe wiped away resolutely the tears that started at sight of that pitiful\nvictim of maternal love. \u201cTo\u2010day, at least,\u201d he said, \u201cI must have no\nfeeling. I must do my duty faithfully, and only my duty. I cannot allow\nmyself to sympathize with the slayer and the slain in the same hour.\u201d\n\nIt was very hard for such a man not to sympathize with a true joy or\nsorrow whenever it came within his ken\u2014him to whose lips, even in moments\nof care or sadness, the frank laugh of a child would bring a smile, and to\nwhose eyes, even in moments of joy, the sorrow of a stranger would call\nthe sudden moisture. But the very excess, and, still more, the contrast,\nof these contending emotions enabled him to hold himself in a sort of\nequilibrium. Like one who walks a rough path carrying a cup filled to the\nbrim, and looks not to right nor left, lest he should lose its contents,\nso F. Chevreuse carried his full heart, and would not yield to any emotion\ntill his work was done.\n\nWhen he entered the corridor leading to Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger\u2019s cell, he was\nsomewhat surprised at meeting Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger\u2019s lawyer coming out. The\nsurprise was mutual, but they merely saluted each other, and passed on.\n\n\u201cHe doesn\u2019t give up yet,\u201d remarked the turnkey confidentially. \u201cHis lawyer\ncomes every little while, and the warden has given orders that they shall\ntalk without a guard. He, the lawyer, is the only person who can talk\nalone with a convict, except the chaplain, and, of course, you, sir!\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse had self\u2010possession enough to bow his acknowledgments. \u201cBut I\nwish to enter the cell this morning,\u201d he said; \u201cI don\u2019t want to talk\nthrough the bars; and I wish to enter alone.\u201d\n\nThe man looked embarrassed.\n\nThere was a limit even to the privileges of F. Chevreuse.\n\n\u201cYou can lock me in with him, and go away,\u201d the priest said, impatient of\ndelay. \u201cI will be responsible for you this time. I looked for the warden,\nbut he is not about the house. Let me go in, and, as soon as the warden\nreturns, say I wish to see him.\u201d\n\nThe guard yielded, though unwillingly. There was something imperative in\nthe priest\u2019s manner which he did not venture to resist. Moreover, F.\nChevreuse was so well known as a man who scrupulously upheld legitimate\nauthority, and obeyed to the letter the regulations of any establishment\nhe might enter, that it was evident there must be some urgent reason when\nhe would set a rule aside.\n\nThe bolts were drawn back, the door grated on its hinges, and the priest\nstepped into the cell. He scarcely took any notice of the prisoner, who\nsat looking at him something as a newly\u2010caged lion may look when first his\nkeeper ventures into the cage, but watched the guard while he locked the\ndoor again, and listened to the sound of his retreating steps as they\nechoed along the corridor.\n\nThe prisoner\u2019s voice, deep and harsh, demanded his attention before he\nturned to him. \u201cMay I ask, sir, the meaning of this intrusion?\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse almost started at the sound. His mind had been so occupied by\nsorrowful and pathetic images, and he had, moreover, so associated Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger with thoughts of joy and freedom, that the concentrated\nbitterness of those tones smote him discordantly. He had for the time\nforgotten that the prisoner could not even suspect that his visitor was\none who brought good tidings. His surprise was so great, therefore, at\nthis repelling question, that for a moment he looked at the speaker\nattentively without replying, and the look itself held him yet a moment\nlonger silent.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger had changed terribly. It was as though you should take some\nmarble statue of a superb heathen deity, and carve down the contours,\nsharpen the lines without changing them, carefully, with mallet and\nchisel, gnaw away the flesh from muscle and bone, and cut in the lines of\nanger, impatience, and hatred, and of an intense and corroding bitterness.\nThen, if the statue could be made hollow, and filled with a fire which\nshould glow through the thin casing till it seemed at times on the point\nof melting it quite, and bursting out in a destroying flame, you would\nhave some semblance of what this man had become after seven months of\nimprisonment.\n\nF. Chevreuse was terrified. \u201cMr. Sch\u00f6ninger!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cI have come\nto bring you liberty. Do not look so at me! Try to forgive the wrong that\nhas been done you. All shall be righted. The criminal has confessed, and\nyou are to go free as soon as the necessary steps shall be taken.\u201d\n\nNot a gleam of pleasure softened the prisoner\u2019s face. Only his brows\ndarkened over the piercing eyes he fixed on his visitor. \u201cSo Mr. Benton\nhas betrayed me!\u201d he said in a low voice that expressed more of rage and\nthreatening than any outcry could have done.\n\n\u201cI do not know anything of your lawyer, nor have any communication with\nhim,\u201d the priest replied. \u201cI do not know what you mean by betrayal. I\nrepeat, I have come to bring you good news. Do not you understand?\u201d He\nbegan to fear that Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger had lost his reason. \u201cYour innocence is\nestablished. You are known, or will at once be known, to have been greatly\nwronged.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a trick!\u201d the prisoner exclaimed passionately. \u201cBenton has either\nbetrayed me or bungled, and you think to offer me as a gift\u2014for which I am\nto be grateful, and merciful too\u2014what I have won for myself. I will not\ntake liberty from your hands!\u201d He started up, and, with a gesture of the\nhand, seemed to fling the priest\u2019s offer from him. \u201cDo you fancy, sir,\nthat I have been idle here? Does a man sleep in hell? Did you fancy that I\nwas going to wait for justice to come to me? No! I was shut into a cage;\nbut I am not the sort of animal who can be tamed and made to play tricks\nfor my keeper. I have been busy while the world forgot me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI did not forget you,\u201d hastily interposed the priest. \u201cAnd others also\nhave tried.\u201d\n\n\u201cTried!\u201d echoed the prisoner scornfully. \u201cSir, when a clay\u2010bank falls on a\npoor workman, everybody runs to the rescue. Not a minute is lost. People\nrush in haste to dig him out before he is dead. That you call humanity.\nYou do not even dignify it by the name of charity. A man would be a brute\nto do otherwise than help in such a case. But here am I, overwhelmed with\na mountain of wrong and disgrace, shut in a cage that is changing me into\na madman, and people pause to consider; they are politic, they are careful\nnot to soil their fingers or inconvenience their friends in giving me\nliberty. I am a Jew, and, therefore, out of the pale of your charity. But,\nJew though I am, priest, I take the side of the Christ you pretend to\nadore against your accursed and hypocritical Christians. If your doctrines\nwere true, still I am a better Christian than any of those who have\nbelieved me guilty.\u201d\n\nHe seemed to have quite forgotten the priest\u2019s errand, or not to have\nunderstood what it meant.\n\n\u201cWhat you say may be all true,\u201d F. Chevreuse replied calmly. \u201cBut that can\nbe thought of another time. You have something more pleasant to dwell on\nnow. Have you understood my errand here?\u201d\n\nIn spite of the deep and wearing excitement under which he labored, Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger perceived that his visitor was trying to soothe him, and was\nsomewhat alarmed at his violence. He controlled himself, therefore, and,\nas much from physical weakness as from a desire to appear self\u2010possessed,\nresumed his seat, motioning his visitor to another.\n\n\u201cFrom the time when Annette Ferrier came here and begged me to fly, I have\nknown whose place I was occupying,\u201d he said in measured tones, his gaze\nfixed steadily upon the priest\u2019s face. \u201cI sent for my lawyer the next\nmorning, and put him on the track. I had not enough proof to prevent the\nfellow going away; but his every step has been followed. I know where he\nstopped in London and in Paris; and a despatch from Rome has come saying\nhe is there. To\u2010morrow morning an answer will be sent to that telegram,\nordering his arrest.\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse was confounded. For a moment he knew not what to say.\n\n\u201cI think you will perceive that I do not need your assistance, sir,\u201d Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger continued haughtily. \u201cThe power is in my hands, and I shall use\nit as seems to me best.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so,\u201d said the priest, recovering his speech, \u201cyou are willing, from\npride and a desire for revenge, to stay here weeks, perhaps months,\nlonger, and await the result of another trial, rather than accept the\ntardy justice which that unhappy man offers you, not knowing that you\nsuspected him, and rather than permit me to be the medium of his\nreparation! I can make great allowances for the effect which your terrible\nwrongs and sufferings must necessarily have produced on your mind; but I\ndid not expect to see you show a needless acrimony. I did not think that\nyou would wish to strike down a man, even one who had injured you, in\norder to take violently what he offers you with an open hand, not knowing,\nremember, that you have the power to compel him.\u201d\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger still looked steadfastly at his companion, but with a\nchanged expression. He looked no longer suspicious, but uncomprehending.\nIndeed, his mind was so preoccupied and excited that he had only half\nlistened to the priest\u2019s communication, and the only impression he had\nreceived was that Lawrence Gerald\u2019s friends, knowing his danger, were\ntrying to temporize, and that, while securing his escape, they would\nobtain the release of his substitute by some quibble of the law. He was\nnot sufficiently recollected to perceive, what he would at any other time\nhave acknowledged, that F. Chevreuse was not the man to lend himself to\nsuch a plot in any case, still less in this.\n\n\u201cFour weeks ago,\u201d the priest resumed, \u201cLawrence Gerald and his wife gave\nme a packet which was to be opened and acted on to\u2010day. They were going\naway for a little journey, they said. I did not know where they were\ngoing, and I do not know, nor wish to know, where they are. I will not\ninterfere with the course of the law, nor shield any offender from\njustice, especially at the cost of the innocent. But since, in this case,\nI have been the sufferer by that crime, I claim the right to forgive, and\nto wish, at least, that the criminal, whoever he may be, should be left to\nthe stings of his own conscience. I would have said the same for you had I\never believed you guilty. That packet contains Lawrence Gerald\u2019s\nconfession. Only two persons have been allowed to know it before you,\nbesides the two who had to prepare them for the reception of such news.\nThe mothers had a right prior even to yours, and I needed two assistants.\nNow, whatever you may do, my duty is the same. I have to place that\nconfession in the hands of the authorities, and testify that I received it\nfrom Lawrence Gerald and his wife, and that I signed without reading it.\nThen my work will be done. I do not know much of the technicalities of the\nlaw, nor what delays may be necessary; but I presume your further\ndetention will be short and merely nominal.\u201d\n\nHe paused, but Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger made no reply: he only sat and listened, and\nlooked attentively at the speaker.\n\n\u201cIf I could rejoice at anything, I should rejoice at your release from\nthis wretched place, and from the still more wretched charge that was laid\non you,\u201d F. Chevreuse continued; \u201cbut I have witnessed too much sorrow to\nbe able to say more than God speed you.\u201d\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger did not appear to have heard the last words. He stood up\nand drew in a strong breath, and shivered all through. The thought that it\nwas to be for him no slow fight for liberty, but that liberty was at the\nthreshold, had at length entered his mind.\n\n\u201cLet me out of here!\u201d he exclaimed, almost gasping. \u201cI cannot breathe!\nOpen the door. You cannot hold me any longer. Open the door, sir!\u201d he\ncried to the warden, who stood outside, looking at him in astonishment.\n\nF. Chevreuse began a hasty explanation to the officer; but the prisoner\nseized the bars of the door in his delirious impatience, and tried to\nwring them from their places.\n\n\u201cSeven months in a cage!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cI cannot bear it another hour.\nOpen the door, I say! Why do you stand there talking?\u201d\n\n\u201cWith all my heart, Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger!\u201d the warden said. \u201cBut you must try to\nbe calm. You have borne confinement patiently for seven months; try to\nbear it a little longer till the formalities of the law shall have been\ncomplied with. We cannot dispense with them. There shall be no delay, I\nassure you, sir.\u201d\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger was too proud to need a second exhortation to control\nhimself; was, perhaps, annoyed that he should have incurred one. He\nimmediately drew back, and seated himself. \u201cAllow me to say, sir,\u201d he\nremarked coldly, \u201cthat I have not borne imprisonment patiently. I have\nmerely endured it because I was obliged to submit to force. And now will\nyou please to open the door? I will not go out till I may; but set the\ndoor wide. Do not keep me any longer under lock and key.\u201d\n\nThe warden called to his guard, who were not far away. Indeed, several of\nthem, curious to know what was going on, had gathered in the corridor,\nonly just out of sight of those in the cell.\n\n\u201cUnlock the door of Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger\u2019s cell,\u201d he said in a loud voice. \u201cHe\nis no longer a prisoner.\u201d\n\nThe bolts shot back, and the door clanged open against the stone casing.\n\n\u201cLet me be the first one to congratulate you, sir,\u201d the officer added.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger did not see the hand offered him, though he replied to the\nwords. He was looking past the officer, past the wondering faces of the\nguard who peeped in at the door, and his glance flashed along the\ncorridor, through which a ray of sunlight shone from the guard\u2010room, and\nfresh breezes blew. A slight quiver passed through his frame, and he\nseemed to be resisting an impulse to rush out of the prison.\n\nIt was only for one instant. The next, he became aware of the eyes that\ncuriously observed him, and, by the exercise of that habit of self\u2010control\nwhich had become to him a second nature, shut off from his face every\nripple of emotion.\n\n\u201cI thank you, sir!\u201d he said in answer to the warden\u2019s compliments. \u201cAnd\nperhaps you will be so good as to send those men away from the corridor,\nand to let Mr. Benton know that I want to see him here immediately.\u201d\n\nThe guard disappeared at once, one of them as messenger to Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger\u2019s lawyer; but the warden still lingered.\n\n\u201cYou will want to change your clothes,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd after that, I shall\nbe happy to place a room in my house at your disposal, where you may\nreceive your friends and transact business till the time comes for you to\ngo free.\u201d\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger glanced down with loathing on his prison uniform,\nremembering it for the first time since that day of horror and despair\nwhen he had waked from a half\u2010swoon to find himself invested with it and\nlaid on the narrow bed in his cell.\n\nPerhaps the officer, too, remembered that day when he had said that he\nwould rather resign his office than receive such a prisoner into his care,\nwhen he had exhausted arguments and persuasions to induce him to submit to\nprison rules, and how, when at last he had felt obliged to hint at the\nemployment of force, he had seen the strong man fall powerless before him.\n\n\u201cThese clothes would hardly fit Mr. Lawrence Gerald,\u201d Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger\nremarked, smiling scornfully. \u201cBut perhaps there will be no question of\nhis wearing them.\u201d\n\nThe warden uttered an exclamation. \u201cIs it Lawrence Gerald? It cannot be!\u201d\nHe had not been told the name.\n\n\u201cAnd why not, sir?\u201d demanded the Jew haughtily.\n\nThe officer was silent, disconcerted by the question, which he did not\nattempt to answer.\n\n\u201cPoor Mrs. Gerald!\u201d he said, looking at F. Chevreuse.\n\nMrs. Gerald\u2019s fondness for her son was almost a proverb in Crichton.\n\n\u201cMrs. Gerald\u2019s troubles are over,\u201d said the priest briefly.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger went to the window, and stood there looking out, his back\nto his companions. To his hidden tumult of passions, his fierce, half\u2010\nformed resolutions, his swelling pride, his burning anger and impatience,\nthis news came with as sudden a check as if he had seen the cold form of\nthe dead woman brought into the cell and laid at his feet.\n\nHe had been thinking of the world of men, of the bigoted crowd which had\ncondemned him unheard, of the judge who had pronounced sentence, and the\njury who had found him guilty\u2014of all the cold outside world which has to\nbe conquered by strength, or to be submitted to; and now rose up before\nhim another world of pitying women, whose tenderness reversed the\ndecisions pronounced by the intellects of men, or swept over them with an\nimperious charity; who were ever at the side of the sufferer, even when\nthey knew him to be the sinner, and whose silent hearts felt the rebound\nof every blow that was struck. He saw the priest\u2019s mother, a sacrifice to\nthe interests of her son; the criminal\u2019s wife, as he had seen her that\nnight in his cell, with the only half\u2010veiled splendor of her silks and\njewels mocking the pallid misery of her face; and now this last victim,\nmore pitiful than all! A sighing wind seemed to sweep around him, far\u2010\nreaching and full of mingled voices, the infinite wail of innocent and\nsuffering hearts. How gross and demoniac in comparison were the bitter,\nwarring voices of hate and pride and revenge! To his startled mental\nvision it was almost as though there appeared before him hideous and\nbrutal forms cowering away from faces full of a pure and piercing sorrow.\n\nHe perceived that he had been taking low ground, and, with a firm will,\ncaught himself back, setting his foot on the temptation that had been\nmaking him a companion for demons. Wronged he had been in a way that he\ncould not help; but he could at least prevent their lowering him in mind.\nThey should not induce him to yield to passion or to meanness.\n\nHe turned proudly toward his two companions, who still waited for him to\nspeak. \u201cIf the arrest of Lawrence Gerald is not necessary for my release,\nthen I hope he may escape,\u201d he said. \u201cIt is bad enough to be shut up in\nthis way when one has a clear conscience; but with such a conscience as he\nmust have, imprisonment could lead only to madness or suicide.\u201d\n\n\u201cOr to penitence,\u201d added F. Chevreuse with emphasis.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger did not reply; this alternative was beyond his\ncomprehension. But he glanced at the priest; and in doing so, his eyes\nwere attracted to the doorway, which was quite filled by the ample figure\nof Mrs. Ferrier.\n\n\u201cI couldn\u2019t help coming, father,\u201d she said quite humbly. \u201cAnd, besides,\nHonora Pembroke said she thought it right that I should. I sha\u2019n\u2019t stay\nlong or say much. I only want to say that when Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger goes out of\nthis place, my house and all in it are at his disposal.\u201d\n\nThe scene she had witnessed had quieted her completely, and there was even\na certain dignity in her submissive air. But when she turned to Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger, her tears burst forth again, in spite of her efforts to\nrestrain them. \u201cYou\u2019ll have to learn to forgive and forget,\u201d she said in a\nstifled voice, which she vainly strove to render calm. \u201cI\u2019m the only one\nleft to make amends to you.\u201d\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger came forward instantly, and extended his hands to her. \u201cI\nhave nothing to forgive in you,\u201d he said warmly; \u201cand I would not wish to\nforget your kindness. I thank you for your offer, but I cannot give any\nanswer to it now. If I decline, it will not be because I am ungrateful.\nAnd now let me say good\u2010by to you till a more favorable time.\u201d\n\nShe had had the discretion not to wait for this intimation, and had of\nherself made the motion to go.\n\n\u201cTry to forgive and forget,\u201d she whispered hoarsely; and, pulling her veil\nover her tear\u2010swollen face, hurried away.\n\nThis was Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger\u2019s first visitor, but not his last. Before an hour\nhad passed, the news had overspread the whole city, producing a strange\nrevulsion of feeling. There were, perhaps, those who were, at heart, sorry\nto know that the Jew was innocent. They had from the first expressed their\nbelief in his guilt, and they had been loud in their opinion that he\nshould be sentenced to the full extent of the law. This class were not\nonly disappointed in their prejudices, but humbled in their own persons.\nThey could not but feel that they had rendered themselves at once odious\nand ridiculous. But the majority of the people were disposed to render\nfull justice. All the Protestant clergymen called on him, though but few\nof them had ever spoken to him. It was right, they said, that every man of\ndignity and position in the city should pay some respect to the stranger\nwho had suffered in their midst such a cruel injustice, and the fact that\nhe was a Jew should make them all the more anxious in doing so; for the\npublic must see that they did not persecute any one for his religious\nbelief. Judges, lawyers, bankers, professors, men of wealth, who were\nnothing but men of wealth\u2014all came to express their regrets and to offer\ntheir hospitality.\n\nHe saw none of them, though he sent courteous messages to some. He was too\nmuch engaged in business that day to receive visitors. Only one received a\ndecided rebuff. \u201cAs for the judge who sentenced me to be hanged,\u201d Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger said, \u201cno compliment which he can pay will ever render his\npresence tolerable to me.\u201d\n\nAll the young ladies took their walk in the direction of the prison that\nday, and all the young gentlemen followed the young ladies; and, in\npassing, they lingered and looked, or cast sidelong glances, at the\nwindows of the warden\u2019s parlor, where it was understood Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger\nwas. People who did not like to be suspected of romance or of curiosity\nhad some excuse for going in that direction, and those who had business in\nthe prison were esteemed fortunate. Probably one\u2010half the town took\noccasion that day to look at the windows of the warden\u2019s house. But it\ncannot be said that they were wiser for having done so, for not a glimpse\ndid one of them get of Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger.\n\nBut when the soft spring evening deepened, and all the curious crowd had\nwithdrawn, and the same full moon which Lawrence Gerald and his wife had\nseen the night before, flooding with its radiance the melancholy splendors\nof Rome, was veiling with a light scarcely less brilliant the beautiful\nyoung city of Crichton, two men emerged from the warden\u2019s house, and,\ntaking a quiet by\u2010street, where the trees made a delicate shadow with\ntheir budding branches, climbed the hill to South Avenue. They walked\nleisurely, and almost in silence, only exchanging now and then a quiet\nword; but one who watched closely the taller of the two might have\nperceived that his quiet signified anything but indifference to the scene\naround him, and that he was full of a strong though controlled excitement.\nHe stepped as though curbed, and every moment glanced up at the sky or at\nthe branches over his head, and drew in deep breaths of the fresh spring\nair. A fine delight ran bubbling through his veins. All the feverish mass\nof humanity, with its petty hates and still more hateful loves, its\njealousies, its trivial fears and despicable hopes, was put aside, and he\nwas entering into a new and freshly\u2010blooming creation, where mankind, too,\nmight partake of the nobility of nature.\n\nThey passed Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s house, with its broad front and long gardens,\nlooking very stately in that softening light, and, after a few minutes,\nreached the summit of the hill, where only a single tree stood guard, and\nall about them the world, of which they seemed to be the centre, lay\nspread in tranquil beauty, its hills and dales, its towns and forests,\nbound with a ring of mountains that showed with a soft richness against\nthe sky. The city lay white beneath them, and the Saranac wound like a\nsilver ribbon across the view. Where the hills dipped, one sparkling\npoint, audible with dashing foam, told where the Cocheco danced day and\nnight with white and blithesome feet.\n\nF. Chevreuse, standing one silent moment to contemplate the scene, was\nstartled to see his companion break from his side, and, running to the\ntree at a little distance, catch one of its branches, and swing himself\ninto the air by it. The priest\u2019s first glance was one of dismay; his\nsecond, a smiling one. He understood the abounding joy of which the act\nwas an outbreak, and was pleased with the boyishness of it, and that the\nimpulse should have been yielded to in his presence. Sad as he was, he\ncould not help feeling glad to see another possessed by a full and\nunthinking happiness.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger laughed, as he returned to his companion.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t be afraid,\u201d he said; \u201cI am not a lunatic. I am free! Do you know\nwhat a delight it is to be in a place where you can swing your arms\nwithout hitting anything? I could run here half an hour, and neither turn\nnor be obliged to stop; and I can stand upright without feeling as though\nmy head were going to strike.\u201d While speaking, he was continually making\nslight motions, as though trying if he had the free use of his limbs; and\nwhen he stopped, he lifted his head to its full height, and drew in a long\nbreath.\n\n\u201cHow delicious the air is!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cHow fresh and pure! It comes\nhere from the forests and the mountains and the sea. There is no smell of\nlime or close dampness or human breaths in it. Pah! F. Chevreuse, when you\npreach again, and tell your people what they have to be thankful for, in\nspite of sorrow and poverty, remind them of the air they breathe, the sun\nthat shines on them, the sky above their heads, and the power to move\nabout as they will. If this sky were gray, and pouring down rain, I should\nstill think it beautiful; for it is the sky, and not a stone.\u201d\n\nHe walked away again to a little distance.\n\n\u201cInstead of being obliged to give a reason for being happy, I think we\nshould be obliged to account for being unhappy,\u201d he said, coming back.\n\u201cHow many sources of delight we have which we overlook because we are\naccustomed to them! Mere motion, walking, running, any natural and\nunconstrained motion, is a pleasure; breathing is a pleasure; the eyes\nhave a thousand delights. It is a source of pleasure to exercise one\u2019s\nstrength and overcome obstacles. I never went up a hill in the country or\nclimbed any height but I felt like singing. Swimming, skating, riding,\ndriving\u2014how exhilarating they are! And for all these delights you do not\nneed the companionship of man. Yourself and nature\u2014these are enough.\u201d\n\n\u201cI did not know you were so fond of nature,\u201d F. Chevreuse said, smiling.\n\n\u201cI do not think I ever mentioned it to any one before,\u201d remarked the other\ncarelessly.\n\nThe priest was struck by this reply, and looked with astonishment on the\nman who for thirty years had loved nature, yet never said a word in praise\nof it. Could it be because of a reserved and unsocial disposition? Or was\nit that he had been too much isolated? The priest was almost afraid to\nspeak, lest he should check a confidence at once so charming and so manly.\nHe quite understood that it was the unusual and deep agitation of Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger\u2019s mind which had brought this feeling to light, as the sea, in\nits agitation, may toss up a pearl.\n\nHe said nothing, therefore, but waited for his companion to speak again,\nnot observing him, but looking up at the illuminated dome above.\n\n\u201cWhen one is free, and has the use of one\u2019s limbs, and is happy, then one\nbelieves in a good God, who is a father to his creatures,\u201d Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger\nresumed in a voice as gentle as he might have used when a child at his\nmother\u2019s knee. He had been holding his hat in his hand; but in speaking,\nhe covered his head. At the same instant, F. Chevreuse uncovered his, and\nthe Jew and the Christian, each after his manner, acknowledged the\npresence of God in that thought, which was almost like a visible presence.\n\n\u201cTo me,\u201d said the priest, \u201cthe acknowledgment comes more surely when I am\nin trouble. It seems to me that if I were in chains and torments, he would\nbe nearer to me than ever before.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is because you have been taught to believe in a suffering God,\u201d was\nthe calm reply. \u201cI have been taught to see in God a being infinitely\nglorious and strong, a mighty, shoreless ocean of deep joy. That he could\nsuffer pain, that his puny creatures could torment and kill him, has\nalways been to me a thought at once absurd and blasphemous. It is probably\nfor this reason that you see him best in sorrow, and I in joy.\u201d\n\nHe stood a little while thinking, then added quietly, as if speaking to\nhimself: \u201cYet it is a sweet and comforting thought.\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse blushed red with a sudden gladness, but said nothing. It was\nno time for controversy; and, besides, he had the wisdom to leave souls to\nGod sometimes. That people are to be converted by a constant pelting of\nargument and attack he did not believe. His experience had been that\nconverts of any great worth were not made in that way, and that the soul\nthat studied out its own way helped by God, and teased as little as\npossible by man, was by far the most steadfast in the faith.\n\nThey went slowly down the hill together in the direction of the priest\u2019s\nhouse, and stopped a moment to lean on Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s gate in passing.\nThat lady had just entered her house, having been all the day and evening\nat Mrs. Gerald\u2019s. She would gladly have stayed all night had Honora\nallowed it.\n\nThe two men had, unseen or unrecognized, been near enough to hear the long\nsigh the good creature gave as she mounted the steps to her door, and the\nexclamation she made to the servant who followed her: \u201cLittle did I think\nlast night at this time what horrible things were going to happen within\ntwenty\u2010four hours.\u201d Some persons have that way of dating backward from\nstartling events, and renewing thus the vividness of their sensations.\n\nShe did not know what kind thoughts were following her in at the door, or\nshe might have been comforted.\n\nThey went on, and soon came in sight of what had been Mrs. Gerald\u2019s home.\nThe blinds were all closed, and not a ray of light was visible. Under the\nvines and large, over\u2010hanging trees the cottage appeared to shrink and\nhide itself.\n\n\u201cI would like to go in for one minute, if you do not object to waiting,\u201d\nF. Chevreuse said. \u201cThat poor girl means to sit up all night, and she is\nlikely to have no one else in the room. It is a gloomy watch, and she may\nfeel better, if I speak a word to her.\u201d\n\n\u201cPray do not think of me!\u201d Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger exclaimed.\n\nF. Chevreuse stepped into the yard, and, as he held the gate open for his\ncompanion, Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger followed, though with some hesitation. There\nwere many reasons why he would not be willing to enter that house. Indeed,\nthe priest well knew that it was no time to take him there openly; but for\nsome reason he wished him to come near enough, at least, to feel the\nsorrow and desolation which had fallen upon it. Perhaps he wished to\nsoften Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger still more toward the unhappy man the burden of\nwhose guilt he had borne; perhaps he wanted to remind him how entirely\nthat burden had been removed from him by showing how cruelly it had fallen\nelsewhere.\n\nThe priest tried the door before ringing, and, finding it not locked,\nstepped quietly into the entry, which was lighted through the open doors\nof rooms at either side. In one of these rooms sat three or four persons.\nHe said a few words to them, and closed the door of their room before\ngoing to the other.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger held back a moment, but could not resist longer the\ntemptation to approach. The outer door was still open, and a soft light\nshone over the threshold of it from the parlor. Drawn step by step, he\nwent to the threshold, and stood just where the light and shadow met, and\nthe door framed a picture for him. The room seemed to be nearly all white\nand flowers. White draperies covered the windows, the pictures, and the\ncabinets and tables, the coldness changed to a tender purity by flowers\nand green leaves, arranged, not profusely, but with good taste. On what\nappeared to be a sofa covered with black lay a motionless, white\u2010draped\nform lying easily, as one might sleep; but there needed not the covered\nface to show that it was the sleep of death. Candles burned at the head of\nthe sofa, and a _prie\u2010dieu_ stood before it. All this Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger took\nin at a glance; but his eyes rested on what was to him the principal\nobject in the room\u2014Honora Pembroke, sitting near the head of the sofa,\nwith the light of the candles shining over her. She looked up, but did not\nspeak, as F. Chevreuse came in and knelt at the _prie\u2010dieu_. Her eyes\ndropped again immediately to her folded hands, and she sat there\nmotionless, an image of calm and silent grief. Her face was pale and\nutterly sad and languid with long weeping, her hands lay wearily in her\nlap, and her plain black dress, and the hair all drawn back together and\nfastened with a comb, showed how distant from her mind was the thought of\npersonal adornment. Yet never had she looked more lovely or shown how\nlittle her beauty depended on ornament.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger, looking at her attentively, perceived that her face was\nthinner than when he had seen it last; and though the sight gave him a\ncertain pain, it gave him, too, a certain pleasure. He would have thought\nher cruel had she been quite prosperous and happy while he was in torment.\n\nF. Chevreuse rose from his knees, and Miss Pembroke looked up and waited\nfor him to speak.\n\n\u201cHad you not better go to bed, and leave the others to watch?\u201d he asked.\n\u201cYou will be exhausted.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not want to leave her, father,\u201d she replied. \u201cIf she had had a long\nillness, it would have been different; but it is all so short, so sudden!\u201d\nShe stopped a moment, for her voice begun to tremble a little; but\nresumed: \u201cShe has no one left but me, and I want to stay by her till the\nlast.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will not be lonely?\u201d he asked, dropping further objections.\n\n\u201cOh! no. The others will sit all night in there, with the doors open\nbetween. At daybreak Mrs. Ferrier is coming down, and then I shall go to\nrest. I am glad you came in.\u201d\n\n\u201cI was passing by with Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger,\u201d he said, \u201cand I asked him to wait\nfor me a moment.\u201d\n\nHer eyes had dropped again while she spoke, seeming too heavy to be\nlifted; but as the priest said this, she glanced into his face; then,\nbecoming aware that the street\u2010door was open, looked toward it.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger stood there motionless.\n\nA change passed over her face, her sadness becoming distress. She rose\nfrom her seat and went to him, her hands clasped.\n\n\u201cMr. Sch\u00f6ninger,\u201d she said, \u201cshe was the last person who would have\nwronged you or any one.\u201d\n\nThen, seeing that he had not come as an accuser, she held out her hands to\nhim.\n\nThe night before he had been like one buried alive, and his hand had been\nagainst all the world; to\u2010night life had crowded back upon him with its\nhonors, its friendships, its pathos, and this last scene of sorrow and\ntenderness.\n\nHe bent, and kissed the hands she gave him, but did not utter a word, and\nthey parted instantly. Honora returned to the _prie\u2010dieu_, and, kneeling\nthere, hid her face and began to weep again, and Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger went out\nto the gate without giving a backward glance.\n\nF. Chevreuse joined him immediately.\n\n\u201cAll these wretched doings have left Miss Pembroke very lonely,\u201d he said.\n\u201cShe has really no one left who is near to her, though she has a host of\nfriends. But what, after all, is a host of friends, as the world calls\nthem, worth? When a thunderbolt falls on you, people always gather round,\nand a great deal of kind feeling is struck out; but, perhaps, you have\nneeded the kindness a great deal more in the long, dry days when there was\nno thunder. It is the constant, daily, intimate friendship that gives\nhappiness. But there! it is of no use to abuse the world, especially when\none forms a part of it, and is thus abusing one\u2019s self. All of us feel our\nhearts warm towards people who are in great affliction, when we do not\nthink of them in their ordinary trials. It is only God who is constant to\nall needs, who knows all. Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger, you are welcome.\u201d\n\nThey had reached the house, and the priest turned on the threshold to\noffer his hand to the man whom he had so long courted in vain, and who had\nso many times refused his friendship. He knew that he had conquered when\nhis hospitality was accepted.\n\nHe had conquered, in so much as he had won the Jew\u2019s friendship and\nconfidence; for, having renounced his distrust, Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger was, in an\nundemonstrative way, generously confiding. Hard to win by one whose\ncircumstances were so alien to his own, when won, there was no reserve.\n\nF. Chevreuse\u2019s sitting\u2010room was never a very pleasant one, except for his\npresence. It had too many doors, was too shut in from outside, and had\nalso the uncomfortable air of being the first of a _suite_. One never\nfeels at rest in the first room of a _suite_. He felt the unpleasantness\nof the place, without in the least knowing the cause of it, and always\ntook his special visitors into his mother\u2019s room.\n\nMother Chevreuse had, woman\u2010like, known precisely what her son\u2019s apartment\nlacked, and had given it a pleasant look by employing those little devices\nwhich can introduce a fragment of beauty into the most desolate place; but\nher mantle had not fallen on Jane, the housekeeper, and thus it chanced\nthat the priest had, without knowing it, lost more than his mother.\n\nHer sitting\u2010room was cheerfully lighted when the two entered it, and the\ntable, prepared for supper, awaited them. It was the Thursday before Palm\nSunday, and F. Chevreuse had eaten nothing since taking a cup of coffee\nand a crust of bread in the morning; and now, the work and excitement of\nthe day over, and nothing worse than he had anticipated having happened,\nhe felt like resting and refreshing himself. If Mrs. Gerald had been alive\nand mourning, he would have been tormented by the thought of her; but she\nwas safe in the care of God, and he left her there in perfect trust.\n\nAndrew, the man\u2010servant, sacristan, and factotum of the establishment, was\nlurking somewhere about when the priest entered, and came forward to make\na crabbed salutation. If he ever felt in an amiable mood or was satisfied\nwith anything, this man took good care that no one should know it; and not\nall the cheerfulness, patience, and amiability of F. Chevreuse could for a\nmoment chase away the cloud that brooded over his face, or make him\nacknowledge that there was anything but tribulation in his life. The\npriest bore more patiently the constant, petty trial of such a presence\nabout him because he believed that sorrow for the death of Mother\nChevreuse had changed the old man from bad to worse, when the truth was\nthat the lady had skilfully hidden much of their servant\u2019s crabbedness, or\nhad so displayed the comical phase of it that it had ceased to be an\nannoyance, and was often amusing.\n\n\u201cTell Jane to give us our supper right away, Andrew,\u201d the priest said.\n\u201cAnd bring up a bottle of wine with it.\u201d\n\n\u201cJane is gone to bed, sir,\u201d Andrew announced, and stood stubbornly to be\nquestioned, his whole air saying plainly that all had not been told.\n\n\u201cGone to bed!\u201d echoed F. Chevreuse. \u201cWhat is the matter with her?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe says she is sick.\u201d The man suffered an acrid smile to show in the\ncorners of his mouth.\n\n\u201cJane sick!\u201d said the priest, much concerned. \u201cIs there any one with her?\nHas anything been done for her?\u201d\n\nIn speaking, he took a step toward the door.\n\n\u201cOh! don\u2019t you trouble yourself, sir,\u201d interposed Andrew quickly, finding\nthat he must deny himself the pleasure of a long cross\u2010examination. \u201cShe\nsays she doesn\u2019t want anything or anybody. She\u2019ll get well when she\u2019s\nready. She\u2019s got the supper, and I can manage to bring it up. All the\ndoctors and all the nurses in the world won\u2019t make her well till she\u2019s a\nmind to be.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well!\u201d said F. Chevreuse, rather mortified at this exposition of\nhis domestic trials. \u201cBring up the supper.\u201d\n\nJane had, in fact, one of those convenient illnesses sometimes indulged in\nby some women, and now and then by men, when they are seized by a fit of\nungovernable ill\u2010humor which they dare not show in its true guise, or when\nthey desire to appear very much abused, or to escape blame for some ill\u2010\ndoing. F. Chevreuse had not been home since early morning, and dinner had\nbeen prepared, had waited, and been put away\u2014no small grievance to even a\ngood\u2010natured housekeeper. Secondly, about noon, when all the rest of the\ncity knew it, Andrew above all, the great news of the day had burst upon\nJane. It was too much; and when, toward evening, Andrew had come home with\nan order that supper should be prepared for two that night, and a little\nextra preparation made, and that, moreover, the priest\u2019s visitor would\nstay all night, the housekeeper\u2019s cup ran over. News had started from the\npriest\u2019s house, and made the circuit of the city, electrifying everybody,\nand she had been the last to hear it, and had heard it at last from\nAndrew! She would not have dared to hint such a thing; but she thought\nthat F. Chevreuse should have told her before leaving the house, even if\nhe had commanded her silence. It would have saved her the mortification of\nbeing taken entirely by surprise and displaying such utter ignorance.\n\nWhile she mused, the fire burned. She would henceforth bear herself very\nstiffly toward F. Chevreuse. Since he thought that she was not to be\ntrusted, that she was nothing but a servant, she would act like a servant.\nAll those things which she had done for his comfort without being asked\nshe would now wait to be asked to do. He should see the difference between\na housekeeper, who should, according to her opinion, be in some sort a\nfriend, and a mere hired servant. She would be very dignified, and\nimmensely respectful and reverential; would be astonished if he should ask\nif anything was the matter; would do in great and anxious haste whatever\nhe should command, and no more than he commanded; and she would go to F.\nO\u2019Donovan for confession. In short, this woman, who knew that all the\ncomfort of the priest\u2019s home depended on her, marked out for herself a\nline of conduct which would have made that home a place of penance to him,\nand herself a minister of torment; while at the same time she could not\nonly hold herself guiltless of fault, but even assume an air of unwonted\nsanctity.\n\nTo be frankly and honestly disagreeable or wicked, one does not need to\nstudy; but a pious hatefulness requires careful preparation.\n\nHer plan of future conduct arranged, Jane perceived that a notable pivot\nwas needed where it should turn from her past behavior; and what so\nsuitable as a short illness? Besides, she did not feel equal to assuming\nher new _r\u00f4le_ as yet. The temptation was too strong to give way to anger.\nShe bewailed Mrs. Gerald, therefore, with many tears; Mrs. Gerald\u2019s death,\nwhich might have happened from any other cause, being the only point in\nthe whole story which she would recognize or hear anything about. Weeping\nbrought on a headache, and the headache increased. At five o\u2019clock in the\nafternoon Jane bound her head up in a wet linen band, and began to feel\nunable to stand or walk. Duty alone compelled her to keep about. What\nwould become of the house, if she were to give up? What could a poor woman\ndo who had no home or friends of her own, and was obliged to take care of\na priest\u2019s house? She must work and watch early and late, sick or well.\nNobody but herself knew what a trial it was. And here the victim began to\nweep over her own misfortunes.\n\nPresently, at six o\u2019clock, Jane began to feel a pain in her back; but\nnothing would induce her to rest. F. Chevreuse had sent word that he would\nhave some one to sup and stay all night, and she must get the bed\u2010room\nready, and cook something extra. She didn\u2019t see how she could do it, but\nit must be done.\n\nWhen her gossips had gone home, after vainly offering their assistance,\nAndrew came in and found the housekeeper holding on to her head with one\nhand, while with the other she did work which there was not the least need\nof doing. He had been watching with great interest the progress of her\nmalady, and perceived that it was near the crisis.\n\nThe supper\u2010hour had been casually mentioned in the priest\u2019s message as\nabout seven o\u2019clock. At half\u2010past six Jane could not suppress an\noccasional moan of pain; and at ten minutes before seven she consigned the\nsupper, which was all prepared, to the care of Andrew, and staggered into\nher own room, holding on by chairs and tables as she went. She would not,\nperhaps, have indulged in such violent symptoms had she seen the smiles\nwith which her fellow\u2010servant beheld her tottering progress across the\nroom. Fully persuaded that she had vanquished his scepticism, and half\nconvinced herself that she was suffering severely, Jane set herself to\nlisten for the priest\u2019s coming.\n\nSeven o\u2019clock came, but not F. Chevreuse; half\u2010past seven, and still he\nhad not appeared.\n\nJane stole out into the kitchen, scarcely able to stand, and renewed the\nspoiling dishes. She did not wish to leave anything to be complained of,\nmeaning to be herself the only one ill\u2010used. At length she heard a foot on\nthe door\u2010step, and, making haste to shut herself into her room, with only\na very little opening left, Jane became a prey to grief and pain.\n\nAll these movements Andrew had listened to with great edification; but\nwhat Andrew did not know was that the invalid, skurrying out to stand at\nthe foot of the stairs when she heard talking in the room above, had had\nthe pleasure of listening to the whole conversation regarding her state of\nhealth.\n\nTen minutes after, F. Chevreuse, without much surprise, it must be owned,\nsaw his housekeeper coming feebly into the room where he sat at table, her\nface red and swollen with laborious weeping, and expressing chief among\nits varied emotions and sentiments a saint\u2010like and anxious desire and\ndetermination to sacrifice herself to the utmost rather than omit the\nsmallest possible duty.\n\nIt was an unwelcome vision. There was a point beyond which even he did not\nwant to have his sympathies drained. He felt that he was human, and would\nlike to rest both mind and body.\n\n\u201cI am afraid, F. Chevreuse,\u201d she began, in a very sick voice, leaning\nagainst the side of the door\u2014\u201cI am afraid that your toast is too dry. I\nmade it fresh three times....\u201d\n\n\u201cNever mind, Jane,\u201d he interrupted, rather impatiently. \u201cIt does very\nwell. You need not trouble yourself.\u201d\n\nJane came into the room a few tottering steps, and rested on the back of a\nchair.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know how Andrew brought things up,\u201d she said, very short of\nbreath, but not so much so but she could fire this little shot. \u201cI suppose\nthey are all at sixes and sevens. But I wasn\u2019t able to do any....\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you are not well, you had better go to bed,\u201d said the priest quite\nsharply. \u201cAndrew will do all I want done.\u201d\n\nTaken unawares by this unusual severity, Jane lost her discretion. \u201cIt is\nmy place to look that things are properly done in the house, and I shall\ndo it,\u201d she said, half defiant, half hysterical, and took a step nearer to\nthe table.\n\nAs she did so, her eyes fell on the pale and haggard face of their guest.\nAt that sight she paused, transfixed with a genuine astonishment, for she\nhad expected to see F. O\u2019Donovan; and, after one wild glance, as if she\nhad seen a ghost, uttered a cry and covered her face with her hands.\n\n\u201cJane!\u201d exclaimed the priest in a voice that told her he was not to be\ntried much further. \u201cHave you lost your senses?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy heart is broken for Mrs. Gerald!\u201d she cried, weeping loudly. \u201cI\nhaven\u2019t been able to stand hardly since I heard about her. Oh! such a\nwicked world as this is. I shall be glad when the Lord takes me out of it.\nTo think that I shall never see her again, that....\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse laid down his knife and fork, which he had made a pretence of\nusing. \u201cYou and Mrs. Gerald were by no means such intimate friends that\nher death should plunge you in this great affliction,\u201d he said. \u201cHer\nnearest friends bear their sorrow with fortitude. Your agitation is\ntherefore quite uncalled for. I have no further need of you to\u2010night. If\nyou want anything done for you, Andrew will go for some of your friends.\u201d\n\nThere was no possibility of resisting this intimation, and the housekeeper\nretired speechless with rage and mortification.\n\n\u201cMr. Sch\u00f6ninger,\u201d remarked the priest gravely, when they were alone,\n\u201cwomen are sometimes very troublesome.\u201d\n\n\u201cF. Chevreuse,\u201d returned his visitor with equal gravity, \u201cmen are\nsometimes very troublesome.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is very true,\u201d the priest made haste to admit. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean to say\nanything against women.\u201d\n\nAnd yet, at the woman\u2019s first glance and cry of horror and aversion, Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger\u2019s face had darkened. \u201cWas he always to have these vulgar\nanimosities intruded on him?\u201d he asked himself.\n\nIt was one of those annoyances which a proud and fastidious person would\nlike to have the power to banish for ever with a gesture of the hand or a\nword.\n\nThe two friends talked long together that night, and Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger told\nthe priest quite freely all his plans.\n\n\u201cI shall stay here and take up my life where I left it off, except that I\nmust now give up all contest for that disputed inheritance,\u201d he said. \u201cAll\nI had has been thrown away in the struggle. Whether there would, in any\ncase, have been a possible success for me I do not know. It is now too\nlate. This infernal persecution\u2014I shall never call it anything else,\nsir\u2014has destroyed my last chance, and I have only to dismiss the subject\nfrom my mind as far as possible. I received to\u2010day a letter signed by all\nmy former pupils, begging me to resume my instruction of them. They\nexpressed themselves very well, and I shall consent. The Unitarian\nminister has invited me to play the organ in their church, but I have not\ndecided on that yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cI would like to have you play in my church,\u201d the priest said. \u201cOur\norganist is dead, and the singing is getting to be miserable. Our music\nwould, I am sure, be more pleasing to you; but, if doctrines make any\ndifference, you would find yourself more at home with the Unitarians. I\ndon\u2019t see any difference between them and the reformed Jews.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoctrines do not make any difference, especially as I am not obliged to\nlisten to them,\u201d Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger replied with a dignity that verged on\ncoldness. \u201cIn music I do not find any doctrines; and it is not necessary\nto believe in order to give the words their proper expression. Or rather,\nI might say that the artist has a poetical faith, a faith of the\nimagination, in all things grand, noble, or beautiful, and can utter with\nfervor, in his art, sentiments which have no place in his daily life; or,\nif they have a place, it is not such as would be assigned to them by the\ntheologian. In his mind a pagan goddess and a Christian priest may have\nniches side by side, and it would be hard to say which he preferred. Your\nRaphael painted with equal delight and success a Madonna and a Galatea.\nYour Mozart wrote Masses and operas, and vastly preferred to write operas.\nHe says that he wrote church music when he could do nothing else.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo much the worse for them!\u201d said F. Chevreuse rather hotly. \u201cRaphael\nwould have painted better Madonnas\u2014Madonnas which would have answered\ntheir true purpose of inspiring holy thoughts\u2014if he had devoted his gifts\nentirely to God; and Mozart would have written better Masses, if he had\ndone the same. When you see a thorough Christian artist, it will be one\nwho will never lower himself to a subject contrary to, or disconnected\nwith, religion. The others have been false, and consequently have had only\nglimpses where they might have had visions. Some of them were great, but\nthey might have been immeasurably greater. No, I repeat, do not imagine\nthat you are going to feel or play our music as you might if you were a\ngood Catholic. But excuse me!\u201d he said, recalling himself. \u201cI have given\nyou rather more of a lecture than I meant to. I still want you to take our\nmusic in hand, if you will.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will with pleasure, if you will be content with my interpretation of\nit,\u201d Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger said with a smile.\n\nHe was not in the least displeased with the priest\u2019s lecture, and, on the\ncontrary, decidedly liked it. He was stirred by anything which consecrated\nart as an embodiment of the divine rather than a mere expression of the\nhuman.\n\nSurprise is but a short\u2010lived emotion; and when Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger was left\nalone that night, with the first opportunity in many months of thinking in\nan unobserved solitude, he wondered more at his own calmness than at\nanything which had happened to him. The hideous suffering from which he\nhad but just escaped looked far away, and so alien that he could\ncontemplate it almost with a cold inquisitiveness, as something in which\nhe had no part. It was scarcely more to him than the delirious dreams of a\nfever which had passed away. Indignation and a desire to revenge himself\nmight rise again, would rise again; but for the present they slept. The\nfirst joy of freedom, too, was over. Nothing remained but a feeling of\nquiet and security. Doubtless he had, without knowing it, been soothed by\nthe many kind and regretful words that had been addressed to him that day,\nand felt less disposed to dwell on his own wrongs when he knew that so\nmany others were thinking and speaking of them.\n\nAll round the room assigned to him hung the pictures that had belonged to\nMother Chevreuse\u2014an old\u2010fashioned portrait of her husband in the uniform\nof a French officer, a S. Ignatius of Loyola, a S. Antony preaching to the\nfishes, a print, on a gold ground, of the miraculous Lady of Perpetual\nSuccor, and a Santa Prassede sleeping on her slab of granite.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger held his candle up to examine each of these, all but the\nportrait familiar to him in their originals; and as he looked, the places\nwhere he had first seen them, the stately palaces and the quiet churches,\nenclosed his imagination within their walls. He saw again the lines of\nsombre columns leading up to the glowing mosaics of the tribune, where the\nvision of S. John hung petrified in air; the dim lamp in the mysterious\nchapel of the _Colonna Santa_ shone out again inside its grating, and the\nwalls glittered dimly back. He saw the thickets of camellias mantled with\nbloom under an April sky, a little forest of white at the right hand, and\na forest of rose\u2010red at the left, and ever the fountains sparkling\nthrough.\n\nHow strange it was! He set down his candle, almost impatiently, as if a\nbeautiful vision were being melted in the light of it, and blew it out.\nHow strange it was! When he was in Rome, he had hated it while he admired\nit; but now, as the thought of it came up, his heart yearned out towards\nit, and grew tender and full with longing for it. How strange that his\ndearest affections should cluster where his deepest hates had pierced, and\nthat, whenever an accusing thought arose, an excusing one immediately\nanswered it. The city of the Ghetto was becoming to him also the city of\nthe silvery\u2010haired old man who had opened its gates. To remember him was\nlike remembering a pure white star that had shone out one still evening\nlong ago.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger put aside the curtain that hardly barred the full moonlight\nfrom the room, and leaned out into the night. Not many streets distant\nHonora Pembroke sat wakeful and mourning, alone with her dead. By what\nfatality was it that the silent woman lying there, and the weeping one\nbeside her, should have the power to stand, with their softness and their\npallor, between him and his remembrance of that gloomy mansion of hate and\ncrime, the shadow of whose portal had but just slipped from him? The cold\nand trembling hands he had kissed that night had quenched for a time all\nanger in his heart.\n\nHe sighed, thinking of that sad household, and his gaze turned tenderly\nand steadily in its direction. He would have liked to call down a blessing\non the head he loved had it not been so much nearer the source of all\nblessing than he was. She was right, no matter what she believed. All she\nheld good was good, at least as far as she was concerned, and no blame of\nfalse doctrine could be imputed to her.\n\nA ray of light stronger than that of the moon shining across his eyes\nattracted his attention. It came from F. Chevreuse\u2019s sitting\u2010room, the one\nwindow of which was at right angles with the window where he leaned. A\nsmall, displaced fold of the curtain showed him the priest on his knees\nthere before a crucifix, his hands clasped, his black\u2010robed form as\nmotionless as if it had been carved out of ebony. Here, too! Could he have\nno other friend than a Christian priest for his hand and heart to cling\nto?\n\nYet all was sweet and peaceful, and everything conspired to soothe him.\nThe air touched him with a breath too soft to be called a breeze, the city\nwas still about him, and only a foamy murmur told where the sleepless\nriver flowed.\n\nTriumph, joy, and sweetness he had felt, and at last came gratitude to God\nand forgiveness of man. One of his last thoughts that night was of pity\nfor Lawrence Gerald.\n\nIn that pity he was not alone; for nearly the whole of Crichton shared it.\nThey had known the young man from his childhood, had blamed and petted\nhim, had put every temptation in his way, and been ready to defend him\nwhen he yielded. In spite of his haughtiness and assumption, there was not\na single person in the city, perhaps, who really disliked him. His\ncaptivating beauty and wayward sweetness won more affection than the\nhighest virtues or the noblest gifts of mind would have won. When a\nstranger and a Jew was accused, they could believe him to have been\nactuated by the most cruel malignity; but it was impossible to impute such\nfeelings to Lawrence Gerald. He was weak and imprudent, and had become\ninvolved, and so led on beyond his intention. Each one could imagine, even\nbefore the confession was made public, just how it had happened; and when\nthey read the confession, the feeling was almost universal in favor of his\nescape. Only a few, sternly just, insisted on hoping that he would be\nbrought to suffer the full penalty of the law. Fathers and mothers whose\nboys, scarcely more governable than he, had played and grown up with him,\nlooked with terror on their own children; and young men who secretly knew\nthemselves to have been preserved only by what they would have called\nchance from crimes as bad as his, shuddered at the thought of his being\nbrought back among them to be tried for his life. A sort of panic seized\nupon all when they saw what horrors could grow out of that which had\nseemed to be mere youthful errors, and how criminal had been the leniency\nof public opinion and of the law. Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger\u2019s case had held no moral\nfor them, for he was an alien; but what Lawrence Gerald was some of their\nown might be. They were conspicuously generous, these people, in that\ncharity which stays at home and makes excuses for its own little circle;\nand for this time, at least, they regretted that their charity had not\ngone beyond that boundary, and extended to the stranger within their\ngates.\n\n\u201cI confess before Almighty God, to the man who has been so wronged on my\naccount, and to my friends and neighbors, whom I have deceived\u201d\u2014so\nLawrence Gerald\u2019s confession began\u2014\u201cthat I am guilty in deed, though not\nin intention, of the death of Madame Chevreuse, for which Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger\nis now unjustly condemned. I had gambled, and was in debt to a man who\nthreatened to expose me if I did not pay him at once. I knew that the\nexposure would ruin me. I should have lost my situation, my marriage would\nhave been prevented, and my mother\u2019s heart would have been broken. The\ndebt was not a new one. I had not gambled for a good while, and had\nresolved never to do so again; and I have kept that resolution. If I would\nhave broken it, and increased my debt, the man would have waited. I was\ntempted to, but I resisted. It seemed to me better to take the money\u2014I did\nnot call it stealing\u2014when I could get it, and repay it privately after my\nmarriage. I knew that I could have it then, a little at a time. I had\nknown many men to be excused for such things\u2014men who had used money that\nbelonged to others, meaning to repay it some time, and the law had not\npunished them severely. Yet there was not a case where the need seemed to\nbe as great as mine. I thought of it a long time before I felt as if I\ncould do it, and then I didn\u2019t resolve that I would. I only felt that I\nwould take advantage of whatever chance occurred. I never arranged\nanything. F. Chevreuse dropped his latch\u2010key into the furnace register one\nday when he was at my mother\u2019s. I got it out afterward, and kept it. I\nknew already that the key of our street\u2010door would unlock his. Those two\nhelps I regarded as an intimation of what I was to do. I even thought them\nprovidential; and I promised God that if I should succeed in getting the\nmoney and paying my debts, I would lead a good life in future. I didn\u2019t\nknow that I was blaspheming. Afterward I heard F. Chevreuse say just how\nmuch money he had, and where he kept it. He was talking to my mother and\nme. I took that as another intimation. I said, Such a good man as he would\nnot be permitted to help me along in this way, if I were not to do what I\nam thinking of. Then I knew that for one night he would be away; but still\nI did not resolve. I only followed wherever circumstances led me; and\nevery circumstance led me straight on to crime. We were at Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s\nthat evening singing, and the night was dark. If it had been a bright\nnight, I should not have ventured to go to the priest\u2019s door. I said to\nmyself that it was perhaps God who had made the night dark for me. I went\nhome from Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s, and went to my own room, taking the key of the\nstreet\u2010door with me. I stayed there till all were asleep; and I thought\nthat if my mother had left her chamber\u2010door open, I would not go out, for\nshe might hear me going down\u2010stairs. She usually left it open, but that\nnight it was shut. I went down the back stairs, and got out of a little\nwindow at the back of the house; and even then I did not say surely to\nmyself what I was going to do.\n\n\u201cIt was necessary that I should have some disguise, and I had none; but I\nhad seen Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger lay his shawl down in Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s garden, and I\nthought he had left it there. I took that for another sign. If the shawl\nwere not there, I would go home again. It was there, and I wrapped myself\nin it, and walked toward the priest\u2019s house, ready to turn back at the\nleast obstacle. The only person I saw was a policeman, and he was behind\nme, so that I was forced to go forward. A thunder\u2010shower was coming up,\nand the sound of it deadened my steps. When I reached the door, I stopped\nagain, and, for the first time, made a plan. If any one should find me\nunlocking it, I would say that my mother was sick, and I had come for\nMother Chevreuse. If Andrew or Jane should meet and know me as I entered,\nI would tell the same story, and would ask for Mother Chevreuse, and then\nconfess the whole truth to her. I knew she would pity, and perhaps she\nwould help, me. If Mother Chevreuse herself should come upon me, and\nrecognize me, I would confess to her, and beg her mercy. Nobody saw or\nheard me till I had got the money into my hands, and was going away; and\nthen it was too late to confess. All my irresolution had gone away, and I\nwas desperate. It was no longer a question of confessing to one person,\nbut of being exposed before three, and, of course, before the world. All\nthe excuses I had made for myself before became as nothing, and I knew\nthat I was a thief. The money was in my hands, I had earned it, and I\nmeant to keep it. The rest is all like a flash of lightning. Why did she\ncling so to me? I told her twice to let go, or I might hurt her. My blood\nwas all in my head. If those two servants had come and seen me there, I\nshould have killed myself before their faces. I heard their steps coming,\nand I pushed her with all my strength. I did not stop to think where we\nwere. She let go then; but I have felt her soft hands clinging to me ever\nsince. It maddens a man to have a woman\u2019s soft hands clinging to him when\nhe wants to get away. After that, I ran back to Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s garden, and\nleft the shawl, and then I went home.\n\n\u201cWhen I was sick, and thought I was going to die, and couldn\u2019t get another\npriest, I confessed to F. Chevreuse, and he forgave me; but he told me\nthat I must consent to his telling all in order to clear Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger as\nsoon as I should be dead. I consented; but I did not die, and so he could\ndo nothing. I hereby give him leave to tell all that I then told him. I\nhave not been to confession since, because I didn\u2019t want to give him a\nchance to say anything to me. I forgot then to tell him that I had the\nmoney still, but I shall give it back with this. Of course I did not dare\nto use it. I told the man I owed to do his worst about it, and he did\nnothing, only said he would wait till I could pay him. I found I had\ngained nothing, and lost all.\n\n\u201cMy wife found me out, I do not know how, and I never asked; and it is she\nwho writes this from my dictation. John, my mother\u2019s footman, found me\nout, and I have never asked him how. He will sign this, but without\nreading it. I think he has no proof against me. F. Chevreuse knows nothing\nexcept what he has learned in the confessional. This will be left with\nhim, to be opened four weeks from to\u2010day. With him, also, I leave a letter\nto my dearest mother, whom I am not worthy to name, and a letter for Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger.\u201d\n\nThe letter to his mother was buried with her. No one ever read it, unless\nthose dead eyes could see. The letter to Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger was simply to beg\nthe forgiveness which, the writer added, he scarcely hoped to receive.\n\nThe confession was written in a clear, even hand, with evident\ndeliberation and painstaking on the part of the amanuensis; and if the\nwriter\u2019s heart had trembled, not a line showed it. Only here and there a\nlarge blister on the paper showed where a tear had fallen.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Grundy were shocked at the writer\u2019s insensibility; but then\nAnnette Ferrier always was queer, they added.\n\nPerhaps only one of the many who read that confession was aware of the\nsting it contained for F. Chevreuse, or dreamed that those \u201csoft, clinging\nhands\u201d would be felt by him also, as well as by the criminal, for many a\nday. Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger shrank with a pang of sympathetic pain when he saw the\nwords, and almost wondered that Annette Gerald could, even in that moment\nof supreme misery, have been unaware of their cruelty.\n\n\u201cI own to you,\u201d F. Chevreuse confessed years afterward to F. O\u2019Donovan,\n\u201cthat when I first read those words, I realized for one moment how a man\nmight be willing to kill another. The image of him flinging off my\nmother\u2019s clinging hands\u2014well, well! The time will never come when I can\nspeak calmly of it. Fortunately for me then, it was Holy Week, and I had\nmy crucified Lord before me, and plenty of work on my hands. Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger helped me, too. I knew what he meant, though he made no\nexplanation. He only said, \u2018Your Christ is strong, if he can keep your\nhand from clinching.\u2019 \u201d\n\nChrist was strong, and the Jew was yet to feel his might.\n\nJust at present, however, he had earthly things to think of, and a trial\nto endure particularly disagreeable to one of his temperament. He had to\nbe a second time the lion of the hour, to be stared at, followed, observed\nin all he did, listened to in all he said\u2014in short, to be the temporary\nvictim of public curiosity.\n\nConquering his disgust and annoyance, he chose the best method of making\nthis trial a short one, by showing himself quite freely. He took rooms at\na quiet hotel frequented by business men, and very seldom visited by\nladies. If the mood should take him to pace his room at night, he did not\nchoose that any sympathizing heart should be counting his footsteps. He\ncalled on his former pupils, and made appointments with them, and listened\nwith patience to their earnest, and often tearful, protestations of regret\nand indignation in his regard. He gathered up into his hands, one by one,\nthe threads of ordinary life, and tried to interest himself in them again,\nand to renew some of his old pleasures; but he could not unite them and\nweave his heart in with them as before. A gulf, of which he only now\nbecame aware, lay between him and the past. It was not the sense of wrong\nand loss, it was not even that he had a greater distrust of mankind; it\nwas at once higher and deeper than anything merely personal: it was a\ndisgust and fear of life itself, as he had seen and felt it, a sense of\ninstability and of hollowness everywhere. His desires for wealth and power\nand fame dropped into an abyss, and left no sound to tell that they were\nsubstances or had encountered any substance in their descent. Like one\nwho, walking over a bridge, suddenly perceives that, instead of solid\narches of stone beneath, there is only a thin and trembling framework\nbetween him and the torrent, he felt that he might at any moment fall\nthrough into the unknown world, or into nothingness.\n\nThis man had called himself a Jew, partly from an inherited allegiance,\nwhich ran in his blood, though it was no longer niched in his brain,\npartly, also, from a generous unwillingness to desert the unfortunate. He\ncherished the fragments of his ancient traditions as the poet and the\nantiquary cherish the ruins of an antique temple, in which the vulgar see\nonly broken rocks and rubbish, but from which their imaginations can\nrebuild portico and sculptured frieze and painted ceiling. Their eyes can\ndiscern the acanthus leaf where it lies half choked in dust, and the dying\nglimmer of what once was gold, and, faintly burning through its encrusting\nsoil, the imperishable color of that rare stone, blue as the vault of a\nmidnight sky. In the ruin of his people Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger still beheld and\ngloried in that sublime race which, in the early world, had borne the day\u2010\nstar on their foreheads.\n\nBut it was only a memory to him, and the present was all vanity.\n\nWhile in prison, he had thought that liberty was, of all things, the most\nprecious. In his emptied heart it had been the one object of longing; and\nin the first moments of freedom he had found it intoxicating. But the joy\nit gave effervesced and died away like foam, and the emptiness remained.\nLooking back on that prison life, he almost wondered at the agony it had\ncaused him, or even that the shameful death which had threatened him\nshould have had power to move him so, or that the opinions and the\nenmities of men should have struck such bitterness from his soul. What was\nit all but motes in the beam? \u201cVanity of vanities, and all is vanity.\u201d\n\nBut life must be lived, and work must be done; and he took up the duties\nthat came to hand, and performed them almost as if he loved them.\n\nOne small pleasure, indeed, he gave himself. Escaping from the city, with\nas much care as if he had been flying from justice, he took a long,\nsolitary walk in the pine\u2010woods where, nearly a year before, he had gone\nwith a May party, and, searching there, he brought back handfuls of pale,\nnodding snow\u2010drops, and sent them by a trusty messenger to Honora\nPembroke.\n\n\u201cThey are for her or for Mrs. Gerald, as she may choose,\u201d he said.\n\nShe made no answer, but the messenger saw her lay the delicate blossoms in\nthe white hand of the dead, while her tears fell on them, drop by drop.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger\u2019s generosity of feeling would have prompted him to attend\nthe funeral, but his good taste prevented. He would have been too much\nobserved there. He watched the procession as it passed by his window\u2014an\nold\u2010fashioned, solemn, genuine New\u2010England funeral; no mourning carriages\nwith laughing people inside, no hired bearers but a long line of friends\nand neighbors, who knew and lamented the dead, walking after her with\ndowncast faces, to stand by her grave till the earth should have covered\nher in.\n\nIn a town like Crichton such a death for such a cause would create a deep\nimpression; and crowds stood all about the cottage when the friends who\nwere admitted came out from its doors, and a grave silence prevailed in\nall the streets as they passed through them.\n\nIt was Good Friday; and that evening, for the first time, the new organist\nwas to take charge of the choir in the Immaculate Conception. There was\nbut little to do, for the singers were not in training\u2014only a hymn or two\nto sing before the sermon, and nothing after.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger was glad that he should thus be able to leave the church\nbefore the sermon without seeming disrespectful to F. Chevreuse, as he\nwould have seemed in going out and coming in again when the sermon was\nover. He had not the least objection to hearing Catholic sermons, provided\nthey did not bore him\u2014had, indeed, heard many of them; but he did not wish\nto hear F. Chevreuse speak on the passion and death of Christ. To him,\nthat had always been the weakest point in the Christian theology. He could\nreverence almost to the verge of adoration the sublime humility and\nsweetness and patience of that life which they called divine; but he\nshrank from the agony which crowned it as something weak and unfitting. A\nlife so perfect ending thus was to him incongruous; as though the eye,\ntravelling up a lofty and exquisite column, should see a rude block at the\ntop instead of a perfect capital.\n\n\u201cIf it does not prove the falsehood of the whole,\u201d Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger said to\nhimself, \u201cit proves a great mistake somewhere; and I would rather not hear\nsuch a man as F. Chevreuse try to make it seem reasonable.\u201d\n\nBut he would not be in too great a hurry to go. He lingered a little,\narranged the music, and stopped at the door of the choir long enough to\nhear the priest announce his text: _The Lord hath laid upon him the\niniquities of us all_.\n\n\u201cMy Isaiah!\u201d he thought. \u201cI wonder what he meant in writing that?\u201d\n\n\u201cGood Friday is, to my mind, not so much a day of sorrow as a day of\nremorse,\u201d the priest began. \u201cThe Jews were ungrateful, and we are\nungrateful.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat dear, just soul!\u201d Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger muttered with a smile, as he went\nslowly out.\n\nGoing down the stairs, he caught now and then a sentence. \u201cWe sin, and are\nforgiven, and then we sin again; and we sin against a God whom we\nacknowledge; they sinned against a God in whom they did not believe.\u201d\n\nAnd again: \u201cPeter sinned once, but he never denied his Master a second\ntime; Magdalene was once a sinner, but never again.\u201d\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger stopped at a narrow pointed window near the foot of the\nstairs, and looked out into the night. He had half a mind to go back and\nlisten to the sermon. There was something enchaining in the way F.\nChevreuse preached. His were no cut\u2010and\u2010dried orations where the form is\nfirst laid out, and each part fitted in as exact as a mosaic, and where no\nfault can be found, except that there is such an absence of faults. He\npoured his heart out; he announced a truth, and then, in a few sentences,\nhe threw a picture before their eyes to illustrate it; he walked the\nplatform where he stood, and seemed at times so transported by his\nfeelings as to forget that he was not talking to himself alone.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger paused in the lower door, and listened again, hating to\nstay, hating still more to go away, so empty did his soul feel.\n\nThe speaker gave a brief backward glance over what he had already said.\nThey had seen the agony in the garden, and now they were going to see what\nit meant. They had seen the cup put aside by the hand of Christ, and now\nthey were going to see him drink it to the dregs. They had seen him bear\nuncomplainingly the stripes and the thorns, now they were going to hear\nhim cry out in the agony of desolation.\n\nWith a rapid touch he sketched the scene\u2014the surging, angry crowd, driving\nand hurrying forward a man in the midst, who drags and stumbles under a\nheavy cross.\n\nThe priest wrung his hands slowly, walking to and fro, with that sight\nbefore him. \u201cO my God!\u201d he said, half to himself, \u201cis it thus that I see\nthee? Thy divinity is reduced so small\u2014so small that it requires all the\nfulness of my faith to discern it. This man is covered with dust and\nblood. He hath fallen beneath his load, and the dust of the street is on\nhim, on his hands, and even his face, with the blood and the sweat. They\nbuffet him, they laugh at him\u201d\u2014the speaker faced his congregation\nsuddenly, stretching out his hands to them. \u201cA God! a God!\u201d he cried, and\nwas for a moment silent.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger turned away, shuddering at this image of Divinity in the\ndust.\n\nYet he had not gone far when, in spite of him, his feet were drawn back.\n\nF. Chevreuse stood beside the great black and white crucifix, to which he\ndid not seem to dare to lift his eyes.\n\n\u201cThe cup is at his lips at last! _He has lost sight of the Father!_ The\nLord has laid upon him the iniquities of us all. All the murders, all the\nadulteries of the world are on him; all the sacrileges are on him; all the\nbrutality, the foulness, the lies, the treacheries, the meannesses, the\ncruelties\u2014they are all heaped upon him. All iniquities, past, present, and\nto come, overclouded and hid his divine innocence out of sight. And the\nFather, seeing him so, relented not, spared him not, but poured on his\nhead the full measure of his hatred of our sins, as if he were the\ncriminal who was guilty of them all.\u201d\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger started back as if lightning had flashed in his face,\nuttered a faint cry, and hurried from the church.\n\nHe knew why the veil of the temple was rent and the face of the sun\ndarkened; and he knew why the Son of God had bled at every pore.\n\nHe walked once rapidly round the square, baring his head to the tender\ncoolness of the air. When he reached the church again, F. Chevreuse had\nfinished speaking, and was just turning away. But he paused, as he saw Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger walk up the aisle as unconscious of the astonished congregation\nwho gazed at him as if the church had been empty.\n\nHe knelt at the communion railing.\n\n\u201cF. Chevreuse,\u201d he said in a voice that every one heard, so still were\nall, \u201cI have not yet kissed the cross on which my God was crucified.\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse drew the small crucifix from his girdle, and presented it,\nhis hands trembling and tears rolling down his face; and all the\ncongregation fell on their knees while the Jew kissed the cross on which\nhis God was crucified.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nThe Jesuit Martyrs Of The Commune.(111)\n\n\nIn this little volume the Rev. F. de Ponlevoy has faithfully recorded the\n_Acts_, as he well entitles them, of five brave men of our own time, who\nwent forth \u201crejoicing,\u201d like the apostles of old, \u201cthat they were\naccounted worthy to suffer reproach for the name of Jesus.\u201d\n\nThe author has not attempted a biography or any detailed account of the\nlives of these brave men previous to their arrest \u201cin the name of the\nCommune,\u201d but simply an exact statement, far more impressive, of their\nknown words and acts from that moment which so plainly marked them as\nchosen ones of God.\n\nThese Jesuit fathers suffered in most saintly companionship, and the world\nwill heartily echo the pious wish of our author that other societies may\ndo for their martyred brethren that which he has so lovingly accomplished\nfor his.\n\nThe Jesuits in Paris during the war of 1870 saw plainly the gathering\nsigns of darker days yet to come for France; but it is not in their\ntraditions to yield anything to fear, and so they were resolved, the\nmoment the armistice was concluded, to open their school of S. Genevi\u00e8ve\nand College of Vaugirard. At the very beginning of the war with Prussia,\nthese two establishments had been freely passed over to the military\nauthorities for the use of the sick and wounded, hundreds of whom had been\nthere received and tenderly cared for, many of the fathers attaching\nthemselves to the ambulances and hospitals with the utmost devotion.\nConsequently these buildings now needed many repairs and to be almost\nentirely refurnished. The residence in the Rue Lafayette had fared better,\nas the greater part of the community were Germans who had been obliged to\nleave France at the beginning of the war, while the house fell under the\nprotection of the American minister, charged by Prussia to watch over the\ninterests of its people in Paris. Add to which this modest mission had the\ndeserved reputation of being very poor\u2014not much of a bait for the blood\u2010\nhounds of the Commune. At the house in the Rue de S\u00e8vres such measures\nwere taken as prudence seemed to suggest, leaving the rest to Providence.\nThus at first it had seemed best to keep some members of the order in\nParis\u2014men at once necessary and willing to stay. Some were sent to the\nprovinces, and others remained scattered throughout the ungrateful\ncapital. At the conclusion of the armistice the College of Vaugirard was\nhastily prepared for pupils, and its reopening fixed for the 9th of March,\nby which time nearly two hundred students had applied for admission. But\non the 18th the long\u2010threatened revolution burst forth, and the rector,\nmore anxious for the pupils than for the fathers, hurried both to the\ncountry\u2010house of the college, at Moulineaux, between Issy and Meudon.\nHowever, they were soon compelled to retreat precipitately, first to\nVersailles, and finally to Saint Germain\u2010en\u2010Laye; for, placed exactly in\nthe narrow belt between the belligerent lines, they found themselves, upon\nthe breaking out of hostilities between Paris and Versailles, veritably\nbetween two fires. The deserted College of Vaugirard was surrounded,\noccupied, and pillaged, but no one was there to be arrested.\n\nThe school of S. Genevi\u00e8ve required more time for repairs, and was to be\nopened on March 20; but the insurrection, coming in the interval,\nnecessitated new delays, and parents were notified to await further\nannouncements. The rector, F. L\u00e9on Ducoudray, born at Laval, May 6, 1827,\na man of great spirit and energy, was not one to lose time or to be\ndismayed in the hour of trial. He at once sent out four of the fathers,\none to negotiate a loan in England or Belgium to meet the exigencies of\nthe moment, and the others to seek in the provinces an asylum for the\nexiled school, which was finally removed to a country\u2010house at Athis\u2010Mons,\non the railway line to Orl\u00e9ans, not far from Paris. The pupils were\nnotified that the school would open on April 12; the rector, who had\nremained in Paris to superintend the final arrangements, was to join his\ncommunity on Monday, the third.\n\nOn Sunday, the second, F. Ducoudray perceived that F. Paul Piquet, a sick\npriest left at S. Genevi\u00e8ve, was rapidly sinking, and at a quarter\u2010past\neight in the evening this good father had the happiness of leaving this\nworld and its momentarily\u2010increasing trials. It was a great loss to the\nhouse, and at this time a very painful embarrassment. The next morning\n(Monday) the Commune issued a decree confiscating all the furniture and\nproperty belonging to religious houses, and at S. Genevi\u00e8ve they every\ninstant expected a visit on the part of the new rulers of the city.\nNevertheless, F. Ducoudray sent for several of the fathers to come up from\nAthis to attend the funeral ceremonies of the deceased priest, set for\nTuesday, April 4.\n\nAll at once, just after midnight on Tuesday, before these fathers had\nreturned to Athis, the buildings were encircled by a battalion of National\nGuards, armed to the teeth. The Rue Lhomond, the Rue d\u2019Ulm, the Passage\ndes Vignes, the very woodyard at the foot of the garden, all were guarded.\nThere were repeated blows at the door of No. 18. The brother porter went\nat once to say that the keys, according to custom, were in the rector\u2019s\nroom, and that he would go and get them. But at this simple and reasonable\nanswer the outsiders got into a rage; a summons was sounded three times at\nrapid intervals; the whole neighborhood was startled by a general\ndischarge at all the windows of the Rue Lhomond; there were loud threats\nof bringing cannons and _mitrailleuses_ from the Place de Panth\u00e9on near\nby. Presently the doors were opened, and the rector himself appeared,\ncalmly requesting to be allowed to make some remarks in the name of common\njustice and of individual liberty. But the day for these things had gone\nby. For sole response the leader signified, revolver in hand, that he\nconstituted the rector his prisoner in the name of the Commune, and should\noccupy and search the house for the arms and munitions of war therein\nconcealed. But in reality they were here, as everywhere else, on a hunt\nfor the cash\u2010box. \u201cThat which we most need,\u201d said a member of the Commune,\n\u201cis money.\u201d\n\nRight away every one in the house was on his feet, and each one followed\nhis instinct; but first of all one priest hurried to the private chapel,\nwhere, for precaution, the Blessed Sacrament had been previously placed,\nand hastened to secure it against profanation.\n\nThe envoys of the Commune were in number and force enough to carry on\nseveral operations at once. They arrested everybody they could lay their\nhands on\u2014priests, lay brothers, even the servants of the school\u2014and, as\nfast as they found them, seated them in the entrance hall, and kept them\nthere for several hours. They ransacked the entire house; the rector\nhimself led them everywhere. The search was very long and very minute,\nwithout the desired result; for they found no arms and very little money.\nF. Ducoudray, without falsifying himself in the slightest, replied with so\nmuch unconcern, with such dignity and politeness, that they said to each\nother in astonishment: \u201cWhat a man this is! What energy of character!\u201d At\nlast, after three painful hours, they took him to the hall; but even from\nthe first moment they separated him from his brethren, and put him in a\nlittle vestibule of the chapel in front of the parlors. It is almost\nsuperfluous to add that the pillage of the house commenced almost at once,\naccelerated, and the next day completed, by bands of women and children.\n\nAt five in the morning the recall was sounded; it was the signal for\ndefiling and departing for the pr\u00e9fecture of the police. The prisoners\nwere ranged between two lines of National Guards. First came the rector, a\nlittle ahead of the others; behind him the Rev. FF. Ferdinand Billot,\nEmile Chauveau, Alexis Clerc, Anatole de Bengy, Jean Bellanger, Theodore\nde Regnon, and Jean Tanguy, four lay brothers, and seven servants.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said F. Ducoudray, with a radiant countenance, to F. Caubert, who\nwas nearest him. \u201c_Ibant gaudentes_,(112) did they not?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is he saying there?\u201d asked the uneasy guards. F. Caubert repeated\nthe sentence; God knows what they understood by it!\n\nAt the pr\u00e9fecture a major exclaimed: \u201cWhy have you brought me these\nrascals (_coquins_)? Why didn\u2019t you shoot them on the spot?\u201d\n\n\u201cGently,\u201d answered one of the guard; \u201cit is necessary to proceed calmly,\nor you yourself might get it before the rest.\u201d\n\nThe same officer then asked, revolver in hand, for the director.\n\n\u201cI am here,\u201d replied F. Ducoudray, advancing.\n\n\u201cI know that you have arms concealed in your house.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have it on certain authority.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf there are any, it is without my knowledge.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have an iron will. We are going to see about that, we two; and if we\ndo not find them, you do not get back here.\u201d\n\nThen followed a number of charges against the priests, such as poisoning\nthe sick and wounded in the hospitals and ambulances, perversion of youth,\nand complicity with the government of Versailles. F. Ducoudray, following\nthe example of his divine Master, made no reply, and, after being loaded\nwith insults, was finally taken secretly and locked up in a cell of the\n_Conciergerie_ prison. The others were confined in a common hall of the\ndepot prison, intended for vagrant women.\n\nIn the meantime, two priests and one brother, who had escaped detection in\nthe tumult, remained at S. Genevi\u00e8ve. The brother was an invalid confined\nto his bed, and the two priests, one of whom had been concealed all night\nin the garden, met in his room after the guards had left, and it remained\nfor nearly two months virtually their prison.\n\nThe saintly president of the house of the Rue de S\u00e8vres, F. Pierre\nOlivaint, had seen all his flock sheltered from the gathering storm, and\non that Monday was alone in the house with one reverend companion, F.\nAlexis Lefebvre, and several devoted brothers, incapable of fear. All day\nlong warnings and entreaties poured in upon him to cause him to fly in\nadvance of the impending visit from the Commune. \u201cBut what would you\nhave?\u201d he answered tranquilly. \u201cI am like the captain of a vessel, who\nmust be the last to leave the ship. If we are taken to\u2010day, I shall have\nbut one regret: that it is Holy Tuesday, not Good Friday.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, now, my child,\u201d he said again, at six o\u2019clock, to one who implored\nhim to save himself while there was yet a moment, for it was certain there\nwas to be a visit on the part of the Commune that very evening\u2014\u201cwhy, now,\nmy child, why do you excite yourself? Is it not the best act of charity we\ncan perform to give our life for the love of Jesus Christ?\u201d And then he\nwent to the lower floor, facing the hall door, and calmly went on with his\noffice. \u201cI am waiting,\u201d he said to a friend who passed by, pressing his\nhand.\n\nJust as they were assembling in the refectory for the evening collation,\nat the usual hour of a quarter\u2010past seven, the brother porter was\nsummoned; a delegate of the Commune was at the door, behind him a company\nof National Guards. The brother was instructed to detain them in the\nvestibule or in the parlor until the superior himself should come. Brother\nFrancis did so, in spite of the impatience and threats of the visitors. In\nanticipation of this visit, but two hosts had been left in the morning,\nand now each father hurried to his room, and each had his _viaticum_\nready. F. Lefebvre returned the first, soon followed by F. Olivaint. The\ndelegate announced the object of his mission\u2014to look for arms and\nmunitions kept in reserve by the Jesuits; but, being himself called away\non important business, deputed citizen Lagrange to take his place. This\nman, well worthy of the deed, ordered every avenue of escape to be\nguarded, and then, followed by nearly half his force, began the tour of\ninspection, accompanied by F. Olivaint, and preceded by two brothers, one\nwith a light, the other carrying the keys; two other brothers were\nstationed at the entrance with the guards, and, as each room was examined,\nLagrange left two of his men to guard it. To have any idea of the\nshameless impiety and vulgar insolence of these functionaries of the\nCommune, one must have seen and heard them; for three hours the search\ncontinued, amid threats and mockery, through all which F. Olivaint\nremained calm and reserved.\n\nThe critical moment came while in the procurator\u2019s chamber, where the\ncash\u2010box was discovered. \u201cHurry and open it,\u201d they cried. \u201cWhere\u2019s the\nkey?\u201d\n\n\u201cI haven\u2019t it; it is not even here,\u201d answered F. Olivaint. \u201cOur father\nprocurator, who is absent, has it with him.\u201d Then came the tempest; one of\nthe brothers was sent off with three guards, arms in hand, to hunt up the\nfather procurator, and bring him back alive or dead. In the end, F.\nCaubert really did arrive, and opened the box. It was empty. Naturally,\nthe siege had suppressed all receipts and increased all expenses; for a\nlong time the Jesuits had lived only by borrowing. \u201cWe are robbed,\u201d\nLagrange exclaimed. \u201cAll right, the superior and the steward are my\nprisoners, in the name of the Commune. Off to the pr\u00e9fecture of police!\u201d\nF. Lefebvre begged to be taken with his brethren. \u201cNo, no,\u201d was the\nanswer. \u201cYou stay here and hold this house in the name of the Commune.\u201d\nAnd actually the sentence was prophetic; for the house guarded by F.\nLefebvre was spared with him.\n\nAt about half\u2010past eleven o\u2019clock the two prisoners departed, never to\nreturn; they sought in vain for a carriage, to make the long transit. As\nthey passed out, F. Olivaint saw, in the crowd in the street, a group of\ncompassionate friends; he saluted them with a smile, as if to say: \u201cWeep\nnot for me.\u201d\n\nLagrange and his company quartered themselves at the Place Vend\u00f4me, as\nproud of their prowess that night as if they had captured Versailles; a\nsingle _piquet_ of armed men took the prisoners to the pr\u00e9fecture, and\nthere, instead of being placed with the others in the common hall, they\nwere immediately and secretly locked up in the cells of the\n_Conciergerie_.\n\n\u201cFF. Olivaint and Caubert are in prison,\u201d F. Lefebvre wrote to our author\nat Versailles. \u201cThey absolutely would not take me. I am alone at the\nhouse, with Brother Bouill\u00e9, both fearless, thank God! The others are\ndispersed, and come from time to time to see me. I have placed the Blessed\nSacrament in the gallery near my room, and, when they return, I shall\nconsume the sacred hosts. The church will be closed. They are arresting\nthe priests. Monseigneur himself is at the pr\u00e9fecture of police; they say\nthese are the hostages, I am told. Pray, pray for me, my father! Oh! how\nhappy I should be to give my life for our Lord!\u201d\n\nF. Ducoudray accepted his imprisonment without any surprise. \u201cBefore\nlong,\u201d he had said, on March 19, to the Prince de Broglie\u2014\u201cbefore long our\nchurches will be closed, our houses devastated, our persons arrested, and\nGod knows who will regain his liberty. The things which are to be done\nwill have a particular character of hatred to God, and\u2014that which is very\nsad for a priest to say\u2014there will prove to be no other argument for the\nmiserable ones who are to be masters of Paris than the cannon. I have\nlived for seven months in the very midst of these men, and I have not met\nwith one heart or one honest mind among them.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor six months,\u201d he wrote under date of Feb. 20, \u201cI have seen only grief\nand mourning.... My God! must I say to you that I can still hope? Paris\nhas lost the last fibre of moral and religious sense. Its population is\nmad, delirious. Can we hope for the return of divine mercy when this\nimmense city thinks only of founding a society based on the absence of\nreligion and on the hatred of God? Only a miracle can help us out of the\nabyss in which we are plunged. I hold my peace.... My heart is too heavy,\nand my soul too gloomy.\u201d\n\nF. Olivaint, loving his country not less, was filled with joy from the\nvery moment of his arrest. \u201c_Ibant gaudentes_,\u201d he said with sparkling\neyes to the archbishop\u2019s secretary, who passed his grating\u2014\u201c_Ibant\ngaudentes_; it is for the same Master!\u201d \u201cFrance,\u201d he said, \u201clike the\nworld, requires to be ransomed by blood\u2014not the blood of criminals, which\nsinks into the ground, and remains mute and barren, but the blood of the\njust, which cries to heaven, invoking justice and imploring mercy.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere must be victims,\u201d said F. Caubert. \u201cIt is God who has chosen them.\u201d\n\nOn the evening of Holy Thursday there came a change. The archbishop, the\npresident, Bonjeau, FF. Ducoudray, Clerc, and de Bengy, each in a separate\ncompartment of a prison carriage, were conveyed from the _Conciergerie_ to\nthe prison of Mazas. F. Olivaint and F. Caubert were left alone at the\n_Conciergerie_, in separate cells, debarred from all possible\ncommunication.\n\n\u201cAnd from this hour,\u201d cries F. Ponlevoy, in tender remembrance,(113) \u201cI\nseem to myself to be really writing an episode of the Catacombs. The\nchurch is ever fruitful in generous souls, but it is the hour of trial\nthat more than any lays bare the depths of the heart; and if, on one side,\nthere is in the martyrs a patience beyond all grief, there is in the\nChristian a charity stronger than death itself.\u201d\n\nA system of correspondence was organized outside those now hallowed prison\nwalls, and continued to the very end, consoling and sustaining the\ncaptives, and laying up treasures for the faithful far and wide through\nthe edifying little notes thus preserved. And finally, on Thursday, April\n13, safe means were found to convey to the prisoners at the _Conciergerie_\nnot simply a consolation, but the Consoler himself. Only a few hours after\nthis was accomplished, FF. Olivaint and Caubert were removed to Mazas,\nwhither three of their order, as we have seen, had preceded them.\n\nThe prison of Mazas, on the boulevard of the same name, is constructed on\nthe system of cells. At its door all motion ceases; life itself fades out;\nthe isolation is complete; the unfortunate detained there are buried\nalive. But the love and devotion of the faithful contrived to pierce even\nthese gloomy walls, and letters were again carried back and forth between\nthe imprisoned priests and their exiled brethren. These letters contained\nfew facts, but, put together, make a most exquisite journal of the\ninterior life of the saintly captives. F. Ducoudray opens this series of\nletters by a formal one to his superior, giving an account of the\nsituation and of his own personal disposition. \u201cYou know our history and\nits sadness,\u201d he writes.\n\n\u201cHere I pass much time in prayer, and a little in suffering. Isolation,\nseparation, uncertainty, and, above all, the privation of not being able\nto celebrate Mass\u2014this is indeed cruel!\n\n\u201cNo possible communication _cum concaptivis meis_. They are there, near to\nme, in the same corridor; that is all I know.\n\n\u201cThis is the part it is the will of God we should perform. For us, we have\nonly to follow the apostle\u2019s counsel: \u2018_In omnibus exhibeamus nosmetipsos,\nsicut Dei ministros, in multa patientia, in tribulationibus,... in\ncarceribus, in seditionibus, ... per gloriam et ignobilitatem, per\ninfamiam et bonam faman_.\u2019(114)\n\n\u201cSay to my friends,\u201d F. Olivaint wrote to one of his brethren, \u201cthat I do\nnot find anything to complain of; health pretty good; not a moment of\n_ennui_ in my retreat, which I continue up to the very neck.... I know\nnothing of my companions.\u201d \u201cI thank you from the bottom of my heart,\u201d to\nanother, \u201cfor your charity to the poor prisoners. Here is a work I did not\nfully comprehend until I was in prison. How well you practise it\u2014I might\nalmost say too well!... No, the time does not seem long to me.\u201d ... \u201cIn\nreality,\u201d he writes again, \u201cI do very well in body; and as for the spirit,\nit seems to me that I am making a retreat of benediction, _Deo gratias_.\u201d\n... Later on: \u201cI am at the twenty\u2010fourth day of my retreat. I had never\nhoped that a retreat of a month would be granted me; and see, now I am\ntouching that term. Well, if we do not regain our liberty by the end of\nthe month, I shall not, I hope, lose anything in this way by the\nprolongation of the trial. You will understand that here we have no news\nto give. And those frightful cannon that never cease grumbling! But that,\ntoo, reminds me to pray for our poor country. If it were required to give\nmy miserable life to put an end to its troubles, how quickly I would make\nthe sacrifice!\u201d\n\nThose cannon jarred on the ears of the other captives. \u201cWe hear day and\nnight the roar of cannon,\u201d F. Clerc wrote to his brother. \u201cI conclude that\nthe siege and my detention will not end to\u2010morrow.... People talk of the\ncloister of religious houses; that of Mazas is not to be despised.... We\nhave neither Mass nor sacraments. Never, I well believe, did prisoners\nmore desire them. I pray to the good God, I study, I read, I write a\nlittle, and I find time goes quickly, even at Mazas.... Do not take\nfurther measures to see me; I fear further efforts would bring you\nannoyance, and I have little hope of the result. These gates will be\nopened by another hand than yours; and, if they open not, we know well\nthat we must be resigned.... I am proud and happy to suffer for the name I\nbear. You know well the blow did not take me by surprise. I did not desire\nto evade it, and I wish to support it. I do not hope for the deliverance\nof which you speak.... The less I am master of myself, the more I am in\nthe hands of God; there will happen to me what he wills, and he will give\nme to do that which he wishes I should do. _Omnia passum in eo qui me\nconfortat._\u201d\n\nF. Caubert writes in the same tone: \u201cMy health up to the present remains\ngood. For the rest, I have all that is necessary, and even over. Besides,\nthe moral serves to strengthen the physical in giving courage and\nstrength. Now, this comes to me because I am full of confidence in God,\nand most happy to do his will in all that he really demands of me. For the\nrest, the prison rule, in spite of its stern and austere side, is not in\nitself injurious to the health. They have us take the air every day for an\nhour, solitarily, and each in his turn. The delicate stomachs can obtain\nthe food they need. Twice a week they give us soup and a bit of beef. The\nhouse is conducted with propriety, order, and regularity.... We can visit\nthe doctor or the apothecary daily. There is a library comprising a pretty\ngood number of books of great variety, and any one can ask for them to\npass the time. As for the details of the _m\u00e9nage_, that which they bring\nme is quite sufficient, and I need no more. It simplifies matters not to\nhave my cell encumbered, otherwise I should get things a little pell\u2010\nmell.\u201d\n\nTo hear these good fathers, everything was right, everybody good to them.\nUndoubtedly they suffer, but, as they are patient, they suffer less than\nothers; as they have hope, they endure better than others; finally, as\nthey love Christ crucified, their joy is greater than their pain. A\nFrenchman and a Jesuit conquered by hard treatment or most distressing\nprivation! Never! Starving, dying by inches, in stripes and in prison,\nunder the tomahawk, at the stake, in hunger and thirst, in burning India\nor the snows of Canada, at the mercy of Western savages or Paris\nrevolutionists, it is ever the same thing\u2014everything is right and nice and\nfine; much better than could be expected. The story, fresh in our minds,\nof our own early missionaries, exiles of the first Revolution, prepares us\nto hear the sweet patience of the American forests echoing to\u2010day in the\nprison of Mazas. God wills it. _Ad majorem Dei gloriam._\n\nM. Ponlevoy, who had the tender curiosity to visit the prison of Mazas on\na holiday, when it could easily be inspected, says: \u201cI saw those three\nstories of long corridors, with double galleries, radiating around a\ncentre where lately there was a chapel\u2014ah! if the Commune had but had at\nleast the humanity to leave to the captives the divine Prisoner of the\ntabernacle\u2014on both sides, on all the floors, the doors loaded with bolts\nand provided with regular gratings, and those narrow cells, of which the\ninventory could be made in a single glance! Facing the entrance, the\ngrated window, which measured the air and light; in one corner the\nhammock; opposite, the little table, with just room enough for a straw\nchair; behind the door a plank for a cupboard, a broom, and some pieces of\ncoarse crockery completed the furniture. As for the famous promenade so\noften mentioned in their letters, it was a little triangular prison\u2010yard,\nshut in by a grating in front, and walls on the sides, without shelter\nanywhere, and no other seat than a stone in one corner. During their\nsolitary recreation the captives could absolutely see no one, unless the\nguard under the arch who held them in surveillance.\u201d\n\nBut the human heart is still human, however resigned the will. Say what\nthey would, the prison was still a prison, and Mazas certainly was more\nlike Calvary than paradise. After all, Christians are not stoics, and the\nmartyr himself feels the weakness of the flesh, that he may overcome it by\nthe vigor of the spirit.\n\n\u201cThis poor heart!\u201d writes brave F. Ducoudray. \u201cIt sometimes will be\ntempted to escape and to bound. The imagination willingly takes its part.\nNeither lets itself be ruled as much by reason as I would wish. Thence\ncome, at times, certain fits or impressions of weariness, the suffering of\nthe soul, throwing it into languor, discouragement, uneasiness, and\ndisgust. \u2018_Magnum est et val de magnum, tam humano quant divino posse\ncarere solatio et pro honore Dei, libenter exilium cordis velle\nsustinere._\u2019(115) There is matter in that one comprehends only when one\nfeels it. I had the good thought, when leaving the house, to put into my\npocket a small volume containing the _New Testament_ and the _Imitation_.\nI have read S. Paul much. What a great and admirable heart! It expands my\nsoul to read it, for it has been \u2018_in laboribus plurimus, in\ncarceribusabundantius_,\u2019(116) as he writes himself. And I, though I am yet\nbut a _carcere uno_, I boast of suffering somewhat. But if we are those of\nwhom it is written: \u2018_Eritis odio omnibus propter nomen meum_,\u2019(117) how\ncontemptible our tribulations in comparison with those of the great\napostle!\u201d \u201cI am still,\u201d he wrote at another time, May 5, \u201cmore ill omened\nthan the greatest pessimist. You tell me they fix the 20th as the final\nterm of the civil war. I much fear it will be prolonged even to the 30th.\nMilitary operations go slowly. The war beyond the ramparts offers\ndifficulties; the war of the streets has its difficulties also\u2014most bloody\nones, alas!... We touch upon the week of great events, or, at least, the\nbeginning of great events.... What a punishment! It was expected. It is\nhere.\u201d\n\nTwo or three human consolations were vouchsafed the prisoners, after a\ntime. On May 5 they were permitted to read several of the daily papers\napproved by the Commune, and about the same time F. Ducoudray had the\ninestimable privilege of twice seeing and saluting, at a short distance,\nF. Clerc, and of once seeing far off F. Bengy, his beloved brethren and\nfellow\u2010prisoners.\n\nIn May another favor was vouchsafed. F. Clerc\u2019s brother had been incessant\nin his attempts to obtain an interview with him, but without any success;\nat last a dear friend, a lady, received permission to visit the prisoner,\nand, as a French lady must needs have an escort, she took M. Clerc for\nhers. This was an inexpressible happiness to the noble\u2010hearted priest, and\nhis thanks to God for the favor were boundless. F. Caubert, whose simple\nand exquisite letters, full of golden thoughts, we would gladly linger\nover if there were only space enough, received, May 11, a visit from the\nMinister Plenipotentiary of the United States, which was very agreeable to\nhim. \u201cIt appears,\u201d he said, \u201cthat I had been recommended to him by some\nperson of his acquaintance. He came to inquire most cordially, in true\nAmerican style, how I got along, and if I had need of anything.\u201d Here, in\nuncertainty, inaction, and shut out from all the world, these brave men\nmade light of all the trials and privations to which their bodies were so\nlong and painfully subjected. The Communists knew too much, however, to\nthink of breaking their spirit by bodily suffering; they had the means of\ncreating cruel anguish in the heart of every priest within those prison\nwalls, and well they knew how to use it. From every cell came a cry such\nas no rack or stake could draw from them.\n\nOn Easter Sunday, fifth day of their confinement, F. Clerc wrote to his\nbrother: \u201cTo\u2010day is the feast of feasts, the Pasch of the Christians, the\nday the Lord has made. For us there is no Mass to say or hear.\u201d Just at\nthe hour of leaving the _Conciergerie_, FF. Olivaint and Caubert had the\nhappiness, so longed for and so unexpected, of receiving the \u201cConsoler\nhimself.\u201d Then came the long days at Mazas, and no such consolation\npossible. \u201cOh! if we could but soon ascend the altar!\u201d cries F. Ducoudray\nin the early days at Mazas. \u201cHere is a privation to which I can never\nbecome accustomed.\u201d\n\n\u201cHere,\u201d F. Clerc wrote May 5\u2014\u201chere no confession, no Mass, not even on\nSunday. We are lodged, fed\u2014it is enough for animals.\u201d\n\n\u201cI pass my time,\u201d F. Ducoudray again, \u201cpraying much, suffering some; for\nthe privation of the Holy Mass, the isolation, the separation, are cruel,\nbut I see not the end.\u201d\n\nOn May 8 an order was promulgated which put an end to all visits; on that\nvery day F. Ducoudray had expected to receive our Lord himself. \u201cWhat a\nsacrifice!\u201d he exclaims. \u201cI have offered to our Lord this hard trial,\nincomparably more painful yesterday than ever, on account of the precious\npledge of the love of the divine Master. I seek to make my poor heart the\naltar on which I sacrifice. I shall add that of yesterday as new fuel to\nthe sacrifice.\u201d\n\n\u201cSix Sundays passed in darkness,\u201d writes F. Olivaint, May 14. \u201cHow many\ndays without ascending to the altar!\u201d And the next day: \u201cI am at the\nforty\u2010first day of my retreat. After to\u2010day, I intend to meditate only on\nthe Eucharist. Is it not the best means of consoling myself that I cannot\nascend to the altar? If I were a little bird, I would go somewhere every\nmorning to hear Mass, and then I would willingly come back to my cage.\u201d\n\nThe fathers outside the prison walls, understanding well the longing\nindicated by these and similar expressions, had endeavored in every way to\nfind means to answer their desires. But it required infinite precautions\nto secure the faithful and sure transmission through all the formalities\nof surveillance. What is there prudence and love together may not\naccomplish? At last the doors opened; the prisoners came not out, but the\nRedeemer entered. Towards mid\u2010day of the 15th the Long\u2010Desired arrived.\nThat tells all. Only FF. Ducoudray, Olivaint, and Clerc could be reached\nat first. Each of these was given four sacred hosts, and each preserved\nand carried on his breast, as on a living altar, the _God of his heart and\nhis heritage for all eternity_.\n\n\u201cThere is no more prison,\u201d F. Clerc wrote to his brother, \u201cno more\nsolitude; and I have confidence that if our Lord permits the wicked to\nsatisfy their malice, and for a few hours to prevail, he will profit by\nthem in that very moment to glorify his name by the feeblest and vilest of\nhis instruments.\u201d\n\nOnce again, May 22, an opportunity was found to reach the captives. Two\nfeeble but intrepid women traversed the vast, deserted districts to Mazas.\nThis time all measures had been taken, and each prisoner received a\nshare\u2014four sacred hosts wrapped in a corporal, as in a shroud, duly\nenclosed in a little box with a silk case and a cord, in order that it\nmight be carried around the neck. Coming at that hour, the Saviour seemed\nto say again: \u201cI return, not to live with you, but to carry you with me.\u201d\nFor the end was at hand.\n\nWe linger for a few moments over the last letters gathered here in a most\nfragrant, fadeless wreath. On the 16th F. Clerc wrote his last letter,\ntruly his _nunc dimittis_:\n\n\u201cAh! my God, how good thou art! How true it is that the mercy of thy heart\nwill never fail!... I had not dared conceive the hope of such a\nblessing\u2014to possess our Lord, to have him for companion of my captivity,\nto carry him on my heart, and to rest on his, as he permitted to his\nbeloved John! Yes, it is too much for me, and my thought cannot compass\nit. And still it is. But is it not true that all men and all the saints\ntogether could not conceive the Eucharist? O the God of the Eucharist! how\ngood he is, how compassionate, how tender! Does it not seem as if he made\nagain the reproach: _You have asked nothing in my name; ask now, and you\nshall receive?_ I have him now without having asked; I have him now, and I\nwill never leave him more, and my desire, fainting for want of hope, is\nreanimated, and will only increase in the measure that possession lasts.\n\n\u201cAh! prison, dear prison, thou whose walls I have kissed, saying, _Bona\ncrux_, what happiness thou hast won me! Thou art no longer a prison; thou\nart a chapel. Thou art no longer even a solitude, because I am not alone;\nbut my Lord and my King, my Master and my God, lives here with me. It is\nnot only in thought that I approach him; it is not only by grace that he\napproaches me; but he has really and corporally come to find and console\nthe poor prisoner. He wished to keep him company; and can he not do it,\nall\u2010powerful as he is?... Oh! lost for ever, my prison, which wins for me\nthe honor to carry my Lord upon my heart, not as a sign, but the reality\nof my union with him.\n\n\u201cIn the first days I demanded with great earnestness that our Lord should\ncall me to a more excellent testimony to his name. The worst days are not\neven yet passed; on the contrary, they are coming near, and they will be\nso evil that the goodness of God will be obliged to shorten them; but, at\nall events, we are now drawing near to them. I had from the first the hope\nthat God would give me the grace to die well; at present my hope has\nbecome a true and solid confidence. It seems to me that I am prepared for\nanything through Him who sustains me and will accompany me even unto\ndeath. Will he do it? That which I know is, that if he will not, I shall\nhave a regret which nothing but submission to his will can calm.\u201d\n\nF. Ducoudray gives us his farewell letter also. It ends with alleluia in\nthe heart and the _fiat_ on the lips:\n\n\u201cI have received _all_. Tuesday what a surprise, what joy!... I am no more\nalone. I have our Lord for guest in my little cell.... And it is true,\n_credo_! On Wednesday I seemed to live over again the day of my first\ncommunion, and I surprised myself by bursting into tears. For twenty\u2010five\ndays I had been deprived of the rich blessing\u2014of my only treasure!\n\n\u201cI shut myself in the guest\u2010chamber,\u201d he continued, referring to the room\nin which the Last Supper was eaten, and that \u201cupper chamber,\u201d in which the\ndisciples remained concealed until the coming of the Holy Ghost, \u201cand much\nI wish, after these ten days which separate us from Pentecost are passed,\nto see again the light of heaven. Between now and then what events may\narise! We are near the crisis; but if it is prolonged, we have reason to\nfear that horrible events will take place. I cannot prevent myself at\ntimes from being greatly impressed at finding myself connected with such\ngrave circumstances. But here we make a good retreat, which will\nfacilitate our entrance into eternity. I have held myself, from the first\nday of my arrival here, ready for any sacrifice whatever; for I have the\nstrong, sweet confidence that if God permits hostages and victims to be\nmade of us priests and religious, it will truly be _in odium fidei, in\nodium nominus Christi Jesu_.(118)\n\n\u201cWe pray, pray much, disposed to live if God pleases, to die if God\npleases, as worthy children of our most happy father, S. Ignatius.\u201d\n\nHappy the pen that is broken after those last lines.\n\n\u201cIt should be well understood,\u201d wrote F. Caubert, \u201cthat it is really God\nwho gives us courage in our trials; otherwise the courage would very soon\nexhaust itself. For me, I have to run often to prayer to renew mine, like\na poor clock that has to be wound up every little while. In a life so\nisolated, sequestered and devoid of occupation, _ennui_ comes quickly. One\ncan easily make himself a rule, but we cannot always read or pray. I\nshould have experienced much of this in myself during this my three weeks\u2019\nretreat had I not been sustained by this very dose of prayer. You\nunderstand that in this monotonous life, whenever the good God hides his\npresence (and that is usual, in order to make the trial greater), one must\noften feel the sinking of nature. But this feeling of weakness is\nprecisely the very thing that drives us constantly near to God. The good\nGod is most admirable in his manner of sustaining the soul through these\nvery depressions. Our feebleness is as a chain binding us to his strength,\nand as an attraction drawing us to his infinite goodness.\n\n\u201cYou say to me that it must be that I suffer. In a measure it is true; but\nif one had nothing to endure, the good God would find nothing in his\naccount. He desires to show mercy to all, and, that he may do so, he wills\nthat we should offer him some sorrows borne for love of him. Alas! if one\nwere not a prisoner (I speak for myself), perhaps he would too easily\nforget that charity requires that we should have compassion on poor\nsinners, and offer something for their intention. And then is not the\npriest the friend of God, and should he not, by this title, devote himself\nto obtaining for his brothers reconciliation with God, the father of\nall\u2014the father so full of goodness and so ready for indulgence\u2014especially\nwhen he hears himself importuned by the voice of a friend?\u201d\n\n\u201cI take little account of the time of my imprisonment,\u201d he wrote later. \u201cI\nprefer to leave all that in the hands of God, and to give up to him the\ncare of all that concerns me. He knows better than I what is most useful\nfor my soul. I seek to remember often that one glorifies him so much more,\nthe more that one suffers for his love and to accomplish his holy will. In\nreality, in submitting to the trial, we practise in an admirable manner\nthe annihilation of ourself.... Is it not also by the sacrifice of ourself\nthat we best imitate our Lord? It is true that my soul has not yet reached\nto that perfection and to a love so pure and so detached. It is necessary\nto pass through trials to reach this union with God. He sends them, in his\ngoodness, to purify the soul and to break down the obstacles which oppose\nthemselves to this union. Pray for me, that I may draw this profit from my\npresent trial.\u201d\n\nA few rapidly\u2010written words from F. Olivaint were the last greeting from\none of the tenderest hearts and sweetest souls in the world. \u201cWhat\ndeplorable events!\u201d he wrote, May 18, to F. Lefebvre. \u201cHow well I\nunderstand the weary souls of other days who fled to the desert! But it is\nworth much more to stay in the midst of perils and difficulties to save so\nmany unfortunates from shipwreck. My health is always good, and, after\nforty\u2010six days, I am not tired of my retreat\u2014just the contrary.\u201d To F.\nChauveau: \u201cThanks from my heart. Yes, we are nearing the end, by the grace\nof God. Let us seek to be ready for all that comes. Confidence and prayer!\nHow good our Lord is! If you but knew how, especially for several days\npast, my little cell has become sweet to me! _Forsan et h\u00e6c olim meminisse\njuvabit._ Who knows that I may not regret it some day? I think just as you\ndo\u2014that Eugene [Count Eugene de Germiny] should not interfere; but in the\nend, if, by the favor of M. Urbain and his associates, I have need of\nhelp, I will ask for Eugene. In any case, thank him for me. Tenderest\nremembrances to Armand; many thanks to all; benedictions to our friends\nand benefactors. I believe that all of our own here are doing well. For\nme, I am perfectly sustained. Once more our Lord is good! Yours from the\nheart.... May 19, \u201971.\u201d\n\nOn Monday, the 22d, the order was given to proceed at once, and on the\nspot, to the execution of all the hostages confined at Mazas. This was\nkept concealed from the prisoners, but they could not help suspecting it,\nfrom the additional gloom growing every moment heavier and more ominous\nthroughout that ever\u2010gloomy building. The guards came and went, exchanging\nmysterious words among themselves, replying to the questions of the\ncondemned by threatening allusion, or by an affected silence even more\nsignificant. However, the director of the prison, moved by a sentiment of\nhumanity, or perhaps of prudence, ventured to represent to the imperious\nCommune that an execution in a simple house of detention would be contrary\nto all forms and precedents; and consequently they were ordered to La\nRoquette, the prison for those condemned to death. It was on this day that\nthe two pious women succeeded in reaching Mazas, and giving to each of the\nJesuit priests there four sacred hosts, with conveniences for carrying\nthem around the neck.\n\nNearly all were transferred to La Roquette late in the evening of May 22d;\nbut there were so many, the wagons were not large enough to hold all, and\nsome were left at Mazas until the next day. What a moment that must have\nbeen when the prisoners, so long in solitude, not even knowing who were\ntheir companions in misfortune, came from their cells, and, meeting in the\noffice, beheld and recognized one another! Priests, religious, laymen, all\nsurrounded the Archbishop of Paris.\n\nThe transit was long and painful. The prisoners, forty in number, were\ncrowded into baggage\u2010wagons belonging to the railway of Lyon, and exposed\nto the gaze and the insults of all. They had to cross the populous\nquarters of the Faubourg Saint Antoine and the Bastile, where the\ninsurrection was still mistress. The convoy went at a walk, between two\nlines of armed men, followed by the grossest insults and by a maddened\nmultitude. \u201cAlas! monseigneur,\u201d said a priest, leaning towards the\narchbishop, \u201clook at your people now.\u201d\n\nWhen they reached La Roquette that night, they were assembled at once,\nwithout any other formality, in the hall, called by name, and shown by a\nperson with a lantern to a long corridor on the lower floor; and as each\none passed on in the order named, a door opened and closed upon a captive.\nThe darkness was intense; but it is good to remember that in some of the\ncells there was the Real Presence, shedding light and peace. The Commune\nwas in desperate straits, and it was at first intended to execute the\nvictims as soon as they should arrive at La Roquette; but a few hours were\ngained through the jealousy of the director. In the cells was a bed, and\nsuch a bed!\u2014a pile of straw and a coverlet, and that was all; no tables,\nnot even a chair. Still, Roquette was better than Mazas, for the cells\nwere not vaults, and, though one was locked up, he was not entombed. And,\nbesides, they were permitted to see each other by means of a window\nbetween every two cells, and at recreation, which they were allowed to\ntake in a corridor together, and even in some unoccupied cell opening into\nthe corridor. Food was scarce from the first; even bread was rare. F.\nOlivaint shared some little things which remained to him with the\narchbishop, and had the happiness, also, of giving him the Bread of the\nStrong, for which the prelate was overcome with gratitude.\n\nEvery hour the Commune was losing ground. It had only strength left for\ncrime, and it hastened, with its dying breath, to order the execution _en\nmasse_ of the hostages of La Roquette. This was modified to sixty at\nfirst. At any price the Commune demanded the head of the priests\u2014those\nhated men who had troubled the world for eighteen hundred years.\n\nAbout eight o\u2019clock in the evening of May 24, when the prisoners were in\ntheir cells, there was heard a confused noise in the distance\u2014the voices\nof men and of children, a clamor and laughing that was still more\nterrible, mixing with the clash of arms. It came nearer and nearer, and\nsome fifty rascals, Avengers of the Republic, Garibaldians, soldiers with\nall kinds of arms, National Guards with all sorts of costumes, _gamins_ of\nParis, poured into the prison, hungry for the blood of six victims, their\nshare. They rushed the whole length of the corridor containing the cells\nof our dear prisoners, and ranged themselves at the head of a small spiral\nstaircase which led to the _chemin de ronde_. As they passed, each\nprisoner was pelted through the grating of his cell with a running fire of\ninsult and sentence of death.\n\nThen some one, assuming the office of herald, summoned the prisoners to be\nready and to respond each one as his name was called. After that, as each\nname was pronounced, a door opened, and a victim presented himself. M.\nBonjeau, FF. Duguerry, Clerc, Ducoudray, Allard, and Archbishop Darboy\nwere the six chosen. All were present, all were ready, and, in the order\nnamed, the procession began. The archbishop and his companions, preceded\nand followed by this frightful escort, descended the dark, narrow\nstaircase one by one. So unrestrained was the insolence of the captors\nthat their leader was obliged to interfere. \u201cComrades,\u201d he cried, \u201cwe have\nsomething better to do than to insult them\u2014that is, to shoot them. It is\nthe command of the Commune.\u201d\n\nNo place of execution had been fixed upon. They would have liked to have\nhad it on the spot, but that would give too many witnesses; the first\n_chemin de ronde_ was in view of the prison windows, and the occupants of\nthe cells on every floor could see all, hear all. So they passed to the\nsecond, where they would be sheltered by high ramparts. The victims were\nranged in a line at the extreme end of this path, at the foot of the great\noutside wall.\n\nThose left behind knelt, prayed, and held their breath. The fire of a\nplatoon was heard, followed by a few scattered shots, then cries of _Vive\nla Commune!_ which told that all was over. There were martyrs now, not\nvictims.\n\nTowards morning the bodies were thrown into a hand\u2010cart and carried to\nP\u00e8re la Chaise, where they were tossed into a ditch; no coffins, no\nceremony of any kind. \u201cWhat matters it,\u201d F. Olivaint had said and\nproved\u2014\u201cwhat matters it to a Jesuit, who daily sacrifices his heart, once\nto sacrifice his head?\u201d\n\nTwo days passed, and Friday came, rainy, and the prisoners were confined\nto their corridor. As they were taking their noon\u2010day recreation, a\ndelegate of the Commune appeared, and, standing in their midst, called off\nfifteen names. F. Olivaint was the first. \u201cPresent,\u201d he answered, crossing\nthe corridor. F. Caubert was second, and F. de Bengy third. This last name\nwas badly written, and worse pronounced. \u201cIf you mean to say _de Bengy_,\u201d\nhe replied, \u201cit is I, and I am here.\u201d\n\nThe condemned men asked to be allowed to go for a moment to their cells,\nas some had slippers on, and no hats. \u201cNo,\u201d was the response, \u201cfor what\nremains for you to do you are well enough as you are.\u201d New victims were\nadded from other parts of the prison until there were fifty in all, the\nnumber required by the Commune.\n\nThese were taken a long road to Belleville, a _faubourg_ at a great\ndistance, in order, probably, to excite the passions of the mob, and rouse\nthem once more.\n\nThe procession started at about four o\u2019clock from La Roquette. First came\na guard bareheaded, who loudly announced that these were Versaillais, made\nprisoners that morning. The escort consisted of five hundred armed men,\nNational Guards, to whom were added, for this genial occasion, the\n_Enfants Perdus_ of Bergeret and rowdies under various names. Presently\nthe women, veritable furies, and the children joined in, howling,\nshrieking, imprecating, blaspheming. The crowd increasing in numbers and\ninsolence, the guards were obliged to interfere to protect the prisoners,\nnot from insult, but from extreme violence. The fury of the mob constantly\ndemanded the moment of execution; a military band was added to the\nprocession to drown the clamor and make the crowd more willing to wait.\nFinally they reached the entrance to the _Cit\u00e9 Vincennes_. The passage is\nnarrow, the crowd was enormous, and growing ever more furious as they\nneared the end. An aged priest, who could not keep up, was shot and killed\nby a woman, and dragged to the place of general execution. After a time,\nthey found some grounds laid out for country parties or picnics, and an\nenclosure, uncovered, which was intended for a dancing\u2010hall. The fifty\nprisoners were forced into this, jammed savagely against the walls, while\nthe crowd showered maledictions upon them. Then, at about six o\u2019clock,\nthere took place a scene absolutely indescribable; not an execution, but a\nslaughter. They were not shot, but massacred. One discharge followed\nanother; there was an attempt made to fire by platoons, but it was badly\nmanaged. The heroines of the Commune climbed the walls, urging on the men\nand insulting the priests. The tumult at its height lasted for about\nfifteen minutes. At seven o\u2019clock all was ended. The bodies were left\nstretched upon the ground until the next day, when they were thrown into a\ncellar or vault.\n\nIt was the death\u2010throe of the Commune. The blood of the just had cried to\nheaven, and France lifted up her head. The next day was Pentecost; the\nCommune was crushed, the doors of Roquette were opened, the bodies of the\nmartyrs were recovered, and on Wednesday, May 31, the Jesuit church, for\ntwo months closed like the rest, was opened once more, and the funeral\nceremonies of the five of their order whose imprisonment we have so\nhastily followed celebrated with the utmost solemnity. Their remains now\nrepose in the Jesuit chapel of the Rue de S\u00e8vres.\n\n\u201cThere must be victims; it is God who has chosen them.\u201d They recognized\nthe divine call, and went forth rejoicing. _Ibaut gaudentes._\n\n\n\n\nAntar And Zara; Or, \u201cThe Only True Lovers.\u201d III.\n\n\nAn Eastern Romance Narrated In Songs.\n\nBy Aubrey De Vere.\n\n\n\nPart III.\n\n\nHe Sang.\n\nI.\n\nBeside the well she stood, and water drew:\n  The bowl, high held in both her hands, I drained;\nShe smiled, and sparkles showered of gelid dew\n  On my hot hair, and brows with travel stained.\n\n\u201cO maiden! by thy lambs, and by thy kids,\n  And by that holy, hospitable hand,\nKnow\u2019st thou her name whom Love to name forbids,\n  That fairest fair one of the far\u2010off land?\u201d\n\nHer eyes grew large; in wonder half, half ruth\n  She spake, like one who sorrowed, yet forgave\n\u201c_Our_ land a land of beauty is, O youth!\n  _Her_ maids are fair and good; _her_ sons are brave.\u201d\n\n\u201cO maiden! by those eyes, and quivering lids,\n  Forgive! From thee Love hides not his sweet lore:\nBreathe it to none\u2014not even thy lambs and kids\u2014\u201d\n  Then whispered I thy name, but told no more.\n\nII.\n\nHow base the soldier\u2019s revel o\u2019er his wine!\n  The tale around the encampment fire; the song!\nWould I might hear, O maid! no voice but thine,\n  Or clash of swords that meet to right the wrong!\n\nWhy must his earthlier nature taint, or vex\n  Man\u2019s race? His heart is brave; his thoughts are large;\nBenigner angels guard thy happier sex,\n  The angels that have innocence in charge.\n\nThe brightest of that band I saw in dream\n  To thee make way: a lily stem she bore:\nShe vanished, lost in thee, as gleam in gleam\n  Is lost: thou glittered\u2019st brighter than before.\n\nIII.\n\nWho shall ascend into thy realm, O Love?\n  It is a garden on a mountain steep:\nFrom heaven it hangs, the woods, the clouds above;\n  Sees many rivers into ocean creep.\n\nRound it are icy spires; that vale they guard;\n  But who can breathe the airs that o\u2019er it blow?\nWithin it blooms the rose, and drops the nard;\n  But who can clasp the roses of the snow?\n\nThe bird that sings there sings as sings a bride;\n  But who her mystic chaunt can understand?\nO maid, I saw thee ere we met, and cried,\n  \u201cThe land she treads on is a virgin land!\u201d\n\nIV.\n\nGladdening, as if in founts of Eden dipped,\n  Thy beauty cheers and strengthens hearts forlorn,\nNot like the shafts of Islam, venom\u2010tipt;\u2014\n  Dove\u2019s eyes thou hast, the glances of the morn.\n\nThy father\u2019s joy art thou, thy mother\u2019s boast;\n  Upon the dusty track by pilgrims trod\nLaugheth the cripple; and the warlike host\n  Divides before thee, giving thanks to God.\n\nThe merchants praise thee, and the wandering guest\u2014\n  \u201cHer veil down streams with such a humble pride,\nFairer is that alone than all the West\n  Irreverent boasts of charms that scorn to hide!\u201d\n\nV.\n\n\u201cIs thy love fairer than each other maiden?\u201d\n  The young maids ask me. Answer find I none:\nI know but this;\u2014she shines on hearts grief\u2010laden\n  Like visitant from star more near the sun.\n\nAbove her vesture\u2019s hem a lustre hovers:\n  Whiter her veil than earliest white of dawn,\nNow lifted as on sighs of happy lovers,\n  Around her now, like mist o\u2019er Hesper, drawn.\n\nSweet is her voice, as though with saint and angel\n  Her converse had been ever, and were still:\nWith her she seems to waft some high evangel,\n  So light her step, so frank with all good\u2010will.\n\nLet her be child, or girl, or maid, or woman\u2014\n  I know not what she is. Alone I know\nShe moves o\u2019er earth like creature more than human,\n  Missioned from God to spread his peace below.\n\nVI.\n\nWhen, travel\u2010worn, on thee I chance to muse,\n  Breeze\u2010like the fragrance comes across my heart\nOf spring\u2010flowers breathing sweetness through their dews;\n  So blissful and so bountiful thou art.\n\nThat hour I sing no song; but all my soul\n  Inly with laughter loud of music rings:\nThe anthems of a spirit o\u2019er me roll;\n  Of virtue, loveliness, and love he sings.\n\nAll light, the fields of duty round me spread;\n  Beyond them honor sits, with thee beside:\nA heaven all glory flashes overhead;\n  An earth all rapture trembles like a bride.\n\nVII.\n\nChanged is my love from what it was when first\n  Forth from my heart that dream of fair and good,\nLike Eve from side of sleeping Adam, burst,\n  And by me, when I woke, in glory stood.\n\nThat dream wert thou! A dream, and yet how true!\n  Still, still I see thee oft beside that brook,\nStanding \u2019mid lilies in the evening dew,\n  And in thy hand a little open book.\n\nDear are such memories; dearer far than these\n  Art thou\u2014now known; a lovely human soul\nRunning on levels of some spirit\u2010breeze\n  With wing\u00e8d feet to virtue\u2019s glittering goal.\n\nThe songs and sufferings of our native land,\n  The faith that lifts her high all griefs above,\nThese, and thy daily tasks of heart and hand,\n  Thee too have raised, and with thee raised my love.\n\nVIII.\n\nMy hand, made strong by years of manly strife,\n  Has taught my heart to love in manly sort;\nI know thee now\u2014a maid\u2014one day a wife;\n  No more a phantom from the fairy court.\n\nMine Arab sires their towers cross\u2010crowned had raised\n  Like thine, on crag and peak, and dwelt therein,\nHundreds of years ere first in scorn they gazed\n  Far down on crescent flags of Saladin.\n\nSeldom for us the unequal strife hath ceased:\n  Age after age that martyr\u2010crown we bear,\nHere in our old untamed, inviolate East,\n  The Church for three short centuries bore elsewhere.\n\nWife of our race must share the heroic mould:\n  A mother \u2019mid our mothers with calm eye\nMust look on death: like that great heart of old\n  Must give her own\u2014if God so wills\u2014to die!\n\nIX.\n\nFrom things that be around thee stand apart,\n  For I thy lover am, and fight afar:\nA sword I send thee, that betwixt thy heart\n  And alien things henceforth there may be war.\n\nI send thee not the trophies I have won,\n  Tokens of town redeemed, or rescued shrine:\nI send a sword; thy life is now begun:\n  Look up! In heaven, too, hangs the sword, a Sign!\n\nWith this commandment have I bound thine eyes,\n  That, fixed and set, henceforth no more they swerve:\nMine are they. She my life who glorifies\n  On me must gaze not, but that cause I serve!\n\nX.\n\nIn single fight we met: the invader fell;\n  Two hosts stood mute, one gloomy, both amazed;\nHis eyes, the eyes of one that hears his knell,\n  On me, and not my lifted sword, were raised.\n\nForth from that shivered helm outstreamed afar\n  His locks dust\u2010stained. Forth from those eyes there shone,\nBaleful in death, hate\u2019s never\u2010setting star:\n  He hoped no mercy, and he asked for none.\n\nThen cried my heart, \u201cA sister\u2019s hands have twined,\n  How oft! those locks; a mother\u2019s lips have pressed:\nPerhaps this morn the cassia\u2010shaking wind\n  Waved them, rich\u2010scented, o\u2019er his true love\u2019s breast.\u201d\n\n\u201cFoe of my race,\u201d I said, \u201carise; live free;\n  But lift no more against the Faith thy sword!\u201d\nWas it thy prayer, or but the thought of thee,\n  That sentenced chieftain rescued and restored?\n\n\n\n\nA Glimpse of the Green Isle. II.\n\n\nAfter mature reflection, the Lady from Idaho pronounced the Dublin ladies\nthe most beautiful in Europe. I consider the judgment an important one. If\nthe fair arbiter had any prejudice, it could only be a general one against\nthe recognition of beauty in others of her sex. I have been informed by\nyoung gentlemen of my acquaintance who profess a thorough knowledge of\nwomankind that such a prejudice is not unusual in feminine minds. I think\nMadame Idaho was rather astonished at the result of her observations. It\nis possible that, before her visit to Ireland, she supposed that feminine\nbeauty in Ireland offered only one style: that of the robustious or \u201cIrish\nwasherwoman\u201d type. She did not say so, however. While I agreed with her,\nin general, in her estimate of the Dublin beauties, I ventured to ask if\ntheir lovely feet were not a trifle too flat and too large for perfect\nsymmetry.\n\n\u201cNot at all,\u201d was the reply. \u201cIt is the horrid, clumsy, broad\u2010toed English\n_chaussure_ that makes the ladies\u2019 feet look so broad and flat. If they\nwore American _brodequins_, their feet would look as small, in proportion,\nas\u2014ahem!\u2014as those of any other nation.\u201d\n\nNo more on those feet.\n\nOf the various manifestations of Irish beauty, the most engaging is the\nunion of black or dark\u2010brown hair with soft blue eyes, a skin with the\nwhiteness of milk, and cheeks with the bloom of the rose. It is\ninexpressibly soft and attractive. And that wonderful blush that decks the\ncheek of youth and age! Is it the soft moisture of the climate which makes\nthe grass so green, even in the winter of the year, that causes the cheek\nto bloom so rosily, even in the winter of old age?\n\nA magnificent _jeunesse_ of the sterner sex may also be seen on promenade\nin Grafton Street every afternoon. Bright, intelligent\u2010looking, of\nsplendid physique, well dressed, not \u201cflashy,\u201d the students of the\nuniversity and the other colleges\u2014the picked youth of the country\u2014are not\ninferior in appearance to any class of young men in the great educational\ninstitutions either at home or abroad. They have an amiable weakness for\nlight\u2010colored Jouvins and single eye\u2010glasses. You shall not find two out\nof twenty unprovided with a glazing for the left eye. They are armed with\ncanes\u2014for use as well as ornament. I witnessed a \u201cTown and Gown\u201d row in\nJanuary of 187\u2010, in which the canes did vigorous service. A little snow\nhad fallen. Snow is a very precious thing in Ireland. It does not last\nlong, and must be used at once. The foolish janitors had swept the snow\ninto little heaps. This was temptation too strong for undergraduates.\nSnow\u2010balling commenced. The young gentlemen paid their compliments to the\ntown through the railings of College Green. The unwashed young gentlemen\nof the town replied vigorously. The fun grew fast and furious. In the\ndelightful excitement of the moment some of the students, not having the\nfear of the board before their eyes, paid their compliments to some of the\ndons, who happened to cross the outer quadrangle in cap and gown, with\nsnowballs of no contemptible solidity. The excitement increased. The\ngownsmen went outside the college grounds, and charged on the town\nragabrashes who were collected outside. The police intervened in the\ninterest of order, and were attacked by both parties. The policeman is the\nnatural enemy of the student as well as of the ragabrash. The police\nproceeded to make some arrests among the leaders of the gownsmen, and\nbegan brandishing their clubs. Snowballs were thrown aside, and canes were\nused. It was a sight to see the canes go up and down. The gownsmen succeed\nin rescuing the prisoners from the police, and retire within the walls,\ntaking a captive policeman with them, and cheering in triumph. The police\ninvade the college precincts, and rush to the rescue of their captured\ncomrade. They are driven out, and the victorious students follow them into\nthe street. The police suddenly turn on their pursuers, seize one of the\ncollege leaders, and, by a pretty piece of strategy, lift him on an\noutside car, and drive off with him at full speed to the nearest police\nstation. Rescue was out of the question, the _coup_ was executed so\nquickly. Everybody rushes after the car, and the green is deserted.\n\n\u201cEt le combat cessa faute de combattants.\u201d\n\nAfter a week of \u201chearings\u201d at the police court and intense excitement\namong the university men, the ringleaders were fined. The fines were paid\nat once. The captured policeman, who was a little battered and bruised,\nreceived ten pounds from the students for \u201csticking\u2010plaster.\u201d The board\nwisely let off the offenders with a reprimand, and the trouble ended in a\ngrand display of fireworks by the students.\n\nOld Trinity is an imposing structure. Life\u2010size statues of Burke and\nGoldsmith are placed at either side of the principal entrance. The college\ngrounds cover about thirty acres\u2014a beautiful green spot in the heart of\nthe city. In the centre of the outer quadrangle is a pretty _campanile_.\nThe provost has a pleasant residence within the college limits. Entry into\nthe grounds is free to all. A chief porter, in a swallow\u2010tailed coat and\nblack\u2010velvet jockey\u2010cap, watches over the principal entrance. The\nexamination\u2010hall, the library, the lecture\u2010rooms, the museum, etc., are\neach under charge of a special Cerberus in a jockey\u2010cap, who shows you the\nroom or building under his particular charge. Each Cerberus expects a\ngratuity. He will be very obsequious if he gets what his modesty considers\na sufficient _douceur_, and the reverse if he does not. The new museum\nbuilding is a fine edifice. The entrance\u2010hall and principal stair\u2010case are\nremarkable for the splendid specimens of every variety of native marble\nthey contain. The old rooms, where the museum now is, are damp and\ncheerless. There is an interesting collection of ancient Irish weapons,\nornaments, etc. What is said to have been the harp of Brian Boroihme will\nbe pointed out to you by the jockey\u2010capped janitor, who will also inform\nyou that, though the public is admitted, the collection is intended for\nthe use of the students, and not as an exhibition of curiosities.\n\nLectures, to which the public are admitted free, are given twice a week by\nthe various professors during term\u2010time. I had the pleasure of attending\nsome lectures by Sir Robert Stewart, the professor of music, and one by\nthe professor of ancient history. The latter gentleman handled Mr. Froude\nin an eminently courteous and scholarly manner, but at the same time most\ndecidedly \u201cwithout gloves.\u201d His lectures, however, were but poorly\nattended, while Sir Robert crammed the examination\u2010hall with the taste and\nfashion of Dublin, from the lady\u2010lieutenant down. All flocked to hear his\ncomparison of the Scotch and Irish bag\u2010pipes, illustrated by performers on\nthese instruments. Lady Spencer, it seems, has taken the Irish bag\u2010pipes\nunder her patronage. Her ladyship seems to be a very amiable and charming\nperson, but as to her taste in musical instruments\u2014well! _d\u00eagustibus non_.\n\nTrinity College is on the east side of College Green. On the north is the\nprincipal fa\u00e7ade of the old Parliament House. It was sold to the Bank of\nIreland after the Union. The House of Commons is now the teller\u2019s office.\nThe principal fa\u00e7ade is of the same order. It is grandly simple and\nimpressive. The semi\u2010circular colonnades of Ionic columns produce a noble\neffect. This building is said to be the finest development of the order\namong modern structures in Europe. I am inclined to think that this\npretension is not without foundation. The dingy appearance of all public\nbuildings in Ireland and throughout the British Islands\u2014the effect of\nsmoke and almost continual rain\u2014detracts greatly from their effect. A\nporter in livery, with a scarlet waist\u2010coat and a nose to match, shows you\nthe House of Lords. A statue of George III. stands where the throne\nformerly stood. In all other respects the room remains as it was when\nIreland had \u201ca Parliament House of her own.\u201d Tapestries of the Siege of\nDerry and the Battle of the Boyne are hung on the walls. If you give your\nred\u2010breasted conductor a sufficient gratuity, he will ask you to \u201ctake a\nchair,\u201d that you may be able to say \u201cyou had a seat in the House of\nLords.\u201d\n\nOne must not leave College Green without paying his compliments to the\nequestrian statue of William III., which stands nearly opposite the Bank\nof Ireland. The king is costumed _en Romain_. The bronze representative of\nthe glorious and pious Dutchman and his charger have suffered severely at\nthe hands of their enemies. The steed\u2019s fore\u2010leg, which is raised, as in\nthe act of stepping, has been broken off more than once, and replaced in\ncontempt of proportion. A curious critic has calculated that, if the leg\nwere straightened out, it would prove to be about half a foot longer than\nthe other legs. A gilded wreath on the brows of the statue gives it rather\na \u201cgingerbread\u201d appearance.\n\nAt the end of College Street is a bronze statue of Thomas Moore. The\nDublin critics call it \u201ca gloomy horror that murders the memory\u201d of the\npoet. The unrivalled songster is enveloped in a long cloak, and holds a\ntablet and pencil. He seems to be taking an inventory of the cabs and\n\u201coutsides\u201d that pass his station. The statue reminded me of that of Mr.\nLincoln in Union Square. Both have the same weather\u2010beaten, \u201cAncient\nMariner\u201d appearance, even to the trowsers of truly nautical extent. At the\nend of Westmoreland Street\u2014which is a continuation of College Street\u2014is a\nstatue of William Smith O\u2019Brien, which is quite respectable in design, and\ndoes not lack spirit in execution. The artist saw that voluminous trowsers\nare incompatible with bronze or marble.\n\nTwo minutes\u2019 walk brings us to the City Hall\u2014formerly the\nExchange\u2014situated on Cork Hill. It is a fine building of Portland stone\nwith a Corinthian portico of six lofty columns. It is surmounted by a\ncupola. In the hall is a statue of Grattan by Chantrey, one of O\u2019Connell\nby Hogan, of Dr. Lucas by Rontilias, and of the Third George by Van Nost.\nIf you wish to see the Council Chamber\u2014which has nothing more attractive\nthan portraits of the various lord\u2010mayors, O\u2019Connell among the number\u2014a\ngruff and crusty old porter in blue coat and brass buttons will admit you,\n_moyennant finance_. Even an extra obolus will not soften this rough old\nCerberus.\n\nWe are now close by the Cork Hill entrance to \u201cthe Castle.\u201d A figure of\nJustice, or Fortitude\u2014I really forget which\u2014surmounts the gate, and a\nprivate of the Coldstream Guards stands sentry. He will not stop you, as\nentry is free to all. About eleven in the morning is a good time to visit\nthe castle\u2010yard. At that hour the guard is relieved, and a magnificent\nmilitary band will delight your ears with most excellent music.\n\nThe castle is a rambling structure, situated in a poor quarter of the\ncity. There are two quadrangles: the upper and the lower castle\u2010yard. In\nthe upper are the apartments of the viceroy; in the lower, the offices and\nthe castle chapel. The only portion of the original building now standing\nis the Record Tower, anciently known as the Ward Tower. Irish prisoners of\nstate were here formerly confined. General Arthur O\u2019Connor, I believe, was\nthe last state prisoner who had to endure its hospitality.\n\nThe castle chapel is really a Gothic gem. It is built of Irish limestone\nand oak. The carving in the interior is exquisite. The windows bear the\narms of the various lord\u2010lieutenants in stained glass. The verger\u2014a\npatriarchal\u2010looking Englishman in a long, gray beard\u2014was very polite and\nattentive. He looked so \u201crespectable,\u201d so venerable, that we hesitated to\noffer him a gratuity, lest we might offend him. He soon undeceived us on\nthis point, for he accepted an English shilling; and pocketed it with an\nexpression of thanks. The traveller through the three kingdoms never fails\nto discover a great many very respectable\u2010looking persons who are not\nabove receiving gratuities of sums from a three\u2010penny piece upwards.\n\nS. Patrick\u2019s Cathedral is situated in a poor and squalid portion of the\ncity. The poor buildings which cluster close around it mar its general\neffect. It was closed when we reached it, but a silver key will open S.\nPatrick\u2019s, like most other buildings, at most hours. We were informed that\nin one of the dingy tenements hard by we should find a person who would\nadmit us. We did find him\u2014a man still young, dressed in very rusty black.\nHe smelled very strongly of whiskey, _entre nous_. The interior of the\ncathedral is simple and grand. In the choir hang the helmets, swords, and\nbanners of the Knights of S. Patrick. The spot where Swift and Stella\nsleep was the one most interesting to us, and thither our guide led us at\nonce. Swift\u2019s memorial is a plain slab of marble affixed to one of the\npillars. He is buried in front of it. The church is damp and cold. Our\nguide seems to feel the need of another stimulant. His voice trembles as\nhe reads the caustic dean\u2019s inscription on Marshal Schomberg\u2019s tomb; for\nour guide has picked up some Latin\u2014off the tomb\u2010stones, probably. The dean\nmade several applications to the descendants of Schomberg for funds to\nraise a monument to their deceased ancestor. But they never vouchsafed a\nreply to the dean. He finally put up a tablet at his own expense. The\ninscription, which was written by him, shows that he was very bitter on\nthe subject. The place where Swift lies now needs a little care. Our\nconductor said he had called attention to it in vain; but, as I said\nbefore, he smelt strongly of the native beverage. There is a very fine\nmonument to the officers and men of the 18th Royal Irish who fell in the\nIndian Rebellion. But the oldest and most remarkable monument in the\nchurch is that of Boyle, the first Earl of Cork. It is from twenty to\nthirty feet high, and represents the earl and countess lying side by side,\nsurrounded by their children, thirteen in number, if I remember rightly.\nThe figures are kneeling. They are life\u2010size, and are colored.\n\nS. Patrick\u2019s has been recently restored in its original style by a wealthy\nbrewer of Dublin at a cost of seven hundred thousand dollars. It procured\nhim a baronetcy. The grandeur of the interior is not marred by pews. The\nmovable seats\u2014such as one sees in Notre Dame and the Madeleine\u2014are\nadopted. A pregnant notice is posted on each chair. It informs the public\nthat \u201cthe future sustentation\u201d of the cathedral depends solely on the\nvoluntary contributions made by the public at the Offertory. Pity the\nsorrows of the disendowed Irish Church!\n\nWe were not able to visit Christ Church and the tomb of that ancient\nfilibuster, Strongbow, as the church was closed for repairs. A wealthy\ndistiller has undertaken the restoration of this cathedral at his own\nexpense. It is said that he also expects to get a baronetcy for his money,\nlike his rival, the manufacturer of \u201cFoker\u2019s Entire.\u201d Money is a glorious\nthing, if one has plenty of it. Tom Stumps, who sells just enough of man\u2019s\nbrain\u2010stealing enemy to eke out a miserable living, is a low, disreputable\nfellow. Bob Shallow, who manufactures the liquid madness _en grana_ and\nmakes a fortune by selling it to Tom Stumps and his like, becomes a\ndistinguished patriot, a public benefactor, and \u201cSir Robert Shallow, Esq.,\nJustice of the Peace and _coram_.\u201d\n\nThe cathedral in Marlborough Street is in the Grecian style, with a\nportico of Ionic columns, in imitation, as we are told, of the fa\u00e7ade of\nthe Temple of Theseus at Athens. Massive columns separate the nave and\naisles. The interior decorations are of great richness. In my humble\njudgment, they trench on the florid.\n\nThe Four Courts, on Usher\u2019s Quay, rise in solemn grandeur over the Liffey.\nThis building stands on the site of the ancient Monastery of S. Savior. It\nwas finished in 1800. The central front has a fine portico of six\nCorinthian columns surmounted by a rich pediment. On the left stands a\nstatue of Moses. On either side are statues of Justice and Mercy. At the\nextremities of the fa\u00e7ades are reclining figures of Wisdom and Authority.\nThe main building is flanked by spacious quadrangles enclosed by arcades\nof stone. The quadrangles are entered by broad and lofty gateways. The\nmain hall is circular in shape, and about seventy feet in diameter. The\n\u201cFour Courts,\u201d Chancery, Queen\u2019s Bench, Exchequer, and Common Pleas, open\ninto this hall. It is a busy, buzzing place in term\u2010time. Lawyers with\nplenty of briefs, and plenty of lawyers without briefs, may be seen there,\nthe former having hurried interviews with their clients, the latter\ndawdling about with quizzing glasses on their eyes, exhibiting their wigs\nand gowns, and eating oranges and \u201ccurrant\u2010buns.\u201d The court\u2010rooms are\nsmall, uncomfortable, badly lighted, and ill ventilated. The hall is\ncovered by a lantern and a dome supported by Corinthian pillars. In the\nspaces between the windows are allegorical _alti\u2010relievi_\u2014Justice, Wisdom,\nLiberty, Law, etc., and medallions of Moses, Lycurgus, Solon, and other\ngreat law\u2010givers. During night sessions a colossal statue of Truth,\nholding a torch lit by gas, illuminates the hall. Over the entrances to\nthe court\u2010rooms are bas\u2010reliefs of subjects in English and Irish history.\nThe hall contains statues of Lord Plunkett and other legal celebrities.\n\nThe custom\u2010house is on Custom\u2010House Quay, four or five squares east of the\nFour Courts, and, like the latter building, looks upon the Liffey. The\nriverfront is about a hundred and thirty yards long. The portico is Doric.\nThe Union of England and Ireland is allegorically represented in _alto\u2010\nrelievo_. The sister kingdoms are sailing in the same shell, while Neptune\ndrives away Famine and Despair. The building is surmounted by a lofty dome\nwhich bears a statue of Hope.\n\nDublin is well supplied with means of locomotion at cheap rates. There are\nomnibuses, street\u2010railroads, outsides, insides, covered cars, and four\u2010\nwheelers. The four\u2010wheeler is something the same as the New York _coup\u00e9_.\nThe fares for cars or _coup\u00e9s_ are sixpence English per trip for two\npersons, sixpence for each additional person, and an additional sixpence\nfor each stoppage or \u201cset\u2010down.\u201d The street\u2010cars, or \u201ctramway cars,\u201d have\nseats on the roof, which are a few cents cheaper than the seats in the\ninterior. The \u201ctop seats\u201d are much used by all classes in fine weather.\nThe city ordinances are very strict regarding cabmen and car\u2010drivers, and\nthe magistrates show the \u201cjarveys\u201d no mercy when they are proved to have\nmade overcharges or illegal demands. The drivers are consequently very\ncareful in their dealings with the general public. If you have a trans\u2010\nAtlantic flavor about you, \u201cjarvey\u201d will expect a gratuity. You give him\nhis exact fare. In order to keep within the law, he does not make a demand\nfor a greater sum, but, allowing the coin to rest on his open palm, he\nlooks at it with an air of superb disdain, and then, eyeing you with a\nsidelong glance, he asks with an air of primitive innocence:\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 what\u2019s this for, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor your fare,\u201d you reply sharply, with a determination not to be imposed\nupon.\n\n\u201cHumph!\u201d he says. \u201cShure it\u2019s a mighty long dhrive for half a bob. Faith,\nit\u2019s hard for a poor divil to make a livin\u2019 nowadays.\u201d\n\nTen to one you agree with him, and give him an additional threepence or\nsixpence, which he receives with enthusiastic wishes that your life may be\nprolonged to an indefinite extent.\n\nOur party patronized the four\u2010wheelers extensively, but never had the\nhardihood to venture on an \u201coutside\u201d in daylight. We were averse to public\ndisplay. During our stay in Ireland we tried the \u201coutside\u201d on one occasion\nonly; then it was against our will. Fortunately, it was at night. We\nreached Dublin, from a visit to some friends in the south, by the 10 P.M.\ntrain. All the _coup\u00e9s_ and covered cars were engaged. Our lodgings were\nabout two miles from the railway station. Walking, with the travelling\n\u201ctraps\u201d necessary on British railroads, was out of the question. We were\ncompelled to take an \u201coutside.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you feel?\u201d I asked the Lady from Idaho after we were seated and\nhad started.\n\n\u201cRather out of place,\u201d she replied. \u201cI feel as if I ought to be a little\nintoxicated.\u201d\n\nHer answer expressed my feeling exactly. It seemed to me that I was going\n\u201con the biggest kind of a spree.\u201d\n\nRailroads furnish rapid transit to suburban retreats where reside\nprofessional and commercial men whose business is in the city. One can\nlive in the pleasant little village of Kingstown, the harbor of Dublin,\nsix miles from the city, and reach Dublin in fifteen minutes. Trains run\neach way every half\u2010hour. It has taken me an hour and a half to come from\nEighty\u2010sixth Street to the City Hall by the street\u2010cars. This was when we\nmet with no accidents, and made a good trip. But New York has the worst\nlocomotive arrangements of any city in the world, and immeasurably the\ndearest.\n\nI had counted upon finding a great many beggars in Ireland. I expected,\nwhenever I alighted from coach or car, to have to run the gauntlet of a\ncrowd of hungry petitioners. I was most agreeably disappointed. During my\nstay in Ireland I was asked for charity in the public streets only once.\nIt was in Dublin, by a wretched\u2010looking woman with a sick child.\n\nA fine view of Dublin is obtained from one of the eminences in the Ph\u0153nix\nPark. It takes in the entire line of quays. This view has something of a\nreduced and smoke\u2010blackened effect of Paris. The Ph\u0153nix is one of the\nfinest and most extensive parks in the world. It covers nearly eighteen\nhundred acres. It is true that art has not done much for it, but nature\nhas done a great deal. It possesses some of the most beautiful\ncharacteristics of English park scenery\u2014beautiful green lawns, dotted with\nclumps of trees. Large herds of deer course swiftly over the uplands, or\nstop in groups, half frightened, to reconnoitre, in a coy side\u2010glance, the\nintruder into their domain. Charming rides, drives, and walks invite the\ndwellers in the city to pure air and healthful exercise. A portion of the\npark is railed off into a \u201cPeople\u2019s Garden,\u201d where poor as well as rich\nhave free ingress, and can gladden their town\u2010weary eyes with the sight of\ngrowing shrubs and budding flowers, and graceful water\u2010fowl sailing on the\npretty meres. A lofty monument to the Duke of Wellington\u2014not possessed of\nany artistic grace, however\u2014crowns one of the knolls. On the right of the\nmain avenue is the Viceregal Lodge. Near it is the column, mounted by a\nph\u0153nix, erected by the celebrated Lord Chesterfield, who first caused the\npark to be thrown open to the people. The English Government never sent to\nIreland a viceroy who had less prejudices against the people he was sent\nto govern. Somewhere in his celebrated letters he speaks of \u201chis friends\nthe Irish,\u201d and says: \u201cThey always liked me, and I liked them.\u201d The\nViceregal Lodge, with its dependent buildings, is a delightful summer\nretreat. I do not wonder that the viceroy should be glad to see the return\nof spring, that he might get away from the poor locality in which the\ncastle is situated. The Hibernian school for soldiers\u2019 children is\nsituated at the lower extremity of the park.\n\nThe Zo\u00f6logical Gardens are not far from the King\u2019s Bridge entrance. The\ncollection is a fair one, but the damp climate does not agree with the\nanimals, and they have the same woe\u2010begone appearance as their fellow\u2010\nsufferers in the Regent\u2019s Park. The elephants have a faded, mildewed\nappearance. The furred animals are suggestive of worn\u2010out hair trunks. In\nneither the Dublin nor the London Gardens do they look so bright and sleek\nas, under the brighter sky and more genial atmosphere of Paris, in the\nJardin des Plantes and the Jardin d\u2019Acclimatation. The collection of lions\nis good. Among them is a noble leo which the keeper informed us was born\nin the gardens.\n\n\u201cWhy, he is an Irish lion!\u201d said one of our party, hazarding a gentle\njoke. There was no response from the keeper. Not the merest ripple of a\nsmile. Decidedly, the Irish in Ireland are becoming a serious people.\n\nBetween the Under Secretary\u2019s Lodge and the Hibernian School is the\nhistorical tract known as \u201cThe Fifteen Acres.\u201d It was a celebrated\nduelling\u2010ground in the old days, when a \u201ccrooked look\u201d was followed by an\ninvitation to pistols and coffee. There it was that \u201cthe Queen\u2019s Bench\nwent out with the Common Pleas,\u201d and the \u201cChancery winged the Exchequer.\u201d\nIt was there that Daniel O\u2019Connell met Mr. d\u2019Esterre, and killed him.\nBeyond the park lie the famous \u201cStrawberry Beds,\u201d where the Dubliners\ncrowd, in the season, to enjoy their \u201csweet strawberries smothered in\ncream.\u201d\n\nAn omnibus plies regularly between the city and the Botanical Gardens at\nGlasnevin; but it is better to take a four\u2010wheeler, and suit your own time\nand convenience. Make your bargain with Jehu before you start, however.\nThe gardens are about thirty acres in extent. The cemetery where lie the\nashes of the great orators, Curran and O\u2019Connell, is at Glasnevin. The\nmonument to O\u2019Connell is an imitation of that puzzle to antiquarians\u2014the\nIrish Round Tower. The effect of the monument is not good. It seemed to me\ngrotesque and out of place. I could not at first explain to myself why it\nproduced such a harsh, unpleasing effect. A glance at the veritable Tower\nof Clondalkin enlightened me. The mock tower wants the mellowing touch of\nartist\u2010centuries to soften down its hard, new outlines, and make it seem\nin keeping with the repose that reigns in the City of the Dead.\n\nA pilgrimage to the birthplace of Thomas Moore was a labor of love which\nwe promised ourselves would be among the first performed after reaching\nDublin. We learned that the spot where the bard first saw the light was in\nAnngiers Street, generally pronounced by the Dubliners _Aingers_ Street.\nEverybody we asked professed to know all about it, yet nobody could tell\nus the number of the house. Anngiers Street is not a very long street. We\nconcluded to go through it from end to end, and at either side, examining\nevery house in detail. Anngiers Street commences at Stephen Street, in\nrear of the castle, and extends to Bishop Street. It is not a particularly\nclean street. It is only just to say, however, that it is no dirtier than\ncontinental, transatlantic, or Britannic streets of like degree. We began\nour pilgrimage at the wrong end, but our patient search was at length\nrewarded. The house is No. 12, at the corner of Anngiers Street and Little\nLongford Street. It was then occupied by \u201cThomas Healy, Wine and Spirit\nMerchant.\u201d According to some of little Tom\u2019s biographers, the old house\nhas always been devoted to the sale of intoxicating beverages. His father\nwas what Uncle Sam calls by the undignified name of \u201crumseller.\u201d But\n\u201chonor and shame from no condition rise,\u201d and Tom\u2019s muse may owe her\nseductive, anacreontic blush to his early associations.\n\nA weather\u2010soiled and smoke\u2010blackened bust of the poet occupies a niche\nbetween the windows of the second story. The house has been recently\npainted and renovated. When these repairs were commenced, the bust was\nremoved by the proprietor, and was not replaced at their completion. The\nworthy vender of wine and spirits who occupied the house, though he\nbelieved in filling bumpers fair, and their power of smoothing the brow of\nCare, was probably rather bored by the continual visits of votaries to the\nshrine of the poet. The sacrifices of these pilgrims to the rosy muse were\nmost probably merely theoretical. They did not \u201csend round the wine,\u201d or\norder any of it sent to their address in the city. They took none of those\n\u201cbrimming glasses\u201d generative of \u201cwit\u2019s electric flame.\u201d A plague on such\npilgrims! say I, marry and amen! The bust of the bard shall no longer be a\nbeacon for them. But the statesmen and critics who sit at the base of\nNelson\u2019s Pillar soon noticed that the niche was empty. Their poetical ire\nwas raised to an unpleasant degree. They brought such influences to bear\non the proprietor of the Cradle of Genius that the bust was at once\nrestored to its accustomed niche.\n\nThe Dubliners have a passion for flowers and rock\u2010work. Every available\nfoot of ground in front and in rear of their houses is devoted to the\ncultivation of flowers and the building of miniature grottos. The city is\nspreading very fast, and rows of cottages are building in the suburbs on\nall sides. In general, the houses are not what we Americans would call\ncomfortable. The fire\u2010places are very small; for coal is scarce and dear,\nand a bundle of kindling\u2010wood, composed of half a dozen chips not much\nlarger than matches, is an object of purchase. The grates seem constructed\nto throw out smoke instead of heat. In this they are well seconded by the\nmoist, heavy atmosphere. Living is good and cheap, however\u2014about one\u2010\nfourth cheaper than it is in our principal cities on this side of the\nAtlantic. Liquors are good in quality and moderate in price. Clothing of\nall kinds costs two\u2010thirds less than in New York, and is not \u201cshoddy.\u201d The\nEnglish custom of wearing flowers in the button\u2010hole prevails in Dublin.\nThe commerce in flowers is therefore extensive, and the shops devoted to\nthat charming traffic make delightful displays of floral treasures. The\nIrish fruit, however, with the exception of strawberries, gooseberries,\nand currants, is inferior to ours. American apples are for sale at all\nfruiterers\u2019, at prices very little greater than those of New York.\n\nCarving in \u201cbog\u2010oak\u201d is quite an important trade in Dublin. Indeed, it may\nmuch more probably be called an art. I have seen some very artistic\nspecimens of bog\u2010wood ornaments\u2014statuettes, groups, etc. Ladies\u2019 chains,\nbrooches, and bracelets of Irish bog\u2010oak were very fashionable a year or\ntwo since. The fashion extended even to London and Paris.\n\nThe Dublin streets are dull at night. The quality of gas supplied the city\nis poor. Early closing is pretty general, and all the principal stores are\nclosed at dark. Doubtless this is better for the clerks and shopmen, and\nmore economical for their employers. But it is not so pleasant for that\nlarge class of the community who love to saunter along the lighted streets\nin the evening, and feast their eyes on the treasures in the illuminated\nshop\u2010windows. There is little to tempt the tourist into the Dublin streets\nat night. I should advise him\u2014or particularly _her_\u2014to avoid promenading\non Saturday evening. I regret to say that evening is very generally\nobserved by handicrafts\u2010men and laborers, and even by shopmen and clerks,\nas a Bacchanalian festival. The number of persons who sacrifice to the\nrosy god at the week\u2019s end is lamentably great. Monday is a workmen\u2019s\nholiday, and it is very hard to get mechanics to work on that day.\n\nThe unsavory localities of Dublin are designated by strange names. Here\nare a few by way of example: Bow Lane, near the Insane Hospital founded by\nDean Swift, who, as he says or sings,\n\n\n    \u201cLeft the little wealth he had\n    To build a house for fools or mad,\n    To show, by one satiric touch\n    No nation wanted it so much\u201d;\n\n\nCook\u2019s Lane, Paradise Row, Cuff Street, Bride Alley, Lung Lane, Smoke\nAlley, Black Horse Lane, Bull Alley, Pill Lane, Marrowbone Lane, Pig Town,\nand Stony Batter.\n\n\n\n\nOne Corpus Christi.\n\n\n\u201cFlowers? Are they for a bride?\u201d he said,\nAnd wondered if that graceful head,\nNow bent to catch the soft perfume,\nWas soon to wear their tender bloom;\nBut when she raised her modest eyes,\nAnd answered him in half surprise,\n\u201cNo, they are for our Lord,\u201d he smiled,\nAnd thought: \u201cThis is indeed a child.\u201d\n\n\u201cGive me the loveliest,\u201d she said\n\u201cDelicate white and rosy red,\nAnd heliotrope and mignonette,\nAll that you know and I forget;\nAnd heap these crimson roses, so:\nYes, they are costly, that I know;\nBut what can be too fair or sweet\nTo strew beneath His sacred feet?\u201d\n\nThe light was fading; broken flowers\nLay scattered through the aisles in showers;\nFor all their fragrant wealth that day\nHad marked the Master\u2019s glorious way,\nAnd now, before the altar\u2010rail,\nA girl knelt, motionless and pale.\n\nA line of sunlight touched her hair,\nHer slender hands were clasped in prayer;\nIn silent bliss the moments passed,\nFor she had lingered to the last,\nUnconscious, in that holy spot,\nOf eyes that watched and wearied not.\n\n\u201cHow beautiful!\u201d the whispered thought,\nAll human, all of earth, she caught;\nAnd reading what that thought expressed\nBy the one key\u2010note in her breast,\nUplifting her adoring head,\n\u201cIs He not beautiful?\u201d she said.\n\nA thrill of awe, a flush of shame,\nHe knelt, and named his Saviour\u2019s name.\nSoftly she glided from the place:\nHe never looked upon her face;\nLow bent to earth his suppliant head,\n\u201cO Lord! make _me_ a child,\u201d he said.\n\n\n\n\nRelatio Itineris In Marylandiam.\n\n\nNarrative of a Voyage to Maryland. 1633.\n\nBy F. Andrew White, S.J.\n\nThe most beautiful chapter in the colonial history of North America is\nthat setting forth the colonization of fair Maryland, _Terra Mari\u00e6_, or,\nas she was pre\u2010eminently called, the _Land of the Sanctuary_. And yet this\nis, strange to say, one of the least read and least known of the chapters\nof our early history. Every American knows all about the Puritan Pilgrim\nFathers, and the _Mayflower_, and Plymouth Rock, and all the facts and\nfictions concerning the settlement of New England. Most Americans devoutly\nbelieve, upon the authority of New England orators and historians, that\nthe Pilgrim Fathers aforesaid were the founders of the civil and religious\nliberty now organized in this great republic, mistaking a strife for\nsectarian ascendency and domination for a contest for the great principles\nof religious liberty. In point of fact, the Puritan Pilgrims held in\nintense horror the very principles now so generously assigned to them.\nThey wanted, not equality, but supremacy. It was only in Catholic Maryland\nthat religious equality was truly established, both by the design of the\nCatholic proprietary, Lord Baltimore, and by the legislative enactments of\nthe freemen of the province, who cordially invited all persons persecuted\nfor their religious belief to find not only a refuge in Maryland, but all\nthe rights and privileges, civil and religious, enjoyed by themselves, the\nfounders of the colony.\n\nHere, and here only, then, do we see the first rays of true civil and\nreligious liberty in the American colonies\u2014a glimmer of light in old S.\nMary\u2019s like Portia\u2019s candle:\n\n\n    \u201c_Portia_\u2014That light we see is burning in my hall.\n    How far that little candle throws his beams!\n    So shines a good deed in a naughty world.\u201d\n\n\nIf now, indeed, the greater glory dims the less, we must not forget the\nlight of the candle in the then surrounding darkness.\n\nEverything connected with the early history of Maryland is, and ought to\nbe, deeply interesting to every American of liberal culture or sentiment.\nWe are pleased to see that the Maryland Historical Society is making\nearnest efforts to gather and save all the fragmentary lore pertaining\nthereto. The volume we now have in hand bears evidence of the fact. We\ngive the title\u2010page in full, as a summary of its substance:\n\n\u201cFund Publication, No. 7.\u201d\u2014_Relatio Itineris in Marylandiam. Declaratio\nColoni\u00e6 Domini Baronis de Baltimoro. Excerpta ex Diversis Litteris\nMissionariorum, ab anno 1635, ad annum 1638._ (Seal of Maryland Historical\nSociety.) \u201cNarrative of a Voyage to Maryland. By F. Andrew White, S.J. An\nAccount of the Colony of the Lord Baron of Baltimore. Extracts from\ndifferent letters of missionaries, from the year 1635 to the year 1677.\nEdited by the Rev. E. A. Dalrymple, S.T.D. Baltimore, February, 1874.\nBaltimore: John Murphy & Co. (Printers to the Maryland Historical\nSociety).\u201d\n\nThe Historical Society gives us a neat octavo volume of nearly 200 pages,\nissued in a style that would do credit to any publishing house in America,\nor, for that matter, in Europe either.\n\nThe learned editor, Dr. Dalrymple, tells us in the preface where and how\nthese valuable documents were obtained: \u201cAbout the year 1832 the Rev.\nWilliam McSherry, S.J., discovered, in the archives of the \u2018Domus\nProfessa\u2019 of the Society in Rome, the originals of the MSS. which are\nnamed on the title\u2010page. He carefully copied these MSS., and placed the\ncopies in the library of Georgetown College, D. C., of which institution\n(being at the same time the provincial of the society in Maryland) he\nafterwards became the honored president.\u201d\n\nTranslations were made and printed of these manuscripts; but, copies being\nnearly exhausted, the Historical Society determined to make a new issue,\naccompanying the new translation with the Latin text, as far as that could\nbe obtained, some pages of the original transcripts being unfortunately\nlost. The present volume is of the new issue, and it is little to say that\nits contents are intensely interesting.\n\nIt is quite charming to follow good F. White, missionary, saint, scholar,\n\u201cvir non minus sanctitate vit\u00e6, quam doctrina conspicuus,\u201d in his humble\nand earnest and successful labors among the savage aborigines of Maryland.\nHis great soul was given up to his holy mission. We follow the little\nfleet, the _Ark_ and the _Dove_ (what beautiful and significant names\u2014the\n_ark_ of Noah, and the _dove_ sent forth by the patriarch!), over the\nwaste of waters, where they had not only the dangers of the sea, but\n_Turks and pirates_, to dread, even from the British Channel onward over\nthe whole _Virginian_ Ocean.\n\nOn the 25th of March, A.D. 1634, the pious missionaries celebrated, as\nthey believed, the first Mass ever said in Maryland. But it seems that\nsome of their own order had preceded them on this field; for as early as\n1570 F. Segura and other Spanish Jesuits from Florida were endeavoring to\nbring the Indian tribes on the shores of the Chesapeake into the Christian\nfold, when they were ruthlessly murdered before the rustic altar on which\nthey had daily offered the Holy Sacrifice for the traitors who slew them\n(_Woodstock Letters_).\n\nThe colonists in S. Mary\u2019s soon made friendly relations with the Indians,\nand the missionaries had the inexpressible happiness of bringing many over\nto the true faith. The fathers would often\u2010times leave the dwellings of\nthe whites to abide entirely with the Indians, though the governor\ndisapproved of remote excursions, on account of the treachery of hostile\ntribes, who were always hovering around the borders. The fathers,\nmoreover, had no light duties in attending to the spiritual wants of the\ncolonists themselves, who were largely, but by no means exclusively, good\nCatholics.\n\nIn those primitive days, when all the freemen of the province met in\ngeneral assembly for the purposes of legislation, F. White and his\ncolleagues were summoned to take part in the sessions; but they declined\nthe honor, and, as \u201cthey earnestly requested to be excused from taking\npart in the secular concerns of the colony, their request was granted.\u201d\nThey could do _their work_ more effectively, _ad majorem Dei gloriam_, in\nthe rude Indian wigwam where they had established an altar, than in the\nhall of the legislative assembly.\n\nLord Baltimore obtained lands from the Indians by purchase, and not by\nconquest, and colonists and Indians and missionaries were usually upon the\nmost friendly terms together. The Indians treated the strangers to their\ndishes, to _pone_ and _omini_, and roasting ears, and game, and fish, and\noysters; and, in return, during a season of famine, the Indians were\nsupplied from the not over\u2010abundant stores of the colonists. The natives\nthen were not inclined to strong potations: \u201cThey are especially careful\nto refrain from wine and warm drinks, and are not easily persuaded to\ntaste them, except some whom the English have corrupted with their own\nvices.\u201d Alas! from that day to this how many untold thousands of the\nchildren of the forest have been sent, body and soul, to perdition by the\ninfusion and diffusion among them of English vices!\n\nThe missionaries give accounts of their labors with a _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ that is\ncharming. We can see them starting on the broad river in a little boat\u2014a\nfather, an interpreter, and a servant\u2010man of all work, with their supplies\nof bread and cheese, and dried corn and beans, with a bottle of wine for\nreligious purposes, a casket with the sacred utensils, and a table as an\naltar for performing sacrifice, and another casket with trifles for the\nIndians\u2014bells, combs, fishing\u2010hooks, needles and thread, and other such\ncommodities. They take a tent to cover them when beyond the reach of\nEnglish residents, and, after a weary day\u2019s work, they lie down by the\nopen fire to take their rest. \u201cIf fear of rain threatens, we erect our\nhut, and cover it with a larger mat spread over; nor, praise be to God, do\nwe enjoy this humble fare and hard couch with a less joyful mind than more\nluxurious provisions in Europe.\u201d In fact, they are so happy in their work\nthat they think God gives them already a foretaste of the blessed life of\nthe future.\n\nUpon one of these excursions a friendly Indian was pursued by enemies and\ntransfixed with a spear; they \u201cpierced him through from the right side to\nthe left, at a hand\u2019s breath below the arm\u2010pit, near the heart itself,\nwith a wound two fingers broad at each side.\u201d Some of the man\u2019s friends\nwere converts, and they called in F. White to prepare him for death. The\nmissionary gave him suitable instructions, taught him short prayers, and\nreceived him into the church, and, touching his wounds with relics of the\nmost holy cross, took his leave, directing the bystanders, when he should\nbreath his last, to take him to the chapel for the purpose of burial. The\nnext day this same Indian, with a companion, followed the father in a\nboat, showed him the red spots where the wounds were of the previous day,\nexclaiming \u201cthat he is entirely well, nor from the hour at which the\nfather had left yesterday had he ceased to invoke the most holy name of\nJesus, to whom he attributed his recovered health.\u201d\n\nThe people of the lower counties of Maryland have always had a reputation\nfor culture, refinement, and good manners. They appear to have these\ntraits by inheritance. \u201cThe Catholics who live in the colony,\u201d writes a\nmissionary (A.D. 1640), \u201care not inferior in piety to those who live in\nother countries; but in urbanity of manners, according to the judgment of\nthose who have visited the other colonies, are considered far superior to\nthem.\u201d\n\nWe find we are extending what was intended for a brief notice into a\nregular article, for which the reader may or not thank us; an abiding and\nessential interest in the cause must be our apology. We will say but\nlittle more, though the theme admits of vast expansion.\n\nIn Lord Baltimore\u2019s _Declaratio_, or account of the colony\u2014which, by the\nway, is very much _couleur de rose_ (\u201cIt is sad to contrast the glowing\naccounts of Maryland in the _Declaratio_ and the painful experience of the\nmissionaries,\u201d says the editor with great justice)\u2014we find him inviting\nhis countrymen to go to his colony, not only to better their material\ninterests, but also to spread the seeds of religion and piety\u2014a work, he\nsays, _dignum angelis, dignum Anglis_. This recalls to mind the happy\nwitticism of the great pontiff who sent Augustine to perform the same work\nwith the English themselves.\n\nThere is scarcely a page of this new issue of the _Relatio_, and the\naccompanying letters, that does not invite special interest. Surely those\nmissionaries were men of God, living and dying to serve him only. \u201cI would\nrather,\u201d writes F. Brock, laboring in the conversion of these Indians,\n\u201cexpire on the bare ground, deprived of all human succor, and perishing\nwith hunger, than once think of abandoning this holy work of God from fear\nof want.\u201d Within a few weeks after writing that letter, worn out with\nprivations, he went to rest from his labors.\n\nGood F. White, seized by Claiborne\u2019s rebel soldiers, was sent in irons to\nEngland, where he died like a saint, as he had lived. \u201cHis self\u2010denial,\nprivations, and sufferings,\u201d says Dr. Dalrymple, himself a Protestant\nminister, \u201cand the touching patience and cheerfulness with which they were\nall endured, move our profound respect and admiration. F. White deserves a\nhigh place of honor amongst the many heroic missionaries of the Society of\nJesus.\u201d What wonderful men they were indeed, the old Jesuit missionaries!\nWe of the present day could scarcely believe their lives possible but for\nthe F. De Smets and kindred spirits who repeat them even in our own day.\n_Laudamus viros gloriosos.... Omnes isti in generatione su\u00e6 gentis gloriam\nadepti sunt._\u2014Eccles. cap. xliv.\n\nWe may repeat that the Maryland Historical Society has done a good work in\nbringing out this volume anew; and its agents, editor, translator, and\npublisher have all done their work in the most creditable manner. We\nobserved in the translation, excellent as it is, some few points open to\ncriticism; as, _e.g._, p. 10, \u201c_To the Very Rev. Father, General Mutius\nVitelleschi_.\u201d The comma is misplaced between father and general. On p. 11\nit is said, speaking of S. Clement, \u201cwho, because he had been tied to an\nanchor and thrown into the sea, obtained the crown of martyrdom.\u201d A man is\nnot a martyr because of his execution in any fashion, but because of the\nprinciples for which he suffers. We find, on p. 12, the word _Sabbatum_\nrendered _Sabbath_, instead of _Saturday_, which would convey the true\nidea in this case. There may be some other slight inaccuracies of the same\nor a similar kind, but, upon the whole, they are unimportant, and the\ntranslation is a fair and creditable rendering of the text.\n\nFinally, we would say that if the reader would wish to spend a few hours,\nsafely, profitably, and pleasantly in field and camp, with true soldiers\nof the cross, let him obtain and read the _Relatio Itineris_, with the\naccompanying documents.\n\n\n\n\nOn The Wing. A Southern Flight. IV.\n\n\n\u201cDe Fil En Aiguille.\u201d(119)\n\nBy the time we had been a fortnight at R\u2014\u2014 R\u2014\u2014, the sentiment of the\n_dolce far niente_(120) of the Italians seemed gradually to take\npossession of Mary and myself. I sketched a little, and Mary sat in the\n_loggia_, reading occasionally, and dreaming a great deal. Frank was still\nabsent; having, in the most unjustifiable way, undertaken a complete tour\nin the Abruzzi, accompanied by his friend, Don Emidio Gandolfi, who had\ngiven him rendezvous at Monte Casino. One day, however, when I came home\nfrom a delightful ramble all over the gardens of the Villa \u201cMon Caprice,\u201d\nMary greeted me with the exclamation:\n\n\u201cFrank will arrive the day after to\u2010morrow, and Don Emidio is coming with\nhim.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought it had been settled Don Emidio was to go back to Rome.\u201d\n\n\u201cSettled by whom, my dear Jane? I conclude he has changed his plans.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell! I know how it will be: we shall have none of Frank\u2019s society; he\nwill for ever be making excursions with Don Emidio where we cannot go.\u201d\n\n\u201cTheir distant excursions are over; and we want them for all the places we\nhave to visit near Naples. Up to now we have been so taken up with the\nVernons that I have not cared for much more than the walk backwards and\nforwards to their house and our own. But we have a great deal to see, and\nI am longing to begin.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! Don Emidio has seen it already a dozen times. It would only bore him\nto go over it again.\u201d\n\nI cannot conceive what made me say this to Mary. I think I was cross. I\nknow I was tired and hot with my walk. She made no answer for a few\nseconds; but I felt she was looking at me. And so I did that stupid thing\nwhich one always hates doing and cannot the least prevent\u2014I blushed.\nHaving thus made myself look like a fool, I glanced at Mary, and our eyes\nmet.\n\n\u201cDo you dislike Don Emidio, Jane, that you speak in that way?\u201d\n\n\u201cDear me! no, not at all. I only did not suppose he would care to go over\nall the old places again.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not always the places; it is sometimes the company that is the\nchief attraction.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! yes; I know Don Emidio is devoted to Frank.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think he likes us all, Jane.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo one can help liking you, Mary; and I dare say he does not _dis_like\nme.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs that all you think about it, my dear?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course it is. What more is there to think about it?\u201d And then, as I\nknew I was blushing again, I went out of the room to take off my hat. But\nI did not care to go back to Mary directly, for fear she should say\nanything more to make me cross. So I ran down to Villa Casinelli to have a\nchat with the Vernons. I found them all in a state of very great\nexcitement. Ida was looking anxious, her eyes glistening like diamonds,\nand a bright, hectic spot on each cheek\u2014which I never like to see, knowing\nhow delicate she is. Elizabeth, who is always calm and gentle, and rather\nslow in speaking and moving, was sitting opposite Ida, with her large,\ndark velvet eyes full of tears. As I entered, Ida started up, exclaiming:\n\n\u201cO Jane! what do you think those dreadful Casinelli have done now? This\nmorning, before anybody was up, they cut down the chapel bell, which was\nhung outside the door on our floor, near the servants\u2019 rooms, so that\nLucia might ring it every morning. And now, to\u2010day, a feast\u2010day, on which\nthe congregation was sure to be numerous, when Lucia went to ring the bell\nfor the first time (you know we always ring it thrice), she found that the\nrope was left dangling, but no bell. After hunting about everywhere, one\nof the Camerota, the father of your Paolino, found it tied to a fig\u2010tree\non the terrace just above the chapel. The _contadini_(121) are in a wild\nstate of indignation, and I really am at a loss to imagine what will\nhappen next; for what with the insult to religion, the annoyance to Padre\nCataldo, and the constant anxiety to ourselves, I begin to think we shall\nhave to throw it all up, and leave this place.\u201d\n\nI had already heard a great deal about the Casinelli and their\nextraordinary conduct. Indeed, ever since we had been near neighbors to\nthe Vernons, the ins and outs of this intricate and truly Italian intrigue\nhad formed one of the chief themes of our daily conversations. But to\nenable my readers to follow the plots and stratagems of this Macchiavelian\nfamily, I must give an account of the whole group. My story will represent\na state of things not, I imagine, to be found anywhere out of Italy. Every\nnation has its characteristics, its qualities, and their corresponding\ndefects. The peculiar _finesse_ and acuteness of the Italians make them\nthe best constructors of a plot that imagination can conceive, and give\nthem a proportionate facility for carrying it on and working it out. They\nare natural born actors. And they can so identify themselves with the\ncharacter they wish to assume that not only is it exceedingly difficult\nfor the most diligent observer to detect the false from the true, but I\ndoubt if even they themselves do not end in interiorly confusing the two\nso absolutely as to efface all moral lines of demarcation. They can make\nthemselves a false conscience on a gigantic scale, and end in themselves\nbelieving the lies they have invented.\n\nThe Casinelli are a numerous family, consisting of seven daughters and two\nsons, all equally endowed with the faculty, of assuming a part, not for\ndays or weeks, but for years or for a whole life. The one fixed and\ndeterminate object of the nine persons is, as is usual with Italians, to\nmake money. To obtain wealth, and always more wealth, all means seem\nlawful to them, and no stratagem too low. The house, garden, and vineyards\nof Casinelli make altogether a nice and profitable little property, and,\nof course, it belongs to them all\u2014that is, each has a share in it. They\nhave wisely agreed that more will be gained by their all holding together,\nas regards the property, than by any division, especially as it is but\nsmall. They reserve a few rooms on the ground floor of the house for their\nown use, though their residence is principally in Naples. The other two\nsets of apartments in the house they let to strangers. But in order to\nmake sure of all the fish that may come to the net, the elder brother is\nstated to be the owner of one of the suites of rooms, and one of the\nsisters of the other. The sister professes to be a very dragon of virtue,\nand will receive no tenants who do not bear an unspotted reputation, and\nwho cannot also give evidence of a more than merely respectable position\nof life\u2014they must be well, and even highly, connected. The brother, on the\ncontrary, is quite ready to part with his rooms to anybody who pays his\nrent. \u201cWhat does he care about who they are, or what they do, so long as\nhe gets his money?\u201d And in the case of the honest man happening to have a\npreference for the brother\u2019s rooms, while the gay Lothario has set his\nheart on the spinster\u2019s domain, ho! _presto_, the proprietorship is\nquickly changed; the brother owns the sister\u2019s side of the house, while\nthe sister is the fair possessor of the brother\u2019s portion. If you are so\nill advised as to look dubious and express an impression that it had been\notherwise, you are met with a calm, indulgent smile at your evident\ndeficiency of intelligence: \u201cDear me! no. Were you not aware it was\nnothing of the kind? Some repairs necessary to be made in my brother\u2019s\nrooms had led to his holding mine for a time. He wanted them for a friend\nof his. I regretted the fact; but I was not acquainted with the character\nof the tenant when I conceded my rooms to my brother, because I was myself\ncalled from home\u201d (or some such reason), \u201cand was unable to attend to the\nletting. I deeply regretted the fact; but it was done without my\nknowledge.\u201d And thus they turn about; always contriving to run with the\nhare, and hunt with the hounds. As a rule, it is the sister who comes\nforward and acts as _padrona_(122) when the parties wishing to hire either\nset of rooms are evidently respectable. If they are the reverse, the rooms\nare let nevertheless, but then it is the brother who meets the storm. And\nthus they enact the little man and woman who come out of the clock: the\nlady in fair weather, the gentleman in great\u2010coat and umbrella when it is\nwet.\n\nI am not aware of what the Casinelli family motto is; but it ought to be,\n\u201cDivide and govern.\u201d For they adopt the same double\u2010surface process as\nregards politics. One brother is a staunch Bourbonist, the other a fervent\nLiberal. In public each bewails the opinions of the other. And thus,\nbetween the two, they catch the favor of both parties, and divide the\nspoils between them. If circumstances call for extreme measures in order\nto gain some end in view, the whole family will combine together to fall\nupon one particular member who, for the time being, represents some\npolitical view at that moment discredited. Their lamentations over the one\nblack sheep are long and loud. Everybody\u2019s sympathy is appealed to;\neverybody must lend an ear to the terrible calamity which has befallen\ntheir illustrious family, inasmuch as one of the race has been, or is,\nguilty of\u2014, whatever the crime in question may be. Such grief, such\nindignation, expressed on the highest moral grounds, attracts attention,\nprocures small favors from compassionating friends, creates at least an\ninterest, and adds to their importance and consideration; while all the\ntime the black sheep himself is privy to the whole affair, and receives,\nin the secrecy of the domestic circle, his full share of indemnification\nfor having stood as whipping\u2010boy for the rest of the family. He keeps\nquiet for a little while, as being under a cloud. Then presently he\nreappears to enjoy the results of his own condemnation. The elder brother\nand sister, who are the prima donna and tenor of the domestic comic opera,\nare always said to be on bad terms with each other; not that they are so\nin reality, but because, if one has made a bad bargain or inconveniently\noffended anybody, the other can immediately step forward, pretending\nseverely to blame the delinquent, and offering his or her services to\nrepair the injury, or, in the case of a bad bargain having been made,\ninsisting on a readjustment of the case; not from personal motives,\nhaving, as he or she states, no interest in the matter, but solely from a\nsense of justice. In short, they \u201chedge\u201d in a way that would make their\nfortune a thousand times over at Epsom or Ascot. No matter what horse\nloses, they are sure to have made up their book in such a way that they\nmust win something out of whatever happens. And, meanwhile, the member of\nthe family who appears to the outsider to take his part against all his\nown kith and kin obtains the eternal gratitude of the deluded individual,\nwho is not aware that he has been assisting at a family intrigue, based\nupon his own misfortune, and intimately and minutely combined by the whole\nset of them. When the Vernons wished to rent one of the suites of\napartments, it was the elder sister who came forward with expressions of\nthe warmest delight. What she had long desired had been that some family\nshould reside there who had a chaplain, and that thus their pretty little\nchapel, entirely cut out in the tufa rock on the sands of the sea\u2010shore,\nwhich rock forms the foundation of the house, would again come into use.\nShe was eloquent in describing how that formerly that chapel had been so\nuseful to the numerous _vignaiuoli_ and their families living on and near\nthe premises. They themselves, she stated, were no longer rich enough to\nafford themselves so great a consolation, now that the one brother who had\nbeen in the priesthood was dead. She was quite certain that Padre Cataldo\nwas a saint; and, for her part, no one but the Vernons should inhabit that\npart of the house, for their mere presence would bring a blessing on all\nthe rest. She even talked of restoring whatever was wanting in the chapel,\nand doing it up. It had been sadly neglected, and the cobwebs hung in\nfestoons from the rude but effective carving above the altar on the coved\nroof and the walls. The subject of the bas\u2010reliefs was the Assumption,\nand, though roughly done, it had a very good effect, scrolls and angels\u2019\nheads being intermixed with the principal figures, and the whole\ndistempered in white picked out with bright blue. A great deal was said\nabout the reparations, and the Vernons, who did not then know what sort of\npeople they had to deal with, imagined all that was required for the use\nof the chapel would be found. They soon discovered their mistake, and,\nbeyond a little cleaning done, they had to provide almost everything. As\nsoon as the Vernons had prepared it, the eldest Casinelli brought all her\nfriends to look at it, that they might admire the piety of her family, and\nlearn the sacrifices _they_ had made in order to afford this consolation\nto the neighborhood!\n\nBut wisely judging that unforeseen circumstances might occur which would\nshow their interests and the way to make more money might lie in another\ndirection, the eldest brother was directed to assume quite another tone.\nHe was therefore deputed to act the sceptic on the occasion, and make\nsupercilious remarks about his sister\u2019s excess of piety, and the\ninconvenience and folly of these extremes of devotion. He shrugged his\nshoulders about it, and lamented that, not being master, he could do\nnothing to refrain her from so rashly committing herself to possible\nexpenses, and even to probable difficulties with the present government,\nfrom the presence of a zealous and hard\u2010working Jesuit father. At the same\ntime, he gave no handle against himself in the matter, but preserved an\noutwardly civil manner towards the Vernons, and a cold regret towards\nPadre Cataldo. As time went on, the Vernons discovered that there was an\never\u2010increasing difficulty about all that was requisite for the altar. The\naltar linen was withdrawn, and they had to find their own. The vestments\nwere borrowed one day, and never returned. By the time we arrived, almost\neverything for the service of the altar was the property of the Vernons;\nand Ida\u2019s active fingers had achieved the happiest results from very\nlimited materials.\n\nMeanwhile, there could be no doubt of the good that was being done in the\nneighborhood from the reopening of the little chapel and the active piety\nof Padre Cataldo. The parish church is a long way off, and up a very steep\nhill. The result is that few of the little children and women could get to\nchurch at all. There is a chapel, dedicated to Our Lady of Dolors, by the\nroadside at Posilippo, but it is very small. And there is another built by\nthe Minutoli when, for love of the poor, they left their beautiful villa\nof \u201cMon Caprice,\u201d and raised an asylum for the aged poor, and a house to\nwhich they themselves retired, giving away all they could spare from their\nown modest requirements. But this also is somewhat at a distance; and,\nmoreover, the population is large, and the accommodation altogether but\nscanty.\n\nI have seldom seen more fervor and devotion than in the little chapel at\nCasinelli, hewn out of a rock, with its simple decorations and a few\nnatural flowers on the altar. There was no music, and I cannot for a\nmoment pretend that there was the slightest approach to harmony in the\nloud, harsh, powerful shouting which the Italian peasantry are content to\nmistake for singing. But, at least, there was real devotion, as they sat\nwith eyes fixed on the preacher, who so beautifully and so earnestly\ndiscoursed to them as a father might to his children. I have often seen\nthe tears streaming down their cheeks; and then from time to time we would\nhear of first this and then that hardened sinner who came creeping back to\nhis or her duties, and making us all glad. Several small boys served at\nthe altar; and as the honor was highly prized, they had been made to come\nin rotation to obviate quarrels. One small creature of about four years of\nage, and who had quite the most marvellous eyes and the longest lashes I\never saw, was specially pertinacious about his rights. In short, there was\nsomething touchingly primitive and real about the whole thing which could\nnot fail deeply to impress us who came as strangers into this little\nseaside sanctuary. As we sat waiting for the priest to arrive, or in the\nsilent parts of the Mass, we could hear the waves lapping the yellow sands\njust outside the half\u2010closed door. This was the public entrance; and\nsometimes, in rough weather, I think it must have entailed a little\nsprinkling of salt water on the worshippers. We entered the chapel by a\nflight of marble stairs, in a tower which led from the inner court of the\nVilla Casinelli, and which stairs brought us into an aisle of the chapel,\ncut further in the rock, and consequently always somewhat dark. I remember\nMary\u2019s going to Mass before breakfast, and having desired Paolino to bring\nher coffee, and put it in one of the niches of the marble staircase; which\nhe did, greatly amused and pleased at so unusual a proceeding. It was\nnever, however, repeated, for the wind blew fresh and cold, and the\nVernons were almost hurt at what might look like a mistrust of their ever\u2010\nready and abundant hospitality.\n\nThere was altogether something about the arrangement and position of the\nchapel so unlike the beaten ways of everyday life that, united as it is\nwith the memory of the beautiful short addresses of the father and the\ndevotion of the people, it remains in our minds heightened by a tinge of\nromance. And now there was the fatal apprehension that all this was to be\ndestroyed.\n\nIt was some little time before Mary and I could quite make out what this\nsuddenly\u2010developed though long smouldering hostility to Padre Cataldo and\nthe Vernons could mean, the Casinelli had appeared so anxious to be civil\nto the latter, and had professed such delight at first that the chapel\nshould be reopened. At length we learnt the facts of the case, which were\nas follows: The Vernons had been residing at Casinelli for about two\nyears, and doing a great deal of good in their immediate neighborhood,\nwhen an Italian gentleman, a strong Liberal, and openly professing\ninfidelity, applied for the set of apartments corresponding to those\noccupied by the Vernons. In this case it was the brother who appeared as\nthe owner, and who, careless of all save his rent, let it at once to the\nMartorelli, as we will call the gentleman in question and the lady who\naccompanied him.\n\nThis, of course, was a grand opportunity for the sister to come forward in\nthe family comedy, and enact her part. So with loud bewailings and great\ndisturbance of the whole household, she took to her bed, and sent for all\nher acquaintances to come and bewail with her the wickedness of her\nbrother, who had let the apartments to such people\u2014not even\nrespectable!\u2014and so brought a slur on his father\u2019s house. Everybody was\nentreated to pray that the brother\u2019s hard heart might be touched and his\nconversion effected.\n\nBut, in the meanwhile, nothing was done by any member of the family to\nprevent the Martorelli from taking quiet possession, as tenants, of a\nproperty which belongs to all the Casinelli, and about the letting of\nwhich, therefore, every one had a voice. This case was so glaring a one,\nand was so likely to bring the Casinelli into disrepute, that it was found\nnecessary to drill all the members of the family to act the part of\noutraged propriety. Therefore all the seven sisters refused acquaintance\nwith the new\u2010comers, while they redoubled their attentions to the Vernons,\nwearying them with reiterated invectives against the Martorelli, and\nostentatiously going the whole round of the garden, rather than run the\nrisk of meeting them in the avenue which leads to the principal entrance.\n\nSix months elapsed, and during that time the brother was a constant guest\nat the Martorelli\u2019s, while more and more he evinced a marked absence of\ncivility towards the Vernons, and especially towards Padre Cataldo. On one\noccasion, as the brother returned from dining with the Martorelli, he said\nsomething positively insulting to the Vernons, whom he met in the garden.\nThis was overheard by some of _vignaiuoli_,(123) and was repeated to the\nseven sisters, who accordingly went in a body, the next day, to call on\nthe Vernons, with redoubled regrets about their brother and about the\nvicinity of such objectionable people as the Martorelli, who, however,\nthey rejoiced to add, would certainly vacate the apartment in another\nmonth. The Vernons, knowing no reason to doubt their statement, were\nnaturally gratified to hear it, as the garden belonged equally to all the\ninhabitants of the house, except a very small portion assigned to each\nfamily, only sufficient for the cultivation of a few flowers. Time,\nhowever, wore on, and another six months had expired without making any\ndifference as regarded the presence of the Martorelli.\n\nFar from showing any signs of intended departure, Signor Martorelli was\nallowed to undertake several improvements in the house and garden at his\nown expense. About the same time some of the sisters called on Padre\nCataldo, and, without making any allusion to the works that were being\ncarried on by their tenant, they informed him, with every demonstration of\nzeal, that the lady who resided in the house with him had shown some signs\nof a better state of feeling than the gentleman; and that, in short, she\nwas a very interesting person\u2014one about whose welfare they could not but\nfeel anxious. They added that, when she saw people going to and from the\nchapel, she was noticed to sigh deeply, and had actually expressed\nsurprise that no one had ever invited her to enter the chapel; while, on\nthe other hand, their brother was always taunting them with a want of real\ncharity in having avoided any intercourse with this perhaps repentant\nsister. They had therefore, they asserted, after many misgivings, come in\na body to consult his reverence as to what he would advise them to do.\nPersonally, they could have no wish to know such people; but here,\npossibly, was a question of the salvation of a soul, and all selfish\nsentiments must be laid aside for that. Perhaps _their_ knowing her might\ndo good; did his reverence not think that, with such an end in view, they\nought to sacrifice their natural aversion, and call on the interesting\nlady? Of course the only reply that a priest could make to such a question\nwas that no consideration should stand in the way when any hope of doing\ngood is in question. And then all the seven damsels, breaking forth in\nexpressions of submission to his advice, and appearing to take it as if\nthe initiative had come from him, with pious phrases and low courtesies,\nleft his reverence\u2019s presence. From that day the greatest intimacy and\nconstant intercourse sprang up between the two families. The seven sisters\nand the young lady were inseparable. Signor Martorelli\u2019s sentiments and\nprinciples were deeply bewailed; but if her husband, as he is called, and\nas we hope he is, showed so little religion, at least she was a promising\nsubject; and whenever they saw the Vernons, it was always to relate the\ngrowing success of their happy man\u0153uvre. Time, however, sped on his way,\nand no practical results followed. Signora Martorelli entered no church,\nwhile the man threw off the mask, and openly began to do the devil\u2019s work\namong the pious _contadini_(124) of the place. He would send for two or\nthree of the young lads at the hour of Mass on Sundays and feast days, and\npromise them a trifling sum, if, instead of going to church, they would\nexecute some commission for him. When they hesitated, he would laugh at\ntheir scruples, and ridicule their attachment to the Jesuit father, and\ntheir caring to have objects of devotion like a rosary or the picture of a\nsaint. By degrees his discourses to them became impregnated with positive\nblasphemy; he grew bolder in his expressions of hatred against religion,\nand more virulent in his attacks on the ministers of the church. At length\nhe had messages conveyed to the Vernons, to the effect that the bell for\nMass (which was never rung before 8 o\u2019clock) was an intolerable nuisance\nto him; and he threw out hints of revenge if it was not discontinued.\nWhenever it was rung, suddenly furious sounds proceeded from his part of\nthe house. And really it would seem as if the wretched man were seized\nwith the rage of the possessed, and that, when that bell sounded, the\ndevil entered into him. The Vernons\u2019 servants became the objects of\nmysterious threats and of vile calumnies. A wretched peasant was bribed to\nfrighten one of them at night; and a more daring sinner, but who\nafterwards repented with tears, was induced, by promises of money, to fire\nat Padre Cataldo one evening as he was entering the avenue where the man\nstood concealed.\n\nAt length the climax was reached which I have related at the beginning of\nthis chapter, and the Mass bell was cut down in the night, and hung upon a\nfig\u2010tree. I remained a long time with Ida and Elizabeth, discussing what\nwould be the best course to pursue; and as I have got so far in the\nhistory of the Mass bell, I think I had better carry it on to the end,\nthough it will lead me beyond many of the other incidents of our stay at\nPosilippo. It was decided that Ida should write very civilly but very\nfirmly to the elder sister, remonstrating at the bell being removed. The\nsisters rose up in a body, and all together intoned a loud lamentation\nover the wickedness of the world. It was their desire the bell should be\nreplaced, and that in all things the reverend father should do whatever he\nthought proper. It was impossible to say who had removed the bell; no one\ncould so much as guess who could be at the bottom of so much wickedness;\nbut as it was quite overwhelming, the eldest sister, true to her\ntraditions and habits, retired to bed, informed her friends of the\ncircumstance, and gathered them round her couch for two days of sympathy\nand condolence. The bell was, of course, replaced by the still trusting\nVernons; but the atheistic Martorelli only escaped condign punishment at\nthe hands of the indignant _contadini_ through the remonstrances and\ncommands of Padre Cataldo, who, in this instance, had unusual difficulty\nin getting his orders obeyed, and in preventing the insults that had been\nheaped upon him from being revenged by his loving but hot\u2010headed Italian\npenitents.\n\nThe next Sunday morning Mary and I, who had far less faith in the\npossibility of any sincerity in the Casinelli than even the Vernons,\nlistened anxiously for the first sound of the Mass bell. My watch was, I\nsuppose, in advance of the right time; for it was five minutes past eight,\nand I had not heard a sound, when Mary came running in with the joyful\nexclamation that it was all right, and that the bell was pealing loud. The\ngood Posilippians looked out of their cavernous houses, and peeped from\ntheir windows; and as we stood at our garden door, we could hear them\ncalling to each other just as Mary had done to me\u2014that the bad man had not\ndared again to cut down the bell in the night.\n\nIt was not long, however, before Martorelli, whose rage knew no bounds,\nbegan to express his threats against the Vernons, and especially against\ntheir chaplain, too loudly to escape notice. The father himself was well\naware of these threats, because they never failed to be repeated by the\npeople about the place, who were all devoted to him. Of course he avoided\ntelling the Vernons, for three girls and one aged lady could do little in\nthe matter, except feel very anxious for his safety. On the other hand, he\nwas not the man to avenge, or even protect, himself. But as he was\nconstantly out till late in the evening, preaching at different churches,\ngiving retreats, and visiting the sick, several of the men who formed part\nof the congregation decided that he was never to be allowed to go down\nthat treacherous winding path which leads from the Strada Nuova through\nthe vineyards and garden to Casinelli, except accompanied by one of them.\nThe terraces are admirably adapted for shooting down upon your enemy, as\nhe passes just beneath you, while you lie concealed amongst the beans\nabove. At length some of the wiser and more authoritative of the men,\ndisgusted at the annoyances to which the females of the Vernon household\nwere exposed, and at the threats against Padre Cataldo\u2019s life, had\nMartorelli summoned before the magistrates as a disturber of the peace.\nThis strong measure kept him quiet for some time; and it was during this\nhappy interval that Frank and Don Emidio Gandolfi returned from their long\nwanderings, Frank, of course, to take up his abode with us, and Don Emidio\nto return to his Neapolitan villa, his principal residence being in Rome.\n\nThe day of their return we were all sitting in the _loggia_ together\nwatching the evening light, which, falling on the rocks of Sorrento and on\nthe island of Capri, seemed to turn them into pink topaz set in a sapphire\nsea. I was eagerly relating the history of the bell to our two gentlemen,\nand, forgetting that Don Emidio was an Italian, I launched out in strong\nexpressions against the cunning and intrigue of the whole nation. In the\nmidst of my harangue I suddenly looked up, and there was Don Emidio\nleaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped,\nhis deep, calm eyes fixed on my eager face, and a slight, sly smile\ncurving his well\u2010defined mouth. I stopped dead short, and blushed to the\neyes. We were so used to seeing him with us, and to hearing him talk in\nhis perfect English, that, in the heat of my discourse, I forgot I was\nabusing his countrymen. Frank laughed outright when, looking at Don\nEmidio, he saw the expression which had so suddenly arrested me, and Mary\nalone looked sorry for me.\n\n\u201cO Don Emidio!\u201d I exclaimed, \u201cI forgot you were not one of us. I forgot\nyou were an Italian.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt needs no apology, signorina. I agree with a great deal that you say.\nIn the first place, you spoke chiefly of Neapolitans. I am only half a\nNeapolitan. And, secondly, whatever you may think of Italians you are too\njust not to believe there are many honest men amongst them.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are very kind to let me off so easily. No one who knew Padre Cataldo,\nwho is a Neapolitan, could fail to believe in the possibility of honest\nItalians.\u201d\n\n\u201cExcuse me, signorina, if I say that you would be nearly as far wrong in\ntaking Padre Cataldo as a guarantee for there being honest men amongst us\nas you would be in believing us all rogues because you have met with\npeople like the Casinelli.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy so?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause saints are as much an exception to the generality as are\naccomplished Machiavellians like the Casinelli.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are right,\u201d said Mary. \u201cBut do you not think that just as the French\nare specially addicted to vanity, so the Italians are to intrigue?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do. It is the reverse of the medal. The French are sanguine, and the\ndrawback to that is self\u2010conceit. The Italians are astute, and the\ncorresponding defect is cunning.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs Emidio is too sensible to be thin\u2010skinned at our speaking out our\nthoughts,\u201d interrupted Frank, \u201cI must say that I have always thought the\nItalians great in duplicity.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Italian does not care to tell you an untruth about a trifle. If he\ndid so, it would be from carelessness rather than from purpose. But when\nonce he sees his way, or thinks he sees it, to accomplishing some distant\nand important end, then the full strength of his close\u2010knit mind and his\nmarvellous faculty of mental investigation are brought to bear. He is\nunscrupulous because he is passionate. Not passionate only as a sudden\nburst, but condensed, sustained passion. The object he has in view, no\nmatter what it be, becomes the object of his passion, and gradually he\nweaves around it the web of his whole being. With fixed, undeviating\npurpose, he bends all things to one point. If truth will serve him, he\nwill employ truth; where that fails, deceit will be as readily adopted. He\noverlooks mountains and valleys, walls and barriers, in pursuit of his\nend; or rather he sees through them, as if they were merely a mist, and\nfixes his unflinching gaze on what he is resolved to obtain beyond them.\nSo long as his purpose is unchanged, nothing will stay his progress. Once\nthat changed, no matter how or why\u2014out of his own will or through the will\nof others\u2014and the whole fabric of deceit passes from him like a mantle\nloosely draped from his shoulders, only to be resumed when next required.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou seem to me to have made it out very clearly, Emidio,\u201d said Frank.\n\u201cNow, what is the good side of this disagreeable picture?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe good side is the strength of will and the power of sustained and\nconcentrated thought and purpose. Turn all that in the right direction,\nand you will find it leads you to a long list of heroic saints, surpassed\nin no country, and equalled only in Spain, where some of the like\ncharacteristics exist.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut surely,\u201d said I, \u201cFrance also is a great land of saints.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo doubt. But, generally speaking (of course there are exceptions), they\nbelong to a different category. The greatest contemplatives have been\nItalian or Spanish.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, Don Emidio, I don\u2019t like to think that nationality, which seems to\ninclude temperament, and even climate, can have anything to do with the\nmaking of God\u2019s saints.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why, signorina, should you object to it when He who makes his saints\nmakes also the climate and the temperament? He has linked the outer and\ninner world too closely together for us to have any reason to be\nastonished that he should observe certain general laws in connection with\nthe gifts of his highest graces.\u201d\n\nMary started forward from the depths of her arm\u2010chair, and said eagerly:\n\u201cThen do you really think that the slower temperament and depressing\nclimate of England, for example, have prevented, and will prevent, our\ncountry from being honored by great saints?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am very far from thinking it. On the contrary, and strange as it may\nappear at first sight, there are certain characteristics amongst the\nEnglish which assimilate them, in my mind, to the Italians in a way I\nnever could assimilate the French. I allude to your steadiness of purpose\nand to your reserved and silent habits. These qualities, when laid hold of\nby grace, tend to lead to contemplation and mystic holiness, much as do\nthe qualities we have spoken of among Italians.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, I suppose, the extraordinary energy and versatility of the French\nare likely to make them more active than contemplative.\u201d\n\n\u201cJust so, signorina, and yet there have been wonderful exceptions; and I\nshould be wrong in making out anything like a rigid rule. In the first\nplace, \u2018the wind bloweth where it listeth\u2019; and, in the next, the\ndemarcations of national character are not sufficiently strong to\nnecessitate any given development of even mere natural qualities, much\nless of spiritual qualities.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose, in short, all you really mean, Don Emidio,\u201d resumed Mary, \u201cis\nthat, when it pleases God to make a saint in the full acceptation of the\nterm, he makes use of natural conditions blended with the supernatural.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod always works with a method, signora\u2014by rule and measure. We cannot\nsolve all the divine problems; but we know that they are according to\ntruth and justice.\u201d\n\nDon Emidio\u2019s last words seemed to shut us all up in silent thought. Frank\nwent on puffing at his cigar in a way which set my wicked imagination\nwondering how far smoking was conducive to meditation. But then I never\nheard of a saint who smoked. Perhaps if any very holy man, whose\ncanonization was in progress, had been given to smoking, the devil\u2019s\nadvocate would lay hold of it, and try to destroy the cause. I do not\nthink tobacco was much in vogue when the great modern saints lived. S.\nPhilip Neri, for instance, that large\u2010hearted, \u201clarge\u2010sleeved\u201d(125)\nsaint\u2014I wonder if, in these days, he would have smoked? But then he was a\npriest. That makes a great difference. I think a layman might have an\noccasional cigar. There is that dear old Frank lighting his second. But\nDon Emidio has had only two tiny cigarettes. What nonsense runs in my\nhead! And, meanwhile, the red lights have all died away. Capri lies like a\nlarge, dense cloud on the bosom of the sea; and though all the sunlight\nhas faded from the sky, there is a strange color of mingled purple and\norange that seems to flash upon the water, and that I never saw anywhere\nexcept in the Bay of Naples. Presently we are roused from our reverie by\nthe sound of voices; and Ida\u2019s tall figure stands by the open window\nlooking out upon us, while Elizabeth and Helen are behind.\n\n\u201cHow silent you all are!\u201d exclaims Ida with a laugh. \u201cI am afraid we shall\ndisturb you.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! it is only that Don Emidio has been talking to us so much about\nheroic sanctity that we are all in a state of depression from the\nconsciousness that we have no hope of ever reaching it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am quite sure you never will, if you set about it in this melancholy\nfashion. Besides, nobody is a saint till he is dead; and who knows but\nwhat you may live to pray at my tomb yet?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Yours_, Ida dear?\u201d said Mary quite gravely.\n\n\u201cWhy not? There are so many kinds of saints; and I may yet come out as\nquite a new variety. But that is not what I am come about. Padre Cataldo\nis gone to see the poor man I told Mary of this morning. He has got the\nfever, and, when he is delirious, he keeps calling so piteously for the\npadre that this is the second time to\u2010day he has had to toil up our hill\nto go to him, besides all his other toils. As soon as the man is pacified,\nhe promised to come here. He told us at dinner that to\u2010morrow will be a\nfree day, and that for once he could make an excursion with us, if we\nliked to go to Bai\u00e6.\u201d\n\nIt was soon all settled. I thought it strange the two gentlemen did not\nwish to ride, but preferred coming in the carriage with us. For my part, I\nlonged to be on horseback, and, in their place, I would have ridden. Padre\nCataldo looked in for a moment to learn our plans, and then Don Emidio\ntook leave of us. He had a long way to drive home.\n\n\u201cYour villa is on the Vomero, is it not?\u201d I said.\n\n\u201cNo, signorina; it is at Capo di Monte. Do you prefer the Vomero?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! dear, no. I think Capo di Monte very beautiful.\u201d\n\nHe was holding my hand, as he wished me good\u2010night. I thought what an odd\nquestion it was to ask me. What could it matter which I liked best? I told\nMary I thought Don Emidio was sometimes a little absent, and hardly knew\nwhat he was saying. But I suppose Mary did not agree with me, for she only\nsmiled and made no answer.\n\nThe next morning I overheard Mary lamenting to Frank about the way in\nwhich Paolino disturbed her rest, beginning, as early as half\u2010past four,\nfiring at the little birds in the garden. I used to envy that lad his\nfaculty for early rising. The first streak of light through his\nshutterless window saw Paolino on the alert. And then he would go\nstrolling out into the garden, leaning over the low wall that divided our\nentrance from the main road, hailing all his comrades on their way to\ntheir work, whistling and shouting to his sisters, who lived in a portion\nof the villa where we had originally thought of taking apartments but for\nits dirty and miserable condition. These noises so early in the morning,\nand close to our windows, were bad enough; but when to these the constant\nfiring of a gun was added, Mary\u2019s powers of endurance failed. It would\nhave been a waste of feeling to compassionate the birds, who flew away\nfrom Paolino\u2019s aim with perfect impunity. It was therefore from no\napprehensions for the few songsters of a garden in Southern Italy that we\ncomplained. But all day long Paolino was absent at inopportune moments,\nattempting a hopeless massacre of sparrows and finches. He had often been\nscolded about it, but the instinct of sport in the boy was superior to any\nfear of being found fault with. When at length it reached such a pitch\nthat Mary even was induced to complain, Paolino had to endure a sharp\nscolding from Frank. The result of which was that, a few hours after, he\ntook the gun, with tears in his eyes, to Monica, requesting her to carry\nit to his father, that through him it might be returned to the friend who\nhad lent him the fatal weapon. He alleged that he had not the moral\ncourage to have the gun in his possession, and yet refrain from inordinate\nuse of it; and thus, as he said, the only way was to put the occasion out\nof his reach. The little birds enjoyed peaceful matins ever after, and\nPaolino rose wonderfully in our esteem.\n\nThe roomy landau and the impish coachman were ready early to take us on\nour long excursion; while Pascarillo, the coachman\u2019s master, and the owner\nof many carriages, provided another conveyance for the rest of the party.\nDon Emidio went with Mary, Ida, and myself; Padre Cataldo and Frank with\nMrs. Vernon and the other girls. We took the Posilippo road, intending to\nreturn by the Grotto of Puzzuoli. Nothing can be more beautiful than the\nview which greets you at the top of the hill, and which, in a steep\nwinding descent, brings you to the town of Puzzuoli. To the left is a high\nbank of verdure covered with flowering shrubs, and here and there a goat\nbrowsing on some almost inaccessible peak. The sea always seemed to me to\nbe even bluer here than in the Bay of Naples. We drive past places bearing\nsome of the grandest names of antiquity; Puzzuoli itself was once a\n\u201clittle Rome\u201d; Cicero\u2019s villa was here; here Sylla died. Temples\nunrivalled in beauty covered those hill\u2010sides, and villas with umbrageous\ntrees were dotted all over those flat plains where the willows wave their\nlong, yellow twigs amid rows of tall poplars, and here and there a plane\u2010\ntree. Here are the market gardens that supply Naples, or rather a portion\nof them. But all the land is full of sulphur springs, and it is only in\ncertain seasons of the year that Puzzuoli and its neighborhood is fit for\nhabitation. Then Neapolitans and strangers come to take the sulphur baths,\nthe hateful vapors of which catch our breath as we pass. I have a growing\nsense of everything being unreal around me; and no length of time or habit\nremoves the impression. The sea has swallowed up one\u2010half of the spots\nsacred to classic memories. But where are the trees of Cicero\u2019s villa that\nPliny praises? What wild havoc or gradual but most obliterating change has\navailed to wipe away all but the faintest traces of what once was looked\non as a paradise? Fire and water alike have combined to erase the last\nrelics of that luxurious pagan time. The volcanic action in all this part\nof Italy and the encroaching ocean have sufficed to wipe out all but the\nfaintest indications of a state of luxury, wealth, architectural beauty,\nand lavish decoration to which old Ph\u0153nicia, Greece, and Rome had lent\ntheir aid in the long course of ages. Never was ruin greater, perhaps,\nsince the beginning of the Christian era. Sodom and Gomorrah, Nineveh and\nBabylon, have passed away more entirely. But in Puzzuoli, Misenum, Cum\u00e6,\nand Bai\u00e6 the ruin is more pathetic, from the fact that enough remains to\nbetray how vast those villas and baths and temples once were, and how\nabsolutely the aggressive force of silent nature has overpowered and swept\naway or buried the proud achievements of man.\n\nWe proceed from one marvel of destruction to another. The Mare Morto is to\nour right, shrunk to a tiny lake; and yet this was to have been, when\ncompleted, the great port for Roman merchandise. The same melancholy\nfeeling of utter destruction and radical change in the whole aspect of the\ncountry fills the mind wherever we turn; and through all the excursions we\nmade in this neighborhood, I never found it less; while Mary, who had been\nhere many years ago, recollected having experienced the same impression,\nand found that it returned upon her, if possible, with fuller force. It\nmay be as well to remind my readers that the ancient name of Puzzuoli was\nPuteoli. And perhaps in no one place are crowded, within a circumference\nof about twelve miles around it, so many and such intimate associations\nwith pagan Rome and the old classic life. The crumbling tufa\u2010banks by the\nroad\u2010side are filled with rectangular Roman bricks, the remains of baths\nconnected with the villa residences and temples of antiquity. Also, there\nare considerable remains of Columbaria and large tombs. We passed beneath\nthe Arco Felice, and, clambering up a high bank, reached the cottage of a\n_vignaiuolo_, and rested beneath an elm\u2010tree while I made a drawing of\nLago Fusaro and part of the Elysian Fields. We saw the Lake of Lucrinus,\nbut the oysters are gone. We shuddered as we approached Avernus. The dense\nforest which once flung its black shadows on the waters has long ago been\nfelled or died away. The wholesome mid\u2010day sun shot laughing beams on the\nclear surface, disarmed of all preternatural horror. The Elysian Fields\nare, indeed, a smiling plain of land partially cultivated, and partially\ncovered with trees and brush\u2010wood, the king\u2019s favorite hunting\u2010grounds. We\nwomen refused to enter the Sibyl\u2019s cave, liking neither damp nor\nsulphurous smells. The horrors of the surroundings are all swept away. The\nlittle birds fly over the once deadly Lake of Avernus as safely as from\nPaolino\u2019s harmless gun; and as we look back through the dim avenue of\nmisty ages, it is curious to reflect that what is a dream of the past to\nourselves was hardly less so to others who are now but shadowy\nrepresentatives of a world gone by to us; for it was Agrippa whose\nengineering robbed Avernus of many of its terrors, and probably disturbed\neven the placid oysters of Lucrinus. Thus the sense of unreality grows\nupon us, as we visit one spot after another, and find the green tendrils\nof the young vine, the blue\u2010purple blossoms of the vetch, and bright\nscarlet poppies covering with gay garlands the few vestiges of a world\nthat is dead and gone. Yet even here I am tempted to repeat, \u201cLe pass\u00e9\nn\u2019est pas mort, il n\u2019est qu\u2019absent,\u201d(126) and yet how far absent! How the\nold gods have died away from their own sylvan scenes, and the nymphs fled,\nshamefaced, from lakes no longer solitary! Victor Emanuel will scare no\ndryads from their leafy bowers, and is hardly the man to trace the small\nfootprint of the chaste huntress on the yielding moss, as he pursues the\nwild boar through what were doubtless once her covers. No laughing\nBacchante peeps behind the trailing vine, or dances, with light, flowing\ntresses and scanty tunic, to the trilling of double pipes. The goats are\nhere, but the satyrs are absent. The vines show promise of rich grapes;\nbut Bacchus, grape\u2010crowned, with the skin of the spotted pard across his\nsun\u2010bronzed chest, and the tragic melancholy of liquid eyes with sleepy\nlids, is nowhere found; for, be it remembered, the god of wine was no\ndrunken lout, but rather one who, at least in his ripe youth, was but\nquickened and inspired by the blood of the red grape.\n\nThe myths and fables have long ceased. As myths, they held a divine truth,\ndimly shadowed forth. As fables, they degenerated, like all half\u2010truths,\ninto wholesale errors. Then human depravity swept over them, and left its\npoisonous slime o\u2019er all. We go back to the memory of those times with\nmingled feelings of wonder and of pain. But amid the decaying fragments of\nclassic lore there shines forth one little incident which quickens our\npulse, and bridges over all the succeeding ages with a touch of feeling\nthat obliterates time and space. The words are few, but they are dearer to\nus than the epics of Virgil, or the letters of Cicero, or all else that\nmay grace the memory of this lovely land: \u201cThe south wind blowing, we came\nthe second day to Puteoli, where, finding brethren, we were desired to\ntarry with them seven days.\u201d\n\n\u201cFinding brethren!\u201d Yes, even here, beneath the shade of marble porticos,\ntemple, and fane devoted to an infamous religion, the Name that is above\nevery name was whispered by a few. The sign of the cross was secretly made\nby quiet inhabitants of Puzzuoli\u2019s noisy streets, the Virgin Mother was\nrevered, and the words of S. Paul and S. Luke listened to as a message\nfrom above. And how little the citizens of Puteoli knew of the divine\nmysteries which were going on among them! And now, as if the wicked city\nhad been in every sense too near the gate of hell, the volcanic flames\nhave penetrated the earth\u2019s thin crust on all sides, and flung down and\ndevoured the traces of brilliant, triumphant, and overbearing vice,\nleaving in its place a handful of Christian peasants and a few relics\nprized by the scholar and the antiquarian.\n\nI must own to my readers that I am chiefly repeating Don Emidio\u2019s words,\nand that, as we approached Bai\u00e6, I with startling indecorum exclaimed:\n\u201cBut it must not be forgotten that we have come here to eat oysters,\nwhether or not the Lake of Lucrinus produces them.\u201d We did eat oysters. We\nalighted at the humblest little wayside inn close to the shore. We sat\nbeneath the trellised vine that covered the vast _loggia_. The lemons were\ngathered, as sauce for the oysters, in the garden below; the ruins of the\ncircular temple of Venus or Mercury shone, deep red, in the light of the\nsetting sun. The merry landlord and a half\u2010dozen nondescript servants, men\nand maids, proposed to dance the _tarantella_ for us. The women happened\nto lack beauty, and the men youth. But that was not our reason for\ndeclining the pleasure. The dance was doubtless innocent enough; but it\nwas not often we were favored with the company of \u201cNostro Zio Prete,\u201d our\nuncle priest, and we thought it more decorous not to order dances in his\npresence. I must explain to my readers that the peasantry in South Italy\ncall a priest uncle when they do not call him father; and that in some of\nour excursions, when Padre Cataldo bargained about carriages or\nrefreshment (and which must always be done if you do not want to be\nscandalously overcharged), they always protested that for no consideration\nwould they attempt to impose on their uncle priest! Happily for us, our\nreverend uncle was a Neapolitan, and too well acquainted with the true\nvalue of the services we received for us to have any apprehension of being\ncheated in any expedition organized by him. Perhaps our host himself\nsurmised our reason for declining the _tarantella_, for he did not press\nit; and returning to our carriage, we drove home by moonlight through the\nGrotto of Puzzuoli.\n\n\n\n\nSwitzerland In 1873.\n\n\nLake Of Lucerne.\n\nIt was a lovely evening as we sailed away, a happy, lively party, from\nLucerne. Our minds were full of the enthusiasm for his native land which\nHerr H\u2014\u2014\u2019s descriptions had excited, but for one characteristic of the\nLake of the Forest Cantons we were as yet totally unprepared, namely, its\nunusual and wonderful variety.\n\nEvery traveller viewing it from Lucerne readily admits its extreme beauty.\nIts interest is acknowledged beforehand, according to the greater or\nlesser degree in which each one can clothe its shores with historic\nmemories, but its remarkable diversity of scenery is a feature generally\nignored until seen, although amongst Swiss lakes it is in this respect\npre\u2010eminent. And this peculiarity is mainly attributable to its\ngeographical formation. Consisting, as it does, of divisions completely\ndistinct one from the other, they lead us on, as if designedly arranged in\nthe most artistic manner, in a series of \u201csurprises,\u201d from one picture to\nanother, on an ever\u2010increasing scale of beauty.\n\nThat part of the lake which is nearest to Lucerne may be said to resemble\nin shape a Maltese cross, so equal do its proportions appear to the\npassing observer. In characteristics and detail, however, it differs\nwidely. The northern shores, though spreading round two of the arms in\nundulating hills, may decidedly be called flat compared to the magnificent\nline of Alpine peaks towering along the southern extremity. At one of the\nangles of the cross stands Mount Pilatus, 5,900 feet high\u2014at the opposite\none the Rigi, 5,541 feet above the sea\u2014like two sentinels guarding the\nentrance to the territory beyond. The tourist sailing straight onwards\nfrom Lucerne is fain to believe that the lake ends where a spur of the\nRigi seems to stretch across the southern bay, right before him. No other\nexplanation appears possible until the spot itself is reached, when\nsuddenly a channel, hitherto unperceived, opens to the right, between that\nmountain and the opposite shore\u2014the two promontories thus disclosed\nrejoicing in the rather ignoble appellation of \u201cDie Nasen,\u201d or \u201cThe\nNoses.\u201d What a beautiful and perfectly different view is then disclosed,\nas the steamer darts through the narrow strait to the village of Buochs,\nat the foot of its own Buochserhorn, the base of which is covered with\ncomfortable farm\u2010houses, embosomed in their orchards, changing step by\nstep into ch\u00e2lets as they ascend to the higher pastures! At once we have\ngot into another country. A landlocked bay, that to the eye seems nearly\ncircular, bordered on one side by the precipitous but wooded mountains of\nUnterwalden, and on the opposite by the southern peaks and slopes of the\nRigi, between whose folds nestles pretty Gersau, not large enough to be\ncalled a town nor unimportant enough for a village. A sunny, peaceful\npicture\u2014a \u201chappy _lake_ of Rasselas\u201d\u2014from which no exit is visible, nor,\nwe might suppose, ever need be sought for! At the further end, towering in\nthe distance, snow\u2010clad summits peer above the clouds; but, more striking\nthan all, rise two curiously\u2010pointed peaks close by, which stand, we are\ntold, right above the white houses of Schwyz. So here we are truly in the\ncradle of Switzerland\u2014the genuine \u201cUrschweiz\u201d! And as we sail towards\nBrunnen (the port of Schwyz, three miles inland) we try to trace their\nresemblance to a bishop\u2019s distinctive mark, which has given to these two\nbare rocks, nearly five thousand feet high, the familiar name of \u201cThe\nMitres.\u201d\n\nBut where is the land of Tell\u2014Uri and the R\u00fcti?\u2014for again our course seems\nbarred at Brunnen: valleys, meadows, and a background of mountains alone\nlie before us. Once more turn round on the quay of Brunnen, at a sharp\nangle to the right, and say, can a more exquisite picture anywhere be\nfound! Here, in this bay of Uri\u2014for so this part is named\u2014instead of the\ngreat expanse near Lucerne, the lake has narrowed into a space not wider\nthan a valley, whilst huge mountains jut forward, and, dipping\nperpendicularly into the green waters beneath, barely leave room in some\nspots for the road, which is an engineering achievement of recent years,\nwhilst in others it must needs be carried on through tunnels and open\ngalleries. Right in front, the Uri Rothstock rears its lofty head, with\nits glacier\u2014a transparent wall of ice three hundred feet in\nheight\u2014sparkling in the sun. Tell\u2019s home lies within its folds. But close\nby, just opposite, is the R\u00fcti, almost undistinguishable until the steamer\npasses near it. At the head of the bay, on its broad, green meadows, lies\nAldorf, below the Bristenstock, which alone, when we reach that spot,\nhides from us the mighty Gothard. A paradise it truly seems on a brilliant\nsunny day, with a people worthy of such a land and nurtured into\nexcellence amidst this noble nature. But we have not reached them yet, and\nhave to see and hear of others before we come to this quarter.\n\nLike every other part of Switzerland, the shores of Lucerne Lake are\nthickly inhabited. No signs of poverty are anywhere visible, and an air of\ncomfort is diffused over the whole district. The most fruitful portion,\nhowever, is pre\u2010eminently the strip of land lying at the base of the Rigi,\nwhere the straight wall of the mountain rises precipitately facing the\nnorth. So proverbial is its fertility that it is called the \u201cGarden of\nLucerne,\u201d and through winter and summer that town is supplied with fruit\nand vegetables by the peasants of this neighborhood. The steamers which\nnow navigate the lake carry them thither in numbers with their produce on\nevery market\u2010day. Of its numerous villages, Weggis held the first place\nuntil the last three years, when the engineers of the wonderful Rigi\nRailway fixed on Vitznau, three miles further on, for their station. Up to\nthat period, no one ever thought of this out\u2010of\u2010the\u2010way little village,\nlying in a sheltered nook close under the Rigi\u2010Nase. Weggis, on the other\nhand, was the starting\u2010point for all aspirants to sunsets on the Kulm: the\nchief place for horses and guides, and full, in consequence, of animation\nand importance. But the world marches on rapidly nowadays, and matters,\ntherefore, are much changed; for few, except the timid, or the most\ndetermined seekers of the picturesque, think of choosing this route to the\nsummit, when both time and trouble can be saved by the railway ascent to\nthose hundreds of summer tourists whose excursions are made at high\u2010\npressure speed. Vitznau, consequently, is daily advancing in importance,\nand the price of land has risen in an incredibly short space of time from\nfifty centimes to five francs per metre. No buildings, however, have yet\nbeen attempted, except two pretty hotels; and it was to one of these,\nopened this season on the water\u2019s edge, that we had telegraphed for rooms.\nBut it was not large enough to accommodate all our party, so my friend\nAnna L\u2014\u2014 and myself adjourned at night to the second one, situated further\nback near the church.\n\nThe evening continued fine, and as the moon shone on the calm waters\nwhilst we supped under the veranda of the inn, every one was happy and\ncontented. The young C\u2014\u2014s declared they felt \u201cmost romantic,\u201d we elders\n\u201csehr \u00e6sthetisch\u201d (very \u00e6sthetic), as Heine calls it, and all looked\nforward with confidence to the morrow. The plan was, by sleeping here, to\nstart in the first train, which is generally the least crowded, and,\nhalting at Kaltbad, thence to explore the other parts of the Rigi. It had\nbeen devised by Herr H\u2014\u2014\u201ccunningly devised,\u201d he secretly told Mr. C\u2014\u2014, \u201cin\norder to humor the nerves of the ladies, always stronger in the early\nmorning, and which he knew, though he chose to conceal this fact from us,\nwould be sorely tried by the alarming railway.\u201d As to a change of weather,\nno one ever dreamt of it. There had been such a spell of fine days and\nlovely moonlights that nothing else was taken into account. But, alas for\npresumptuous confidence! What was our dismay on awaking to hear the\nunwelcome sounds of rain! Patter! patter! drop after drop, it fell against\nthe window; and, rising in trepidation, the painful fact became evident\nthat a steady downpour had commenced. There was no wind, but such thick\nclouds rolled down from the mountain and spread over the lake that the\nopposite shore was soon invisible. It might pass off, and we determined to\nhave patience; so, when the bell tolled for Mass at half\u2010past seven\no\u2019clock, seizing our umbrellas we rushed across the cemetery, which\nseparated our hotel from the church. This latter, as suited to so small a\nvillage, is not large nor rich\u2010looking\u2014on the contrary; but all was very\nclean, the building solidly constructed, and the congregation, despite the\nrain, fairly large, and most attentive. Everything was arranged, too, on\nthe same system as elsewhere. The cemetery full of holy\u2010water stoups, with\na separate corner for the children, the church doors open all day long,\nthe lighted lamp betokening the Blessed Sacrament, and men and women\noften, as we noticed, passing in and out, to say a prayer in its divine\npresence.\n\nAt half\u2010past nine the train was to start, but the rain grew heavier each\nminute, and no one, we supposed, could think of ascending the mountain in\nsuch weather. At the appointed time, however, the steamers arrived from\nboth ends of the lake, with their ship\u2010loads of enterprising tourists. How\nwe pitied them! To have come so far in this weather, only to be\ndisappointed\u2014for no one surely could land on such a day! But experience\nhas since taught us differently, and shown that in no part of Switzerland,\nor perhaps of any other country, does this class so pertinaciously defy\nthe elements as on the Lucerne Lake and the Rigi Railway. To\u2010day, from\nbehind our hotel windows, we watched hundreds rushing on shore, in their\nwater\u2010proofs, and with dripping umbrellas, to the railway\nstation\u2014adventurous spirits, who trusted to their good stars to drive away\nthe clouds from the mountain\u2010top on their arrival; or, if the views should\nfail them, at least to go through the \u201csensation\u201d of this singular\nrailway. And, in this one respect, no one could be disappointed. A\n\u201csensation\u201d it certainly would be: whether pleasant or terrifying must\ndepend on each individual temperament.\n\nAnd now the sloping engines emerged from their night\u2019s hiding\u2010place, and\nwe too began to share the general excitement. One by one our party ran to\nthe pretty station, and there stood examining the proceedings. So\nfascinating did the attraction become, that every time there was an\narrival or departure whilst we remained at Vitznau, books, writing, and\nall other occupations were hastily thrown aside to scamper off to the\nstill novel sight. But a very unwise course this proved; for, instead of\nreassuring our feeble nerves, the disinclination to make a personal\nexperience of the ascent visibly increased as the day wore on. And what\nwonder! The engines were unlike any we had ever seen; shaped in a slanting\nfashion to fit the mountain side. There were five, but of these each one\nwas attached to only one carriage, which contains cross benches for fifty\npassengers (with an ominous printed request \u201cnot to move!\u201d), and with open\nsides, so that nothing should obstruct the view to those whose nerves\nmight retain their customary tranquillity. Five such trains compose each\ndeparture, hence, should the arrivals exceed 250, the unlucky \u201clast\u201d are\nleft behind at Vitznau to wait patiently for the next trains\u2014two or three\nhours later. And now we understood the cause of the rush on shore, and the\nviolent squeezing between the rails of the ticket office, which had so\nmuch puzzled and amused us.\n\nIn mid\u2010season this constantly happens, it being a case of \u201cfirst come,\nfirst served.\u201d Even to\u2010day, all the carriages were full. As a rule,\ntherefore, it is calculated that on an average between 1,100 and 1,200\ntourists daily ascend the Rigi during the summer months from this point\nalone. Up they went at a short interval between each train; the engine not\npreceding, but pushing the carriage before it\u2014mounting slowly to all\nappearances, but withal rapidly, for in less than five minutes they were\nlost to sight; climbing first high above the church\u2010tower, and then above\nthe cottages, which one by one here overtop the village. It took away\none\u2019s breath to look at them: a seeming tempting of Providence thus\nscaling mountain walls and precipices at the measure of from 18\u00b0 to\n25\u00b0\u2014perhaps all the more awe\u2010inspiring to day by reason of the weather and\nthe mysterious cloud\u2010land they boldly pierced through.\n\nAs yet, no serious accident has happened. Let us hope none ever may! The\nprinciple of construction, with a central notched rail, tightly grasped by\na cog\u2010wheel, besides the powerful brakes belonging to each carriage, seem\nto promise fairly. The trains, too, proceed in reality so slowly, and with\nsuch caution, that a man is always able to walk in front of the first\ncarriage. Most striking was it to watch the down trains two hours later;\nthe guard blowing a horn as they passed the height above the village, then\nmarching into the station with a solemn countenance that seemed to tell of\nperils met and conquered, leisurely followed by the sloping engine,\nlooking helpless and distorted once it reached the level ground. Steady\nand serious\u2010looking men these guards and engine\u2010drivers are, quite unlike\nthe daring beings to whose care we so thoughtlessly entrust our precious\nlives in every\u2010day railway travelling. In walk and dress, too, they have a\nmountain air and bearing, at once telling us of the life to which they\nwere \u201cborn and bred,\u201d and reminding us of the intrusion of our material\nworld into their hitherto simple sphere. So far, however, it does not\nappear to have interfered with Vitznau habits. Being what the French call\na \u201ccul de sac,\u201d without even a road over the promontory to Gersau, there\nis no temptation to linger here, and the trains and steamers are made to\nfit in so exactly that, except in the case of undue numbers, or for a\nhasty luncheon, few travellers ever do remain. Nothing struck us so much\nduring our enforced stay as the sudden relapse into its ordinary quiet\nwhich took place at Vitznau the moment train or steamer passed on.\n\nThe nature of its position will also prevent this pretty village from ever\nlosing much of its original character. It consists of but forty or fifty\nhouses situated on a narrow ledge, a small strip of land, between the\nprecipitous Rigi cliffs on one side and the lake on the other, so that\nroom does not exist for very large extension. Only this summer it narrowly\nescaped destruction from the effects of a thunder\u2010storm higher up, such as\nhad not been known for years. The stream overflowed into a torrent,\ncarrying all before it, and the villagers and railway officials had to\nturn out in the middle of the night to open channels and raise\nembankments, and only succeeded by great exertions in arresting\ndestruction. Personally, I should fear the rocks rolling from above more,\nas they have often done at Weggis\u2014but of this the natives seem to take no\naccount. We were told that there is one point on the road between this and\nWeggis\u2014to which larger village the Vitznau children go to school, three\nmiles distant\u2014where stones fall so constantly that the little ones are\nalways on the look\u2010out, and make a run when they see them approaching. Yet\nthis pretty spot has many attractions, especially for invalids. We met a\ngentleman lately who had passed a winter here, and was loud in its\npraises. Nothing can exceed the morality and sobriety of the people; the\nwinter climate, too, is perfect\u2014he and the parish priest had made\nobservations together during one season, which proved that the temperature\nis as mild as that of Montreux and of other sheltered spots on this side\nof the Alps. Fruit grows here abundantly, even figs and melons, as in\nItaly, and flowers thrive equally well. One of the prettiest features in\nthe place was the numberless girls in front of the station with small\nbaskets of each\u2014the grapes having just arrived from Italy over the St.\nGotthard, and come hither by the steamers; but the \u201cfresh figs\u201d and\n\u201cbeautiful peaches\u201d which they offer in excellent English are genuine\nVitznau productions.\n\nThe day advanced, yet there seemed no cessation of the downpour, and all\nwere in despair at being thus caught at such a spot, without the resources\neven of a large hotel. At last \u201ca happy thought\u201d suggested the idea of our\nabandoning the Rigi altogether! \u201cLet us move on to Gersau,\u201d said one\u2014\u201cjust\nround the corner!\u201d broke in another weather\u2010bound traveller, who gave a\nglowing report of its charms and comforts. Even the young people, who in\nthe morning were so anxious for the railroad excitement, were worn out by\nwaiting and the little likelihood of a change. \u201cNo sooner said than done\u201d\nwas therefore the result of our conversation, and the telegraph had\nordered our rooms, and our luggage was on board the steamer, before we\nalmost reflected on the consequences. But what matter if we never saw the\nRigi! It was more than likely those travellers would never reach the top\nin that dreadful railway, and our vexed spirits refused to recognize the\nattractions of anything on such an afternoon but the prospective charms of\ncomfortable _salons_ and piles of the latest newspapers, which we\nprophetically beheld awaiting us at Gersau. In twenty minutes we had\ncrossed to Buochs, tried in vain to discover the landscape thence\u2014so\nlovely from this point in fair weather\u2014through the heavy mist of rain and\ncloud hanging over the lake, and found ourselves lodged in \u201cthe palatial\nhotel\u201d (as the prospectus calls it) at Gersau, close alongside the water\u2019s\nedge.\n\nNo sooner were we fairly landed than the curtain of cloud began to rise,\nand we clearly beheld the opposite shore. Half an hour afterwards, we were\ndiscussing the possible return of fine weather, when a sudden commotion\ntook place around us. Waiters rushed right and left closing windows,\nhousemaids even shutting shutters, without any apparent reason, like\ndemented beings, not giving themselves time to answer our questions. At\nlast, they declared that a storm of wind was approaching, although we\ncould perceive no symptoms of it, and truly, as they foretold, there soon\ncame rushing by one of those sudden squalls against which kindly guide\u2010\nbooks have so many words of warning. Small waves rose rapidly, and in less\nthan half an hour, without one drop of rain, the whole surface of the lake\nwas in commotion. Then came a great excitement!\u2014half the village and all\nthe travellers crowded to the shore, and every eye fixed on the centre of\nthe lake told of a tiny boat in extreme danger. Had the clouds still\ncontinued, it could scarcely have been seen, but now a large, well\u2010manned\ncraft pulled out to the rescue. It took a long time to reach the sinking\nboat, for the lake is wider here than it seems, but at last there was a\ncry of joy on shore when three men were seen to jump from one to the\nother, and so certain did we then feel of their safety that only a few\nremained to greet their arrival. The wind, too, subsided, and later that\nevening the moon struggled\u2014though feebly\u2014to reassert her empire.\n\nThe Gersau Hotel is certainly excellent, owing to the skilful direction of\nHerr M\u00fcller, one of the potentates of the place, as are the majority of\nhotel\u2010keepers in all these Forest Cantons. He also built the one at the\nRigi\u2010Scheideck, on the peak above Gersau, equally celebrated for its\ncomfort; but lately a company, which calls itself the Regina Montium (one\nof the supposed meanings of the word Rigi), has purchased it together with\nothers on the mountain. We found the Gersau establishment full, many\nhaving come down from the higher \u201cpensions,\u201d and amongst the number two or\nthree acquaintances who laughed at our fear of the railway and general\nlack of spirit. But nothing is so discouraging to tourists as rain,\nespecially when nearer to the end than to the beginning of their rambles.\nWe were all in bad humor at the trick the clouds had played us, and\nplanless and annoyed we all retired early to bed that night.\n\nBut \u201cla nuit porte conseil,\u201d and there is no resisting a sunshiny morning!\nThe Angelus\u2010bell once more awoke us, but this time to sun and brightness.\nAgain the church was close by, its bell ringing for half\u2010past seven\no\u2019clock Mass. Anna and I quickly answered its bidding. It is a good\u2010sized\nparish church, of the solid, unarchitectural style of building usual in\nthese parts, but making a pretty effect with its lofty tower seen rising\nagainst the high green hill behind it. To\u2010day, the Mass was for the dead,\nand the benches were all full, as at Lucerne; respectably dressed men on\none side, while the women knelt on the other. What most struck us,\nhowever, were the children; the boys in front of the men, and about twenty\ngirls in the two front benches opposite. These were in charge of a devout\u2010\nlooking young school\u2010mistress, whose sweet, placid countenance seemed to\ntell of pleasant hours for her youthful scholars. Later, we learned that\nthe children, though obliged to attend school by law, are not compelled to\nattend Mass, but that, as a rule, they do so both by their own and their\nparents\u2019 desire. Nothing could be tidier than the little maidens\u2019\nappearance; their frocks clean, and their hair neatly plaited round their\nheads, all according to the same pattern, probably as their mothers had\ndone before them; and so attentive and reverential were they, that\nalthough we strangers knelt right behind them, not one ever turned to look\nat us. Each had her prayer\u2010book, which she read attentively, and, besides,\nher rosary wound round her hand when not in use, all in the same fashion\nand of the same pattern. This small incident carried our thoughts back\nswiftly to another land, recalling a sermon we had heard in London by the\nArchbishop of Westminster, when, after speaking of the olden days of the\ntrue faith in England, and the culpability of its first disturbers, he\nmade allowance for the \u201cinvincible ignorance\u201d of the mass of its people\nnowadays; \u201cfor,\u201d exclaimed his grace, \u201cwho has there been since then to\nteach the little maidens their rosary, and to bring them to our Lord and\nhis blessed Mother?\u201d and we thanked God, as we beheld the Gersau children\nmaking their genuflections with serious little countenances, that there is\nstill one nook at least left in this world where the demon of heresy and\nunbelief has not penetrated, and where piety and reverence are, from\nearliest childhood, taught to go hand\u2010in\u2010hand with modern life. At the\noffertory of the Mass another peculiarity occurred. Suddenly, an elderly\nwoman rose, and, going forward, was followed by all the other women in the\nchurch, who, in single file, advanced towards the altar, walked round it\nby a passage at the back, laid an offering on the altar itself, and then\nquietly returned to their places. The oldest man, on the other side, now\nrose, and followed by all the men, in like manner proceeded through the\nsame ceremony, only varied by their passing round the altar from the\ncontrary side, and depositing, as did some of the women too, an offering\nbesides on a small table in front of the choir. It was weeks before I\ncould learn the origin of this custom, but then, opening by chance an old\nhistory of Switzerland, I found this rule quoted from an ancient document,\nwhich purported to regulate the relations between pastor and people some\ncenturies ago. There it was stated that the offering for the priest should\nbe laid on the altar itself, and that for the sacristan on a small table\noutside\u2014so steadily and closely do these conservative\u2010republicans still\nkeep, even in form, to the pattern of their ancestors.\n\nThe Mass being only one of commemoration and not of burial, the\ncongregation soon dispersed to their different avocations. In this way\ntourists are so often deceived, when, coming in at a late hour, they find\nforeign churches empty.\n\nI remember a Protestant lady who had passed three winters in Rome once\nasking me seriously if Catholics ever went to holy communion. I thought\nher mind must be wandering, but discovered on enquiry that she had never\nbeen inside a church, even in Rome, before eleven o\u2019clock or later;\ntherefore, though many were hearing Mass, she had noticed none at holy\ncommunion. It had never occurred to her that, contrary to her Protestant\ncustom, Masses were begun, and devout Catholics received holy communion in\nthose same churches, long before she probably was awake each morning. So\nin the present instance, the congregation, consisting of working\u2010men and\nwomen, might have been through half their daily occupations before any\ntraveller at Gersau thought of looking in at the church, \u201cwondering at its\ndesolation!\u201d\n\nThe sun was streaming in brightly through an open side\u2010door, inviting us\nto depart by that exit. What a beautiful sight met us on the threshold!\nThe lake, placid and sunny, framed in by surrounding green slopes and\npeaks, lay close in front, separated only by the public road to Brunnen\nfrom a beautiful little cemetery belonging to the church. Here were a\ncrowd of pretty monuments, the majority I in stone, but some in white\nmarble, in excellent taste, bordered with flowers, or delicately twined\nround with creeping roses and ivy. The children\u2019s corner lay to the right,\nand there an old woman was sprinkling holy water and arranging flowers on\nsome of the poorer graves, which lay between them and the handsome tombs\nin the pathway from the church\u2010door to the road\u2014a path that quite formed a\n\u201cvia sacra\u201d of Gersau notabilities. Judging from these, the population\nwould seem to consist of Camenzinds and K\u00fcttels. An occasional M\u00fcller\nfigured on a tombstone, but otherwise it might safely be assumed that what\nwas not Camenzind was K\u00fcttel\u2014if not K\u00fcttel, Camenzind. The names, even if\nonly seen once, would have attracted notice\u2014Camenzind, especially, had a\n_non\u2010local_ sound, and we willingly jumped at the conclusion that it may\nbe one of those which, according to Herr H\u2014\u2014\u2019s theory, still exist in\nthese cantons, and are equally to be found in Swedish and Northern valleys\nto this day. That they are the living autocrats of Gersau admits of little\ndoubt, for every house above the common run is certain on enquiry to prove\nthe property of this family. The manufactory, too, at the end of the\nvillage belongs to them. A beautiful resting\u2010place they certainly have\nbetween their church and the lake, which every Camenzind and K\u00fcttel must\nhave been looking upon from their tenderest years, for many centuries\npast.\n\nWhen our party met at breakfast, it was amusing to see what a complete\nchange the sun and general brightness had effected. All were equally bent\non retracing our steps at once, the railroad being the only drawback in\nthe foreground. The juniors would not consent to give that up on any\naccount, but the elders still hesitated, daunted by yesterday\u2019s\nrecollections. Opportunely, a casual acquaintance proposed a solution that\nconquered all difficulties. He suggested that the younger folk should take\nthe railway, and the timid, going on to the next steamboat\nstation\u2014Weggis\u2014get horses there, and thence ascend by road in the old\u2010\nfashioned style. What we (for I was among the latter class) should lose in\n\u201csensation\u201d he asserted that we should gain in interest and\npicturesqueness, and his plan, suiting all parties, was at once adopted.\n\nHaving an hour to spare before the steamer was due, we strolled through\nthe village. No wonder that Gersau has an individuality of its own, for it\nis a rare specimen descended almost to our own day of those village\n_communes_ Herr H\u2014\u2014 had spoken to us of, which, taking advantage of the\ndebts and embarrassments of their feudal lords, had purchased exemption\nfrom them early in the middle ages. Indeed, none of these small\ncommunities retained their independence down to late times with the\nexception of Gersau. \u201cIt was forgotten, hidden away in its beautiful\nretreat,\u201d say some; \u201csteady, self\u2010respecting, and not quarrelsome,\u201d say\nothers, with more likelihood of truth. At all events, the fact is\nundeniable that it owned obedience to none but its own local authorities.\nTradition says, and the date is proudly recorded on the wall of the town\u2010\nhall\u2014a true peasant town\u2010hall, only one degree superior to the surrounding\nhouses\u2014that the peasants of Gersau, having put aside their savings for\nthis purpose during ten years, bought their freedom from the Counts von\nMoos, for the sum of 690 \u201cPfund pfenninge,\u201d in 1390. Years before, in\n1359, they had made a treaty with the four Forest Cantons, and were\nacknowledged by them as confederates, which singular position this small\ncommunity retained until the French invasion of 1798, since which time\nthey have been incorporated with the Canton of Schwyz. The place is,\nliterally, nothing more than a large village, said to contain only 2,276\ninhabitants, but, seen from the lake with the animation given to it by the\ntourist life, and the manufactories of the Camenzinds along the shore, it\nmakes the effect of a much larger population and of a very thriving town.\nPenetrating, however, as we did to the original background of houses, we\nfound them of quite another character. Swiss peasant dwellings, in\ngeneral, are more comfortable than those of almost any country, and so\ncapacious as to be thoroughly patriarchal, often sheltering numberless\nchildren and grandchildren together under the one roof. These of Gersau\nlook like true family strongholds; as if they contained in themselves the\nhistories of many generations, and everything seemed so stationary, so\nunmoved and immovable, that we could not help thinking of Hawthorne\u2019s\ndescription of an English country village, where he fancied he saw the\ngrandfathers and grandmothers marrying over and over again in their\ndescendants, so completely had the place and people a centenarian air\nabout them. Pretty it was, too, to see these picturesque homes extending\none above the other up the defile behind, amidst their orchards and fresh\ngreen pasture\u2010grounds, headed by the Rigi\u2010Scheideck Hotel, which crowns\nthe summit and looks quite near, though it is not so in reality. The\nintercourse between the two now gives Gersau much stirring importance,\nbut, as in the case of Weggis, the advance of \u201ccivilization\u201d is likely to\nprove of permanent injury to it. Next year a railroad, branching off from\nKaltbad, is to be finished along the brow to the Scheideck, when the\nstream of tourists will of course flow in that direction. And perhaps\nnowhere could there be more excuse for abandoning \u201cpicturesque old ways.\u201d\nAlthough it seemed a short ascent, and we saw a merry party starting from\nthe Pension M\u00fcller on horseback, intending to dine and sleep at the top,\nwe found on enquiry that it would take them at least two and a half hours\nto reach the Scheideck, and between three and four hours for the\nunfortunate carriers who followed soon after laden with the ladies\u2019 huge\ntrunks. Nothing could be more painful than to see these men, some quite\nold, staggering under the weight, and to know what a stiff climb awaited\nthem higher up. At present there is no road up the hill nor any other\nmeans of transport, and the whole supplies for that large establishment at\nthe top have to be taken up by these carriers. It was fortunate for the\nladies\u2019 happiness that they had started before their luggage, for the\nsight would have completely spoiled the welcome one\u2019s trunks always\nreceive on their arrival when you are tempted to part with them even for a\nshort time\u2014tender\u2010hearted, as they certainly looked, the finery would\ndoubtless have been left to repose quietly beside the lake below.\n\nThe thunder\u2010storm of which we had heard so much at Vitznau committed even\ngreater mischief at Gersau this summer. Two small streams here unite, and\nan unusual mass of water rolling down from the hillside that night,\nincreased them to a violent torrent, which broke down the strong\nembankment, carrying all before it\u2014sweeping two houses into the lake and\nflooding the manufactory to the first floor. A poor woman and two children\nwere also drowned; in fine, the damage done was very great. There had not\nbeen time for repairs when we visited it, and the broken walls and\nscattered stones told their own tale. \u201cAppeals,\u201d too, were hung up on all\nsides, but also many notices of \u201cthanks\u201d from the commune to every one who\nhad helped on the occasion, worded in the same touching style we had\nnoticed in the Lucerne papers\u2014giving a most agreeable impression of the\nnatural simplicity and dignity of this small community. As we steamed away\nback again round the Rigi\u2010Nase, the sun was resting on the pretty spot,\ninhabited by the descendants of the original hard\u2010working peasants, and it\nseemed as if the spirits of former Camenzinds, K\u00fcttels, and M\u00fcllers must\nlook down approvingly on their posterity, who are not yet ashamed to\nprofess their faith, nor unwilling to have their children still taught how\nto unite liberty with religion, and thus preserve the two treasures\nintact.\n\nCertainly there is no magician like Apollo\u2014and none who so well knows how\nto make himself valued by occasional fits of absence. Under his influence,\nVitznau was to\u2010day another place, an ideal picture of the stir and\nmovement of modern life, combined with a tranquil beauty which we could\nnot have imagined, veiled in cloud and mist as it had been on the day\nbefore. It already looked like an old friend, though only the acquaintance\nof one day. There were the curious engines, showing themselves ready to\nbrave the dangers of the ascent; the pretty station with its fruit and\nflower girls and photograph stall; the old church, and the two hotels,\nlooking bright and clean\u2014all standing out in relief against the\nprecipitous cliff behind, and surrounded by luxuriant chestnut and walnut\ntrees, and patches of green, freshened up by the recent rain. Even the\nNase\u2010promontory was clothed with timber down to the shore, and the water\nreflecting the trees was only of another lighter shade, that beautiful\ntransparent green which is now known as \u201cEau de Nil.\u201d One felt too that\nthe picture could never be much spoiled, there being no space for ugly\nbuildings, or the factory life which, although it tells of employment with\nits own peculiar charms, rather mars the picturesque beauty of the\nlandscape at Gersau. Moreover, the brightness was enhanced by the national\nflag of Switzerland floating over the hotel, looking more red and striking\nthen ever against the green background. Yes! striking is the true word for\nit, not showy\u2014nor flaunting its importance like the tricolor and many\nanother particolored standard of our own days, but solemn and yet\nattractive, one quite impossible not to notice wherever or however seen.\nIt had always suggested some history to my mind, with its white cross on\nthe red ground, which could not have been adopted without a purpose, but\nsince yesterday it had acquired a new and deep interest, for one of the\npamphlets Herr H\u2014\u2014 had bestowed on me in Lucerne treated of nothing but\nthis same flag. It was a sermon preached before the \u201cPius\u2010Verein\u201d or \u201cPius\nUnion\u201d of Switzerland, at the general meeting, which took place at\nEinsiedlen in the summer of 1872, entitled the \u201cWappenschild\u201d or \u201ccoat\u2010of\u2010\narms\u201d of the Swiss \u201cPius Union.\u201d During the rain of yesterday I had read\nit through, and most interesting it was to note the very characteristics\nhe had foretold that we should observe pervading all sermons in these\nparts: the constant allusions to their beautiful nature and uninterrupted\nreference to their past history.\n\nIt commenced by recording how the \u201cPius\u2010Verein\u201d had been founded in 1854\nby some devout Catholics who could not stand by quietly noticing the evil\ntendencies of the age without protesting, and who had, in consequence,\n\u201cassembled on the shore of the tranquil lake of the Forest Cantons, where\n500 years previously their forefathers had met together in order to shake\noff the hated yoke of the Austrian governors and imperial Vogts.\u201d It then\nproceeded in most eloquent language to give the reasons why, amongst a\nvariety of flags, none could be found which corresponded so completely to\nthe sentiments of the associates as the national standard of\nSwitzerland\u2014the white cross on the red ground.\n\n\u201cThe white cross had originally been chosen,\u201d said the preacher, \u201cas being\nthe emblem of purity and innocence,\u201d and the honesty, uprightness, and\nunion of their ancestors in that distant age were forcibly dwelt upon for\nthe imitation of their descendants, whilst he drew a lamentable picture of\nthe divisions and ineffective schemes of the present day. The second part\nexplained that these ancestors had placed this white cross on a red\nfield\u2014first, because red, being the color of blood, was the symbol of\nbravery, and was justly claimed by those same ancestors, who had made\nSwiss courage a proverb, and who had so often shed their hearts\u2019 blood in\ndefence of liberty and of their faith; for through Christian liberty alone\ncould civil liberty be attained. New \u201cVogts\u201d or \u201cgovernors,\u201d continued the\npreacher, \u201cthreaten our land nowadays, but let us manfully resist, and\nconquer them. The Lardenberg(127) of avarice which formerly seized the\noxen of a poor man, and put his eyes out, to\u2010day tries to blind the poor\nby a godless press and scandalous literature, robbing them of their most\nprecious possessions\u2014of their churches, convents, priests, and schools.\nLet us fight against this vice in ourselves, in our families and our\ncommunes. Sundays and holidays displease them, and instead of church\u2010\nservices and hymns they wish to hear of nothing but labor on these days.\nLet us then be more strict than ever in the sanctification of the Sunday,\nand give our enemies the example of disinterested love and charity! The\n\u2018Wolfenschiess\u2019 of sensuality and self\u2010indulgence is more likely to bring\nour beloved land under the slavery of Satan now than 500 years ago\u2014a\nworthy undertaking, therefore, for the \u2018Pius\u2010Verein\u2019 would be the\nestablishment of temperance societies.... And let us courageously fight\nthe third \u2018Landvogt\u2019\u2014the Gessler of luxury, wealth, and despotism....\nCommerce and industry are the sources of public prosperity, but let not\nthe golden calf of gain become the god of our XIXth century. Let not our\nfactories become modern _Zwinglius_, nor their proprietors force others to\nbend the knee to the _hat_ of self\u2010interest, nor to offer up the sacrifice\nof their freedom and liberty of speech. The red field with its white cross\nwill remind us in all this of our forefathers\u2019 example.\n\n\u201c_Red_, too, is the color of fire, and symbolizes love of country. It\nreminds us of the fifty men of Schwyz, who decided the fate of that first\nfight for freedom, the great battle of Morgarten\u2014of the love of fatherland\nshown by an Arnold von Winkelried, an Adrian von Bubenberg, a Nicholas von\nder Flue, and the many thousand others who left wife, children, trades,\nand home, to seek the death of heroes for love of country. Compare their\nconduct with the boastful toasts of the present day, and see the\ndifference between deeds and words. They reproach us only because we do\nnot boast with these boasters, and that we seek to give our \u2018Union\u2019 a\nreligious character.... But history will judge us differently! Let us on\nour side show love and charity to all; to those also who differ from us in\nbelief; love our confederates as fellow\u2010Christians; maintain every bond of\nunion\u2014and in this the red ground of the white cross may be the sign of\nfraternal love and harmony.\u201d\n\nLastly, the preacher showed how \u201cred typifies the aurora or the dawn of\nday,\u201d alluding to the \u201cbattle near Murten, where, after a short prayer\nrecited by the combatants, the sun broke through the heavy bank of clouds,\nlighting up the horizon in brilliant colors, and their leader, Hans von\nHallwyl, exclaimed, Up, confederates, and forward, for God lights us to\nvictory!\u2014a prophecy which proved perfectly true. A firm trust and reliance\non the Lord gave soul, courage, and strength to our ancestors, and never\nwere they deceived. God has preserved our fatherland in a marvellous\nmanner, and why should we despair? Great should be our hopes of a better\nfuture.... For every reason, then, ought we to choose the white cross on\nthe red field as the flag of our Pius\u2010Verein. Let us show to our Lord and\nto the world that we seek nothing for ourselves, but, treading in the\nfootsteps of our forefathers, only strive for the welfare of our\nfatherland.... God will be with us! and we shall have the intercession of\nthe Blessed Virgin Mary, and of the patrons of our Union, S. Charles\nBorromeo and Nicholas von der Flue.... Let us hold firm to our glorious\nfaith, and then, when the sign of the Son of God\u2014our Holy cross, our\n\u2018coat\u2010of\u2010arms\u2019\u2014shall appear amidst the clouds, may it lead us in triumph\non that dreadful day into the eternal fatherland of heaven!\u201d\n\nFresh from the impression of these eloquent words, it was impossible not\nto look on this beautiful flag to\u2010day with increasing admiration, nay\naffection. But my reveries were cut short by the young C\u2014\u2014s, whose\napproaching railway ascent caused them intense excitement. George C\u2014\u2014, the\nson, especially, became full of animation when he undertook to procure the\ntickets for his sisters at the office. Stationing himself close to the\ngangway, he bade them follow at their leisure, as he would jump on shore\nand put his experience of yesterday\u2019s many long hours to profit.\nAccordingly, the instant the steamer came alongside the quay, he got ahead\nof all the other passengers, and giving one bound to the office, proudly\nflourished his tickets for the first carriage to us who remained on board,\nlong before the untaught crowd thought of moving. A few who knew better,\nlike himself, made a rush too, and one old man tripped and fell, whilst\nanother leaped over him, without allowing himself time to help his\ncompanion\u2014so selfish does excitement and locomotion make all ages and\nranks! We likewise moved on, and so rapidly, that there was barely time to\nsee the start of the first train containing our young friends, who were\nwaving handkerchiefs to us, as their carriage seemed to creep above the\nchurch\u2010tower up the mountain, or to note the fruitful garden\u2010land\nstretching along the shore with the precipitous wall of rock above,\nextending the whole length of this side of the Rigi, when in a few minutes\nwe reached our landing\u2010place at Weggis, and found ourselves sitting in the\ngarden of the \u201cGolden Lion.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nOdd Stories. VII. The Philosophers Of The Dragon\u2019s Bower.\n\n\nIn the reign of King, and in the Dragon\u2019s Bower of the beautiful tea\u2010\ngarden of the statesman Kung, had assembled the philosophers Tung, Bang,\nSing, Lung, Wing, Hang, with the rich mandarins Bo and Sho. Sipping that\nexquisite beverage which, as yielded by a choice herb grown only in the\nflower\u2010sprinkled garden of Kung, has imparted to the Hi\u2010Tea philosophy the\npeculiar intellectual flavor which distinguishes it from the Lo\u2010Tea\ndoctrine, they discussed the problems of existence. Only a vague, brief\nrecord has been preserved of that eventful meeting, so well called by Yung\nSing, the poet, \u201cthe shock of minds,\u201d and which, it was long maintained by\nthe Hi\u2010Tea school, had solved the mysteries of preordained genesis and\ncircumstantial fixture. The dialogue turned upon that profound saying of\nthe old man of Chow, the wise Lautze\u2014\u201cThe Tau which can be tau\u2010ed is not\nthe eternal Tau.\u201d Vainly having sought in his own poor wit the meaning of\nthis sublime sentence, the mandarin Sho begged the six sages, in the grace\nof their princely hearts, and with the light of their shining minds, to\nmake it clear to his benighted intelligence.\n\n_Tung_: Tau is the unbounded entity.\n\n_Bang_: Thunder without sound.\n\n_Sing_: Unsung music of all things.\n\n_Lung_: Breath of life without life.\n\n_Hang_: Justice of accidents.\n\n_Wing_: Eternal entity of non\u2010entity.\n\n\u201cIn short,\u201d added Tung, \u201cthe supreme principle Tau is the uncircumscribed\nlimit of universes; the order of disorder; the contradiction which\nreconciles; the peace into which all storms subside; the mother and father\nof action; the source of the unworshipped unworshipping worship, and of\npower beyond dominion.\u201d\n\nThe mandarin Sho acknowledged this to be a grand definition of Tau; but,\nbeing a collector of the imperial revenues, prayed to be informed of the\nuse and value of Tau in the practical administration of the affairs of\nmen; for to save his worthless life he could not see (begging the favor of\nthe assembled wisdom) how Tau was of any use whatever. \u201cIt\u2019s of no use,\u201d\nsaid Wing; \u201cand there\u2019s the beauty of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen what is the use of mentioning it?\u201d tartly added Hang, a devoted\nadmirer of the Tau theory. At this arose an admirable wrangle over the\nquestion of use and beauty, in that happy style of wit which only the\ngreat Hi\u2010Tea school of wisdom could boast. Its upshot was that matter\nresolved itself into the final irresponsibility of all things.\n\n\u201cBut woe to that mortal,\u201d said Tung, \u201cwho carries not about him the\ntalisman of wisdom which imparts to everything its infinite magic, and\nwho, groaning in the prison\u2010house of the senses, sees not the eternal day\u2010\nbeam in all things. With eyes he sees not; with life he lives not. He hath\nthe six becloudings of Kungfootse.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe wise man,\u201d said Bang, \u201cfears no fate. Torrents, tempests,\nearthquakes, are but blustering fictions; nothing is true but his courage.\nFixed in his will, his condition is victory; and if he falls, he finds in\nthe elements his kindred, and in nature his home.\u201d\n\nHere the countenance of the philosopher Tung was observed to change from\nyellow to pale green, with signs of great agony caused by unknown interior\nworkings; for, it was afterward told, his morning repast had been poisoned\nby an ignorant cook and a bad doctor. Lost in their thoughts, the sages\nheeded not his groans.\n\n\u201cAlways should the sage rejoice,\u201d said Sing. \u201cHis spirit should take part\nin the feast of events, the sublime comedy of life. Does fortune desert\nhim? Let him be glad that it seeks another. Is his friend dead? Let him be\nglad that he is gone to joy. In every event we can as easily discover\nreason for cheer as for despair.\u201d\n\nEre Sing had finished speaking, an ornamented tile from the roof of the\nDragon\u2019s Bower, loosened by one of those disturbances of the earth not\nunknown to the learned men of the East, fell upon the bare head of the\nphilosopher Bang, who, after experience of a severe fright, was borne away\nhelpless from the scene. Wing smiled, Sing laughed, and a perceptible\nscorn was on the lips of Hang.\n\nThus said Lung, he who had been called the gaunt thinker: \u201cWhat think you?\nIs there anything better than life, friends? Here we live, responsible\nneither to be nor to do nor to die; life and fate stand pledged for us. Do\nwe fall out of the charmed circle? We are caught up into another. Do we\ndie? Then we live again; or, if we do not,\u201d continued Lung, gasping, \u201cso\nmuch the better. What so excellent as life; what so merciful as death?\u201d\nHere a painful fit of coughing compelled the philosopher to pause.\n\nBut what now most drew the attention of the company was the entrance of\nthe statesman Kung, who, in a voice of dignified emotion, informed the\nwise Sing that his brother had been suddenly seized and decapitated on a\ncharge of conspiracy, and all his immense fortune confiscated to the\nstate, save a portion awarded to his betrayer. Pangs and groans shook the\nbosom of the sage, as he left the tea\u2010table; for his brother\u2019s bounty had\nbeen the mainstay of his life.\n\n\u201cO friends!\u201d cried Kung, \u201cthe law is inexorable; it kills its child and\ndevours its mother, and swallows the substance of its benefactors; but the\nstate reigns and the king lives, and the land is happy. Praised be the\nking!\u201d\n\n\u201cPraised be justice!\u201d echoed Hang, who had counselled the astute Kung in\nthe preparation of his criminal code. \u201cJustice reigns in King, and acts\nthrough Kung. What is nature but justice, and what are her thousand\u2010fold\naccidents but executioners? Every man gravitates to his fate, and every\nfate is a judgment. The king makes death: he can do no wrong; let no man\nmourn.\u201d Long after the piercing mind of Hang had perished under the\nterrors of that great instrument which his genius invented for the reform\nof mankind; long after the astute Kung had yielded up his life to the\ndemands of state (for he had put to death by mistake the favorite dog of\nhis imperial master), these sentences, which seem to tear to pieces the\nleading tenet of the Lo\u2010Tea doctrines as the dragon tears the bull, were\nremembered in the realm of King.\n\nSpake at last that strange sage whose eyes are as starlight to the\ndarkness of common minds, and whose vision seeks the abode of Tau. \u201cSince\nwe but dream we live,\u201d said Wing, \u201clet us live to dream well. In reason\nare the pillars of our temple; in imagination is its worship. Happy are ye\nwho, out of the toils of vain science and hard action, take rest in the\nbower of fancy, the pavilion of dreams, the garden of poetry, or roam the\nroyal hunting\u2010grounds of imagination to capture logic in the chase of\npleasure, and find wisdom by seeking delight. Thrice fortunate ye,\u201d\ncontinued the star\u2010eyed Wing, taking another whiff from his pipe of opium,\n\u201cwho, when the caprices of power have driven you from doctrine, can\nretreat upon your dreams. Life is a fiction; let us dream that it is the\ntruth.\u201d Such was the curious doctrine of that wonderful man, whose visions\nof demons and the powers of the air have so often filled the imperial\nstage, and who died in the frenzy of his powerful mind.\n\nThe refined mandarin Bo\u2014he who, for his reticence, had been entrusted with\nso many affairs of state\u2014heard all these words of the learned, and spoke\nnot. \u201cAll men and things,\u201d he said to himself, \u201cserve him who listens, and\nresist him who talks. Shrewd is he who gains without giving.\u201d Immersed in\nthese thoughts, the silent mandarin could only nod his head to a remark of\nthe mandarin Sho, that life was a business of profit and loss, and the\nbest speculations were always practical. What man can foretell his fate?\nThe frank and candid Sho, whose manners concealed his purpose, lost his\nhead for speculating with the king\u2019s money. The secret Bo, through his\nlove of silence, forgot to send his kinsman Bang a physician who would\nhave saved his life, and so was disinherited, and died a beggar.\n\nThe thinkers of Lo\u2010Tea, having taken the measure of these and other events\nsubsequent to the great dialogue of the Dragon\u2019s Bower, could not avoid\nthe boast that their humble philosophy was better than a proud one;\nwhereupon the infuriated statesman Kung sent a number of them into exile.\n\nWhen the old philosopher of Chow heard of these sayings and doings, he\nmurmured: \u201cHalf\u2010truths are contradicted, whole truths are verified. There\nis no courage without right fear; no good silence without true speech; no\naspiration without reverence; no dignity without humility; no good without\naffection; and philosophy has no room for a cold heart and a vain mind.\nBut life is not contradicted, though lives are slain. Tau reigns.\u201d\n\nO sages! how by thinking shall ye add a foot to your stature? And how\nshall it avail ye when a brick, as it were, dropped down by a tornado\ncentre\u2010wise, so to speak, on a shaven head, shall fracture your systems of\nphilosophy? What withstands the accidents of fate save the divine Truth,\nwhich is no accident?\n\n\n\n\nNew Publications.\n\n\n    LIFE AND DOCTRINE OF S. CATHERINE OF GENOA. Translated from the\n    Italian. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1874. 1 vol.\n    12mo, pp. 418.\n\n\nThe Catherines are a wonderful group among the female saints. The one of\nGenoa was a married lady, and this circumstance will undoubtedly make her\n_Life_ doubly interesting to those who are in the same condition, and\nsometimes are tempted to envy those who live in the cloister. The\nremarkable _Life_ of this saint, accompanied by her _Spiritual Dialogues_,\nnow first published in English, will have an additional interest, in the\neyes of all its readers, on account of the introduction by F. Hecker,\nwhich is dated Annecy, Oct. 7, 1873. The translation was made several\nyears ago, and left, in the state of a rough draught, by a lady well known\nfor her high culture and virtues\u2014the late Mrs. Ripley. It has been lately\nrevised with care, and made as accurate as possible.\n\nThe work itself has long been very famous, and ranks next to the writings\nof S. Teresa among the spiritual treatises of female authors. Its\nspirituality is of a very high order, suited for those who, either from\nnecessity or by their own free choice, are trying to climb the rugged\nheights of Mount Carmel.\n\n\n    THE CHRISTIAN CEMETERY IN THE XIXTH CENTURY; or, The Last War\u2010cry\n    of the Communists. By Mgr. Gaume. Translated by the Rev. R.\n    Brennan, A.M., with a preface by the Very Rev. T. S. Preston, V.G.\n    New York: Benziger Bros. 1874.\n\n\nMgr. Gaume attacks, with his usual trenchant vigor and sarcasm, in this\nvolume, the horrible travesty of funeral obsequies which atheists are wont\nto perpetrate at the burial of what they regard as mere clods of earth,\nthe carcases of dead animals. These enemies of the human race are not\ncontent with the enjoyment of the civil right to live and die like beasts\nthemselves, but they must needs attempt to desecrate the cemeteries of\nChristians, and to interfere with their right to live and die, and be\nburied like rational and immortal beings who expect a resurrection from\nthe dead. It is highly important that the eyes of all men who have any\nglimmering of reason and religious belief left should be opened to the\nloathsome wickedness and brutality of the sect of atheists and communists\nwho are everywhere conspiring for the destruction of society and the human\nrace. This book will serve as an eye\u2010opener to all who read it\nattentively. We trust it will also act as an antidote to the heathenish\nand revolting notions respecting the burning of the bodies of the dead\nwhich have of late been so offensively presented in many newspapers.\n\nThe book has been well translated and neatly printed. We cannot, however,\nadmire the grave\u2010yard view on the cover, which reminds us of the car\u2010doors\non the Camden and Amboy Railway, with a grave\u2010stone and a weeping\u2010willow.\n\n\n    LIFE OF S. THOMAS OF VILLANOVA; with an Introduction by F.\n    Middleton, O.S.A. Philadelphia: P. F. Cunningham & Son. 1874.\n\n\nThis is a reprint of one of the Oratorian Series, and gives a sufficiently\ngood biography of the great Archbishop of Valentia, which is better\ntranslated than most of its companion volumes. The introduction is quite a\nlearned and eloquently\u2010written paper, chiefly valuable on account of its\ninformation respecting learned and able members of the Augustinian Order\nwho were champions of the faith against the modern heresies.\n\n\n    ON SOME POPULAR ERRORS CONCERNING POLITICS AND RELIGION. By the\n    Right Hon. Lord Robert Montagu, M.P. London: Burns & Oates. 1874.\n    (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nThe popular errors attacked and refuted in this collection of essays are\nsuch as relate to political ethics, the mutual bearings of religion and\nlaw, church and state, civil marriage, education\u2014in a word, they are the\nerrors of the party of revolution, the so\u2010called principles of 1789. Lord\nRobert Montagu has made a work by F. Franco, S.J., the basis of his own,\nwhich is neither, strictly speaking, original, nor yet a translation or\ncompendium of F. Franco\u2019s work. The Protestant and secular papers are just\nnow peculiarly inquisitive about the doctrines of sound and instructed\nCatholics on these mixed questions. It is not very easy to satisfy them by\nmere newspaper and magazine articles written in haste and under the\npressure of editorial labors. Here is a book where they may find the\ninformation they are in quest of, and where Catholics also may gain much\ninstruction. We have no reason to wish to withhold the full, clear, and\nunreserved statement of our Catholic doctrines on any subject from our\nnon\u2010Catholic fellow\u2010citizens. The great difficulty lies in the universal\nconfusion of ideas on these subjects, and the general want of willingness\nto inquire and discuss thoroughly and fairly. The European Catholic press\nis fairly teeming with books and articles of the most consummate ability\non these burning questions of the day, and we welcome every effort made by\nthose who write in English to place these products of sound learning and\nthought before our own reading public. This book is an effort of that\nkind, and we hope it will be read by a great number of both Catholics and\nnon\u2010Catholics who wish to inform themselves about the true issues between\nthe church on one side, C\u00e6sarism and revolution on the other.\n\nThis is the first volume of \u201cS. Joseph\u2019s Theological Library\u201d Series,\nedited by the Fathers of the Society of Jesus, and is to be followed by\nseveral others.\n\n\n    THE SACRED ANTHOLOGY. A Book of Ethnical Scriptures Collected and\n    Edited by Moncure Daniel Conway. New York: Henry Holt & Co. 1874.\n\n\nAs a specimen of the typographical art, this book is superb. The literary\ntaste and skill exhibited in its preparation are also of a high order. Its\ncontents are, moreover, specimens of the productions of genius and wisdom\ngathered from all time and all cultivated nations, including many passages\nfrom the inspired writings. So far, the book is one which may be valuable\nto one who knows how to use it, and is competent to discriminate between\nthe truth and the error which it contains. Nevertheless, the intention of\nthe author and the real scope of the volume are radically anti\u2010Christian\nand anti\u2010theistic. The very idea of presenting a conglomeration of the\nDivine Scriptures and of the sacred writings, legends, and philosophical\nworks of heathens, is to place all religions on a common level. In the\nindex the author, with the pert assumption of a neological sciolist, takes\ncare to assert as a fact the want of genuineness and authenticity of a\ngreat part of the books of the Bible. As a mere opinion, this is in\ndefiance of sound criticism, and has been often exploded. To put forward\nsuch an opinion, in defiance of the learning of the whole Christian world,\nas something certain and unquestionable, is simple impudence, and is as\nunscientific as it is irreligious. In the extracts on theism the author\nhas adroitly given the whole a pantheistic issue.\n\nThe ignorant, the unwary, and those who wish to escape from the sense of\nresponsibility to God may be deceived by this kind of art. But really, and\nin the view of a true and comprehensive science, all that can be gathered\nfrom false religions and imperfect philosophies, both in those things\nwhich resemble, and those which are partly or wholly dissimilar to, the\ndivine philosophy of revelation and Christian theology, confirms and\nproves the divine truth of the Old and New Testaments and the concurrent\nreligious tradition of the church of God from the creation of man.\nProudhon was right when he said that a man who is logical must be an\natheist or an ultramontane. Whoever stands by what is positive, and is\nready to follow it to its consequences, belongs logically to the Catholic\nside. Whoever takes the negative belongs with atheists and materialists.\nOne sad and startling proof that the great mass of those who reject the\nCatholic Church, and yet are not ready to renounce the name of Christian,\nare sliding downward, is the multiplication of books like this one, and\nmuch worse than this, published by our principal firms, and everywhere\nadvertised along with works professedly Christian and pious. We suppose\nthat most of these gentlemen profess to be Christians. Where is their\nconscience, then, when, for the sake of money, they disseminate the works\nof Renan, Strauss, B\u00fcchner, and other infidels and atheists, which are\nsapping the foundations of religion and morality, and poisoning the public\nmind? Where is the public conscience which tolerates this? And why do not\nthe Protestant periodicals, newspapers, synods and conventions, pulpits\nand lecturing rostrums, resound with a cry of alarm, warning and\ndenunciation? Have they lost all interest and all courage in the matter,\nor are they going over to the enemy?\n\n\n    DIALOGUES OF ST. GREGORY. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (For sale\n    by The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nGregory the Great is illustrious among the popes, and even among the\ndoctors of the church, for his genius. There is an exquisite flavor in his\nwritings which is peculiar to them. Edited and published with the utmost\ncare and the most perfect literary taste, like all the books of this\nseries, this volume adds one more gem to the treasury of English Catholic\nliterature which is now so rapidly filling up. The publication of entire\nworks of the fathers presents the evidences of the Catholic religion in\nthe most convincing form, and is therefore a way of propagating the faith\nin some respects superior to the ordinary method of controversy. It is\nalso most valuable for Catholics as a means of increasing and deepening\ntheir knowledge of our holy faith. It is to be hoped that a taste for\nbooks of this description will become more general among reading\nCatholics, and that all who have the means of doing so will in every way\npromote their general circulation.\n\n\n    TIGRANES: A TALE OF THE DAYS OF JULIAN THE APOSTATE. Translated\n    from the Italian of F. John Joseph Franco, S.J. Philadelphia: P.\n    F. Cunningham & Son. 1874.\n\n\nThis historical romance, which is not literally translated, but condensed\nand abridged\u2014judiciously, we think, for it is plenty long enough as it\nis\u2014is much superior to the most of similar works of fiction founded on\nearly Christian history. It is full of information which only a learned\nman could give with accuracy, and the events it describes are of thrilling\ninterest. The _Messenger of the Sacred Heart_, from whose pages the\ntranslation is reprinted, we have already had occasion to say, is as\ndistinguished for its literary excellence as it is for its edifying piety.\nWe hope to see much more frequent and more important contributions to\nsacred literature in future from the learned and accomplished group of\nprofessors at the Woodstock College.\n\n\n    THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN ITS RELATIONS TO HUMAN PROGRESS. A Lecture\n    by the Rev. J. J. Moriarty, A.M., Chatham Village, N. Y. Albany:\n    Van Benthuysen.\n\n\nThis pamphlet, which has as neat an appearance as if it had been printed\nin London or Boston, is a good specimen of a well\u2010written popular lecture,\nof just the sort to please and instruct an ordinary audience. Our familiar\nfriend, the New Zealander, who is an indefatigable traveller, and whom we\nlast saw in a French costume in the columns of a Paris newspaper, turns up\nagain in the lecture. Lord Macaulay would have been astonished, when he\ndrew the picture of this venerable personage sitting on a broken arch of\nLondon bridge, if he could have foreseen how many would make use of it to\nadorn their discourse. We can say nothing, however, to F. Moriarty, which\ndoes not recoil upon ourselves; for have we not done the same thing?\n\n\n    CATHOLICS AND ROMAN CATHOLICS. By an Old Catholic (Bishop Coxe).\n    Buffalo: Martin Taylor.\n\n\nThis reply to Dr. Ryan\u2019s pamphlet seems to have elated the spirits of our\nEpiscopalian friends no little. It is receiving due attention at present\nin the columns of the Catholic paper at Buffalo, and no doubt the articles\npublished in that paper will appear in a pamphlet form when they are\ncompleted. Etiquette will not allow us to interfere in this controversy\nuntil the principals have done with it. If anything is left for us to say\nafter that, we may pay our respects to Dr. Coxe in this magazine.\n\n\n    THE BALTIMORE GUN CLUB. From the French of Jules Verne. Freely\n    translated by Edward Roth. Philadelphia: King & Baird, Publishers,\n    607 Sansom St.\n\n\nIt is a daring attempt to improve on Jules Verne, but Mr. Roth has, on the\nwhole, been successful in making his celebrated story of the great\nColumbiad and the shot fired from Florida to the moon even more American\nand more interesting to Americans than before. _De la Terre \u00e0 la Lune_ has\nbeen translated previously, but Mr. Roth has introduced some little points\nof his own, and local traits which it would have been almost impossible\nfor a foreigner to seize.\n\n\n    THEOLOGIA MORALIS NOVISSIMI ECCLESI\u00c6 DOCTORIS S. ALPHONSI, IN\n    COMPENDIUM REDACTA, ET USUI VENERABILIS CLERI AMERICANI\n    ACCOMMODATA. Auctore A. Konings, C.SS.R. Pars Prima. Bostoni\u00e6:\n    Typis Patricii Donahoe. 1874.\n\n\nThis is the first instalment of what promises to be a valuable work, and\none which has been much needed. The treatises on moral theology hitherto\nin use in this country are, with the exception of Archbishop Kenrick\u2019s,\nwhich is not in a very convenient form for a text\u2010book, of European\norigin, and are unsatisfactory in America both by excess and defect. In\nthis first part of F. Koning\u2019s work, containing the treatises, \u201cDe Actibus\nHumanis, de Conscientia, de Legibus, de Peccatis, de Virtutibus,\u201d there is\nnot, of course, so much opportunity for the introduction of matter\npeculiar to this country as in those which will follow. The objection may\nbe made to the book that the various opinions of theologians are not\nalways given on controverted points; but this is unavoidable in a treatise\nmerely intended as an exponent of S. Alphonsus. The system advocated is\nthat of equiprobabilism.\n\n\n    CHILDREN OF MARY. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co.\n\n\nSeven simple and interesting biographies of young pupils of the Maison des\nOiseaux, Paris. The book is nicely bound and suited for a premium.\n\n\n    TWELVE TALES FOR THE YOUNG. London: Burns & Oates. (For sale by\n    The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nThis is the second volume of Mrs. Parsons\u2019s \u201cTwelve Tales for the Young,\u201d\nthe first volume having appeared several years ago. They are what the\ntitle indicates, and we may add are very good and instructive.\n\n\n    SILVIA, AND OTHER DRAMAS. By a Sister of Charity. New York: P. M.\n    Haverty.\n\n\nThe plays performed by the young ladies in our convent schools are often\nvery pretty and entertaining spectacles to those who can appreciate the\ncharm of innocence and simplicity. Of course there is a great demand for\ndramas which are suitable for such occasions, and the supply is not always\neasy. It is a great flavor to those concerned in preparing these plays\nwhen the managers of the convent theatres publish some good dramas. Those\nbefore us are from Mt. St. Vincent. The author has shown a great deal of\njudgment and good taste, and no little dramatic and poetic talent. The\npublisher has brought them out in a pretty dress. They will do well for\nprivate family theatricals, as well as for schools, and make also a nice\nlittle volume for a present.\n\n\n    THE LETTER\u2010BOOKS OF SIR AMIAS POULET, KEEPER OF MARY, QUEEN OF\n    SCOTS. Edited by John Morris, Priest of the Society of Jesus.\n    London: Burns and Oates. (For sale by The Catholic Publication\n    Society).\n\n\nThe heart of our late friend, Mr. Meline, would have leapt up at sight of\nthis book, and his pen would have given our pages another racy article,\nhad it appeared while he was still in this mortal coil. The letters in\nthis collection are many of them newly discovered and now first published.\nThey throw new light on the villainy of Walsingham, and thus really add\nsomething to the already numerous documents in the Marian controversy.\n\n\n    SCHOOL HYGIENE. By Dr. R. J. O\u2019Sullivan. New York: D. Appleton &\n    Co.\n\n\nDr. O\u2019Sullivan\u2019s pamphlet is a paper which all persons having the\noversight of schools will find worthy to be carefully read and preserved.\n\n\n    BRIC\u2010A\u2010BRAC SERIES\u2014PERSONAL REMINISCENCES. By Chorley, Planch\u00e9,\n    and Young. Edited by Richard Henry Stoddard. New York: Scribner,\n    Armstrong & Co. 1874.\n\n\nAn agreeable volume of chat, gossip, and anecdote about many well\u2010known\npersons, with other miscellaneous bric\u2010a\u2010brac, very well printed, and\nhaving an uncommonly pretty binding. In this last department of art the\nrecent efforts of publishers are enough to fill one with astonishment; but\nsuccess is rare, unless they may be regarded as attempts to illustrate the\nmetaphysical definition of _ens rationis_. Something really pretty is\ntherefore always doubly welcome.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XIX., NO. 113.\u2014AUGUST, 1874.\n\n\n\n\nMatter.\n\n\nMuch as has been written on matter by ancient and modern philosophers, the\nlast word about its constitution has not yet been said. The old school of\nmetaphysicians, in spite of its high intellectual attainments, could not\nunravel this perplexing subject, because it had not a sufficient knowledge\nof natural facts. The modern scientist, on the other hand, in spite of his\nvast knowledge of facts, can never reach the ultimate consequences implied\nin them, because he is too little acquainted with the old principles of\nphilosophical speculation. For, as all the questions connected with the\nconstitution of matter are of a metaphysical character, purely\nexperimental science cannot answer them; it can only supply materials to\nthe philosopher for their solution. In the study of natural philosophy\nobservation picks up the spontaneous revelations of nature, experiment\nverifies and controls the results of observation by compelling nature to\nact under definite conditions, and speculation discovers the relations\nintervening between effects and effects, as also between effects and\ncauses, thus paving the way to the determination of the nature of causes\nfrom the nature of their effects.\n\nWe are of opinion that the scientific materials gathered from observation\nand experiment since the discovery of universal attraction are quite\nsufficient for the purpose of determining the constitution of matter; and\nwe presume that, under the guidance of positive science, we may safely\nengage in a full philosophical investigation of this interesting subject.\nWe are not ignorant that the treatment of this great question has always\npresented, and still presents, many difficulties and dangers, against\nwhich proper precautions are to be taken. Sometimes the phenomena on which\nour reasonings must be based are so complex that it might be doubted\nwhether they reveal more than they mask the truths which we aspire to\ndiscover. Again, we are very easily misled by the outward appearance of\nthings, and blinded in a measure by deep\u2010rooted prejudices of our infancy,\nwhich, besides being shared by all classes of persons, have in their favor\nthe almost irrefragable sanction of the popular language. Moreover, many\nconflicting hypotheses have been advanced by philosophers of different\nschools in their attempt at solving the questions concerning the nature of\nmaterial things; and thus the subject of our discussion comes before us\nwith an accompaniment of many elaborate theories, old and new, which it\nbecomes our duty to subject to a careful criticism, lest they overcloud\nthe intellect and obstruct our vision of truth. Fortunately, however, as\nwe shall see in the sequel, only three of those theories can be considered\nto have a real claim to the attention of the modern philosopher, and each\nof them, by proper management, can be made to yield a fair portion of\ntruth.\n\nWe propose to commence with the consideration of those natural facts from\nwhich the true nature and the essential constitution of material substance\ncan be most easily ascertained. We shall then determine accurately the\nessence of matter, examine its constituents in particular, and point out\ntheir necessary relations, according to the scholastic method. And,\nlastly, we shall inquire what, in the light of modern science, must be the\nphilosophical theory of the generation and corruption of material\ncompounds.\n\n\n\nI.\n\n\nExistence of matter.\n\n\nThe first foundation of what we shall say hereafter is that matter, or\nmaterial substance, really exists. By \u201cmatter\u201d we mean a being which is\nthe proper subject of local motion, or _Ens mobile_, as the ancient\nphilosophers define it. Hence, if there is local motion, there is matter.\nAnd since local motion is undeniable, the existence of matter is equally\nundeniable.\n\nIt is all very well for the idealist to say that we perceive nothing but\nphenomena. Local movement, of course, is only a phenomenon; but evidently\nsuch a phenomenon would be impossible, if nothing existed which could\nreceive local motion. But that which can receive local motion we call\nmatter. And therefore what we call matter is something real in the world.\n\n\nOrigin of matter.\n\n\nDemocritus, Epicurus, and other pagan philosophers taught that matter is\neternal and uncreated. This old error has been utterly dispelled by the\nlight of Christian philosophy; yet it has been lately revived, and is\nstudiously propagated in our own days by a set of infidel scribblers, who\npretend, in the name of science, to do away with what they call the\nobsolete notion of a Creator. It may therefore be useful to say here a few\nwords about the contingency and the creation of matter. We have already\nshown, in an article on the extrinsic principles of being,(128) that the\nchangeableness of a thing is a sufficient proof of its coming out of\nnothing, inasmuch as nothingness is the true extrinsic principle of\npassivity and potentiality. As matter is evidently passive and potential,\nit directly follows that matter has come out of nothing.\n\nBut since unbelievers are not philosophers, though they call themselves\nso, and may not be able to realize the value of an argument based on\nmetaphysical grounds, and since we hear them repeat without end that\nscience\u2014their degraded science\u2014has done away with the old dream of\ncreation, we deem it expedient to appeal to science itself, and bring\nforward from it a clear proof of the fact of creation. This proof is to be\nfound in the very constitution of the primitive molecules of bodies, as\nProf. Clerk\u2010Maxwell has recently shown in a very remarkable lecture on\nmolecules.(129) His scientific argument is contained in the following\npassage:\n\n\u201cThe molecule, though indestructible, is not a hard, rigid body, but is\ncapable of internal movements, and, when these are excited, it emits rays,\nthe wave\u2010length of which is a measure for the time of vibration of a\nmolecule. By means of the spectroscope the wave\u2010length of different kinds\nof light may be compared to within one ten\u2010thousandth part. In this way it\nhas been ascertained not only that molecules taken from every specimen of\nhydrogen in our laboratories have the same set of periods of vibration,\nbut that light having the same set of periods of vibration is emitted from\nthe sun and from the fixed stars. We are thus assured that molecules of\nthe same nature as those of our hydrogen exist in those distant regions,\nor at least did exist when the light by which we see them was emitted....\nLight, which is to us the sole evidence of the existence of these distant\nworlds, tells us also that each of them is built of molecules of the same\nkind as those which we find on earth. A molecule of hydrogen, for example,\nwhether in Sirius or Arcturus, executes its vibrations in precisely the\nsame time. Each molecule, therefore, throughout the universe, bears\nimpressed on it the stamp of a metric system as distinctly as does the\nmetre of the Archives of Paris or the double royal cubit of the temple of\nKarnac. No theory of evolution can be formed to account for the similarity\nof molecules; for evolution necessarily implies continuous change, and the\nmolecule is incapable of growth or decay, of generation or destruction.\nNone of the processes of nature, since the time when nature began, have\nproduced the slightest difference in the properties of any molecule. We\nare therefore unable to ascribe either the existence of the molecules or\nthe identity of their properties to the operation of any of the causes\nwhich we call natural. On the other hand, the exact equality of each\nmolecule to all others of the same kind gives it, as Sir John Herschel has\nwell said, the essential character of a manufactured article, and\nprecludes the idea of its being eternal and self\u2010existent. Thus we have\nbeen led, along a strictly scientific path, very near to the point at\nwhich science must stop. Not that science is debarred from studying the\ninternal mechanism of a molecule which she cannot take to pieces, any more\nthan from investigating an organism which she cannot put together. But in\ntracing back the history of matter science is arrested when she assures\nherself, on the one hand, that the molecule has been made, and, on the\nother, that it has not been made by any of the processes we call natural.\nScience is incompetent to reason upon the creation of matter itself out of\nnothing.(130) We have reached the utmost limit of our thinking faculties\nwhen we have admitted that, because matter cannot be eternal and self\u2010\nexistent, it must have been created. That matter, as such, should have\ncertain fundamental properties, that it should exist in space and be\ncapable of motion, that its motion should be persistent, and so on, are\ntruths which may, for anything we know, be of the kind which\nmetaphysicians call necessary. We may use our knowledge of such truths for\npurposes of deduction, but we have no data for speculating as to their\norigin. But that there should be exactly so much matter and no more in\nevery molecule of hydrogen is a fact of a very different order.... Natural\ncauses, as we know, are at work, which tend to modify, if they do not at\nlength destroy, all the arrangements and dimensions of the earth, and of\nthe whole solar system. But though, in the course of ages, catastrophes\nhave occurred, and may yet occur, in the heavens; though ancient systems\nmay be dissolved, and new systems evolved out of their ruins, the\nmolecules out of which those systems are built, the foundation\u2010stones of\nthe material universe, remain unbroken and unworn. They continue to this\nday as they were created, perfect in number and measure and weight, and\nfrom the ineffaceable characters impressed on them we may learn that those\naspirations after accuracy in measurement, truth in statement, and justice\nin action, which we reckon among our noblest attributes as men, are ours\nbecause they are essential constituents of the image of Him who, in the\nbeginning, created not only the heaven and the earth, but the materials of\nwhich heaven and earth consist.\u201d\n\nSuch is the verdict of true science as interpreted by the eminent English\nmathematician and natural philosopher. The whole is so instructive and\ninteresting that we think we have no need of apologizing for the length of\nthe quotation.\n\n\nEssential properties of matter.\n\n\nThe constituents of things are revealed to us by their properties. For, as\nevery being acts according as it is in act, and suffers according as it is\nin potency, from the activity and the passivity with which a being is\nendowed we can easily find out the special nature of the act and of the\npotency which constitute its metaphysical essence. Hence, if we wish to\nascertain the essential constitution of material substance, we must first\nascertain and thoroughly understand the properties which are common to all\nmaterial substances, and without which no material substance can be\nconceived. In doing this we must guard against confounding, as many\nscientists do, the essential properties of matter with the general\nproperties of bodies. Extension, impenetrability, divisibility, porosity,\netc., are general properties of bodies; but it does not follow that they\nare essential properties of material substance as such, as they may arise\nfrom accidental composition. Those properties alone are essential which\nare altogether primitive, unchangeable, and involved in the principles of\nthe substance; and such properties, as we shall see, are, so far as\nmaterial substance is concerned, the three following: _active power_ to\nproduce local motion, _passivity_ for receiving local motion, and\n_inertia_. These three properties correspond to the three constituents of\nmaterial substance.\n\nThere are philosophers who deny that material things have any active\npower. They know that matter is inert, and they cannot see how activity\ncan be reconciled with inertia. There are others, on the contrary, who,\nfor a similar reason, being unable to deny the activity of bodies, deny\ntheir inertia. From what we are going to say it will be manifest that\nthese philosophers have never known exactly what is meant in natural\nscience by the inertia of matter.\n\nOther writers, especially those of the old school, while admitting the\nthree essential properties of matter which we have just mentioned, contend\nthat material substance has a fourth important and connatural, if not\nessential, property\u2014viz., _continuous extension_\u2014without which, they say,\nnothing material can be conceived. They further teach, and would fain have\nus believe, that all material substance is endowed with extension and\nresistance; and many of them think that extension and resistance\nconstitute the essence of matter. This last opinion is very common among\nphilosophical writers, and deserves the most careful examination, as it\nbears very heavily on an essential point of the controversy in which we\nhave to engage.\n\nLet us see, then, first, what we have to think regarding the activity, the\npassivity, and the inertia of matter; and, when we have done with these,\nwe shall take up the question of material continuity, of which we hope to\ngive a full analysis and a satisfactory solution.\n\n\nActivity, passivity, and inertia.\n\n\nThe special character by which the phenomena of the material world are\nrecognized consists in their being brought about by local motion. For it\nis a well\u2010known fact that in things purely material no change takes place\nbut through local movements; so that we cannot even conceive a change in\nthe material world without a displacement of matter. Hence all the actions\nof matter upon matter tend to produce local movement, or to modify it; and\nall passion of the matter acted on is a reception of movement.\n\nThat all material substances possess activity, passivity, and inertia is\nquite certain on experimental grounds. No conclusion is better established\nin science than that all the particles of matter act on one another\naccording to a fixed law, and receive from one another their determination\nto move from place to place, while they are incapable of setting\nthemselves in movement or modifying the movement received from without.\nNow, it is clear that they cannot act without being _active_, nor receive\nthe action without being _passive_, nor be incapable of modifying their\nown state without being _inert_.\n\nThis shows that activity and inertia do not exclude one another. A\nparticle of matter is said to be active inasmuch as it has the power of\ncausing the movement of any other particle; and is said to be inert\ninasmuch as it has no power of giving movement to itself. It is plain that\nthese two things are very far from being contradictory. Those\nphilosophers, therefore, who have apprehended an irreconcilable opposition\nbetween the two, must have attached to the term \u201cinertia\u201d a meaning quite\ndifferent from that recognized by physical science.\n\nBalmes remarks, in his _Fundamental Philosophy_,(131) that there is\nnothing perfectly still either on earth or in the heavens; and for this\nreason he expresses the opinion that all bodies have a constant tendency\nto move. And as he cannot see how such a tendency can be reconciled with\nthe inertia of matter, he comes to the conclusion that bodies are not\ninert. But it is scarcely necessary to remark that the constant tendency\nto move which we observe in bodies is the result of universal attraction,\nand not of a self\u2010acting power inhering in the matter of which the bodies\nconsist; and therefore such a tendency does not in the least interfere\nwith the inertia of matter. A simple reference to the laws of motion\nsuffices to convince the most superficial student that such is the case.\n\nMalebranche goes to the other extreme. He supposes that bodies have no\nactivity of any kind, and that accordingly all the phenomena we witness in\nthe physical world are produced by God alone. This theory, as every one\nwill acknowledge, is supremely extravagant and unphilosophical. It leads\nto idealism and to pantheism. To idealism, because, if bodies do not act,\nthere is no reason why they should exist; as nothing can be admitted to\nexist throughout creation which has no aptitude to manifest in its own\nreality a reflex of the Creator\u2019s perfections. And since manifestation is\naction, no created being can be destitute of active power. This argument\ndrawn from the end of creation may be supplemented by another drawn from\nthe impossibility of our knowing the existence of bodies if they do not\nact. For, if bodies do not act on our senses, we cannot refer to bodies\nfor the causality of our sensations; and thus the only link by which we\nhave the means of connecting our subjective impressions with exterior\nobjects will be destroyed.\n\nHence, if bodies are not active, there is no reason why they should be\nadmitted to exist, and we are accordingly condemned to an absurd idealism.\nNor can we escape pantheism. For, if the impressions we receive from\noutside are caused by God alone, we cannot but conclude that whatever we\nsee outside of us has no other objectivity than that of the divine\nsubstance itself appearing under different forms. Now, this is a\npantheistic doctrine. Therefore the theory which denies the activity of\nbodies leads to pantheism. We will say nothing more about this\npreposterous doctrine and its absurd consequences. Plain common sense,\nwithout need of further argument, condemns whatever calls in question the\nreality and objectivity of our knowledge concerning the exterior world.\n\nBut, while we admit with all the physicists, and indeed with all mankind,\nthat material substance is competent, through its natural activity, to\ncause local motion, we must guard against the opinion of the materialists,\nwho pretend that the active power of matter is also competent, under\ncertain conditions and through certain combinations, to produce thought.\nNothing, perhaps, can be more inconsistent with reason than this\nassumption. Were matter not inert, the hypothesis might deserve\nexamination; but an _inert_ thinking substance is such an enormity that it\ncannot, even hypothetically, be entertained. The thinking faculty\nevidently implies self\u2010acting power, whereas inertia evidently excludes\nit; and therefore, so long as we keep in mind that matter is inert, we\ncannot, without evident inconsistency, extend the range of its activity to\nimmanent operations, but must confine it to the extrinsic production of\nlocal motion. Let us here remark that, of all the arguments usually\nemployed in psychology against the materialistic hypothesis, this one\ndrawn from the inertia of matter is the most valuable as it is the most\nsimple and incontrovertible.\n\nThe inertia of matter is so universally admitted that it is hardly\nnecessary to say a word about it. No fact, indeed, is more certain in\nscience than that matter, when at rest, cannot but remain so until it\nreceive from without a determination to move; and likewise that, when\ndetermined to move with any velocity and in any direction, it cannot but\nmove with that velocity and in that direction until it receive some other\ndetermination from without. This incapability of changing its own state\nconstitutes, as we have already stated, the inertia of matter, and is the\nvery foundation of mechanical science.\n\nAs to the natural passivity of material substance, we need only say that\nit consists in its capability of receiving, when it is acted on, any\naccidental determination to move in any direction and with any velocity.\nThat matter has this passivity is an obvious experimental truth; and that\nmatter has no other passivity except this one we shall prove in another\nplace.\n\nMeanwhile, it is evident from the preceding considerations that all matter\nis active, passive, and inert. The principle of activity, in every being,\nis its essential act, and the principle of passivity its essential term,\nwhich is a real passive potency;(132) hence the activity and the passivity\nof matter are a necessary result of the essential constitution of material\nsubstance, and are therefore _essential_ properties of the same. The\ninertia of matter is also a necessary result of the essential constitution\nof material substance; for the only reason why an element of matter cannot\ngive motion to itself is to be found in the mutual relation of its\nessential principles, which is of such a nature that the principle of\npassivity cannot be influenced by any exertion of the active principle, of\nwhich it is the intrinsic term. Now, this relation, for which we shall\nfully account hereafter, belongs to the essence of the substance as truly\nand as necessarily as the essential principles themselves. Hence the\ninertia of matter is an _essential_ property of matter no less than its\nactivity and passivity.\n\n\nAction at a distance.\n\n\nThe activity of material substance is a very interesting subject of\ninvestigation; its nature, its mode of working, the law of its exertion,\nand the conditions on which the production of its effects depends, give\nrise to many important questions, which, owing to philosophical discords,\nhave not yet received a satisfactory solution. The first of these\nquestions is: _Does material substance act at a distance, or does it\nrequire, as a condition sine qua non for acting, a mathematical contact of\nits matter with the matter acted upon?_\n\nPhilosophers and scientists have often examined this grave subject, but\ntheir opinions are still divided. Those philosophers who form their\nphysical views from the scholastic system, commonly hold that a true\nmaterial contact is an indispensable condition for the action of matter\nupon matter, and think it to be an evident truth. But physicists, \u201cwith\nfew exceptions,\u201d as Prof. Faraday remarks, admit that all action of matter\nupon matter is an _actio in distans_, and he himself supports the same\ndoctrine, although suggesting that it should be expressed in somewhat\ndifferent terms. We propose to show that this latter solution is the only\none consistent with the principles both of science and of philosophy. And\nas the opposite view owes its origin, and in a great measure its\nplausibility, to the known theory of kinetic forces as deduced from the\nimpact of bodies, we shall argue from the same theory in support of our\nconclusion.\n\nHere is our argument. When a body impinges upon another body, if any\ncommunication of movement is made by a true and immediate contact of\nmatter with matter, its duration must be limited to that indivisible\ninstant of time in which the distance between the struggling particles of\nmatter becomes = 0. But in an indivisible instant of time no finite\nvelocity can be communicated. And therefore no real movement can be caused\nin the impact of bodies by a true and immediate contact of matter with\nmatter.\n\nWe think that this argument admits of no reply. Its major proposition is\nthe statement of an obvious geometric truth. Nor can it be gainsaid by\nassuming that the duration of the action can be prolonged; for the action,\nin the opinion of those against whom we now are arguing, is supposed to\nrequire true material contact; and it is plain that two particles of\nmatter coming into contact cannot remain in contact for any length of\ntime, however inappreciable, unless in the very first instant of their\nmeeting their velocities have become equal; it being evident that two\nparticles of matter animated by different velocities cannot preserve for\nany length of time the same relation in space. To assume, therefore, that\nthe contact can be prolonged, is to assume that from the very first\ninstant of the collision the unequal velocities of the struggling\nparticles have been equalized, or, in other terms, that the velocity\nimparted has been communicated in the very first instant of the impact.\nBut if so, then the assumption of a prolonged contact, as a means of\ncommunicating the velocity, is altogether useless, and involves an evident\ncontradiction. It is therefore necessary to concede that, if the velocity\nis communicated by a true and immediate contact of matter with matter, the\ncommunication must be made in an indivisible instant of time.\n\nThe minor proposition of our syllogism is equally evident. For it is one\nof the fundamental axioms of mechanics that actions, all other things\nbeing equal, are proportional to their respective duration; whence it is\nplain that an action of which the duration is infinitesimal cannot produce\nmore than an infinitesimal effect. And therefore no finite velocity can be\nproduced by true material contact.\n\nAgainst this argument four objections may be advanced: First, that\nalthough in the contact of one point with another point no finite velocity\ncan be communicated, yet in the case of a multitude of material points\ncoming into collision the effect might be appreciable. Secondly, that a\nparticle of matter may be carried straight away by another particle which\nimpinges upon it with sufficient velocity. Thirdly, that a distinction is\nto be made between continuous and instantaneous actions, and that,\nalthough a continuous action produces an effect proportional to its\nduration, as in the case of universal attraction, yet instantaneous\nactions, as in the case of impact, may not necessarily follow the same\nlaw. Lastly, that even admitting the impossibility of producing finite\nvelocity in an infinitesimal unit of time, yet finite velocity might still\nbe _communicated_ in an infinitesimal unit of time without any new\nproduction, as modern scientists assume.\n\nTo the first objection we answer that, if each material point cannot, in\nthe instant of the contact, acquire more than an infinitesimal velocity,\nthe whole multitude will have only an infinitesimal velocity; and thus no\nmovement will ensue.\n\nTo the second we answer that a particle cannot be carried straight away\nunless it receives a communication of finite velocity; and such a\ncommunication, as we have already shown, cannot be made in the instant of\nthe contact.\n\nThe third objection we answer by denying that there is any rigorously\ninstantaneous action. When physicists speak of \u201cinstantaneous\u201d actions,\nthey mean actions having a finite duration, which, however, is so short\nthat it cannot be appreciated or measured by our means of observation. And\ntherefore what is called an \u201cinstantaneous\u201d action is nothing but a\ncontinuous action of a short duration. Now, a difference of duration is\nnot a difference in kind; and accordingly, if actions are proportional to\ntheir duration when their duration is longer, they are no less so when\ntheir duration is shorter.\n\nThe last objection takes for granted that there can be a communication of\nvelocity without production of velocity; which amounts to saying that the\nvelocity of the impinging body is transmitted _identically_ to the body\nimpinged upon. This is, however, a mere delusion. The velocity acquired by\nthe body impinged upon has no previous existence in the impinging body;\nand accordingly its communication implies its real production, as we have\nproved in one of our past articles.(133)\n\nThe _actio in distans_ can also be proved from the very nature of material\nactivity. It is generally admitted that the active power of matter is\neither attractive or repulsive; for all men of science agree that the\nmovements of the material world are brought about by attractions and\nrepulsions. Now, attraction and repulsion do not imply a material contact\nbetween the agent and the patient, but, on the contrary, exclude it; and\ntherefore all the movements of the material world are due to actions at a\ndistance. That attraction excludes material contact is quite evident, for\nattraction produces movement by causing the approach of one body to\nanother; and it is evident that no approach will be possible if the bodies\nare already in immediate contact. It is therefore an essential condition\nfor the possibility of attraction that the agent be not in immediate\ncontact with the patient. And as for repulsion, it is known that it serves\nto keep the molecules of a body distant from one another, and consequently\nit is exercised at molecular distances. This is especially evident in the\ncase of elastic fluids. For repulsion obtains among the molecules of such\nfluids, whether the said molecules be pressed nearer or let further apart.\nAnd therefore repulsion, too, is exercised without material contact.\n\nSome modern physicists try to do away with repulsion, and explain the\npressure exercised by a gas against the vessel in which it is confined by\nsaying that the gaseous molecules are continually flying about in all\ndirections, and continually impinging on the interior surface of the\nrecipient, where their excursions are intercepted, and that this\ncontinuous series of impacts constitutes what we call the pressure of the\ngas on the vessel.\n\nBut this new theory cannot bear one moment\u2019s examination. It is wholly\ngratuitous; it disregards mechanical principles by admitting that the\nmovement of the molecules can go on unabated in spite of repeated impacts,\nand it assumes that the momentum of a moving molecule is its active power;\nwhich is utterly false, as we will show later.\n\nOther physicists have tried to get rid of attraction, also, by assuming\nthat those effects which we ascribe to attraction are to be attributed to\nethereal pressure. This hypothesis has no better foundation than the\npreceding one, and is equally untenable for many reasons which we shall\nexplain hereafter.\n\nThe _actio in distans_ can also be directly proved by the consideration of\nstatical forces. We know that the action which tends to communicate\nmovement in a given direction cannot be frustrated or neutralized, except\nby an action of the same intensity applied in an opposite direction. It is\nevident, on the other hand, that, if the first requires an immediate\ncontact of matter with matter, the second also must be subject to the same\ncondition. Now, this latter is altogether independent of such a condition.\nAccordingly, the former also\u2014that is, the action which tends to\ncommunicate the movement\u2014is independent of a true material contact.\n\nThe minor proposition of this syllogism may be proved as follows: Let a\nsmall cube of hard steel be placed on a smooth, horizontal plate of cast\u2010\niron lying on a table. The cube will remain at rest on the plate,\nnotwithstanding the action of gravity upon it, because, while the cube\ntends to fall and presses the plate, the action of the plate frustrates\nthat tendency, and keeps the equilibrium. Now, the cube and the plate do\nnot immediately touch one another with their matter; for we know that they\ncan be brought nearer than they are. We may place, for instance, a second\ncube on the top of the first, and thus increase the pressure on the plate,\nand cause the plate itself to react with an increased intensity. But it is\nobvious that neither of the two actions can become intenser, unless the\ncube is brought nearer to the plate; for the resistance of the plate\ncannot be modified, unless some of the previous conditions be altered; and\nsince the two surfaces have remained the same, no other condition can be\nconceived to be changed except their relative distance. It is therefore a\nchange, and in fact a diminution, of the distance between the cube and the\nplate that entails the change of the action. Whence we see that, even in\nthe case of the so\u2010called _physical_ contact, bodies do not touch one\nanother with their matter. This shows that physical contact does not\nexclude distance; and therefore, when we say that two bodies touch one\nanother, the fact we express is that the two bodies are so near to one\nanother that _they cannot approach nearer __ without their molecular\narrangement being disturbed by their mutual actions_. Therefore the\nhypothesis that a true material contact of matter with matter is needed\nfor causing or for hindering movement is irreconcilable with fact.\n\nAs a further development of this proof, we may add that one of the\nnecessary conditions for the equilibrium of the cube on the plate is, that\nthe action of the plate have a direction opposite to the action of the\ncube. Now, no direction whatever can be conceived but between two\ndistinct, and therefore distant, points. Accordingly, there cannot be the\nleast doubt that all the points belonging to the surface of the plate are\nreally distant from those of the neighboring surface of the cube. Whence\nwe conclude again that their mutual action is exercised at a distance.\n\nOther proofs of the same truth might be drawn, if necessary, from other\nconsiderations. Faraday, from the phenomena of electric conduction, was\nled to the conclusion that each atom of matter, though occupying a mere\npoint in space, has a sphere of action extending throughout the whole\nsolar system.(134) Boscovich,(135) from the law of continuity,\ndemonstrates that movement is not communicated through material contact.\nAnd mechanical writers generally consider all dynamical forces\u2014that is,\nall accelerating or retarding actions\u2014as functions of distances; which\nshows that all motive actions depend on distance, not only for their\ndirection, but also for their intensity. We have no need of developing\nthese proofs, as we think that the preceding arguments are abundantly\nsufficient to convince all intelligent readers of the truth of our\nconclusion, viz.:\n\n1. That distance is a necessary condition of the action of matter upon\nmatter;\n\n2. That the contact between the agent and the object acted on is not\nmaterial, but virtual, inasmuch as it is by its active power (_virtus_),\nand not by its matter, that the agent reaches the matter of the object\nacted upon;\n\n3. Hence that any material substance, which is anywhere by reason of its\nmatter, has within itself a power prepared to act where the substance\nitself is not present by its matter.\n\nAs the _actio in distans_ shocks vulgar prejudices, and has therefore many\ndecided adversaries, it is plain that we must be ready to meet a great\nnumber of objections. For the present we respectfully invite those who\nconsider the action at a distance as an obvious impossibility to examine\ncarefully the arguments by which we have established the impossibility of\nthe action by material contact. As to their own reasons for a contrary\nopinion, we hope to answer them satisfactorily as soon as we have done\nwith the explanation of a few other preliminaries.\n\n\nPower and velocity.\n\n\nThe question which now presents itself is the following: _Is velocity the\nactive power of material substance?_ This question has some importance in\nthe present state of science, on account of the confusion generally made\nby physical writers between powers, forces, actions, and movements. We\nanswer that, although active power and velocity are now generally\nconsidered as synonymous, they are quite different things. Here are our\nreasons:\n\nIn the first place, it is philosophically evident that the result of an\naction and the principle of the action cannot be of the same nature. But\nvelocity is certainly the result of an action, whilst the active power is\nthe principle of the action. And therefore velocity and active power\ncannot be of the same nature. But surely, if velocity has not the nature\nof an active power, it is not an active power, as every one must admit.\n\nIn the second place, the active power of creatures, be they material or\nimmaterial, is the power by the exertion of which they manifest themselves\nand their natural perfection, thus leading us to the knowledge of the\nexistence and the perfections of our Creator, such a knowledge being the\nend of creation. Active power is therefore not an accidental and\nchangeable affection, but an essential, primitive, and permanent\nappurtenance of all created substances; nor does it come from interaction\nof creatures, but only from creation itself; so that we might well apply\nto it what S. Paul says of the power of kings and rulers: \u201cThere is no\npower except from God.\u201d And accordingly velocity, which is an accidental\nand changeable affection of matter, cannot be the active power of the\nmaterial substance.\n\nIn the third place, if velocity were the active principle of matter,\nmatter would have no definite nature of its own. For \u201cnature\u201d is defined\nas the principle of motion; and material substance would be destitute of\nsuch a principle; for velocity, by which it is assumed that it would cause\nmovement, has no part in the constitution of the substance itself. Hence\nwe must conclude that either material substance has no definite nature of\nits own, or, if this cannot be admitted, the active power of matter is not\nits velocity.\n\nIn the fourth place, a mass of matter at rest acts on the body by which it\nis supported, and exercises a pressure against it; and therefore matter is\nactive independently of actual movement; which conclusively shows that the\nactive power of matter has nothing common with its velocity.\n\nLastly, velocity is an accidental mode; and nothing accidental possesses\nactive power, as has been shown in one of our philosophical articles.(136)\n\nThus it appears that the active power of material substance is not its\nvelocity. Those physicists who acknowledge no other powers but \u201cmasses\nmultiplied by velocities\u201d are therefore wholly mistaken. The product of a\nmass into its velocity does not represent an active power, and not even a\ndynamical force, but simply the quantity of an effect produced by a\nprevious action. It is true that a mass animated by velocity can _do\nwork_, which a mass at rest cannot do. But we have shown in the article\njust mentioned that such a work is done, not by velocity, but by the\nnatural powers inherent in the body, the velocity being only a condition\n_sine qua non_. Nor does it matter that the work done by a body is a\nfunction of its velocity. This only proves that the greater the velocity\nof the body, the greater is the resistance required to exhaust it.\n\nSphere of action.\u2014The next question is: _Has matter a sphere of action?\nThat is, Does a primitive element of matter act around itself with equal\nintensity on all other elements equally distant from it?_\n\nThe answer must be affirmative.\n\nAnd first, since the active principle of material substance is destined,\nas above stated, to produce _local_ movement, it is evident that its\naction must proceed from a term marking a point in space, and reach other\nterms marking other similar points. Local movement, in fact, cannot be\nproduced, unless the term acted on be determined by the agent to follow a\ncertain direction; for the direction of the movement must be imparted by\nthe agent which imparts the movement. Now, the direction of the movement,\nand of the action which causes it, cannot evidently be conceived without\ntwo distinct points, the one marked in space by the agent, the other by\nthe patient. Hence the exertion of the active power of matter necessarily\nproceeds from a point in space to other points in space. Whether such\npoints be rigorously unextended and mathematically indivisible we shall\ninquire in another article; our object at present is only to show the\nnecessity of a local term from which the direction of the action has to\nproceed towards other local terms.\n\nThis being understood, we can now show that the point from which the\naction of a material element is directed is the centre of a sphere of\nactivity, or, in other terms, that the primitive elements of matter act in\na sphere of which they occupy the centre. This proposition implies that\nmaterial elements not only act all around, or in every direction, but also\nthat they act with equal intensity at equal distances. This we show in the\nfollowing manner.\n\nThe earth, the planets, and the sun act in all directions, and the\nintensity of their respective actions, all other things being equal,\ndepends on their distance from the bodies acted on; so that, all other\nthings being equal, to equal distances equal actions correspond. That such\nactions really proceed from the earth, the planets, and the sun\nrespectively there can be no doubt. For to no other sources can the\nactions be referred than to those bodies from which both their direction\nand their intensity proceed. Now, the action by which a planet is\nattracted is directed to the centre of the sun, and the action by which a\nsatellite is retained in its orbit is directed to the centre of the planet\nto which it belongs. On the other hand, the intensity of all such actions\nvaries only with the distance of the planet from the sun, and of the\nsatellite from the planet. Whence we conclude that the actions which we\nattribute to these bodies are really their own.\n\nNow, if such great bodies as the sun, the earth, and all the planets act\nthus in a sphere, it is manifest that every particle of matter in their\nmass acts in a sphere. For the action of the whole mass, being only a\nresultant of the particular actions of all the component elements, cannot\nbut follow the nature of its components; and therefore, from the fact that\nthe action of the whole mass is directed in a sphere, and has equal\nintensity at equal distances, we must conclude that all the component\nactions are similarly directed, and have equal intensities at equal\ndistances. Hence every element of matter has a sphere of action, and acts\nall around itself with equal actions on all other elements equally distant\nfrom it.\n\nThis conclusion applies to all matter. For we have proved, on the one\nhand, that matter cannot act except at a distance, and, on the other, we\ncan show by a general argument that the actions themselves must be equal\nat equal distances around each centre of activity. It is evident, in fact,\nthat the actions of any material element on any other must be equal when\nthe local relation between the elements is the same. But whatever be the\nposition in space of the element acted on, its local relation to the other\nelement remains the same whenever the distance between them is not\naltered; for so long as we consider two elements only, no other local\nrelation can be conceived to exist between them than that of distance; and\ntherefore a change of position in space which does not alter the distance\nof the two elements leaves them in the same relation with one another,\nhowever much it may alter their relation to other surrounding matter.\nSince, then, the elements which are arranged spherically around a given\nelement are all equally distant from it, they are all equally related to\nit, and are all acted on in the same manner. And therefore all material\nelement acts with equal intensity on all other elements equally distant\nfrom it.\n\nThe truth of this proposition being very generally acknowledged by\nastronomers and physicists, we need not dwell on it any longer. We must,\nhowever, mention and solve two objections which have been advanced against\nit. The first is, that the cohesion of the molecules in a certain number\nof bodies is more energetic in some directions than in others; as in\ncrystals, which are cleavable only in definite planes. This would tend to\nshow that material elements do not always act in a sphere. The second\nobjection is, that the action of the sun and of the planets, on which the\ndemonstration of our proposition is grounded, can be denied. Some modern\nphysicists, in fact, hold that what we persist in calling \u201cuniversal\nattraction\u201d is not attraction, but only an ethereal pressure exercised on\nthe celestial bodies; and if this be the real case, the action of matter\nin a sphere will be out of the question.\n\nIn answer to the first objection, we say that elements of matter and\nmolecules of bodies are not to be confounded. The molecule is capable of\ninternal movements, as we have already remarked; and therefore every\nmolecule consists of a number of primitive elements having a distinct and\nindependent existence in space. Hence the action of a molecule is not a\nsimple action, but is the resultant of the actions proceeding from those\ndistinct elements; and it is plain that, if such elements are made to\napproach the centre of the molecule in one direction more than in another,\nthe resultant of their actions will be greater in one direction than in\nanother, and the neighboring molecules will adhere to each other more\nfirmly in one direction than in another. This inequality of molecular\nactions does not, however, extend beyond the limits of molecular\ndistances; for, when the distance is great (and we can call _great_ those\ndistances in comparison with which the diameter of a molecule is of no\naccount), all the distinct centres of elementary action may be admitted to\ncoincide with the centre of the molecule, and all their spheres to\ncoalesce into one sphere. And thus at such greater distances all\nmolecules, no less than all primitive elements, act in a sphere.\n\nThe second objection rests on the singular assumption that the universal\nether, owing to the centrifugal force called into existence by the\nrotation of the celestial bodies, is reduced, around each of them, to a\ndensity directly proportional to the distance from the centre of the\nrotation. Hence they suppose that the ether which surrounds and presses\nthe earth must be denser on the hemisphere where there is night than on\nthat where there is day, because the former is more distant from the sun\nthan the latter; and they infer that on the former hemisphere the pressure\nof the ether must be greater than on the latter; which brings them to the\nconclusion that the earth must move towards the sun with a velocity\nproportional to the difference between the two pressures. Such is the\ntheory by which some modern thinkers tried to supplant universal\nattraction. We need not go far to show the utter absurdity of this rash\nconception, as the most common phenomena and the most elementary\nprinciples of mechanics supply us with abundant proofs of its falsity.\nCentrifugal force is necessarily perpendicular to the axis of the\nrotation, and is proportional to the radius of the circle described. Hence\nits intensity, which is a _maximum_ on the equator of the revolving body,\ndiminishes from the equator to the poles, where it becomes = 0. If, then,\nthe ether surrounding the earth (or any other celestial body) acquires by\ncentrifugal force a greater density at a greater distance from the earth,\nthe effect must be greater at the equator than in any latitude from the\nequator to the poles, and bodies must accordingly have a greater weight,\nand fall with greater impetus, at the equator than in any latitude.\nMoreover, all bodies should fall in the direction of the pressure\u2014that is,\nperpendicularly to the axis of rotation, and not perpendicularly to the\nhorizon. Then, also, the pressure of the ether being proportional to the\nsurface of the falling body, of two equal masses having different\nsurfaces, the one whose surface is greater should fall with a greater\nimpetus. Now, all this is contrary to fact.\n\nThe preceding remarks suffice to annihilate the theory. We might add that\ncentrifugal forces are not active powers, as the theory assumes, but only\ncomponents of the rotatory movement, and affections of the rotating\nmatter. Hence, if the ether surrounding the earth does not rotate with it,\nits condensation through centrifugal force is a patent impossibility;\nwhile, if the ether rotates with the earth, its condensation through\ncentrifugal force will again be impossible, inasmuch as its centrifugal\nforce will be greater and greater in proportion as its distance from the\nearth is greater. It is rarefaction, not condensation, that would take\nplace in this latter hypothesis. One word more. If the mere _difference_\nof the pressures exercised by the ether on the two hemispheres of a planet\nis sufficient to communicate to it a considerable centripetal velocity, as\nthe theory asserts, how can we escape the conclusion that all progress of\na planet in its orbit should have been checked long ago by the _total_\npressure of the same ether on its advancing hemisphere?\n\nIt is strange indeed that a theory so preposterous in its assumptions and\nso absurd in its consequences can have found favor with scientific writers\nin the full light of this nineteenth century!\n\n\n\n\nAntar And Zara; Or, \u201cThe Only True Lovers.\u201d IV.\n\n\nAn Eastern Romance Narrated In Songs.\n\nBy Aubrey De Vere.\n\n\n\nPart IV.\n\n\nShe Sang.\n\nI.\n\nIt came: it reached me from afar:\n  I kissed the seal, the cords unwove;\nCame wafted from the fields of war\n  On all the odorous airs of love.\n\nClose hid I sang; close hid I sighed\n  In places where no echoes were,\nWhere dashed the streams through gorges wide,\n  And sprays leaned back on moistened air.\n\nI sang a song, half sighs, yet proud,\n  And smothered by those downward rills,\nA music proud, and yet not loud,\n  As when her babe a mother stills.\n\nII.\n\nBehold! for thee, and for thy love\n  I fain would make my spirit fair:\nFor this I strive; for this I strove:\n  My toil, though late, shall blossom bear.\n\nBefore thy face the plant shall rise,\n  In thy fair presence bloom and flower:\nO love me! Thou art great and wise:\u2014\n  Heart\u2010greatness is the woman\u2019s dower.\n\nThou mad\u2019st me as a warrior young\n  That yearns to flesh a maiden sword,\nThat burns for battle with the strong,\n  That pants to crush some rebel horde.\n\nRebels I count all things in me\n  That bear no impress of my King!\n\u201cFair is a great king\u2019s jealousy;\n  His worth he knoweth\u201d; thus I sing.\n\nIII.\n\nI stood upon a rock what time\n  The moon rushed up above the plain:\nThe crags were white like frosty rime;\n  Her beams upon me fell like rain.\n\nIt was her harvest month of might:\n  The vales and villages were glad;\nI cried\u2014my palms against the light\u2014\n  Like one with sudden pinions clad,\n\n\u201cWhom seek\u2019st thou, O thou rising moon\n  That broad\u2019nest like a warrior\u2019s shield?\nWhom seest thou? Thou shalt see him soon,\n  My Warrior \u2019mid the tented field!\n\n\u201cHe reaches now some gorge\u2019s mouth;\n  Upon his helmet thou shalt shine;\u2014\nSeest thou, O moon, from north to south,\n  Another loved one like to mine?\u201d\n\nIV.\n\nNo merchant from the isles of spice\n  Who stands in hushed hareem or hall\nWho parts his goods, and names the price,\n  Was I, O friend! I gave thee all.\n\nWhen from me I had all things cast\n  Except thy gifts, that hour I found\nA gift I, too, might give at last\u2014\n  The being thou had\u2019st made and crowned!\n\nI am not nothing since thy vow\n  Enriched my heart. _That_ wealth is mine:\n\u201cNothing\u201d I call myself, that thou\n  May\u2019st hear, O love! and call me thine.\n\nV.\n\nHigh on the hills I sat at dawn\n  Where cedar caverns, branching, breathe\nTheir darkness o\u2019er the dewy lawn,\n  While slowly bloomed in heaven a wreath\n\nOf eastern lilies. Soon the sun\n  Ascended o\u2019er the far sea\u2010tide\nSmiting to glory billows dun\n  And clouds and trees; and loud I cried,\n\n\u201cThou too shalt rise, _my_ sun\u2014thou too\u2014\n  O\u2019er darkling hearts in power shalt rise,\nAnd flame on souls, and flash on dew\n  Of tears that dim expectant eyes.\u201d\n\nAnd every wind from vale and glen\n  Sang loud, \u201cHe, too, shall rise and shine!\nA warrior he, a chief of men,\n  A prince with might; and he is thine.\u201d\n\nVI.\n\nMen praised my words. Thy spirit dwells\n  Within me, strangely linked with mine:\nAt times my mind\u2019s remotest cells\n  Brighten with thoughts less mine than thine.\n\nA gleam of thee on me they cast:\n  They wear thy look; they catch thy tone:\nA kingdom in my breast thou hast:\u2014\n  The words they praised were not mine own.\n\nVII.\n\nA chance was that\u2014our meeting first?\n  At morn I read a quaint old book\nThat told of maiden palace\u2010nursed\n  Who met a prince beside a brook.\n\n\u201cBeside _our_ brook the lilies blow,\u201d\n  I mused, \u201cgreen\u2010girt, and silver\u2010tipped\u201d;\nAnd, dreaming of their bells of snow,\n  At eve adown the rocks I tripped.\n\nSudden I saw thee!\u2014saw thee take\n  Toward me thy path! I turned, and fled:\nSo swiftly pushed I through the brake\n  My girdle dropped:\u2014still on I sped.\n\nHad I but guessed that past the dates\n  That hour the stranger youth made way,\nI ne\u2019er had left my maiden mates\n  Beside that brook, alone, to stray.\n\nVIII.\n\nSurely my thoughts, ere yet we met,\n  Even then were loyal to their lord;\nThe tides of all my being set\n  Towards thee with blind yet just accord.\n\nWhen first I kenned, through showers aslant\n  The snowy Lebanonian line,\nWhen first I heard the night\u2010bird\u2019s chant,\n  Even then my beating heart was thine.\n\nWhen minstrels sang the sacred strife,\n  And thus I wept, \u201cThe land made free\nBy warrior\u2019s sword is as a wife\n  Whose head is on her husband\u2019s knee,\u201d\n\nThen, too, I nursed this hope sublime:\n  My breast unconscious turned to thee:\nLet no one say there lived a time\n  When thou wert nothing unto me!\n\nIX.\n\nHow often, dimmed by grateful tears,\n  I see that convent near the snow\nWherein I lived those seven sweet years,\n  And seven times saw the lilies blow;\n\nThere sent to couch on pavements cold,\n  Fearless to suffer and to dare,\nAnd reverence learn from nuns dark\u2010stoled\n  Who live in penance and in prayer.\n\nThere, too, of love they sang\u2014there, too\u2014\n  Ah! not this love of maid and youth!\nTo that first love oh! keep me true,\n  Thou Who art Love at once and Truth!\n\nHave I not heard of hearts that nursed\n  This human love, yet wronged their troth?\nThat first, great love they outraged first:\u2014\n  Falsehood to that was death to both!\n\nX.\n\nNow glorious grows my Warrior\u2019s name:\n  The very babes his praises spread:\nBut late released, this morn they came\n  Around me, clamouring, \u201cGive us bread!\u201d\n\nHis light was on them! Freed by him,\n  A land redeemed I saw them tread!\nI gazed on them with eyes tear\u2010dim:\n  I blessed them, and I gave them bread.\n\n\u201cWhat man is this?\u201d our ancients sought:\n  \u201cThis chief we know not can we trust?\u201d\nThou gav\u2019st them back, unbribed, unbought,\n  Their towers far off, their state august.\n\nThou gav\u2019st to warriors proved of yore\n  Victory, by carnage undisgraced;\nTo matrons hearts unpierced by war;\n  To maids their nuptials high and chaste.\n\nTo others, these:\u2014but what to me?\n  I speak it not: I know it well:\nThe fawn whose head is on my knee\n  As well as I that gift might tell!\n\n\n\n\nThe Veil Withdrawn.\n\n\nTranslated, By Permission, From The French Of Madame Craven, Author Of \u201cA\nSister\u2019s Story,\u201d \u201cFleurange,\u201d Etc.\n\n\n\nX.\n\n\nLivia was the first to return to herself and put an end to my singular and\nill\u2010timed reverie.\n\n\u201cI hope, however, you do not imagine my resolution is to be attributed to\nthe _jettatura_,\u201d she said.\n\nThese words immediately recalled me to a sense of all that had taken place\nthe previous hour. I reflected an instant, and then replied:\n\n\u201cNo; I know too well what you yourself would think of a vocation that had\nsuch an origin.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet I cannot deny,\u201d she said, \u201cthat it has had a certain influence on\nmy destiny; for, thanks to the _jettatura_, I have had a heavy, mysterious\ncross to bear. It is not to get rid of this cross I wish to leave the\nworld, but to embrace it more closely and experience more fully the\nblessings it has revealed to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is above my comprehension, Livia. I no longer understand you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know very well, however, do you not, that love is the chief element\nof happiness?\u201d said she slowly.\n\n\u201cYes, I believe that. Happiness consists chiefly in loving and being\nloved, I imagine. Everything else is merely accessory.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you know what is accessory loses all importance when the whole heart\nand soul are absorbed in some adored and adorable being?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; ... but the difficulty is to love thus though I say this\nhesitatingly, lest it seem ungrateful to Lorenzo.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are right, Ginevra. It is very difficult, and even impossible, in\nthis world, as you will some day realize more fully than you do now.\u201d\n\nWe were both silent for a few moments.\n\n\u201cAnd my father,\u201d I at last resumed\u2014\u201cwhat will my poor father say to this\nseparation?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat would he say, I beg to know, if a noble, wealthy man\u2014in fact, a\ngreat lord like Lorenzo\u2014should ask my hand on condition of carrying me\naway, like you, beyond the mountains and the sea? Do you think he would\nrefuse? Well, neither will he refuse Him who demands my heart and life.\nFor, after all, is not he alone great\u2014the only Lord?... But of course my\nfather will decide the matter. It will be when and as he wishes.\u201d\n\nThis conversation gave me a glimpse of a world into which the hour had not\nyet come for me to penetrate, and I was diverted from the thoughts it\nawakened in my soul by the excitement and agitation that followed. But\nevery word of this last conversation remained fixed in my memory; whereas\nthe incidents and impressions of the following day only seem like a\ndream\u2014yes, like a dream when I recall the confusion of that last day, the\npreparations both for my wedding and my journey (for I was to leave my\nfather\u2019s house and my native land nearly at the same time), Ottavia\u2019s\nfeverish excitement, and the quiet activity of Livia, who thought of\neverything, and arranged everything calmly and in order. Then there was a\nsuccession of calls from our young friends and relatives, who, according\nto the custom in our country, could not be present at the wedding, and\ntherefore came to take leave of me on the eve, and admire at their leisure\nthe rich presents of the bridegroom, especially the jewels, which were\nunusually splendid. Among these young girls I particularly remember my two\ncousins, Mariuccia and Teresina, who, as well as their mother, Donna\nClelia, experienced many conflicting emotions on the occasion of their\nyoung cousin\u2019s brilliant marriage. But interest and curiosity finally\novercame the grain of ill\u2010humor which my aunt especially could not help\nfeeling at seeing me attain a rank and position which her most ambitious\nflights could not hope for her daughters to obtain. Donna Clelia was my\nfather\u2019s sister, but she did not resemble him in the least. She was\nmarried to a wealthy man of an obscure family, and, as she was remarkable\nfor nothing but her ability as a manager and her kind heart, she had\npassed her life in a different sphere from that my father had attained by\nhis talents and celebrity. This sometimes caused a temporary feeling of\nspite, but she was in the main an excellent woman and a good mother.\n\nAt length the great day came and nearly passed away; for it was not till\nnight came on\u2014that is, about nine o\u2019clock in the evening\u2014that the ceremony\ntook place. The large _salon_ was illuminated with all the lights in the\ncrystal chandelier, and at the farther end of the room an altar had been\nplaced, adorned with lights and flowers. Before it stood good old Don\nPlacido, awaiting those he was to unite. His long, white beard and\nCapuchin habit formed a singular contrast to the elegant toilets around\nhim and the total lack of any religious aspect\u2014as was proper at a wedding\nin the midst of a brilliant assembly like this, and in a place better\nfitted for worldly gayety than the celebration of a holy rite.\n\nDon Fabrizio soon appeared, leading the pale, trembling bride clothed in\nwhite, and wearing on her forehead a coronet of diamonds whose _fleurons_\nindicated her new rank. Every eye was fastened on her, as she knelt beside\nthe bride\u2010groom at the feet of the venerable old priest who had baptized\nher, and was now waiting to bless her marriage. I only remember that the\nvery moment when Don Placido was joining our hands Livia\u2019s words occurred\nto my mind: \u201cYou are going to pronounce the most fearful vow there is in\nthe world,\u201d and my voice failed me. Lorenzo, on the contrary, spoke\nunhesitatingly and with perfect distinctness. Don Placido then addressed\nus a few words that affected me to tears, for he spoke of her who was not\nhere to accompany her child to the altar; and this sorrowful recollection,\nalluded to in language so touching, made me forget everything else, and\nfor a few moments entirely absorbed me. I cannot recollect anything more\ntill, leaning on Lorenzo\u2019s arm, I descended the grand staircase, in order\nto go to the palace he owned at a short distance, and where he had lately\nresided. The night was glorious, the air soft and balmy, and I took a seat\nin the open carriage with nothing around me but my lace veil. My bridal\ndress was becoming, notwithstanding my paleness, and the diamonds I was\ncovered with sparkled in the light of the torches borne by the attendants.\nA murmur of admiration ran through the crowd at my appearance; and when\nLorenzo took a seat at my side, the air resounded with cheers and\nenthusiastic exclamations. We at last set off amid cries of \u201c_Evviva i\nsposi!_\u201d \u201c_Evviva il duca!_\u201d \u201c_Evviva la duchessa!_\u201d(137) ... We set off,\nbut not alone. According to our custom, we were preceded, accompanied, and\nfollowed by a crowd of relatives and friends who thronged the house which\nI now entered for the first time. I was obliged to receive them all,\nlisten to them, reply, and, above all, do the honors of a place more\nfamiliar to every one there than to myself!\n\nThis old palace had been very magnificent once, but it was now in the\ndilapidated condition into which all buildings for a long time uninhabited\ngenerally fall. On this occasion the walls were covered with rich\nhangings, and on every side there was a profusion of lights and flowers.\nIt was brilliantly illuminated without, and through the open windows of\nthe _salon_ came the sound of ravishing music in the garden. For this\nevening, at least, they had succeeded in giving to this ancient habitation\nnot only a sumptuous and cheerful aspect, but one really fairy\u2010like.\n\nIt will not seem surprising that, agitated and excited as I had been, the\nbrilliancy of such a _soir\u00e9e_ was repugnant to my feelings. It may not\neven seem astonishing that, in spite of all that was apparently combined\nto intoxicate me with joy and pride, a scene so brilliant, so little in\naccordance with the solemn emotions of the day, should have produced an\nentirely opposite effect on me. The transition had been too sudden and\nabrupt. This was the first time but once I had ever been in the gay world,\nand the recollections associated with that occasion were the most terrible\nof my life, as well as the most deeply graven on my memory. It is not\nstrange, therefore, that I felt a painful depression of spirits, as well\nas a fearful embarrassment and an irresistible desire to escape from them\nall\u2014even from Lorenzo himself, whose radiant look seemed so unable to\ncomprehend my feelings that I could not turn to him for the sympathy that\nhad heretofore inspired me with so much confidence in him. I looked around\nin vain for a glimpse of my compassionate sister; but she had been made no\nexception to the custom forbidding young girls to be present at nuptial\nfestivals. My father, after escorting me to the door of my new home, had\nreturned, not being able to overcome his repugnance to mingle in the\nworld. Mario that evening was cold and sarcastic. I felt, therefore, alone\nand frightened, and quite overcome by emotion and fatigue. In addition to\nthis, I had a severe headache from the weight of the coronet I wore, and,\nfeeling nearly ready to faint, I went to one of the balconies, when,\nperceiving some steps leading to a vast _loggia_, I hastily descended, and\nalmost ran to seat myself on a stone bench at the end of the terrace which\noverlooked a part of the garden more retired and obscure than the rest.\nThere I felt I could breathe freely. Away from the crowd and the dazzling\nlights, the sound of the music faintly heard at a distance, and looking up\nwith delight through the foliage at the tranquil heavens brilliant with\nstars, I took off the rich diadem that burdened my head, and felt relieved\nas the evening wind blew back my hair and cooled my brow. I leaned my head\nagainst my clasped hands, and did what had hitherto seemed impossible\u2014I\ncollected my thoughts a moment: I reflected and prayed.\n\nI was married. My past life was at an end. A new and untried life had\nbegun. What had it in reserve for me? What lay in the future, seemingly so\nbrilliant, but in reality so dark? I could not tell, and at this moment I\nfelt a vague terror rather than joyful anticipations. For the second time\nthat evening Livia\u2019s voice seemed to resound in my ears, and this time to\necho the words my mother had written. I seemed to make them some promise I\nhardly comprehended myself, and I murmured the words: \u201cRather die!...\u201d\n\nLorenzo\u2019s voice recalled me to myself. His eyes, which had never lost\nsight of me, immediately perceived my absence, and he was now at my side.\nHe was alarmed at first at the sight of my tears, my disordered hair, and\nthe coronet lying on the stone bench beside me, but was reassured when I\nlooked up with an appealing expression, and understood me without giving\nme the trouble to speak.\n\n\u201cPoor Ginevra!\u201d he softly said in a caressing tone of protection which he\nso well knew how to assume. \u201cYes, you are right. This display is foolish,\nthis crowd is odious, and has been too much for your strength. And how\nabsurd,\u201d he continued, \u201cto hide this golden hair, and burden so young and\nfair a brow with heavy jewels! You did not need them, my Ginevra. You were\ncertainly charming with the coronet on, but much more so as you are....\nAh! do not shake your head. You must allow me to say what I please now.\nYou no longer have the right to impose silence on me, and I am no longer\nbound to obey you....\u201d\n\nSo saying, he led me slowly back to the house, but, instead of returning\nto the rooms still crowded with company, he took me another way leading to\na _boudoir_ of a circular form, which was ornamented with particular care.\nThe gilding, the mirrors, and the paintings did not seem to have suffered\nfrom the effects of time like the rest of the house. Nothing was wanting\nthat could give this little room a comfortable and sumptuous aspect. The\nsoft light of a lamp suspended from the ceiling was diffused throughout\nthe room, and perfect silence reigned.\n\n\u201cThis is your room, Ginevra,\u201d said Lorenzo, carelessly throwing on one of\nthe tables the circlet of diamonds he held in his hands. \u201cHere you can\nquietly repose undisturbed by the crowd. There is absolutely nothing to\ndisturb you here; the music itself can scarcely be heard. I will leave\nyou, my Ginevra, to explain your absence and endure till the end of the\nevening the fearful task it pleases them to impose on us, but from which,\nat least, they must allow me to deliver you.\u201d\n\n\n\nXI.\n\n\nThe following day, as the breeze declined, I was standing beside Lorenzo\non the deck of the ship that was bearing us away. I had left behind me all\nI had hitherto known and loved, and my eyes were yet tearful from my last\nfarewells. I stood looking at the receding shores of Sicily, and the\nmagnificent amphitheatre of Messina rising up before us, which presents so\nimposing an appearance when seen from the sea. We soon passed between the\ntwo famous whirlpools which often afford a comparison for those among us\n_voyageurs_ over the sea of life who escape one only to fall into the\nother\u2014a comparison figuratively very apt, though in reality it is quite\ndoubtful if in our day any navigator ever falls either into Scylla or\nCharybdis.\n\nWhen nothing more was to be seen, and night came on with its serene and\nstarry heavens, revealing only the outline like a silvery vapor which\nmarked the coast of Italy, I consented at last to leave the place where I\nhad been standing motionless, and took a seat under an awning Lorenzo had\nhad put up for me on deck. During the hour of calm repose I enjoyed\nthere\u2014my first and almost only hour of perfect happiness!\u2014I was inspired\nwith renewed hope and confidence while listening to the penetrating\naccents of the husband whose idol I was, as he depicted the future in\nlanguage whose magic charm seemed to open a whole life of pleasure before\nme. After a few days\u2019 rest at Naples, we were to take a delightful journey\nthrough Italy and France. We should behold all the places and objects I\nhad so often seen in imagination, and whose names were so familiar to my\nmemory. The interest I was capable of feeling in every subject, the\ncuriosity so natural to the young, and the undeveloped sense of the\nbeautiful which Lorenzo knew so well how to draw out and gratify, the\ntaste for art with which he was gifted\u2014all these chords, as yet nearly\nuntried, seemed to vibrate within me as I listened to him. I was like a\ndocile instrument from which a skilful hand knows how to draw forth sounds\nhitherto unsuspected. As in certain compositions of the great masters, the\nsame musical idea is persistently reproduced in the most varied\nmodulations, so on all subjects and on all occasions he found means to\nlead my heart back to the certain conviction of being loved\u2014loved as much\nas in my most ambitious dreams I had ever imagined it would be sweet to be\nloved. At that moment the vow so \u201cfearful\u201d seemed easy to keep; and if\nLivia\u2019s words had occurred to me then, they would doubtless have excited a\nsmile!...\n\nOne false note, however, or at least a doubtful one, disturbed for an\ninstant the harmony that seemed to reign between us.\n\nEvery one who has crossed, on a beautiful summer night, the sea that\nwashes those enchanted shores, has doubtless experienced the undefinable\nimpression of mingled delight and peace, enthusiasm and dreaminess, that\nsometimes comes over one while watching the stars becoming more intense in\ntheir brilliancy, and the luminous sea like a widespread mirror reflecting\nthe immensity of the heavens. We grew silent, and after a time I rose and\nwent to the side of the ship to contemplate more fully the beauty of the\nnight, and there, with uplifted face and clasped hands, one of those\ninarticulate prayers rose from my heart in which the happiness of the\npresent moment is confounded with admiration for the wonders of the divine\ncreation, and the soul truly feels itself greater than the entire\nuniverse, because it alone has the power to render thanks to Him who not\nonly created it but the whole world.\n\nLorenzo had followed me, and taken a seat on the bench that ran along the\nside of the ship, where, with his head leaning on one hand, and his back\nto the sea, he sat intently gazing at me. Filled with devout thoughts, I\ntook his hand, and, pressing it in mine, I said: \u201cO my dear husband! let\nus offer up one short prayer together\u2014a prayer of thanksgiving to God....\u201d\nHis only reply was to seize both of my hands, and kiss them one after the\nother, and then to laugh gently, as one would at the prattling of a\nchild!... A sudden sensation of pain darted through my heart like an\narrow; and if it had not been so dark, he might have seen how pale I at\nonce turned. But he did not notice or suspect my emotion, though his eyes\nwere fastened on my face. \u201c_Beatrice in suso, ed io in lei\nguardava_,\u201d(138) he said in his most caressing tone. Then he continued:\n\u201cYour eyes are my heaven, Ginevra. I need not raise them any higher.\u201d\n\nThe sentiment to which I had appealed was one so utterly unknown to him\nthat he unconsciously destroyed the emotion I felt.\n\n\u201cAh! Lorenzo,\u201d I exclaimed in my anguish, \u201cDante had a different meaning,\nor Beatrice would not have allowed him to use such language.\u201d Then I\nstopped, obeying for the first time the instinctive feeling, so painful\nbut right, that checks every word on a woman\u2019s lips which, as has been so\nwell expressed, would be profaned if not understood.\n\nBut this was rather instinctive than the result of thought with me. And\nthough the ray of truth that time was to reveal more fully was vivid, it\nwas only transient, ... and my momentary disappointment left no permanent\nimpression at the time, though I did not forget it, and the recollection\ncame back at a later day.\n\nComing from Sicily, the sight of the Bay of Naples does not, of course,\ninspire the same degree of wonder and admiration felt by those who come\nfrom the north; but it was with a feeling of delight my eyes wandered\naround, after passing Capri, and beheld at the right the wonderful chain\nof mountains at whose foot lies the charming shore of Sorrento; at the\nleft Posilippo and all the pleasant villas that crown its height; in front\nthe marked outline of Vesuvius standing out against the majestic Apennines\nin the distance; and, finally, Naples, smiling and lovely, seated on the\ninner shore of its beautiful bay! Whatever may be said as to the\npossibility of finding anywhere else in the world a prospect as\nmagnificent as this, and even if it is true that there is one, it would be\nimpossible to remember it when the view I have just described is presented\nto the eye for the first time.\n\nWhile we were thus rapidly crossing the bay, and I was gazing on every\nside with delight, Lorenzo pointed out the Villa Reale, beyond which stood\nthe house we were to live in, surrounded by a large garden\u2014a charming\nhabitation which combined all the attractions of the country and all the\nadvantages of the city, and which, when I entered it for the first time,\nseemed like a beautiful frame to the sunny picture of my future life.\n\nOn this occasion we only remained a fortnight at Naples; but this was\nsufficient to make me appreciate my new home, and the prospect of\nreturning to it an additional pleasure in the journey before us. It is, in\nfact, only pleasant to travel around the world when we can see in\nimagination a place awaiting us where some day we are to find rest and\ndeposit the treasures we have accumulated.... Happily for me, I was then\nfar from foreseeing those I should have to bring back when I returned to\nthis spot!...\n\nThe day after our arrival Lorenzo took me for the first time into his\nstudio, where I was filled with astonishment at the exquisite perfection\nof the productions I found there. I had often heard him called a great\nartist, and I now realized it was no idle flattery. But I involuntarily\nturned my eyes away from many of them, and stood gazing with admiration at\na statue which was incontestably the finest in the gallery. It represented\na young girl whose flowing drapery was marvellous in execution and grace.\nHer face, though perfectly beautiful, had an expression of grief and\nterror. A lamp stood at her feet, but the light had gone out.\n\nLorenzo\u2019s pride as an artist had never been gratified with a more lively\nor more _na\u00efve_ admiration than mine.\n\n\u201cO Ginevra _mia_!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cif I have hitherto been considered an\nartist, what shall I be when I have you for my model and my judge?\u201d\n\nHe then told me that this beautiful statue represented a vestal, but it\nlacked a pendant which he had never been able to execute.\n\n\u201cBut now,\u201d he added, \u201cI am sure of succeeding. I have long sought a model\nfor my second vestal, and at last I have found one.\u201d\n\nHe put my hair back with one hand, and, examining me attentively with a\nthoughtful air, continued, as if talking to himself: \u201cYes, ... these\nfaultless features, the noble, dignified air of the head, the profound\nexpression of the eyes, and the gravity of the mouth, constitute the very\ntype I want. I could not find a better combination of all I need for my\nnoble, mysterious vestal\u2014the vigilant, faithful guardian of the sacred\nfire. I will begin it to\u2010morrow.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot here, will you?\u201d said I, glancing uneasily at a Bacchante as unlike\nas possible to the statue I had been admiring, and which I could hardly\nbelieve came from the same hand. Lorenzo looked at me with astonishment,\nand hardly seemed to comprehend me. He only regarded such things from an\nartistic point of view\u2014perhaps a valid excuse, but it was the second time\nwithin two days his uncommon penetration had been at fault. He was really\nskilful at reading a passing thought that had not been expressed, and in\npenetrating somewhat below the surface, but he was incapable of looking\ndeeply into a soul, or of following it when it rose to certain heights.\nWhen I clearly made known my wishes, however, he immediately assented to\nthem, and took me into an adjoining room that was smaller.\n\n\u201cJust as you please,\u201d he said. \u201cYou shall come here to sit to me, and I\npromise you, Ginevra, that there shall be nothing in this studio except\nwhat you are willing to look at.\u201d\n\n\n\nXII.\n\n\nDuring my first stay at Naples we made no visits, and our doors were\nclosed against every one. It was our honeymoon. Lorenzo chose to pass it\nentirely alone with me, and I was far from wishing it otherwise. Every one\nrespected our solitude. Nevertheless, as soon as my arrival was known,\nLorenzo\u2019s friends and acquaintances, with the proverbial courtesy of\nNeapolitan society, sent me their cards as a sign of welcome. We looked\nthem over together in the evening, and I thus learned the names of the\nacquaintances I should soon have to make. Lorenzo sometimes laughingly\nmade comments on them which were more or less flattering and diffuse. One\nevening, however, he excited a feeling of surprise and uneasiness. I had,\nas usual, taken up the cards that had been left that day, when I saw him\nchange color at the sight of one, which he snatched hastily from my hand,\nand tore into a thousand pieces. The extreme suddenness of the act checked\nthe question I was on the point of asking. I remained silent, but the name\nI had read on the card was graven ineffaceably on my memory in consequence\nof the occurrence. I shall never forget it. Lorenzo quickly recovered\nhimself at seeing my surprise, and told me it was the card of a foreign\nlady who had left Naples, and whose call I never need trouble myself to\nreturn. Then taking up the next card, he read aloud:\n\n\u201cStella d\u2019Oria, Contessa di San Giulio.\u201d \u201cAh! as for her,\u201d he exclaimed,\n\u201cyou will like her, I know, and I am willing you should become friends. I\nused to consider her a little too perfect to suit me, but I am of a\ndifferent opinion when it is a question of my wife....\u201d\n\nThe new statue was begun without any delay. I sat to him two or three\nhours every day, and in the evening we took long walks on the heights of\nCamaldoli, where we were most sure of not meeting any one. He enjoyed my\nadmiration for the wonderful aspect of nature around us, and took pleasure\nin giving me a fresh surprise every day. And he was not yet tired of\nentertaining me with the varied events of his past life, and of witnessing\nthe interest his conversation invariably excited in one who possessed an\nintelligent but unstored mind. Complete harmony seemed to reign between\nus, and yet more than once during the brief duration of these happy days\nit was suddenly disturbed by some discordant note which caused the vague\nuneasiness I have already spoken of that seemed like one of those\nmomentary shooting pains that are the premonitions of some fixed,\nincurable disease. In both cases they are experienced a long time before\nthe cause is understood, and the disease is often far advanced before the\ntendency of these symptoms is clear and unmistakable.\n\nThe terrible chastisement that followed the gratification of my vanity on\nthat one occasion had inspired me, as I have said, with a kind of\nrepugnance, if not terror, to have my face praised. This repugnance on the\npart of a young girl who had reason to be proud of her beauty was an\noriginality which had perhaps given me additional attraction in Lorenzo\u2019s\neyes. Now I was his wife, I could not, of course, expect him to obey me\nand keep up the same reserve in our intercourse. And yet how many times,\nespecially during those long sittings in the studio, I longed to impose\nsilence on him!... How many times I felt a blush mount to my forehead\nwhen, after arranging my drapery and attitude, unbraiding and putting my\nlong hair to suit his own fancy, and making me change my position a dozen\ntimes, he would fall into an ecstasy against which my whole soul revolted!\nWas this the passion full of mingled tenderness and respect that I should\nhave been as proud to inspire as to experience? Was this really being\nloved as I had longed to be? I sometimes asked myself if his admiration\nfor the hands, arms, face, and whole form of a statue was of a different\nnature. I did not yet go so far as to wonder if some other woman, merely\nendowed with greater beauty than I, could not easily rob me of a love that\nhad so frail a foundation....\n\nFortunately, we left Naples when the fortnight was at an end, though the\nstatue was not half finished. Our long _t\u00eate\u2010\u00e0\u2010t\u00eate_ had not proved to be\nall I had anticipated. I hoped more from the journey, and this hope was\nnot disappointed. Lorenzo was capable of being the best and most\nintelligent of guides everywhere, and such he was during our rapid journey\nthrough Italy, where we only remained long enough in each city to admire\nthe monuments and museums, though we did not follow the beaten track of\nordinary tourists. Lorenzo thought himself versed in everything relating\nto art and history, and yet he did not seem to realize that the church had\nalso had its _r\u00f4le_ in the history of his country. Therefore one side of\nItalian history escaped him entirely, and I do not know if, even at Rome,\nit had ever occurred to him there had been any change whatever of religion\nbetween the building of the Temple of Vesta and the time when the dome of\nMichael Angelo was raised in the air. Both are worthy of admiration in a\ndifferent degree, and he regarded them with the same eye. But I did not\nthen perceive all he left unexpressed. My thoughts and attention were\nabsorbed by all there was around me to see. I was astonished to find\nmyself in a world so fruitful in sources of interest that perhaps there is\nno one man on earth able to investigate them all equally. One alone,\nindependent of the rest, might really suffice for the study of a whole\nlife\u2010time.\n\nAt length we arrived at Paris. Lorenzo, of course, had frequently made\nlong visits there, and had a host of friends and acquaintances there as\nwell as everywhere else. A few days after our arrival, I attended a large\nball for the first time since my marriage, and the second in my life. I\nheard my name murmured on every side. I was surrounded with homage and\noverwhelmed with compliments. I was afterwards informed I had been the\nobject of universal admiration; that nothing was talked of but the beauty\nof the Duchessa di Valenzano and her diamonds; and that a journal\naccustomed to give an account of the gayeties of the season had devoted a\nlong paragraph to the description of my dress and person.\n\nAll this was reported to us by a young cousin of Lorenzo\u2019s whose name, in\nreality, was Landolfo Landini, though his friends usually called him Lando\nLandi. He had lived in Paris several years, and considered himself almost\na Frenchman. He had acquired the stamp of those people who have no aim in\nlife\u2014as easily imitated as they are unworthy of being so\u2014and had wasted\nthe natural cleverness and good\u2010nature which redeemed some of his faults.\nHe prided himself particularly on using the language of polite society,\nand was under the illusion that he completely disguised his nationality.\nWhen he fell in with a fellow\u2010countryman, however, he allowed his natural\ndisposition to reassert itself, and indulged in a flow of language that\nmight have been amusing to some, but to me was frivolous and tiresome,\nand, after listening to the account of my grand success the previous\nevening with a coolness that seemed to astonish him, I fell into a reverie\nthat had more than one cause. Why had Lorenzo watched me so attentively\nall the evening before? It was the first time we had appeared in society\ntogether, and he was anxious I should create a sensation. He himself had\ncarefully selected the dress I was to wear, and I was pleased with the\nadmiration with which he regarded me. On this point I had no hesitation: I\nwas anxious to please _him_, but not to _please_; and as to the gay world\ninto which he now introduced me, I entered it with the pleasure and\ncuriosity of a child, and the lively interest inspired by everything that\nis new; but I had become strangely insensible to the pleasure of being\nadmired, or even the gratification that springs from vanity.\n\nIn alluding once more to this fact, I will add that it was the effect of\nan exceptional grace; for at no remote period of my youth had my mother\ndetected the germ of this poisonous plant which was to shed so baleful an\ninfluence over the simplicity and uprightness of my nature.\n\nThis plant had been swept away in a single tempestuous night, and a divine\nhand had plucked out almost its last root. Was this peculiar grace (the\nforerunner of a much greater one I was to receive at a later day) granted\nme in answer to the prayer of my dying mother? Or was it to the sincere\nrepentance that had so overwhelmed my soul? These things are among the\nmysteries of divine mercy beyond one\u2019s power to fathom. But it is certain\nI was thus preserved from one of the greatest dangers that await most\nladies in the fashionable world. I was very far from being invulnerable on\nall points, as the future showed only too plainly; but I was on this.\n\nNevertheless, I had not been put to so decided a proof before. Never had I\nseen or imagined so brilliant a scene. I was delighted and charmed, and\nunhesitatingly gave myself up to the enjoyment of the evening; but the\nincense lavished on me added nothing to my pleasure. It only produced a\ncertain timidity that lessened my ease and greatly diminished my\nenjoyment. I sincerely think if I had been less beautiful or more simply\ndressed\u2014in a word, less admired\u2014I should have been happier and much more\nat my ease.\n\nIn my embarrassment I was glad to find Lorenzo always near me, and the\nmore so because I had no idea it was not absolutely the custom. But I\nnoticed with some surprise that he observed every movement I made with a\nstrange attention, and listened to every word I uttered when addressed.\nPerhaps others did not perceive this, but I understood his quick,\nobservant glance and the expressive features he knew so well how to\ncontrol, and I knew also the art with which he could seem occupied with\nwhat was going on at one end of a room, while his whole attention was\nabsorbed in what was said at the other. In short, I felt he had not lost\nsight of me a single instant the whole evening, and that not one of my\nwords had escaped him. I wondered if his affection for me was the sole\ncause of this constantly\u2010marked solicitude. This was the primary cause of\nmy uneasiness. Another arose from the conversation that was actually going\non in my presence, which I listened to with pain, and as a passive\nwitness; for I could take no part in it.\n\nHow could Lorenzo take any pleasure in the trivial details, the unmeaning\ngossip, and the doubtful jests of Landolfo Landini?... How could he\nquestion him, reply to what he said, and encourage him to continue? And\nyet Lorenzo was a very different person from his cousin. He was very far\nfrom leading an aimless life. He had undertaken long, dangerous journeys\nthat had entailed great exertion and incredible fatigue, in order to\nincrease his extensive and varied knowledge. He was capable of continued\napplication. Talents like his could only be acquired by profound study of\na hundred different subjects, as well as by long, serious, persevering\npractice in the art in which he had become such a proficient. One can\nhardly conceive of frivolity in an artist, and yet this anomaly exists. I\nhave since remarked it in others, as I observed it now in Lorenzo\u2014a proof,\ndoubtless, that to soar above the every\u2010day world, and keep at such\nheights, talent and genius, no more than the soul, should be separated\nfrom God!\n\nThe morning at length passed away, and about four o\u2019clock we ordered the\n_cal\u00e8che_ for a long drive. The first hour was devoted to making numerous\npurchases. Lando Landi escorted us. Perfect familiarity with the shops of\nParis was one of his specialties. Above all, he knew where to find those\ncuriosities that are almost objects of art, and which have the gift, so\nprecious to those who sell them, of inducing people who make the first\npurchase to continue indefinitely; for each new object of that class\nacquires additional value in the eyes of a connoisseur, and in such\nmatters, more than any other, _l\u2019app\u00e9tit vient en mangeant_.(139)\n\nWe remained more than an hour in the first shop we stopped at. Lorenzo was\nin his element. He was a genuine connoisseur in everything. He examined\nbronzes, porcelains, furniture of every epoch, carved wood from all\ncountries, and old tapestry, with a sure and experienced eye, and the\nmerchant, seeing whom he had to deal with, brought out of his secret\nrecesses treasures hidden from the vulgar, and multiplied temptations\nLorenzo seemed very little inclined to resist. As for me, I took a seat\nbeside the counter, and looked with indifference at the various objects\nthat were spread out before me, but of which I was quite unable to\nperceive the value, which was somewhat conventional. I was a little\nastonished at the number and value of Lorenzo\u2019s purchases, but, on the\nwhole, the business did not interest me much, and I felt glad when it was\nat an end.\n\n\u201cBravo! Lorenzo,\u201d said Lando as soon as we re\u2010entered the carriage. \u201cYou\ndon\u2019t do things half way. That is the way I like to see other people spend\ntheir money. It consoles me for not having any myself to throw out of the\nwindow.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have got to entirely refurnish my palace in Sicily,\u201d said Lorenzo, \u201cas\nwell as to decorate my house in Naples, which is quite unworthy of her who\nis to live in it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are jesting, Lorenzo,\u201d said I. \u201cYou know very well I think nothing is\nlacking.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is the consequence of your extreme youth, my dear cousin,\u201d said\nLando. \u201cWait a while, and you will find out how much becomes indispensable\nto one who has lived in Paris.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt all events,\u201d said Lorenzo, \u201cnow or never is the time for me to gratify\nmy fancy. I am just going to housekeeping. I have barely spent a third of\nmy present fortune, and am perfectly confident as to that I shall have;\nfor everybody knows that a cause undertaken by Fabrizio dei Monti is a\ncause gained.\u201d\n\nAt that instant a beautiful lady in a conspicuous dress passed us in an\nelegant _cal\u00e8che_, and the conversation suddenly took a different turn.\nLorenzo silently questioned his cousin with a look, and Lando began to\ngive him in a low tone some information which an instinctive repugnance\nprevented me from listening to....\n\nI began (perhaps unjustly) to conceive a strong dislike to this Cousin\nLandolfo, and I imagine he would have been very much astonished had he\nguessed with what eye I now looked at his face, generally considered so\nhandsome. It was of a type often admired out of Italy, because somewhat\ndifferent from that foreigners are accustomed to, who have no idea to what\na degree it is common in that country. A dark complexion, rather handsome\neyes, fine teeth, and curly black hair, formed in my eyes a most\nunpleasing combination, and, without knowing a word they were saying, I\nfelt positively certain he had never in his life uttered a syllable I\nshould think worth listening to.\n\nAt length we left the boulevards, drove through the Champs Elys\u00e9es, and at\nlast found ourselves in the shade of the Bois de Boulogne. While my two\ncompanions were conversing together in a low tone, I abandoned myself to\nthe pleasure of being in a cool place where I could breathe more freely;\nfor, unaccustomed to going out during the middle of the day in summer, the\nheat had seemed overpowering. Apart from this, there was nothing here to\nstrike a person accustomed to the loveliest scenery in the world. Unused\nas I was to Parisian life, the charm of which often produces an impression\nthat effaces all others, the things I saw had no other prestige in my eyes\nthan what they were in themselves. Viewed in this light, the museums,\nchurches, and palaces seemed less grand and magnificent than those we had\nseen before, and the promenades less picturesque and less varied. I missed\nparticularly the lovely vistas which everywhere in Italy form the\nbackground of the picture, and attract the eye, and elevate the mind to\nsomething higher than the mere treasures of history and art that have\naccumulated in all old Italian cities.\n\nAnd yet it cannot be denied that Paris has the power of making itself\npreferred to any other place in the world. It speaks a different language\nto every individual, and is comprehended by all. It is filled with\ntreasures of every kind, and has wherewithal to gratify every taste\nindiscriminately, from that which is evil in its vilest form to an excess\nof goodness amounting to sublimity; from the most refined extravagance of\nfashion to the extreme renunciation of charity; and from pleasure in its\nmost dangerous aspect to piety in its most perfect manifestations. It\nflatters vanity and vice more than would be dared anywhere else, and yet\nit prides itself on being able to produce examples of goodness,\ndevotedness, and humility that are almost unparalleled. In a word, every\none, for a different reason, feels more at home there than anywhere else\nin the world. He who once learns to love Paris finds it difficult to like\nany other city as well; and he who has lived there finds it hard to resign\nhimself to live in any other place. It is the one city on earth that has\nbeen able to vie with Rome in the honor of being the home of all\nnations....\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nThe Rock Of Rest.\n\n\nS. MATTHEW xvi. 18.\n\nTossed on many a wave of doctrine,\n  Restless, weary, ill at ease\nWith beliefs that quiet others,\n  But as vague to me as these;\nI have done with idly chasing\n  Phantom lights, that rise and fall;\nDrift no more with drifting doctrines\u2014\n  Grown indifferent to them all!\n\nShall I long regret the visions\n  Of a rest so inly wooed?\nShall I long go on deploring\n  Creeds, that but opinions proved?\nQuenched be every weak emotion!\n  Bring my future weal or woe,\nWeal nor woe shall blight or bless me\u2014\n  Faith, nor creed, shall move me now!\n\nMurmuring thus, there came a whisper\n  From the Friend who knew me best:\n\u201cSeek the rock on which I builded:\n  On that rock alone is rest.\u201d\nSuddenly, with light supernal,\n  Faith, the higher reason, came,\nAnd my foot touched base eternal\u2014\n  Benedictions on his name!\n\nR. S. W.\n\nBRUSSELS, BELGIUM.\n\n\n\n\nAnglican Orders. II.\n\n\nThe Validity Of The Edwardine Rite.\n\nBefore entering upon the theology of the question, we must meet an initial\nobjection of Anglicans to our attempting to criticise the Edwardine rite.\nThey insist that the question has been settled long ago, and in their\nfavor, by no less an authority than the Holy See and its legate, Cardinal\nPole. The cardinal, they say, in accordance with instructions from Rome,\nadmitted all the schismatical bishops and clergy, who were not\nirreconcilables, in the orders they had received in schism, whether\naccording to the Pontifical or according to the Edwardine rite. Great\nstress has been laid upon this by Anglican controversialists from Bramhall\ndown to Mr. Haddan; and certainly, if it be a true statement of the case,\nthe value of the objection can scarcely be overrated. Its truth must be\ndecided by an appeal to the Papal briefs and to the official acts of the\nlegate.\n\nThe bull of March 8, 1553\u20104, granting full legatine faculties to Pole,\nauthorizes him to deal with two classes of the bishops and clergy\u2014viz., of\nthe clergy, those who have not received orders at all, and those who have\nreceived them ill; that is to say, orders null and orders irregular\n(ordines quos nunquam, aut male susceperunt). The bishops, in like manner,\nwho have received cathedral churches from Henry or Edward are divided into\nthose on whom \u201cthe gift of consecration has been heretofore conferred,\u201d\nand \u201cthose on whom it is not yet conferred\u201d (munere consecrationis eis\nhactenus impenso vel si illud eis nondum impensum exstiterit). The cases\nin which the ordination or consecration had been validly though\nirregularly conferred are also described as \u201creceived from heretical or\nschismatical bishops, or in other respects unduly\u201d (quod iis ab episcopis\nh\u00e6reticis et schismaticis aut alias minus rite et non servat\u00e2 form\u00e2\necclesi\u00e6 consuet\u00e2 impensum fuit). By these last words power is given \u201cto\nconsider cases in which the ancient form of the sacrament had not been\nobserved, and, if the form used was sufficient for validity, to admit it\nas such, and to admit a person ordained in such a manner to exercise the\norders so received.\u201d\n\nCanon Estcourt shows that the \u201cminus rite\u201d cannot be intended to\n_designate_, as Mr. Haddan and others have maintained, the Edwardine\norders. He appeals to the dispensations granted to no less than eight\nbishops, all ordained according to the Pontifical in Henry VIII.\u2019s time,\nwherein their orders are referred to as received \u201cab episcopis h\u00e6reticis\net schismaticis aut alias _minus rite_.\u201d\n\nIn the faculties granted by Pole to his bishops for the absolution and\nrehabilitation of priests, he carefully explains their limitation to cases\nin which \u201cthe form and intention of the church have been preserved.\u201d Thus\nit is clear \u201cthat though the cardinal had power to recognize ordinations\nin which some departure had been made from the accustomed form, yet that,\non examination, he found no other form in use which could be admitted by\nthe church as valid.\u201d In the same faculties he permits the ordination, if\nthey are otherwise fit, of those whose orders are \u201cnull.\u201d He describes\nthem as persons holding benefices without being ordained.\n\nIn 1554, Bonner, Bishop of Bath and Wells, gave a commission to his vicar\u2010\ngeneral \u201cto deal with married laics who, in pretence and under color of\npriestly orders, had rashly and unlawfully mingled themselves in\necclesiastical rights, and had obtained _de facto_ parochial churches with\ncure of souls and ecclesiastical dignities, against the sacred sanctions\nof the canons and ecclesiastical rights, and to deprive and remove them\nfrom the said churches and dignities.\u201d It is impossible to conjecture who\nelse these unordained beneficiaries can be, if they are not the Edwardine\nclergy.\n\nAnglicans, on the other hand, have made a great deal of a certain\ntestimonial letter granted by Bonner to Scory, which speaks of the\nlatter\u2019s sin and repentance, and of his subsequent rehabilitation by\nBonner, and restoration to the public exercise of the ecclesiastical\nministry within the diocese of London. As Scory is spoken of as \u201cour\nconfr\u00e8re, lately Bishop of Chichester,\u201d it is urged that the ministry to\nthe exercise of which he was restored must have been that of a bishop.\nCanon Estcourt, after pointing out certain grounds for suspecting the\nauthenticity of this letter, remarks that Bonner\u2019s faculties only extended\nto the case of priests, \u201cso that Scory must have acknowledged the nullity\nof his consecration, in order to enable Bonner to deal with him at all\u201d;\nand, after all, \u201cthe letter does no more than enable him to celebrate Mass\nin churches within the diocese of London\u201d\u2014in fact, to exercise that\noffice, and that office only, which he had received \u201cservat\u00e2 form\u00e2 et\nintentione ecclesi\u00e6.\u201d So much for the Holy See\u2019s approval of the Edwardine\norders.\n\nAnglicans have tried to make out a charge of inconsistency against the\nHoly See, on the ground that it did not recognize the episcopate of\nRidley, Latimer, and Ferrer\u2014who were all three supposed to have been\nconsecrated according to the Roman Pontifical\u2014but degraded them from the\npriesthood and inferior orders only. Canon Estcourt admits that Ferrer was\ntreated merely as a priest, but he shows that his consecration had been a\nmedley rite, in which the order of the Pontifical was not followed. As to\nLatimer, he remarks that there is no pretence for saying that he was not\ndegraded from the episcopate; and that, with regard to Ridley, the great\nweight of authority makes for his having been degraded from the\nepiscopate. Cardinal Pole, in his commission, ordered that both Ridley and\nLatimer should be degraded \u201cfrom their promotion and dignity of bishops,\npriests, and all other ecclesiastical orders.\u201d The Bishop of Lincoln, in\nhis exhortation to Ridley, says: \u201cYou were made a bishop according to our\nlaws.\u201d Heylin says that they were both degraded from the episcopate. The\nonly authority for the contrary opinion is Foxe, who makes the acting\ncommissioner Brookes, Bishop of Gloucester, conclude an address to Ridley\nthus: \u201cWe take you for no bishop, and therefore we will the sooner have\ndone with you.\u201d Foxe then proceeds to describe the actual ceremony as a\ndegradation from the priesthood. Canon Estcourt\u2019s reviewer in the _Dublin\nReview_ of July, 1873, maintains that Foxe was right. The reviewer thinks\nthat Ridley and Latimer were not degraded from the episcopate, because the\n_status episcopalis_ was not recognized in those who, though _validly_\nconsecrated, had not received the Papal confirmation. Upon this we remark,\n1st, that the ceremonies of degradation came into use when it was a very\ncommon opinion in the church that degradation destroyed the _potestas\nordinis_. 2. That the form of degradation, in so many words, expresses the\ntaking away the _potestas ordinis_\u2014\u201camovemus a te,\u201d \u201ctollemus tibi,\u201d\n\u201cpotestatem offerendi,\u201d \u201cpotestatem consecrandi\u201d\u2014and this in\ncontradistinction to another form of perpetual suspension\u2014\u201cab executione\npotestatis.\u201d The ceremony aims at effecting the destruction of orders, so\nfar as this is possible. It may be called a \u201cdestruction of orders,\u201d in\nthe same sense that mortal sin is called the crucifixion of Christ anew.\nIndeed, in one place, the clause, \u201cquantum in nobis est,\u201d is introduced.\n3. Degradation does not depend upon previous confirmation; for Innocent\nII. (1139) thus deals with those who had been consecrated bishops by the\nantipope Peter Leo, who therefore assuredly had never been confirmed or\nacknowledged in any way by the pope. After exclaiming, \u201cQuoscunque\nexaltaverat degradamus,\u201d etc., etc., \u201che violently wrested their pastoral\nstaffs from their hands, and ignominiously tore from their shoulders the\npontifical palls in which their high dignity resides. Their rings, too,\nwhich express their espousals with the church, showing them no mercy, he\ndrew off.\u201d(140) If the Bishop of Gloucester really acted as Foxe\ndescribes, he did so on his own responsibility, and in the teeth of\necclesiastical precedent.\n\nPerhaps the most important and interesting portion of Canon Estcourt\u2019s\nbook is that in which he discusses the theological value of the Edwardine\nform. It is not merely of controversial importance, but is really\ncalculated to throw light upon the theology of orders, which, as a\nCatholic contemporary well observes, is still in course of formation.\n\nCanon Estcourt, following Benedict XIV., _De Syn. Dioc._, lib. viii. cap.\n10, maintains, as the more probable opinion, 1, that, in the case of the\npriesthood, the second imposition of hands, with the prayer for the\ninfusion \u201cof the virtue of the sacerdotal grace,\u201d is all that is really\nnecessary for validity; although, in practice, we of the West must ordain\nagain _sub conditione_, if the tradition of the instruments has been\nomitted. 2. That in the case of priests, the third imposition of hands,\nwith the words, \u201cReceive the Holy Ghost; whose sins thou dost remit, they\nare remitted unto them; and whose sins thou retainest, they are retained,\u201d\nis not essential, and, if omitted, is to be supplied without repeating the\nrest. 3. That as to the episcopate, the \u201cAccipe Spiritum Sanctum,\u201d with\nthe imposition of hands, is all that is essential; and, finally, he\nallows, in deference to the Holy Office (_vide infra_), that the\nform\u2014_i.e._, the prayer immediately accompanying the imposition of\nhands\u2014need not express the specific character or work of the order\nconferred, as, for instance, the Holy Sacrifice in the ordination of a\npriest.\n\nConsistently with these principles, Canon Estcourt admits that, _so far as\nwords go_, \u201cReceive the Holy Ghost\u201d is a sufficient form both for the\nepiscopate and the priesthood. As regards the episcopate, this has been\nlong a common opinion. As regards the priesthood, the Sacred Congregation\nof the Inquisition, in 1704, decided that certain Abyssinians had been\nvalidly ordained priests by imposition of hands and the words, \u201cAccipe\nSpiritum Sanctum.\u201d From this it follows that the Anglican forms for\nordaining priests and bishops are, _so far as words go_, sufficient. They\nare as follows, from 1549 to 1662, for the priesthood: \u201cReceive the Holy\nGhost; whose sins thou dost forgive, they are forgiven; and whose sins\nthou dost retain, they are retained; and be thou a faithful dispenser of\nthe word of God and of his holy sacraments, in the name of the Father,\netc.\u201d For the episcopate: \u201cTake the Holy Ghost, and remember that thou\nstir up the grace of God which is in thee by imposition of hands; for God\nhath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power and love and\nsoberness.\u201d In 1662, certain changes were introduced by the High Church\nparty. In the form for the priesthood, after the words \u201cHoly Ghost\u201d was\nadded, \u201cfor the office and work of a priest in the church of God, now\ncommitted unto thee by the imposition of our hands.\u201d For the form of the\nepiscopate was substituted, \u201cReceive the Holy Ghost for the office and\nwork of a bishop in the church of God, now committed unto thee by the\nimposition of our hands, in the name of the Father, etc.\u201d\n\nOf course the value of Anglican orders \u201csecundum formam\u201d must depend upon\nthe value of the form as it originally stood. The subsequent alterations\nare important as marking, 1st, the dissatisfaction of the High Church\nparty with the forms upon which their orders depended; 2d, the low\ntheological standard which satisfied them, after all.\n\nSo far as the material words of the Edwardine forms go, they are\nsufficient\u2014_i.e._, they are words capable of being used in a sense in\nwhich they would be sufficient\u2014but the words are ambiguous. The form of\nordination, although it need not express, must signify or mean, the\nessential idea of the order. Where it does not carry its meaning on the\nface of it, we must look for it in the rite and liturgy of which it forms\na part. This is not an appeal to the mere subjective intention of the\nminister, but to the objective meaning of the words. Upon this principle\nwe must, in order to get at the value of the Anglican forms, discover,\n1st, by an examination of the various admittedly valid rites of\nordination, what such words should mean; 2d, by an examination of the\nAnglican rite, what these words, in the position which they occupy in that\nrite, do or do not mean.\n\nCanon Estcourt examines the numerous rites which the Roman Church\nacknowledges to be valid, whether fallen out of use, and only to be found\nin the pages of ancient sacramentaries, or still living and operative, in\nEast or West, among Catholics or among those who have separated from\nCatholic unity. He finds three qualities in which they all unite: 1st, a\nrecognition of the divine vocation or election of the ordained; 2d, a\nrecognition of the \u201cvirtus sacramentalis\u201d of orders, as something quite\ndistinct from and beyond the grace which is also given to the ordained to\nacquit himself worthily in the duties of his calling; 3d, a constant\nrecognition of, and appeal to, the main scope and duty of orders\u2014the\noffering of the Holy Sacrifice.\n\nCanon Estcourt next proceeds to examine the Anglican liturgy and ordinal\nwith special reference to these three points: 1. The divine election. 2.\nThe sacramental virtue. 3. The Holy Sacrifice. And he finds that both the\nliturgy and the ordinal are the result of a deliberate manipulation of the\nancient Catholic ritual previously in use, in order to the exclusion of\nthese three points, which contain the essential idea of holy orders.\n\nOrdination in the Anglical ritual no longer appeals to a divine election,\nof which it is the expression and the fulfilment. It is merely the public\nexpression of the approval of the authorities of church and state. For the\n\u201cvirtus sacramentalis\u201d it has substituted a mere _gr\u00e2ce d\u2019\u00e9tat_. From this\nit only naturally follows that episcopal ordination cannot be of\nindispensable necessity, or more than a matter of regulation and propriety\nwhich, in an emergency, may be abrogated. This is the express teaching of\nmany of the early Anglican reformers. Even when engaged in defending their\nepiscopal succession, they are careful to say that they do not regard it\nas indispensable. Hooker, who is in many respects so much more orthodox\nthan his predecessors and contemporaries, allows \u201cthat there may be\nsometimes very just and sufficient reason to allow ordination to be made\nwithout a bishop.\u201d\n\nCanon Estcourt prints considerable portions of the Anglican ordinal and\nliturgy in parallel columns, with the corresponding text of the Sarum and\nExeter pontificals and missals. We see with what an unerring sacrilegious\ninstinct everything bearing upon the Holy Sacrifice, and even upon the\nReal Presence, is either cut out or perverted.\n\nAs regards the Second Book of 1552, it is clear that it was the work of\nsacramentarians who disbelieved in the Real Presence in any sense, and was\nundertaken for the express purpose of purging the ritual of what previous\nhandling had still allowed it to retain of the impress of that Presence.\nMr. Cardwell, in his comparison of the \u201cTwo Books of Edward VI.,\u201d pref.\nxxvii., admits that Cox and Taylor, who were probably the working members\nof the commission, appear to have looked upon the oblation of the\nEucharist as consisting merely of \u201cprayer, thanksgiving, and the\nremembrance of our Saviour\u2019s passion.\u201d Of Cranmer, the most influential\nmember of the commission, we are told that \u201cabout a year after the\npublication of King Edward\u2019s First Book, Archbishop Cranmer abandoned his\nbelief in the Real Presence\u2014a change which seems to have been very\nacceptable to the young king and his favorites.\u201d(141) In the revision of\n1662, an apparent attempt was made to attain to the expression of a higher\ndoctrine, both as regards orders and the Holy Eucharist; but even if the\nexpressions introduced were in themselves adequate, as Canon Estcourt\nfairly shows they were not, of what avail could have been so tardy a\nrestoration? But if we examine these restorations and emendations, we can\nhardly avoid coming to the conclusion that they were not really dictated\nby any conception of, or aspiration after, a higher doctrine, but were the\ngenuine fruits of a conservative reaction fired by controversial pique.\nThe First Book substituted for the Catholic faith a hazy Lutheranism; the\nSecond Book for this again a hazy sacramentarianism; and the revision of\n1662, a hazy compound of the two, with the addition of a Catholic phrase\nor so in order to support claims to a wider sweep of church authority.\nThus the revisers of 1662 introduced the words \u201cpriest\u201d and \u201cbishop\u201d into\nthe ordination form, whilst doing absolutely nothing toward restoring the\nidea of sacrifice to the liturgy.\n\nBut, it may be urged, there is one portion of the Anglican form for making\npriests which expresses the Catholic doctrine of priestly virtue\u2014the power\nof forgiving sins. Unfortunately for Anglicans, whatever force may lie in\nthis expression\u2014and all precedents are against its being regarded as a\nsufficient form\u2014is neutralized by the Lutheran new form of absolution\nwhich had been introduced in addition to the two Catholic forms. At best,\none is left in doubt whether the mighty words have not shrivelled into a\nLutheran sense, in which sins are not forgiven, but the forgiveness of sin\nis merely declared.\n\nIt is impossible to do justice in a review to the exhaustive completeness\nof Canon Estcourt\u2019s treatment of this portion of his subject. His\nconspectus of the Catholic missals and the different editions of the _Book\nof Common Prayer_ in parallel columns enables us, as it were, to detect\nthe pulsations of each several heresy, and to appreciate its share in what\nmay be called the passion of the Catholic liturgy in England. A quotation\nfrom each of his parallels may serve as examples of, 1st, the action of\nthe Lutheran First Book upon the missal; 2d, the Zuinglian Second Book\nupon the First Book; 3d, the compromise of 1662.\n\nThe Sarum Missal.\n\nWe thy servants, and likewise thy holy people, do offer to thy excellent\nMajesty, of thy gifts and bounties, a pure victim, a holy victim, the holy\nbread of eternal life, and the chalice of everlasting salvation.\n\nThe Book Of Common Prayer, 1549.\n\nWe, thy humble servants, do celebrate and make here before thy divine\nMajesty, with these thy holy gifts, the memorial which thy Son hath willed\nus to make.\n\n1549.\n\nHe hath left us in those holy mysteries, as a public pledge of his love,\nand a continual remembrance of the same, his own blessed body and precious\nblood for us to feed upon spiritually, to our great and endless comfort.\n\n1552, Untouched In 1662.\n\nHe hath instituted and ordained holy mysteries, as pledges of his love,\nand for a continual remembrance of his death, to our great and endless\ncomfort.\n\nThe Sarum Missal.\n\n\u201cThe body of our Lord Jesus Christ [1549: which was given for thee]\npreserve thy body and thy soul unto everlasting life.\u201d\n\n1552.\n\n\u201cTake and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on\nhim in thy heart with thanksgiving.\u201d\n\n(This form was substituted for that of 1549, in 1552, and was appended to\nit in 1662.)\n\nCanon Estcourt\u2019s argument against the validity of Anglican orders is no\nargument from lack of sufficient intention on the part of Anglicans.\nNeither do we think that such an argument could be maintained, in\naccordance with the commonly\u2010accepted principles of theology. If it is a\nsufficient intention for valid baptism to intend to administer the form of\nChristian initiation, it is sufficient, in the case of orders, to intend\nto administer the form of Christian ordination, although the ceremony in\neither case may be regarded as merely an external form without any\nintrinsic value. It is only as a witness to the sense of the form that the\nintention of Anglicans is brought into court; and it is not the intention\nwith which they ordain at which we demur, but the intention with which\nthey have altered the ordination service and liturgy\u2014_i.e._, the form of\nordination and its context. Had these alterations been merely the result\nof an antiquarian leaning towards a more primitive though less perfect\nutterance of the same truth, or of a puritanic craving after simplicity,\nthe irreverence would have been of the extremest kind, but still there\nwould have been no grounds for disputing the orthodox sense, and so the\nvalidity of the form. But, on the contrary, the very object of the\nalterations, as Canon Estcourt has shown, was the elimination of the\northodox doctrines of priesthood and sacrifice, and therefore of the\nsignificance upon which the validity of the form depends.\n\nThe doubts which should beset the minds of honest Anglicans on the subject\nof their orders, if they have the least scruple as to the orthodoxy of\ntheir position, are simply overwhelming. If they turn to the early church,\nthey find that there are at least as many precedents and authorities for\nregarding as null the ordinations of heretics and schismatics as for\naccepting them. Morinus\u2019 opinion is that such ordinations are invalid,\nexcept where the church has thought fit to dispense with the impediment;\nand Morinus is a genuine student of antiquity, and no mere\ncontroversialist. True it is Anglicans may appeal to what is undeniably\nthe more common doctrine in the Roman Church\u2014viz., that such ordinations\nare valid\u2014but then she unflinchingly condemns Anglicans, whereas she has\nnever condemned Morinus. It is nothing to the purpose to say that the\npractice of the church prevents her using Morinus\u2019 opinion against\nAnglicans\u2014which is begging the question against Morinus; the point is, Can\nAnglicans escape using it against themselves? Again, when they direct\ntheir attention to the special facts of their own history, their view is\nto the last degree discouraging. Their latest antagonist, Canon Estcourt,\nhas notoriously given up to them every point to which they could make the\nremotest claim, and has broken and thrown away every weapon to which the\nleast exception could be taken; and yet it has come to this: that their\nonly title to orders is a succession probably broken by the non\u2010\nconsecration of Barlow, and an ambiguous form which, when read in the\nlight of their mutilated ordinal and liturgy, is unlike any that has been\naccepted as even probably adequate either by East or West.\n\nEven if Anglicans could find their identical form, as far as words go, in\napproved ordinals, they could not argue from this the sufficiency of their\nown form. Mutilation and involution, although they contract within the\nsame span, can never be identical. You might as well pretend that there is\nno difference between a stamen from which you have plucked the leaves and\nan undeveloped bud.\n\nIt is true that originally different portions of the church were allowed,\nin regard to orders, to give expression to the same truth in various forms\nwith various degrees of explicitness; but this can afford no precedent to\nan individual church for mutilating a common form in order to deny a\ncommon truth.\n\nThe Abyssinian Decision.\n\nWe cannot conclude our review without noticing an important criticism made\nupon our author in the shape of a letter to the _Month_, November\u2010\nDecember, 1873, by the Rev. F. Jones, S.J. F. Jones, whilst expressing his\nthorough concurrence with Canon Estcourt in every other particular, thinks\nthat he has attached an undue force to the decision of the holy office\nupon Abyssinian orders.\n\nCanon Estcourt has understood the Sacred Congregation of the Inquisition,\nin their decree in 1704, to have ruled that the form, \u201cAccipe Spiritum\nSanctum,\u201d understood in the sense of the Abyssinian liturgical books, is\nvalid for the priesthood, although, in the particular case, no further\nexpression is given to this sense, at least no expression within the\nlimits of the form strictly so called\u2014_i.e._, the verbal formula\nsynchronous with the matter. The decree which he so understands is as\nfollows:\n\nQuestion: \u201cThe ordainer passed hurriedly along a line of deacons, laying\nhis hands upon the head of each, and saying, \u2018Accipe Spiritum Sanctum\u2019;\nare they validly ordained _in tal modo e forma_, and admissible to the\nexercise of their orders?\u201d Answer: \u201cThe ordination of a priest with the\nimposition of hands and utterance of the form as in the question is\nundoubtedly valid.\u201d\n\nF. Jones, whilst allowing that Canon Estcourt\u2019s interpretation is the\nnatural one according to ordinary canons of criticism, insists that the\ndecree, \u201cwhen interpreted in the light of certain rules which arise out of\nwhat is called the _stylus curi\u00e6_,\u201d asserts, indeed, the sufficiency of\nthe imposition of hands as matter, when used with the form, but does not\ndefine the sufficiency of the particular form, \u201cAccipe Spiritum Sanctum.\u201d\n\nThe rules in question are as follows: 1. The meaning of the answer depends\nupon the meaning of the _dubium_. 2. Nothing but what is directly stated\nis decided. 3. \u201cIf there is anything in the wording of a decision which\nappears inconsistent with the teaching of an approved body of\ntheologians\u2014such teaching as amounts to a true theological probability\u2014the\ndecision is to be interpreted so as to leave such teaching intact, unless\nthe decision should itself show that it intended to condemn that teaching,\nand to take away that probability.\u201d 4. Such decisions are formed on the\npresumption that every point except the one in question is correct, on the\nmaxim, \u201cStandum est pro valore act\u00fbs.\u201d 5. When the validity of an\nordination is the subject\u2010matter of a decision, it must be assumed that\nthe decision has been made after an inspection of the ordinal. 6. \u201cIt is\nhardly safe to allege the authority of a decision (I speak merely of a\ncurial decision), particularly when the details of the case are but\nimperfectly known to us, without having ascertained the sense in which,\nafter its promulgation, it was understood by those who were most competent\nto measure its importance.\u201d We shall examine these rules when we come to\nconsider the worth of F. Jones\u2019 application of them to the case in hand.\nBut first it will be well to see what effect the elimination of the\nAbyssinian decision would have upon Canon Estcourt\u2019s controversial\nposition.\n\nPp. 158\u2010163. Canon Estcourt considers various objections made by Catholic\ncontroversialists to the Anglican form of the priesthood. He is\nconsidering the question of the form in its strict sense\u2014viz., that\nportion of the ordination formulary which is synchronous with the matter,\nwhether this last consist in the tradition of the instruments or in the\nimposition of hands. One objection urged by Lequien, amongst others, is\ngrounded upon the very common doctrine that the form of priestly\nordination must express the principal effect of the sacrament of order by\nmaking mention of the priesthood in relation to the sacrifice, which is\nits principal object. Now, if, as F. Jones suggests was the case, the\nunmutilated Coptic rite was in use in Abyssinia up to 1704, and the\nexamples given by Ludolf and Monsignor Beb are merely imperfect copies;\nand if no decision as to the form was given in 1704, then, so far as\nanything has been shown to the contrary, Lequien\u2019s objection holds good\nthat no approved form for the priesthood fails to make an appeal to the\nHoly Sacrifice.\n\nAnd now as regards F. Jones\u2019 rules for interpreting the \u201cstylus curi\u00e6,\u201d\nand their application to the Abyssinian decision. We have no criticism to\nmake upon Rules 1 and 2. They are sufficiently obvious even to a non\u2010\nexpert. Rule 3 cannot, we think, be admitted without qualification. It is\nno doubt an important principle that the presumption is in favor of an\ninterpretation which leaves intact a probable opinion, supposing that this\nis not the formal subject of the decision; but we must not do violence to\nthe natural sense of words, and it is quite possible that such a decision\nmight completely evacuate the probability of an opinion of which it took\nno direct cognizance whatever. The Council of Florence did not directly\nintend to condemn the opinion requiring as absolutely necessary the\ntradition of the instruments, yet effectively it has done so. As to Rule\n4, \u201cStandum est pro valore act\u00fbs,\u201d its application to the case before us\nmust depend upon whether the course indicated is equivalent to the\nintroduction of a new \u201cactus.\u201d To ask, as the dubium does, concerning the\nvalidity of \u201ctal modo e forma,\u201d implies that this is given in its\nintegrity. In the Abyssinian case, it was a question whether certain\npersons were to be allowed to say Mass and perform other priestly\nfunctions, and the Sacred Congregation allowed them. As to Rule 5, no\ndoubt an inspection of the ordinals is to be presumed; but here the very\ncontention of the questioner is that the ordinal had not been followed.\nMoreover, there was ample evidence, in the sacred books quoted by Ludolf\nand Monsignor Beb, accessible to the Sacred Congregation, and which,\naccording to F. Jones\u2019 principle, we may assume it had before it, that in\nAbyssinian hands the Coptic ritual had been seriously tampered with. The\ntranslation from the Abyssinian, as given by the above\u2010named writers, is\ncertainly not an imperfect version of the Coptic, but a deliberate\ncompilation from the Coptic form and that of the apostolic constitutions,\nwhich would hardly have been made except for ritual purposes.\n\nIf we may accept the earliest and most precise evidence as to actual\npractice in Abyssinia\u2014that of the missionary Francis Alvarez (1520), the\none prayer used by the Abuna, with the imposition of hands, is not the\nform \u201cRespice,\u201d but, in the Coptic tongue, the prayer \u201cDivina gratia qu\u00e6\ninfirma sanat.\u201d(142) But these words, as Canon Estcourt points out, p.\n181, \u201cin the _Coptic_ and Jacobite rites, are said by the archdeacon or\none of the assisting bishops. In the Nestorian and ancient Greek, they are\nsaid by the bishop without imposing his hands; and only in the modern\nGreek, the Maronite, and the Armenian are they united with the imposition\nof hands.\u201d This looks as if the Abyssinian ritual was a complete medley.\n\nThis view is borne out by F. Godigno, S.J. (_De Abyssin. Rebus_, p. 224),\nwho tells us that the Jesuit Patriarch of Abyssinia, Oviedo, as long as he\nlived in \u00c6thiopia, always doubted very much, and with good reason, if the\nAbyssinian priests had been duly and lawfully ordained, inasmuch as the\nforms of consecration used by the Abuna _were so uncertain that they\nseemed to have been corrupted_. On which account, in those matters which\nbelong to orders, and which require in the minister a real character, he\nnever could persuade himself to use their offices, lest haply the\nsacraments should be rendered void.\n\nF. Jones thinks that Assemani would certainly have noticed these\ncorruptions, had they existed, in his _Controversia Coptica_, composed for\nthe information of Propaganda in 1731. But Assemani was not called upon to\nconsider the corruptions of Abyssinia; for, as he tells us in his preface,\nthe occasion of his writing was the conversion of two Egyptian monks of\nthe Alexandrian Church, of whose reordination there was question.\n\nAs to Rule 6, obviously nothing can be more important than the estimate of\na decision expressed by contemporary theologians; but it is very easy to\nmisinterpret their silence. In his defence of the Coptic rite, urges F.\nJones, Assemani ought to have quoted the authorization of a form which _\u00e0\nfortiori_ authorized the Coptic. We reply that Assemani had no lack of far\nmore obvious and splendid instances of the recognition of the Coptic rite;\nthat he had no need of such indirect support. The examination of the\nAbyssinian monk Tecla Maria, in 1594, sufficiently shows that it was\nimpossible to judge of Abyssinian ordinations by the Coptic rite. Assemani\nhimself acknowledges, p. 227, that either Tecla Maria\u2019s memory failed him,\nor his ordainers must have been \u201cpoco pratici del rito Coptico o\nl\u2019avessero in qualche parte alterato.\u201d F. Godigno (l. c.) says that the\nreason of Tecla Maria\u2019s reordination was the corruption of the rite. On\nthe other hand, it is clearly a great exaggeration to say that the\nmissionaries made nothing of Abyssinian orders, and that the motive of\nreordination was the non\u2010tradition of the instruments. Of John Bermudes,\nthe first of the Jesuit patriarchs, Ludolf (pars. ii. p. 473) tells us\nthat he (Bermudes) has recorded in so many words, that he received all the\nsacred orders, including the episcopate, with right of succession to the\npatriarchate, from the Abuna Mark, under condition that the pope would\nconfirm it, and that the pope confirmed and ratified all Mark\u2019s acts.\nAgain, the Portuguese De Francia, one of the negotiators for the Jesuits,\ntells the Abyssinian king that he had been taught that, if he is in danger\nof death, and cannot get a Catholic priest, he must ask the Abyssinians\nfor communion.(143)\n\nCertainly, this Abyssinian decision has not as yet made much mark in\ntheology. Canon Estcourt is able to mention one work in which it occurs\u2014a\ncertain edition of the theology of Antoine, a Jesuit, and Prefect of\nPropaganda under Benedict XIV. But then there is a vast technical\ndifference, anyhow, between a decision taking the shape of a practical\nrule of procedure and a speculative definition. For more than a century\nafter the Council of Florence, its recognition of Greek orders had no\nperceptible influence upon the language of theologians concerning the\nmatter of the priesthood. It takes time to translate from the language of\naction into that of speculation; but who can deny that in any fair\ncontroversy such action must be discounted.\n\nIt remains to be determined whether, everything considered, the decision\nof the Sacred Office admits of F. Jones\u2019 interpretation; whether the\ndubium can be understood, as he suggests (p. 456), to turn exclusively\nupon these two points: the non\u2010tradition of the instruments and the\ndeviation from the Coptic rite which prescribes that the bishop\u2019s hands\nshould be imposed upon each _ordinandus_ during the whole of the form\nRespice, instead of during the one phrase, \u201cRepleeum Spiritu Sancto,\u201d\nwhich F. Jones thinks the missionaries paraphrased by \u201cAccipe Spiritum\nSanctum.\u201d Now, we must say that it is hardly probable that in 1704 the\nmissionaries should be seriously exercised about the non\u2010tradition of the\ninstruments. Neither is it likely that they should have proposed, in the\nsame breath, the two difficulties suggested by F. Jones; for why should\ndeviation from a rite, the substantial validity of which they doubted, be\na difficulty? They ask about the validity of a form and a manner of\nimposing hands, which they describe \u201ctalmo do e forma.\u201d There may have\nbeen other prayers used in the service from the Coptic ordinal and\nliturgy, but the dubium excludes them from \u201ctal forma.\u201d\n\nF. Jones\u2019 notion that the \u201cAccipe Spiritum Sanctum\u201d is a mistranslation of\nthe Coptic \u201cReple eum Spiritu Sancto\u201d\u2014which is not found in the Abyssinian\nversion\u2014is, we think, quite untenable. No distinction was more thoroughly\nappreciated on both sides than that between an imperative and a precatory\nform. The Patriarch of the Maronites, in 1572, informs the pope: \u201cIn our\nPontifical, the orders are conferred without a form by way of\nprayer.\u201d(144) In 1860, the missionaries inform the Sacred Congregation\n\u201cthat the Monophysites believe the essence of ordination consists in the\nexpiration (_insuflazione_) the ordainer makes in the act of saying,\n\u2018Accipe Spiritum Sanctum.\u2019 \u201d(145) Amongst the various deviations from the\nCoptic rite which Assemani notes in the evidence of Tecla Maria, the\nAbyssinian says of his ordainer, \u201cInsufflavit in faciem meam.\u201d This\n\u201cinsufflatio\u201d almost implies an imperative form, and so far isolates the\nwords from any precatory formularies that may precede and follow them.\nMost probably this form was obtained from the missionaries with whom the\nAbyssinians had been so long in intercourse.\n\nDoubtless the Sacred Congregation did not sanction the form \u201cAccipe\nSpiritum Sanctum\u201d taken by itself simply, but specificated in the sense of\nthe Abyssinian liturgy; but this is exactly Canon Estcourt\u2019s contention\nagainst Anglicans.\n\nIn spite of F. Jones\u2019 shrewd and interesting observations, we are of\nopinion that Canon Estcourt\u2019s appreciation of the Abyssinian decision is\nthe true one. At any rate, his interpretation is sufficiently probable to\nmake it most important to show that, even so understood, it cannot\nsanction Anglican orders.\n\nPostscriptum\n\nSince the above was written, the discussion has been continued in the\n_Month_ by an answer from Canon Estcourt in January, and an elaborate\nrejoinder by F. Jones in February. Something of what we have written has\nbeen anticipated; but, on the whole, we have thought it better to leave\nour article as it stands, and content ourselves with appending such\nfurther remarks as may seem called for.\n\nF. Jones, in his second letter, insists that Canon Estcourt has mistaken\nwhat the missionaries proposed as a solitary deviation from a well\u2010known\nand approved rite for the whole form used on the occasion. He proceeds to\nsupport his position by italicizing the concluding words of the answer of\nthe Holy Office allowing the missionaries to admit the person so ordained\n\u201cto the exercise of his orders _according to the rite, approved and\nexpurgated, in which he was ordained_.\u201d \u201cThe Holy Office, then,\u201d he\nargues, \u201cdid not suppose that the Abyssinians were ordained with only the\nwords, \u2018Accipe Spiritum Sanctum,\u2019 but presumed that some rite, and that an\n_approved_ rite, had been followed.\u201d\n\nNow, it is quite certain that the schismatical Abuna did not make use of a\nrite expurgated and approved by the Holy See; therefore the word \u201crite\u201d\nmust refer to the sacerdotal rite to the exercise of which the person in\nquestion was ordained, which rite he might use in its expurgated and\napproved form; but whether the bare words, Accipe Spiritum Sanctum, were\nused, or the fuller Abyssinian or Coptic forms, the priest would have been\nordained in that rite with a view to the exercise of which he had been\nordained.\n\nAs to the question whether the \u00c6thiopic liturgy, as distinct from the\nCoptic, was approved, we cannot admit that a conclusion in the negative\ncan be drawn from the passage F. Jones quotes from the encyclical of\nBenedict XIV. The pope lays down that the Oriental churches in communion\nwith Rome consist of four rites\u2014Greek, Armenian, Syrian, and Coptic; but\nhe is clearly only giving general heads. The \u00c6thiopic, if approved, might\nwell have been included under the Coptic. The Melchite and Chaldaic\nliturgies are approved; but in this enumeration they are not distinguished\nfrom the Syrian and the Greek, of which they are respectively slight\nvariations. Further on in this encyclical, the pope says that \u201cGreeks,\nMaronites, Armenians, Copts, and Melchites had been given churches in\nRome, in order that they may perform their sacred offices each according\nto his rite.\u201d We know that the Abyssinians also had a church in Rome,\nwhere we may assume that they were allowed the same privilege. The fact\nthat an expurgated edition of the \u00c6thiopic liturgy was brought out in Rome\nin 1549 goes some way to show that the liturgy was approved.(146) This was\nthe first of the Oriental liturgies published in Rome, and may be found in\nvarious editions of the _Bibliotheca Patrum_ (Paris, 1624, tom. vi.),\ntogether with the \u00c6thiopic rite of baptism and confirmation. This rite of\nconfirmation affords a curious example of the unprincipled variations of\n\u00c6thiopic ritual. It is almost the same as the Coptic rite published by\nAssemani, to which F. Jones refers, but it carefully eliminates the direct\nform, \u201cAccipe Spiritum Sanctum,\u201d wherever it occurs in the Coptic.\n\nWe are inclined to believe that the Abuna sometimes ordained in the\nCoptic, sometimes in the Abyssinian, tongue; but we must confess that the\nonly direct testimony we have met with on this point is in favor of the\nCoptic. Still, whatever was the language used, there is ample evidence to\nshow that the Abyssinians were in the habit of materially diverging from\nthe Coptic ordinal. To the testimonies of Oviedo and Alvarez, already\nquoted, we may add that of F. Soller. Referring to F. Bernat\u2019s\ncorrespondence, he says that that father discusses \u201cthe different rite of\nordination and other points of difference between the Copts and\nAbyssinians.\u201d(147)\n\nWe submit that the Holy Office had no grounds for assuming the use of the\nCoptic, or, indeed, of any specific ritual in the case brought before\nthem.\n\n\n\n\nOn The Wing. A Southern Flight. V.\n\n\n\u201cLes Dieux \u00e9taient alors si voisins de la terre\nQu\u2019ils y venaient souvent avec ou sans myst\u00e8re.\u201d(148)\n\n\u201cThere is no sense of desolation greater than that produced by the sight\nof a dismantled palace and a deserted garden.\u201d These were the words with\nwhich Don Emidio broke a long and somewhat sad silence which had fallen on\nour little party the day we went to Portici.\n\nIt is a long drive of four miles on the rough pavement of huge slabs\ncommon to Naples and its environs. We passed over the bridge where S.\nJanuarius had gone forth with cross and banners, incense and choristers,\nto meet the torrents of burning lava from Mount Vesuvius, and arrest the\ndestruction of the city by prayer. It made me shudder to think how very\nnear that destruction we had then been. For, of course, if the lava had\nonce gone so far, there was no natural reason why it should not do so\nagain, and even pass on further still. That bridge is now hardly outside\nthe town. Indeed, town succeeds town, and the whole way from Naples to\nPortici is one long street, chiefly consisting of villas and handsome\npalaces, now sadly neglected, but probably still containing many\ntreasures, and all with more or less of garden ground attached.\n\nPortici is a royal palace; but for years none of the royal family have\nresided there, and it is used chiefly for public offices. It is sad to see\nthese magnificent buildings left nearly empty; and we can only wonder at\nthe extraordinary wealth of the past when we reflect that Portici is one\nonly of many other beautiful royal residences which are no longer kept up.\nEven Caserta, which is said to be the largest palace in Europe, is all but\ndeserted. Don Emidio was telling us an anecdote in connection with it.\nJust before the revolution of 1860 the palace had been put in order,\npartially refurnished, and redecorated, for the reception of Francis II.\nand his bride, the ex\u2010King and Queen of Naples.\n\nAmongst other valuable ornaments, in one room the walls had hangings\nattached with massive gold _fleurs\u2010de\u2010lis_. When the revolution broke out,\na Neapolitan duke, one of the very few of the really noble families who\nturned traitor to their king, was appointed to adapt and readjust the\npalace for the usurper. The whole matter was put into his hands, in\nperfect confidence, no doubt, that he would see it properly carried out.\nFor some time the palace was closed to the public. When again it was\nopened on certain days, and those who had known it before saw it again,\nthey observed that all the gold _fleurs\u2010de\u2010lis_ had disappeared. Of course\nthe fact provoked enquiry; but no account of them was ever rendered, and\nall researches proved fruitless. No one doubted but that they had been\n\u201cannexed\u201d by the liberal aristocrat, but, equally, no one dared call him\nto task. For as annexation on a large scale was the order of the day, it\ndid not answer to look too closely into minor examples of the same.\nNevertheless, the story got whispered abroad, and his reputation, in\nconsequence, was far less golden than the missing _fleurs\u2010de\u2010lis_.\n\nOne day the duke was standing at a window in his own palace overlooking\nthe courtyard, when a poor artisan, who had already sent in his bill more\nthan once, came to request payment. The duke, who thought, or pretended to\nthink, the charges in the bill were exorbitant, began to upbraid and scold\nthe man from the window. At the same moment the wife of one of the men\u2010\nservants of the establishment was crossing the yard. The duke called to\nher, exclaiming, \u201cIt is a downright theft. But these artisans are all\nthieves, are they not, Donna Rafaele?\u201d\n\n\u201cYour excellency is a better judge of that than I am,\u201d was the reply,\n\u201csince the greater ought to know the lesser.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wonder how the duke took it?\u201d said I.\n\nDon Emidio gave me a knowing look, and shook his right hand under his left\nelbow. We all laughed; but no description can convey the inimitable\ndrollery of Neapolitan pantomime. It is a thousand times more eloquent\nthan words. What expression, such as \u201cto make yourself scarce,\u201d or \u201cto\nskedaddle,\u201d could convey what is indicated by that wagging of the\nstraightened hand under the elbow? You _see_ the thief escaping. It is the\nsame in everything else. There is a gesture for all the emotions and most\nof the casualties of daily life. No beggar tells you he is hungry; but\nstanding silently before you, with a perfectly immovable expression, he\nopens his mouth, and points downwards with his finger. A woman and half a\ndozen children gathering round you, and all doing the same thing, produces\nan effect so curiously divided between the ludicrous and the pathetic that\nit is far harder to refuse an alms than if the request were made in\ndownright words. It is the same with the coachmen of the hired public\ncarriages. You are driving rapidly along, and your coachman passes another\nwhom he knows. In less than a second he has conveyed to his friend full\ninformation of where he comes from, where he is going, and how soon he\nwill be back, probably concluding with the amount of the fare for which he\nhas agreed to do the distance; and all without a word being uttered.\n\nThe Neapolitans carry the same extraordinary pantomimic power into all\nscenes and all places, including the pulpit, or, more likely, the\nplatform, from which the priest delivers his Lenten or Month of Mary\ndiscourses. He walks to and fro in the heat of his argument, he sits down,\nand starts up again, he weeps, and he even laughs. It is often very\nstriking; and it is so natural, it belongs so essentially to the genius of\nthe people, that it is never ridiculous, nor does it seem out of place. Of\ncourse sometimes it is done less well and gracefully than at others; but\nit is too thoroughly in unison with the language and habits of the people\never to appear incongruous.\n\nWe were sitting on the low wall of the outer steps leading to the tower\nentrance of a building at the end of the Portici pleasure\u2010grounds when\nthis conversation occurred. The tower belongs, I believe, to an\nobservatory, and all around are the stables, the barracks, and the\nappurtenances of the palace, now empty and silent. The grass grew high and\nthick in the courtyard. The deep\u2010red blossoms of the wild sorrel, with the\nsunlight shining through them, looked like drops of blood among the grass.\nThe ox\u2010eyed daisies boldly faced the blue, glaring sky. The low, long\nbuilding used for stables was in front of us. Then a dark, dense wood of\nilex and cork\u2010trees, like a strong, black line. And beyond that no middle\ndistance was visible, but stark and sudden rose the seamed and barren\nsides of Mount Vesuvius. No beneficent and tender white cloud broke the\nintense, monotonous blue of all the wide heavens. The sky, the grim\nmountain, the black wood, and the deserted stables\u2014that was all; bathed in\nsunshine, sparkling with intense light, silent with brooding heat, and\nunspeakably desolate with a broad, unmodulated, horrific beauty like the\nface of the sphinx.\n\nSuddenly there came over me a dim, weird feeling of the ancient pagan\nworld. There was an inner perception and consciousness that in some\nundefined way it was homogeneous to the scene around me and to unredeemed\nman. It was cruel in its beauty; as poetic, but not picturesque, beauty so\noften is.\n\nI started up, and exclaimed, \u201cLet us get back. The old gods are about this\nplace, and I cannot stay.\u201d\n\nTime has not effaced the impression, and I can recall the inner vision at\nany moment. Frank declared we should come again, and have a picnic there\nwith the Vernons. But I protested I would not be of the party. \u201cBy the\nbye, Jane,\u201d said Frank, \u201cwhy did Elizabeth not come?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause little Franceschiella was buried this morning, and neither Ida\nnor Elizabeth would leave the poor mother; while Helen remained to keep\nMrs. Vernon company.\u201d\n\nFranceschiella was a lovely child of six years who had died of a fever the\nday before. She was the only child, and that fact, added to her quite\nextraordinary beauty, had made the trial doubly hard to bear for her\nadoring parents. For, indeed, it was little less than adoration that\nFranceschiella received, not only in her own home, but from all her\nneighbors. We were very much struck in this instance by the poetic nature\nof the Italians. The father was a _vignaiuolo_, the mother did a little\nneedle\u2010work, or took in washing; but no nobleman\u2019s child was ever more\ncarefully bathed and dressed and nourished than this one darling, and that\npartly in consequence of her angelic beauty and her infantine charm. The\nlittle creature ran every risk of being entirely spoilt by the amount of\npetting and flattery that she received on all sides. On Sundays and\nholidays they always dressed her in white with a red coral necklace; and\nthe mother or the cousins would weave a wreath of flowers to crown her\nbeautiful, golden hair, that fell below her waist. She had deep violet\neyes with black lashes, and a milk\u2010white skin. She was very forward for\nher age, and singularly intelligent. But she was surely never meant to\nlive long in this rough world. She came to it like a stranger, and she\nremained a stranger all the time of her brief sojourn\u2014as though some\nprincess from the distant lands of poetry and romance had come for a brief\nvisit to dwell with common mortals. There was an inexpressible refinement\nin all the little creature\u2019s ways which would have become a real cross to\nher and the occasion of endless trials had she lived long enough to find\nthe harsh side of life ruffling her angel wings. It was in mercy the child\nwas taken away before the period of white frocks and fresh flowers had\ncome to an end. Life could have brought to her nothing but temptation and\nanguish. But of course in proportion to her exceptional nature was the\ndespair of the poor parents in seeing her fading before their eyes. As\nlittle Franceschiella had been unaccustomed to restraint or coercion of\nany kind, it was exceedingly difficult, during her short illness, to\ninduce her to take the necessary remedies. And nothing could be more\ntouchingly beautiful than the arguments used by the distracted parents to\npersuade her to swallow the nauseous draughts. As usual, there was a\ncrucifix near the bed, and an image of the Mater Dolorosa\u2014the devotion of\nthe Neapolitans being very specially to the Seven Sorrows of the Blessed\nVirgin. They would beg the poor little darling to take her medicine in\nhonor of Our Lord\u2019s thirst on the cross, or of Our Lady\u2019s anguish when His\ndead form was laid in her arms. And these were not unmeaning or merely\nmystical phrases, to which the child could attach but little sense. They\nwere as household words to her; familiar to her childish thoughts from the\nmoment she could lisp, and woven into her life as the mysteries of the\nfaith only are in lands altogether Catholic. But nothing was to avail to\nkeep the pretty human flower from fading fast. And before a week had past\nlittle Franceschiella had taken flight ere any of the ugliness of mortal\nlife had tarnished her sweet loveliness. They crowned her with roses, and\nlaid her, dressed in white, in the little wooden coffin filled with\nflowers. Then they flung handfuls of colored sugar\u2010plums over her, and\nplaced a white camellia between her still red lips, saying, as they did\nso, \u201cShe breathes flowers.\u201d And so they carried her, in the open bier, the\nuncovered, lovely face turned towards the heavens, and thus laid their\ndarling in the dark grave, but in the full hope of a bright resurrection.\n\nThe mother\u2019s anguish was extreme. The Neapolitan women are an excitable\nand highly nervous race; which arises, no doubt, in great measure from the\nclimate, as every stranger knows who finds the effect produced on his\nnerves by this intoxicating atmosphere, which I have heard compared to\ndrinking champagne. As in the case of the peasantry much self\u2010control has\nnot been inculcated, the result is the frequency of terrible nervous\nattacks producing convulsions\u2014what we should probably designate as very\naggravated hysteria. After Franceschiella\u2019s death the mother became\nsubject to these attacks, and seemed incapable of receiving any\nconsolation till heaven granted her the hope of again becoming a mother.\nOn the day we went to Portici the Vernons had hardly left her. And it was\nvery charming to see the Christian sense of equality on their side, and\nthe deference and gratitude shown them by their peasant neighbors on the\nother.\n\nBut why did Frank so particularly ask why Elizabeth had not come, instead\nof asking equally about Ida and Helen?\n\n\u201cYou have, then, seen Medusa in the woods of Portici, Miss Jane?\u201d said Don\nEmidio suddenly to me, as we were driving home in absolute silence.\n\nI looked up out of my brown study to find his eyes fixed upon me. \u201cDo you\nmean that I am changed to stone?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are as silent as one.\u201d\n\nI laughed, and said, \u201cAt least, thank heaven, I am not _malheureuse comme\nles pi\u00e8rres_,(149) as the French say, though I may be as silent as they. I\ndid not, however, see anything in those dark ilex groves. I only suddenly\nfelt the awfulness of nature when you look at her in all her inexorable\nbeauty, with the rhythm of her apparently changeless laws and her sublime\ndisdain of man. She breathes and blossoms, she burns and thunders, she\nweeps and smiles, utterly independent of us all. She knows no weakness; no\ndecay touches her but such as she can repair. She embraces death, that she\nmay produce life. She is ever fertile, ever lavish of herself and of her\ngifts. But she never _cares_. Her mountains are granite even to the feet\nof her Creator, as he climbs the heights of Calvary. Her noontide heavens\nare brass to the cravings of man\u2019s heart in his midday toil. She will not\npause in the twenty\u2010four hours of her inevitable day, though sundown\nshould bring death to one and despair to many again and again. She treads\nher ever\u2010victorious march over ruined nations, buried cities, and broken\nhearts. Oh! I could hate her\u2014cruel power, terrible Pythoness; mocking me\nwith sunshine, scaring me with storms; ever rejoicing in her strength,\never regardless of me. I cannot explain why these thoughts came to me, as\nacross the dark wood I traced the violet scars on awful Vesuvius, and\nheard the low whispers of the wind in the long grass at our feet. Suddenly\nfaith seemed to die out of me. I forgot what I believe; and back came\ntrooping the pagan gods and the pagan world, with the strong feeling that\npantheism is the inevitable religion of the natural man, and that were I\nnot, thank God, a Christian and a Catholic, some form of it would grow\ninto my mind, as the impress left by the face of nature. For a moment a\ndark cloud overshadowed me while I looked into the depths of the old pagan\nbelief; and it became so real to me that I shuddered. It has left me\nsilent; that\u2019s all.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s all!\u201d repeated Don Emidio with a sly smile, and imitating my voice\nin a way that I half thought was rather impertinent. \u201cAllow me to tell you\nthat I think that is a great deal. I do not imagine there are many young\nladies who come out for a day\u2019s pleasuring to the gardens of Portici or\nelsewhere, and indulge in such profound reflections as you do.\u201d\n\nI looked round, and saw that Frank and Mary were listening.\n\nFrank said: \u201cI believe Jane is quite right; and she has so well described\nthe effect which the aspects of nature produce on the mind of man that I\nam convinced her words embody and express the riddle of the sphinx. The\nlaws of nature, taken without the doctrine of the Incarnation, which alone\nis the keystone to the whole creation, form the enigma which is put before\nus to understand and answer; failing which, we perish.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut all paganism was a falsified adumbration of the Incarnation; the gods\nfor ever assuming a human form, and the men becoming gods,\u201d said Mary. \u201cIt\nhad that germ of truth in it which every system must have to be built at\nall, no matter in what monstrous form. But it required revelation to tell\nus that the \u2018Word was made flesh and dwelt amongst men.\u2019 And that alone\nexplains nature. She is the herald, the servant, or rather the slave, of\nHim by whom and for whom all things were created. She speeds on her way in\nthe full vigor of those laws which were impressed upon her as she first\nsprang from the hand of her Creator. She does not stop to share our griefs\nor our joys, for she has a higher mission. But she has ceased to be\nterrible to us, for faith has unveiled her face, and her harmonious forces\nno longer scare us by their inexorable relentlessness. Her one mission is\nto sing of God, and repeat to Time the refrain of Eternity.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, then, do we sometimes pine for her sympathy?\u201d said I.\n\n\u201cAh! Miss Jane,\u201d exclaimed Don Emidio, \u201cthat is because we are for ever\nlooking for sympathy in the wrong place and from the wrong people.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot always,\u201d I replied. What made me say so? And why did Don Emidio\nchange color and look at me so fixedly? I was still wondering when we\nreached home.\n\nMary and I were, as usual in the evening, sitting in the _loggia_. But\nFrank was not with us, and I missed his genial talk and the odor of his\ncigar.\n\n\u201cWhat has become of Frank this evening, Mary?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe has gone down to see the Vernons, and said he should persuade them to\ncome to us.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope he will succeed, for I do not like his spending his evenings away\nfrom us. This is not the first nor the fourth time he has gone to\nCasinelli as soon as he got up from dinner.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! well, Jane, we must not be selfish. He has his life to live, as you\nhave yours; and I must expect one day to lose you both.\u201d\n\nI felt my heart stop, and then beat violently. What did Mary mean? And why\ndid some veil seem suddenly to fall from my eyes? It was some moments\nbefore 1 spoke; and then I tried to say in my ordinary voice: \u201cYou have\nsome presentiment about Frank, Mary. What is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have presentiments about both of you. But I do not want to force your\nconfidence.\u201d\n\nIn a moment I was kneeling by her side. \u201cDearest Mary, do you suppose I\nhave any secrets from you? I tell you everything. If I do not tell you\nmore, it is because I know no more.\u201d It was a sudden impulse, dim but\noverwhelming, which made me add those strange words. Mary looked at me\nintently. \u201cHas it never struck you that Frank has a reason for going so\noften to the Villa Casinelli, as Emidio has a reason for coming so often\nhere?\u201d\n\nOur eyes met for one moment. Then I hid my face in my hands, and burst\ninto tears.\n\n\u201cO Mary! what bitter\u2010sweet things are you saying? I do not want to lose\nFrank, and I do not want to leave you, or to tread in other paths than\nthose I have known since my childhood. Are you sure it is so? Why have I\nnot known it till now? And even now I doubt.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is because you were not in the least looking out for it, and were\nabsorbed in other thoughts, preventing that retrospection which would have\nshown you that Emidio\u2019s manner towards you has been intensifying with\nevery day of our stay here. And now what answer will you give when the\ntime comes?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo not ask me yet, dear Mary. I must have leisure to reflect. At this\nmoment my heart is more full of Frank and Elizabeth than of anything\nelse.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! my dear, he could not have made a wiser choice; she is a girl after\nmy own heart, so true, so tender, so good, and so utterly unselfish.\u201d\n\n\u201cI only hope she will not spoil Frank.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am not afraid of that, for she has a high sense of duty for herself and\nfor all who approach her.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what is to become of Ida and of you, Mary?\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot think,\u201d said Mary with a sweet, sad smile. \u201cBut I suppose we\nshall both of us be happy in the happiness of those who are so dear to us.\nIt is worse for me than for her. She loses a sister. I lose a brother and\nsister both.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t know that, Mary. Nobody has proposed to me, and, if somebody\ndid, I am not certain what answer I should give.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I am,\u201d rejoined Mary.\n\nI clapped my hand over her mouth, exclaiming, \u201cDon\u2019t say it, Mary dear.\nLet me be free and feel free. I am frightened at the thought of promising\nmyself to any one, even where I may feel I could love.\u201d\n\n\u201cBe free, dear sister, until the moment has come when you are sure it is\nGod\u2019s will you should enter on another phase of woman\u2019s destiny.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd may I never do so, except to accomplish his will!\u201d I replied; and\nwith one long kiss on dear Mary\u2019s brow I turned away, for we heard\napproaching footsteps.\n\nFrank and Elizabeth entered first. Ida and Padre Cataldo followed. I\nlooked to see if there were a fifth figure behind, and was rather relieved\nto find Don Emidio was not there. I needed time to collect my thoughts\nbefore I saw him again. Perhaps, after all, Mary was mistaken, and\nattached more importance to this matter than was necessary. At any rate, I\nwas in no hurry to see Don Emidio again.\n\nFrank seemed in high spirits, and Elizabeth looked serenely, calmly happy.\nHer soft manner and her slow, graceful movements had long ago won for her\nthe nickname of Pussy; particularly as her velvet ways were not unmixed\nwith a playful slyness; so that from time to time she came out with some\nremark far more acute and incisive that at first you would have given her\ncredit for. It was a relief to me when I heard Frank say that he had been\nparticularly anxious to induce Padre Cataldo to join us, because he had\npromised to give us the account of an unfortunate man whose execution he\nhad attended some years ago in the course of his priestly ministrations.\nIda was looking as thoughtful as Mary; and I saw her eyes constantly\nwandering to where Frank and Elizabeth were sitting together. We were all\ntoo preoccupied to talk, but were very glad to listen to a long story.\n\n\u201cFrank tells us, reverend father,\u201d began Mary, \u201cthat some twenty years ago\nyou attended the execution of a poor criminal. It would interest us very\nmuch if you would give us the particulars. In what part of Italy did it\noccur?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt took place in the Basilicata,\u201d replied the father, \u201cand the whole\nprovince was filled with consternation; for the culprit did not belong to\nthe lower ranks of life, but was a gentleman by birth, education, and\nposition. He was the proprietor of a ch\u00e2teau and a considerable patrimony\nnear one of the towns of the province, and his crime was the murder of his\nown brother. For many generations the family had had an undesirable\nreputation for deeds of violence and sudden acts of rage or revenge. It\nwas not the first time that the history of the family chronicled some\nbloody act; though it was the first time, at least in modern days, that\nany member of this unfortunate house had suffered the utmost penalty of\nthe law. I am unable to tell you what gave rise to the violent feeling of\nhatred which the elder brother entertained for the younger. There had been\nmany quarrels and disputes between them from their boyhood upwards. Frank\ntold me the other day you had been talking about the extraordinary power\nthe Italian, and especially the native of Southern Italy, has of following\nout one design through all obstacles and difficulties, silently and\nsecretly, for years. If they possess this tenacity of character in the\nsearch for wealth, I am afraid they have it equally in questions of\nrevenge. And for some reason or other this had been the sentiment of Conte\nFalcone for his brother, Don Carlo. One day Don Carlo was found stabbed\nthrough the heart, and suspicion immediately fell on Conte Falcone. He was\narrested, but the trial was a long one, and some months were passed in\ncollecting evidence. At length he was convicted, and from the moment of\nhis condemnation made no attempt to deny his guilt. At that time the\nprison at Potenza, where he was to await his execution, was under the\ndirection of a Jesuit father, whose efforts were ceaseless for the good of\nthe unfortunate criminals under his charge.\n\n\u201cNaturally, Conte Falcone was a special object of care and anxiety, from\nthe enormity of his crime, and from the fact that his position and\ncircumstances are generally in themselves a guarantee against offences of\nso deep a dye.\n\n\u201cNo efforts were wanting on the part of the Jesuit priest. He was with his\nprisoner day and night, endeavoring to bring him to a true repentance of\nhis sin against God and against humanity. And he succeeded. He found the\ncount from the first overwhelmed with remorse, and his object was to\nprevent this remorse degenerating into despair, and thus excluding the\nlight of faith. Happily, Conte Falcone, grievously as he had offended\nagainst the laws of God, had never given place to rationalistic or\nscoffing doubts. It needed but to transform the awful bitterness of human\nremorse into the tenderness of perfect contrition; and this great work in\nthe culprit\u2019s soul was happily accomplished in time to give him courage to\nbear the dreadful intelligence that all efforts made at the Court of\nAppeal to get the sentence commuted had entirely failed. This was an\nunusual and remarkable fact, for capital punishment is very rarely carried\nout in Italy; many would tell you not sufficiently for the protection of\nsociety. Probably in this case the judges were urged to unusual severity\nby the position of the criminal, lest it should appear that, being a\nnobleman, he was less severely dealt with than a common man might have\nbeen. Moreover, it was not forgotten that this was the third time one of\nhis unfortunate family had taken the life of a relation, and it was\nthought necessary an example should be made. The priest accordingly\nannounced to him that his fate was sealed, and that the next morning he\nmust proceed on the terrible journey which was to be his last.\n\n\u201cIn the kingdom of Naples, as well as in some other parts of Italy, it is\nthe law that the execution of a criminal should take place on or near the\nspot where the deed was done.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat a terrible law of retribution!\u201d exclaimed Mary.\n\n\u201cYes, and one strictly in conformity with many passages of the Holy\nScriptures, and with the Biblical spirit generally.\u201d\n\n\u201cHas it not been supposed, father,\u201d asked Frank, \u201cthat possibly after\ndeath the souls in purgatory, as also the lost, suffer for their errors\nthere where they were guilty of them?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a common opinion, and it goes far towards explaining the accounts\nof strange noises and spectral forms in places where it is known there has\nbeen a murder. The very sound of the fatal blow is repeated through the\nhours of the night, as though the disembodied spirit were condemned for\never to re\u2010enact the semblance of that crime which has grown into one\nidea, one all\u2010absorbing memory of the past. The soul becomes, as it were,\nthe personification and essence of its fatal crime.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat a fearful verification of the worm that dieth not!\u201d said Mary.\n\n\u201cBut surely,\u201d I exclaimed, \u201cwe may have softer and happier feelings about\nthe souls in purgatory?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course we may,\u201d replied the father, almost smiling at my look of\nhorror and anxiety. \u201cIf they frequent the scenes of their past, it is not\nto inspire us with fear; for of that dreadful passion they are now\nthemselves no longer capable, the blessed security of their future\nannihilating all touch of apprehension. If they reappear to the living, it\nis either to remedy some evil or to solicit our prayers. I never could\nunderstand the terror people have of what they call ghosts.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt would be strange indeed,\u201d said Mary, \u201cnot to wish to see again those\nwe have loved and lost, even their disembodied souls.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet it is not lawful to desire it with ardor or to entreat for it;\nbecause it is outside the bounds of God\u2019s usual dealings with his\ncreatures to permit the dead to revisit the living, or rather to reappear\nto them; for I believe they revisit us constantly, and probably mostly\ndwell amongst us, unseen and, alas! generally forgotten.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no, not forgotten, dear father,\u201d said Mary, the tears filling her\neyes.\n\n\u201cNot forgotten by such as you, _figlia mia_.(150) But we have entered on a\nsubject which might keep us discussing till midnight. I go back to my poor\npenitent.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas he your penitent from the first, father? Were you the director of the\nprison?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have robbed me of my disguise, _cara figlia_.(151) I meant to have\ntold you a story, but not to talk of myself. However, it does not matter,\nand I will lay aside all disguise. The journey the unhappy count had to\nmake to his native place was perhaps the most terrible part of his\npunishment. But I had the satisfaction of seeing him receive the\nannouncement with the greatest resignation, once more offering it as an\natonement for his crime. As he was a man of considerable refinement and\neducation, his resignation arose from no lack of power to appreciate the\ndreadful contrast between his present position on returning to his home\nand that which he had once filled. It would be impossible to put into\nwords what he felt on arriving to meet an ignominious death at the place\nwhere he had been the great man and the most influential person. Early in\nthe morning of the dreadful day on which we began our long journey he was\nled out of the prison, and mounted on an ass\u2014such being the law in that\npart of Italy. The slow paces of the beast added considerably to the\ntorture of the count\u2019s feelings, it being impossible to hasten a progress\nevery hour of which seemed an age. He had made his general confession to\nme before that fatal morning, and constantly on the road he would turn to\nme for a word of consolation and encouragement, or to renew his frequent\nacts of contrition. I need hardly say I never left his side for a moment.\nPoor fellow! what an agony the whole journey was to him, and, from\nsympathy, hardly less so to me; for he was bound hand and foot, and the\nanimal was led by one of the guards, the others following and surrounding\nhim on horseback. You know enough of us Italians to be aware that,\nphysically and morally, we are more sensitively constituted than any other\nEuropean nation. Our feelings are extraordinarily keen, and our\nimaginative powers excessive; and these two qualities combine to give us a\nmost intense love of life. All the incidents of our journey, which\noccupied the entire day, must have been, and indeed I can bear testimony\nthat they were, the perfection of anguish to the count, such as seldom can\nfall to the lot of any man, taking his whole life together. The sun poured\nits scorching rays on his uncovered head; he, being bound, could not in\nany way help himself; and several times he turned so faint that the guards\nhad to fetch water to revive him. I obtained permission at last for his\npoor head to be covered\u2014all the more so as I apprehended a sun\u2010stroke. I\nheld the cup for him to drink from, and sometimes supported him for a few\nseconds in my arms to relieve him as well as I could from the restraint of\nhis painful position. It was nightfall when our awful and melancholy\nprocession reached the prison of the count\u2019s native town. His own ch\u00e2teau\nwas not far distant! I had written to have a chapel prepared in the\nprison; and in that chapel, kneeling at the foot of the altar, he whom I\nhad come to love as the very child of my soul spent the entire night.\nNaturally, his first thought on arriving was for his wife and his two\nlittle children. And he entreated to be allowed to see them once more. I\nwas not then aware of what was the custom on such melancholy occasions,\nand I applied for permission to send for the countess and her children.\nBut I found that they had been removed from their home by the order of the\nmagistrates, and were already at a considerable distance. This had been\ndone from motives of humanity, that the poor wife might not be almost\nwithin hearing of the dreadful event which was to take place on the\nmorrow, or his children grow up with a full knowledge of their father\u2019s\nfate. It was almost more than I myself could bear when I had to return to\nhim in the prison, and tell him of the ill\u2010success of my request. It was\nthe last drop of extreme bitterness. It was the vinegar and the gall; the\nabsolute isolation from all that he had loved, the utter desolation of his\nhuman affections. A spasm of agony passed over his face; but the only\nwords he spoke were, \u2018The will of God be done.\u2019 \u201d\n\n\u201cIn the morning he again made his confession with the ardent contrition\nand fervor of a saint. He heard a Mass as preparation for his last\ncommunion. He received the Blessed Sacrament at the second Mass, and\nassisted at a third in thanksgiving.\n\n\u201cThe dreadful moment was now at hand. The horrid black limbs of the fatal\nguillotine stood stark and rigid against the bright morning sky in the\ngreat public square of the town.\n\n\u201cEvery church in the place was thronged with worshippers, praying and\noffering their communions for the salvation of the poor soul so soon to be\nwrenched from sweet life, and sent to its everlasting doom. The public\nsquare was also filled with spectators\u2014a silent, awe\u2010struck throng, while\noccasionally a prayer would seem to quiver on the air from the suppressed\nvoice of a hundred people.\n\n\u201cAt length the count appeared, supported by the guards; for by that time\nhe was in a very exhausted state. His last act was to press my hand in\nsilence. It was the signal for me to give him the last absolution. I had\njust turned aside, hardly conscious myself from excess of feeling, when\nthe fatal knife fell. A cry of horror ran through the crowd; and then\nimmediately they dispersed, many of them repeating aloud the _De\nprofundis_, as they retired to their homes.\n\n\u201cI always remember poor Falcone in my daily Mass; though I cannot say I\nthink he is in any further need of prayers, but is, I hope, long since in\na position to benefit me by his.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is your opinion, father,\u201d asked Mary, \u201cof public executions?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn the present state of feeling in Italy they are beneficial rather than\notherwise. I attended the execution of two soldiers a few years ago at\nTerracina. The whole town was crowding to the church the evening before,\nand at an early hour on the day itself, to pray for the poor men. It was\nlike the general communion at the close of a mission; and those who\nactually witnessed the execution seemed to do so with no other object than\nto assist the poor criminals by their prayers. Many of the women were on\ntheir knees in the public place. And I do not believe but that such a\nfervor of devotion had a beneficial effect upon all. It is, or at least it\nwas, the same thing in Rome. But where, as in London and Paris, that idea\nof intercessory prayer has died out with the faith of which it forms a\npart, and the vilest rabble collects from a brutal curiosity to see a man\nhung or guillotined, then I am convinced that public executions are\ndemoralizing, and tend to increase the crimes they are meant to repress.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll I know is,\u201d said Frank, suddenly starting up, \u201cif a fellow could only\nhave the good\u2010luck to be hung in the presence of a large Italian crowd, I\nthink he would have a better chance of going straight to heaven than by\nany other death. I think I should like to go in for that sort of thing\nmyself.\u201d\n\n\u201cO Frank! what do you mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, this is what I mean: If you have a long illness, you get weak in\nmind and in the power of volition, as well as weak in body. I know, if I\nhave only a headache, how difficult it is to say my prayers. Fancy, then,\nwhat it must be through a long, painful illness. Whereas, if you are going\nto be hung, you have all your faculties about you; you are in no doubt of\nwhen you are going to die; the time is fixed to the minute. You have made\nyour last confession; and I can imagine being able then to make such an\nact of perfect contrition, with all the forces of one\u2019s mind and soul,\nthat would land one safe past the realms of purgatory. I often feel as if\nit would be my only chance, and not a bad one, either.\u201d\n\nPadre Cataldo looked amused. Elizabeth did not appear quite to like it,\nand I overheard her say to him: \u201cI think you might manage to end an\nhonorable life in a more honorable way, and secure heaven all the same.\u201d I\nthought I heard something in reply about \u201cwith your help and your\nexample\u201d; but I did not listen, as I wanted to induce Padre Cataldo to\ntell us about his wonderful escape during the revolution of 1860. I said\nsomething to him about it; but he turned it off, and Mary whispered to me\nthat he never liked to talk about it, but that Don Emidio knew all about\nit, and we could ask him to tell us the next time we met. Padre Cataldo\nnow took leave, Frank accompanying him back, and promising to return for\nthe Vernons later.\n\nAs soon as they had left, Ida told us that all their troubles and\nanxieties in reference to the Casinelli and the chapel bell had been\nrenewed. There had been an interregnum of comparative peace, and we had\nentertained the hope that all was likely to go on quietly. But it turned\nout that one of the sisters some days previously had called on Mrs. Vernon\nand her daughters to explain that the bell ringing for Mass was such a\ncause of annoyance to the other lodgers that she really must request that\nit should be entirely given up. Of course Mrs. Vernon refused. The chapel\nhad been conceded to them; Mass was said there daily by the express\npermission of the cardinal archbishop, and was of the greatest benefit to\nthe neighborhood; and she and her daughters absolutely declined to\nsanction such an insult to religion. Signorina Casinelli proposed that the\nbell should be hung somewhere in the garden at a considerable distance.\nBut this also was refused. It was not rung at an early hour. It was not a\nlarge bell, and it was absurd to have the chapel in one place, and the\nchapel bell an eighth of a mile away, to say nothing of the trouble of\nsending some one to ring it. Signorina Casinelli left the house in high\ndudgeon; and the next day she waylaid Padre Cataldo, as he was returning\nthrough the garden from visiting the sick. She flew into a violent rage\nthe moment she saw him, and told him that, rather than offend their other\ntenants, they would, the house being their property, shut up the chapel\nentirely.\n\nUnfortunately, no written agreement respecting the use of the chapel\nexisted between the Vernons and the Casinelli; and it had never entered\nany one\u2019s head that they could be guilty of such a transaction. The threat\nwas, however, only too well carried out. That same evening the bell was\ncut down and carried away. The Vernons learnt from the _vignaiuoli_ in\ntheir neighborhood that the Casinelli had had some difficulty in finding\nany workmen who would undertake the job. They had first sent for a mason\nin their own employ; but he had absolutely refused to have anything to do\nwith a work which he considered as sacrilegious; and turning to the\n_padrona_, the eldest sister, he exclaimed, \u201cJudas also sold his Master\nfor money, but I will have nothing to do with conduct which resembles his.\nYou may manage your own affairs in your own way.\u201d\n\nThe following Saturday they completed their evil work by literally doing\nas they threatened. A message was sent to the Vernons to warn them that\nthey had better take out of the chapel anything therein which belonged to\nthem without loss of time, as that night it was to be locked and the keys\nwithdrawn.\n\nIt was a sad office indeed for the Vernons to have to strip the little\nchapel of all its ornaments, the work of their hands and their hearts.\nThey did it in silence, and in silence they bore the heavy trial; for had\nthey allowed themselves any expressions which would have served as a cry\nfor the peasantry around, it would have been difficult to restrain the\ngrief and indignation of these poor people at finding themselves deprived\nof their Mass and of the instructions of a priest whom they all loved as a\nfather. Ida\u2019s delicate health made it very difficult for her to walk to\nany church up the high hill at the foot of which Casinelli is situated.\nPadre Cataldo had to go elsewhere to say his Mass, to the great\ninconvenience of himself and others. But that was as nothing compared to\nthe grief of seeing all his little flock dispersed.\n\nSignore Casinelli informed his tenant, in the presence of several persons,\nthat henceforth he might consider himself master of the situation. And so\nhe has remained. But the Casinelli have never since been able to command\nthe slightest respect from the _vignaiuoli_ and peasantry of the\nneighborhood. They have lost all prestige. And long before these pages see\nthe light the Vernons will have left Casinelli to establish themselves in\none of the many villas whose doors were open to them from that moment. All\nin the neighborhood wanted to let their apartments to them and Padre\nCataldo; and if anything could console them for all they had had to\nsacrifice, it might be the amount of sympathy and respect which met them\non all sides and from all classes; while the incident, far from\ndiminishing Padre Cataldo\u2019s field of usefulness, seemed to have opened out\nfresh spheres for him to work in, and to have extended his influence far\nand wide.\n\nThe garden in which our villa of R\u2014\u2014 R\u2014\u2014 stood led by steps and winding\npaths to a tiny bay and to a long series of rocks and large natural caves.\nThere was more than one bath, fed by the fresh sea\u2010water, in whose limpid\ndepths we not unfrequently saw brilliant sea\u2010anemones, and even small fish\nwhich sometimes forced their way through to the openings left in an\nartificial dike to supply the bath with water. Here and there a wooden\nbridge was thrown over some part where the water broke the communication\nfrom one cave to another. The views from the wide, arched openings of the\ncaves were very lovely; Naples and the bay on one side, and the flower\u2010\nclad, precipitous rocks of the coast of Posilippo on the other. At night\nthe fishermen\u2019s boats which had been moored in these caves, and in others\nlike them, came gliding out with a lighted torch at the prow. And all\nthrough the night many of them might be seen, with the black figures of\ntwo or three fishermen dimly distinguished from time to time; though more\ngenerally all that can be seen is the dark, shadowy form of the boat and\nthe flaring torch, intended to attract the unwary fish into the net.\n\nI should have liked the caves better had they not been disfigured by the\nstuffed, gaunt forms of a hippopotamus and some alligators and similar\nmonsters, which were placed in all sorts of unexpected places, and seemed\nto meet you round the corner with gaping jaws. These caves had formed part\nof a public place of resort some years ago, but were now deserted and\nforgotten, with all the monsters rapidly falling into dusty decay.\n\nWe had been for some time at the villa before my curiosity had ever led me\nto explore this strange place. When I did so, it was in company with Don\nEmidio. But as I protested that I did not like crocodiles and hippopotami,\nhe suggested that we should climb the rock outside the cave to the pretty\nlittle pink and green kiosk which crowned it, and which commanded a lovely\nview from where it stood embedded in aloes and cacti, opuntias and zoccas,\nbesides many varieties of climbing plants. Nothing could be prettier than\nthe winding paths, protected on one side by a rustic fence, while every\ncranny in the rock on the other side bore some tuft of blossom or afforded\nroothold for the wild tresses of some flowering creeper.\n\nMary and Frank had remained in the lower garden, while we wandered into\nevery nook and corner, and finally sat down to rest inside the kiosk,\nwhich, with windows all round, presented to us a wide and lovely scene.\n\nIt was here I consented to become Don Emidio\u2019s wife.\n\nThat effected, no matter how or in what words\u2014for those things seldom read\nwisely\u2014I suggested that we should rejoin Mary and Frank. Don Emidio took\nthe latter by the arm, and walked with him a little way apart. I remained\nsilent, sitting at Mary\u2019s feet. When Don Emidio joined us, it was without\nFrank. I asked where he was. \u201cGone down to Casinelli,\u201d was the reply. I\nknew why. He was determined to have his fate also decided that same day,\nthat same hour. I had no doubts for him. I knew that Elizabeth would\nconsent; and I felt partly glad, and partly saddened at the thought that\nour life, hitherto so united and bound up in each other, was about to\ndivide and separate, each following his or her own destiny, and weaving a\nnew web of life\u2019s joys and sorrows. Don Emidio left us soon. But long\nafter, I saw him leaning over the parapet of the road, waiting for Frank\nto return from Casinelli, that he might learn whether his wishes also were\nto be crowned with success. I could see the meeting from my window, as the\ntall figures of the two friends stood dark against the deep blue of an\nItalian starlight night. I could have no doubt of the nature of the\nintelligence conveyed by Frank to his friend; for, to my horror, Don\nEmidio threw his arms around him and kissed him, as Italians do. Poor\nFrank! thought I, how will he put up with such an un\u2010English proceeding?\nNo doubt it had happened to Frank before; for he did not, so far as I\ncould judge at that distance, start with astonishment. But it set me\nthinking about my future husband\u2019s foreign ways. And the next morning,\nwhen Frank and I had talked over the more serious questions in our\naffairs, I found myself drifting into that part of the matter. \u201cI wonder,\nFrank, if I shall ever get quite reconciled to his Italian customs, so as\neither not to notice, or to prefer them?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is to be hoped so, since he will be your husband. But what do you mean\nin particular?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, you know he will call me Miss Jane; any one else would say Miss\nHamilton.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is an evil which is already at an end. No doubt for the future he\nwill call you simply Jane, and speak of you a short time hence as la\nContessa Gandolfi.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen I wish he would not embrace you, Frank.\u201d Frank laughed aloud.\n\n\u201cHe would be hurt if I repulsed him. They all do it. He will soon see that\nin England it is not the custom, and then he will give it up\u2014at least\nwhile there.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnother thing is, I do not like his wearing a large ring\u2014though I own it\nis a handsome one\u2014on his forefinger. We think that vulgar in England.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd it does not happen to be vulgar here; that is all about it, my dear\nJane. I am afraid I cannot help you in that matter. But possibly in time\nyou will succeed in bringing him round to your views; though I doubt your\never being able to break him of occasionally transferring that ring from\nhis finger to his thumb whenever he is particularly anxious to remember\nsomething. When you see his palazzo in Rome, you will find that he\npossesses a beautiful portrait, by Vandyke, of an ancestor on his mother\u2019s\nside. That very ring is on the forefinger of the portrait. Emidio is the\nliving image of that picture. And you can hardly blame a man for carrying\nout a likeness he has such reason to be proud of.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is one other thing, Frank, which strikes me as odd. If he is\nsitting in the arm\u2010chair when Mary or I come into the room (and you know\nwe are not rich in arm\u2010chairs here), he never gives either of us that\nchair, but fetches us another, and goes back to the arm\u2010chair himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cJane, you are a little fool. Do you not know that in Italy, at least in\nthe south, it is the height of ill\u2010breeding to offer any one the chair you\nhave just occupied yourself? A cool seat is always a desideratum in this\nclimate, even though it may be a less luxurious one.\u201d\n\n\u201cShall I ever, do you think, be able to take back to England with me a\nhusband with such a name as Emidio? What a pity he was not christened\nPaul, or Stephen, or even Anthony! But Emidio!\u201d By this time we were both\nlaughing\u2014Frank at me, I at myself.\n\n\u201cYou need never call him Emidio in public. We call him so because, when we\nhave been travelling about Italy alone together, we found it convenient to\ndrop his title. But you know he is il Conte Gandolfi. His mother was the\nonly child of a noble Roman family, and consequently a great heiress. She\nmarried a Neapolitan Conte Gandolfi; and that is how it happens that with\na Neapolitan name his chief residence is in Rome, in the palazzo that\nbelonged to his mother. His father was not a man of very considerable\nfortune, and his only property here is his villa at Capo di Monte, where\nhe spends the summer. A nobler heart and a finer nature I never saw. There\nis the simplicity of a child, the honor of a true\u2010born gentleman, the\ndelicacy of a woman, the courage of a hero, and the piety of a saint.\u201d\n\nThe tears stood in my eyes; and taking dear Frank\u2019s hand in mine, I said,\n\u201cThank you, dear old fellow, for saying that. And, thank God, you too have\ndrawn a prize!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nA Discussion With An Infidel.\n\n\n\nIV. Immortality Of Matter.\n\n\n_Reader._ And now, doctor, what other argument do you allege against\ncreation?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ The immortality of matter, and the immortality of force.\n\n_Reader._ The immortality of matter?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Yes, sir. \u201cMatter is immortal, indestructible. There is not an\natom in the universe which can be lost. We cannot, even in thought, remove\nor add an atom without admitting that the world would thereby be\ndisturbed, and the laws of gravitation and the equilibrium of matter\ninterfered with. It is the great merit of modern chemistry to have proved\nin the most convincing manner that the uninterrupted changes of matter\nwhich we daily witness, the origin and decay of organic and inorganic\nforms and tissues, do not arise, as was hitherto believed, from new\nmaterials, but that this change consists in nothing else but the constant\nand continuous metamorphosis of the same elementary principles, the\nquantity and quality of which ever are, and ever remain, the same\u201d (p. 9).\n\u201cThe atoms are in themselves unchangeable and indestructible; to\u2010day in\nthis, tomorrow in another form, they present by the variety of their\ncombinations the innumerable forms in which matter appears to our senses.\nThe number of atoms in any element remains, on the whole, the same; not a\nsingle particle is formed anew; nor can it, when formed, disappear from\nexistence\u201d (p. 11).\n\n_Reader._ Do you say in the same breath that no particle of matter can be\nformed anew, and that, _when formed_, it cannot disappear? When is it\nformed, if it cannot be formed at all?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ The phrase may be incorrect, but the idea is sound, and the\nargument conclusive.\n\n_Reader._ Poor doctor! the idea is as inconsistent as the phrase is\nincorrect; and the argument is not worthy of the name. Let us admit that\nmatter, elements, and atoms have been observed to remain always and\neverywhere the same. Does it follow that matter, elements, and atoms are\nindestructible? By no means; it only follows that, be they destructible or\nnot, they have not been actually destroyed. You say that by the\ndestruction or addition of an atom \u201cthe world would be disturbed.\u201d Let it\nbe disturbed; what then?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Then the laws of gravitation and the equilibrium of matter\nwould be interfered with; which cannot be admitted. The laws of nature are\nunchangeable. What has been constantly true for the past must be true for\never.\n\n_Reader._ You are utterly mistaken, doctor. The world may be disturbed by\nthe creation or the annihilation of matter without the laws of nature\nbeing interfered with. I admit that the laws of nature are unchangeable;\nthey have been true for the past, and they will be true for ever. But what\nis the object of these laws? Nothing but the mode of production of the\nphenomena of the material world. Hence you have a law of gravitation, a\nlaw of propagation of sound, a law of impact, a law of reflection and of\nrefraction, and generally laws of motion, but you have no law of\n_existence_ and no law of _substance_. Whence it is clear that all your\nlaws of nature would remain exactly the same whether any new portion of\nmatter were brought into being or any portion of existing matter\nannihilated. Suppose that your own body were annihilated; would any law of\nnature be upset? Would the sun cease to illuminate the earth? Would the\nearth cease to revolve round its axis or to attract bodies? Would the\nocean cease rolling its waves to the shore? Would fire cease to burn? In\none word, would any law of statics or of dynamics cease to be true?\n\nNor can you decline this supposition by saying that annihilation itself\nwould be against the laws of nature. For all your laws of nature, as I\nhave just remarked, regard the movements, and not the substance, of the\nmaterial world. Your laws suppose the existence of matter in the same\nmanner as civil laws suppose the existence of civil society; and as these\nlatter are not modified by an increase or a decrease in the number of the\nindividuals subject to them, so neither would the former be modified by\nany increase or decrease in the number of material elements. There would\nbe, of course, a change in the phenomena themselves, because the execution\nof the laws would be carried on suitably to the new condition of the case;\nbut the laws would remain the same. Consequently any amount of matter\ncould be annihilated without the least change in the laws of nature. Let\nthe moon be annihilated; the ebb and flow of the ocean will be altered,\nbut the laws of motion will remain the same; for the ebbing and flowing of\nthe waters will still be proportional to the action of the disturbing\ncauses. Let a stone be annihilated in the act of its falling to the\nground; the law of attraction will remain unaltered, as it will still be\ntrue that every falling body must acquire, under gravitation, a uniformly\nincreasing velocity. Hence the unchangeableness of natural laws cannot be\nalleged as a proof of the indestructibility of matter; and your argument\nis worthless. The utmost you can be allowed to assume is that matter,\nwhether destructible or not, has hitherto continued to exist, and no\nparticle of it has ever been annihilated.\n\nThis last assertion, however, is admitted by natural philosophers, not\nbecause there is any scientific proof of it, but simply because science\nhas no grounds for denying it. Science has no means of ascertaining, for\ninstance, whether any remote star has been annihilated, or any new star\ncreated, in the last thousand years; and if the common belief is that no\nnew matter has been created, and no portion of matter annihilated, we owe\nit, not to science, but to the teaching of the Bible, which represents the\nwork of creation as long ago completed, and the conservation of all\ncreated substances as the effect of design. But you, who laugh at\nrevelation, and pretend to substantiate all your assertions by facts, have\nno right to assume that no matter has ever been annihilated. Hence not\nonly are you unable to show that matter is indestructible, but you cannot\neven maintain that no particle of matter has ever been destroyed.\n\nBut I will no longer insist on this point. I admit that no atom of matter\ncan ever be lost to the world _by natural processes_. My reason is that\nthe natural actions of bodies, whether physical or chemical, tend merely\nto the production, modification, or neutralization of movement, and that\nno amount of change in the movement of an atom can cause the atom to\nvanish. This is not, however, a discovery of modern chemistry, as you seem\nto believe. The scholastic philosophers had not the fortune to know modern\nchemistry; yet they never believed that new compounds were made of new\nmaterials, though you recklessly assert that \u201cit was hitherto believed\u201d;\nbut they always uniformly taught that matter was ingenerable and\nincorruptible. There was therefore scarcely any need of modern chemistry\nto teach us that no portion of matter can be lost by natural processes.\nYet this is not the real question. What we want to know is whether an\natom, or any number of atoms, has a necessary existence and cannot be\nannihilated by God. This is your assumption; and this is what you are\nunable to show. Your argument is, in fact, nothing but a vicious circle.\nYou say: \u201cThere is no God; and therefore matter cannot be annihilated\u201d;\nand at the same time you say: \u201cMatter cannot be annihilated; and therefore\nthere is no God.\u201d This is, in reality, the covert drift of your\nargumentation, when from the assumed indestructibility of matter you\nconclude, first, that matter could not have been created, and, further,\nthat the existence of a Creator is a gratuitous hypothesis. On the other\nhand, you cannot make good your assertion that matter is indestructible\nwithout first denying the existence of a Creator. Such is your nice logic\nin what you probably consider to be one of your best arguments.\n\nAnd let me here make a passing remark on the word \u201cimmortality,\u201d which you\nhave chosen to designate the pretended indestructibility of matter.\nImmortality is not simply \u201cexistence without end,\u201d but \u201clife without end.\u201d\nHence living beings alone can be immortal. Do you assume, then, that a\ngrain of dust or an atom of matter is a living being? If you say _yes_,\nwhere are the facts that will lend a support to such an unscientific\ndoctrine? If you say _no_, then the immortality of your matter is nothing\nindeed but a new form of what you would style \u201cphilosophical\ncharlatanism.\u201d\n\nTo conclude: the indestructibility of matter is a ridiculous invention of\nignorant empiricists, who know neither what matter is nor what is\nphilosophical reasoning. They make, indeed, a great deal of noise with\ntheir scientific publications; but their ephemeral celebrity is due to an\norganized system of mutual laudation and to Masonic support, as you know.\nLet only twenty years pass, and you may be sure that our children will\nlaugh at your celebrities: and if your _Force and Matter_ is to reach\nthem, they will laugh at you too. Common sense cannot slumber for ever;\nand when it awakes, then will all your infidel scribes be pronounced\ndesigning knaves.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I thought you would never end, sir; but, long as your answer\nhas been, it has failed to convince me. The force of my argument lies in\nthis: that what can have an end must have had a beginning. If, therefore,\nmatter is not indestructible, it must have had a beginning.\n\n_Reader._ Certainly.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ But a beginning of matter is inconceivable. For how could\nmatter come into existence?\n\n_Reader._ By creation out of nothing.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ This is what I deny. For out of nothing nothing can arise. This\nis an axiom. Hence \u201cnever can an atom arise anew or disappear; it can only\nchange its combinations.... Matter must have existed from eternity, and\nmust last for ever\u201d (p. 12).\n\n_Reader._ I am not in the least surprised to hear that my long talk did\nnot convince you. It is always difficult to convince a man against his\nwill. My object, however, was not to give you a positive demonstration of\nthe fact of creation, but only to show that the reasons which you were\nparading against creation amount to nothing. Of this I hope I have not\nfailed to convince you. But now you come forward with a new argument,\nwhich indeed is very old, consisting in a pretended axiom, that out of\nnothing nothing can arise. Suppose, doctor, that I deny your axiom. How\nwould you show that I deny a truth?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cHow can any one deny the axiom that out of nothing nothing can\narise?\u201d (p. 12).\n\n_Reader._ You must know, doctor, that what you assume to be an old axiom\nis only an old error. In fact, why do you say that out of nothing nothing\ncan arise? Simply because natural energies can do nothing without pre\u2010\nexisting materials. Hence your argument amounts to this. \u201cNatural energies\nnever make anything out of nothing; therefore out of nothing nothing can\nbe made.\u201d That this conclusion is a great blunder I need not prove, I\npresume, as logic teaches that no conclusion can be more general than its\npremises. Where is, then, the ground of your pretended axiom?\n\nNor can you reply that the natural energies are the only energies known to\nus, and that, if these cannot make anything out of nothing, the axiom is\nunexceptionably true. This would be to assume what you are bound to prove,\nto wit, that there is no power above the natural forces; and to assume\nthis is what logicians call _Petitio principii_. On the other hand, you\ncannot maintain that such natural forces are the only ones we know; for\nyou cannot limit the range of human knowledge within the narrow sphere of\nmere empiricism without denying human reason.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ We have no notion of supersensible forces.\n\n_Reader._ You talk without reflection, doctor. If you have no such a\nnotion, what is it, then, that compels you to admit any demonstrated\ntruth? Is it attraction, heat, electricity, or any of your physical or\nchemical forces? No; it is the force of demonstration, it is the force of\ntruth. This is no vain theory; I appeal to your own experience. Your\nintellect is obliged to yield to the force of evidence and demonstration\njust as inevitably as the pendulum is obliged to yield to the force of\ngravitation. And since a real effect requires a real cause, hence whatever\nthus really compels your intellect to yield must have a real power, and\nthat evidently supersensible.\n\nBut reverting to your pretended axiom, I have yet to remark that, strictly\nspeaking, it does not even hold in the case of natural causes; in other\nterms, I say that nothing is ever produced by natural causes except out of\nnothing. Of course no tailor ever made a coat without cloth, and no\ncarpenter ever built a ship without pre\u2010existing materials. This I admit;\nbut if you closely examine the point, you will see that to make a coat or\na ship is not _to produce_ it, and that the action of the tailor and the\ncarpenter wholly consists in modifying and arranging the materials so as\nto give them a form. It is, therefore, this _form_ alone that is produced.\nNow, clearly, this form, before its production, was nothing; for it had no\nexistence. And therefore the work of the tailor or the carpenter is a\nproduction of something out of nothing.(152) And thus either you must deny\nthat anything is ever produced, or you must give up your axiom that\nnothing can be produced out of nothing.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I cannot give up my axiom without inconsistency. I will rather\ndeny that anything is ever really produced. In fact, \u201cThose are children,\nor persons with a narrow sphere of vision, says Empedocles, who imagine\nthat anything arises that has not existed before, or that anything can\nentirely die and perish\u201d (p. 15).\n\n_Reader._ These are empty words.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ On the other hand, \u201cthe immortality of matter is now a fact\nscientifically established, and can no longer be denied\u201d (p. 13).\n\n_Reader._ Indeed?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Yes; \u201cIts actual proof is given by our scales and retorts\u201d (p.\n13).\n\n_Reader._ I thought I had already shown that your scales and retorts are\nincapable of giving such a proof.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cSebastian Frank, a German who lived in 1528, says: Matter was\nin the beginning in God, and is on that account eternal and infinite. The\nearth and everything created may pass away, but we cannot say that that\nwill perish out of which matter is created. The substance remains for\never\u201d (p. 14).\n\n_Reader._ Do you endorse these words?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Certainly.\n\n_Reader._ Then you catch yourself in your own trap. For if matter is\ncreated, as your German writer says, surely there is a Creator.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ But if matter was in the beginning in God, and was eternal, it\nis plain that matter could not be created.\n\n_Reader._ Perfectly true. And therefore, since matter, according to your\nGerman authority, has been created, surely matter was not in the beginning\nin God. But, after all, can you endorse Frank\u2019s words without admitting a\nGod? And can you admit a God and a Creator while fighting against creation\nand the existence of God? Be honest, doctor, and confess that bad indeed\nmust a cause be which cannot be maintained but by clumsy sophistry and\nshameful contradiction.\n\n\n\nV. Immortality Of Force.\n\n\n_Reader._ In your theory, doctor, force is immortal. This I cannot\nunderstand. Would you tell me how you come to such a conclusion?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cIndestructible, imperishable, and immortal as matter is also\nits immanent force. Intimately united to matter, force revolves in the\nsame never\u2010ending cycle, and emerges from any form in the same quantity as\nit entered. If it be an undoubted fact that matter can neither be produced\nnor destroyed, but merely transformed, then it must also be assumed as an\nestablished principle that there is not a single case in which force can\nbe produced out of, or pass into, nothing; or, in other words, can be born\nor annihilated. In all cases where force is manifested it may be reduced\nto its sources; that is to say, it can be ascertained from what other\nforces a definite amount of force has been obtained, either directly or by\nconversion. This convertibility is not arbitrary, but takes place\naccording to definite equivalents, so that not the smallest quantity of\nforce can be lost\u201d (p. 16).\n\n_Reader._ How do you account for this theory?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cLogic and our daily experience teach us that no natural motion\nor change, consequently no manifestation of force, can take place without\nproducing an endless chain of successive motions and changes, as every\neffect becomes immediately the cause of succeeding effects. There is no\nrepose of any kind in nature; its whole existence is a constant cycle, in\nwhich every motion, the consequence of a preceding motion, becomes\nimmediately the cause of an equivalent succeeding one; so that there is\nnowhere a gap, nowhere either loss or gain. No motion in nature proceeds\nfrom or passes into nothing; and as in the material world every individual\nform can only realize its existence by drawing its materials from the\nimmense storehouse of matter, so does every motion originate from the\nequally immense storehouse of forces, to which sooner or later the\nborrowed quantity of force is again returned. The motion may become\nlatent\u2014_i.e._, apparently concealed; but nevertheless it is not lost,\nhaving merely been converted into equivalent states, from which it will\nescape again in some shape. During this process force has changed its\nmode; for force may, though essentially the same, assume in the universe a\nvariety of modes. The various forms may, as already stated, be converted\ninto others without loss, so that the sum\u2010total of existing forces can\nneither be increased nor diminished, the forms only changing\u201d (pp. 17,\n18).\n\n_Reader._ What do you mean by \u201cforms of forces\u201d?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Physics, as I stated to you on another occasion, \u201cmakes us\nacquainted with eight different forces\u2014gravitation, mechanical force,\nheat, light, electricity, magnetism, affinity, cohesion, which,\ninseparably united to matter, form and give shape to the world. These\nforces are, with few exceptions, mutually convertible, so that nothing is\nlost in the process of conversion\u201d (p. 18).\n\n_Reader._ \u201cWith few exceptions\u201d? I fear that any exception will prove\nfatal to your theory. But go on, doctor; I wish to hear more about your\nconversion of forces.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cWe may cite a few instances of transformation or\nconvertibility of forces. Heat and light are produced by combustion. Heat\nagain is converted into mechanical power in steam, and mechanical force\ncan again by friction be reconverted into heat, and, as in the electro\u2010\nmagnetical machine, into heat, electricity, magnetism, and light. One of\nthe most frequent conversions of force is that of heat into mechanical\nforce, and _vice versa_\u201d (pp. 18, 19).\n\n_Reader._ What conclusion do you draw from these and similar facts?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I draw the conclusion that in speaking of forces \u201cthe word\n_lost_ is an incorrect expression; for in all these and similar cases\nthere is not a minim of power lost as regards the universe, but merely as\nregards the immediate object. The expended force has in reality only\nassumed different forms, the sum\u2010total of which is equivalent to the\noriginal force. Innumerable examples may be adduced to establish this law,\nwhich is expressed in the axiom that _force can neither be created nor\ndestroyed_\u2014an axiom from which results the immortality of force, and the\nimpossibility of its having a beginning or an end. The consequence of this\nrecently\u2010discovered natural truth is the same as that deduced from the\nimmortality of matter, and both form and manifest from eternity the sum of\nphenomena which we term _world_. The cycle of matter sides, as a necessary\ncorrelate, with the cycle of force, and teaches that nothing is generated\nanew, that nothing disappears, and that the secret of nature lies in an\neternal and immanent cycle, in which cause and effect are connected\nwithout beginning or end. That only can be immortal which has existed from\neternity; and what is immortal cannot have been created\u201d (pp. 21, 22).\n\n_Reader._ I have heard with great attention all you have said, doctor, and\nI am sorry to see that you are as wrong as ever. Your argument is\naltogether ludicrous.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ It is, however, a mere statement of known facts.\n\n_Reader._ I question this very much. But even if the alleged facts were\nunquestionable, and could not receive any other interpretation than that\nwhich you give of them, your conclusion about the \u201cimmortality of force\u201d\nwould still be groundless. In fact, the forces of which you speak are all\nmaterial, and have their existence in matter alone. It is therefore vain\nand preposterous to argue about the immortality of such forces when you\nhave already failed to show the immortality of matter itself. You boast\nthat your argument is a mere statement of facts; and so do all modern\nsciolists, more or less awkwardly, when pushed to the wall. But what are\nthe facts? Is heat a form of force? Is it a form convertible into another\nform? I perceive from your style that you never studied this subject; you\nonly repeat like a parrot what other parrots have learned to say, without\nthe least notion of the true state of things. Tell me, what is a form of\nforce? What is force itself?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ It is not my duty to define force. I accept the definition of\nthe physicists.\n\n_Reader._ This is exactly what I expected to hear. Yet when a man\nundertakes to philosophize on anything, he ought to know very distinctly\nwhat that thing is. Do you make any difference between \u201cforces\u201d and\n\u201cpowers\u201d?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ No, sir, as is evident from my terminology.\n\n_Reader._ Do you discriminate between \u201cforce\u201d and \u201cquantity of action\u201d?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ No, sir.\n\n_Reader._ Do you identify \u201cforce\u201d with \u201cquantity of movement\u201d?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Yes, sir.\n\n_Reader._ Then it is evident that you confound force, power, quantity of\naction, and quantity of movement.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ All these terms are substantially identical in science.\n\n_Reader._ True, the lowest school of physicists considers them as\nsubstantially identical, and in this manner they succeed in persuading\nthemselves and many others that the quantity of living force existing in\nthe world is always invariably the same. But, after all, those physicists\nspeak very incorrectly, and are not to be followed in their blundering\nterminology. A quantity of movement is not an action, but the result of\naction; and a quantity of action is not a power, but the exertion of\npower. In fact, the same power acts with different intensity in different\nconditions; and equal actions produce different movements in bodies\nactually subject to different dynamical determinations. Hence it is\nimpossible to admit that powers, actions, and movements are synonymous.\n\nAnd now, which of these three notions do you choose to identify with\nforce? If you say that force is \u201ca quantity of movement,\u201d then it will be\nfalse that no force is ever lost; for any quantity of movement can be lost\n_without compensation_. Thus a stone thrown up vertically loses its\nquantity of movement without compensation.(153) If you say that force is\n\u201ca quantity of action,\u201d it will again be false that no force is ever lost;\nfor all successive actions successively pass away, and continually change\ntheir direction and their intensity, according as the distances and\npositions of the bodies acted on are altered. Lastly, if you say that\nforce is \u201cpower,\u201d then it is false that forces are transformed or\nconvertible; for the power of each element of matter remains unalterably\nthe same, as you yourself acknowledge, throughout all the vicissitudes of\ntime. \u201cA particle of iron,\u201d you say with Dubois\u2010Reymond, \u201cis and remains\nthe same, whether it crosses the horizon in the meteoric stone, rushes\nalong in the wheel of the steam\u2010engine, or circulates in the blood through\nthe temples of the poet.\u201d\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Would you, then, repudiate science?\n\n_Reader._ By no means. I love and respect true science. I only repudiate\nthat false and presumptuous dogmatism which prompts a class of physicists\nto draw general conclusions from particular, and often questionable,\npremises.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Do you, then, condemn the method of induction?\n\n_Reader._ Not at all. I condemn the abuse of that method. What right have\nmodern scientists of extending the principle of the \u201cconservation of\nforce\u201d beyond the boundaries marked by observation and experiment? All\nthey have a right to say is that _in the impact of bodies an equal\nquantity of movement __ is lost by one body and acquired by another_. This\nis the fact. But does it follow that therefore the movement lost by the\none body passes _identically_ into the other? This is what they imagine;\nand this is what cannot be proved, because it is absurd. Movement is an\naffection of matter, and has no independent existence, as you well know.\nIt cannot, therefore, pass identically from body to body any more than a\nmovement of anger can pass identically from man to man. And yet it is on\nthis absurd notion of _nomadic_ movement that the whole theory of the\nconservation of force, as now held by your advanced thinkers, has been\nraised. They say: \u201cThe quantity of movement which is lost by one of the\nbodies, and that which is acquired by the other, are perfectly equal;\ntherefore a quantity of movement passes identically from one body to\nanother.\u201d In other terms they say: \u201cThere is equality; therefore there is\nidentity.\u201d Is this legitimate induction? Good logic would lead us to argue\nin the following manner: The actions of the two struggling bodies, being\nequal and opposite, must produce equal and opposite quantities of\nmovement; hence the quantity of movement which is _destroyed_ in the\nimpinging body must equal the quantity of movement _produced_ in the body\nimpinged upon. Such is the only logical view of the subject; it agrees\nboth with reason and with fact, and it strikes your theory at the root.\nFor what is destroyed is no more; and what is produced had no existence\nbefore its production.\n\nWe might allow you to talk of the \u201cconservation\u201d and \u201cconversion\u201d of\nforces, were you reasonable enough to consider such expressions as mere\nconventional technicalities suited to explain the relations of effects to\neffects rather than of effects to causes. But you construe the technical\nphrases into real and absolute principles, and try to explain causation by\nsubstituting the effect for the cause; which is as ridiculous an abuse of\nthe word \u201cforce\u201d as if a carpenter pretended that his iron square is the\nsquare spoken of in the treatises of geometry. But this is not all. What\nright have you to apply such a theory, whether right or wrong, to\ngravitation?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cThe pendulum of every clock shows the conversion of\ngravitation into motion\u201d (p. 21).\n\n_Reader._ Indeed? What do you mean by gravitation? The attractive power of\nthe earth, or its action, or the weight of the pendulum? Surely the\nattractive power of the earth is not converted into movement; for it\nremains in the earth, and it continues its work. Neither is the weight of\nthe pendulum converted into movement; for the pendulum does not cease,\nwhile moving, to have weight, nor does it weigh more when, at rest; and at\nthe end of its oscillation is not found to have expended or consumed any\nportion of its weight. You are therefore obliged to say that it is the\naction of the earth that is converted into movement. But such an\nexpression can have no meaning; because the action is the production of an\nact, and it is the act itself, not its production, that constitutes the\nformal principle of the movement. On the other hand, a production which\nbecomes the thing produced is such an absurdity that not even a lunatic\ncould dream of it. Thus it is quite evident that in no imaginable sense\ncan gravitation be considered as _converted_ into movement. It produces\nmovement, but is not converted into it. You see, doctor, that your so\nboasted theory has no foundation either in reason or in fact.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ But we cannot deny that mechanical movement is convertible into\nheat, that heat may become light, and that all other such forces can be\ntransformed.\n\n_Reader._ I repeat, and, on the strength of the reasons which I have\nbrought forward, I maintain that the term \u201cconversion of forces\u201d may be\nadmitted as a conventional phrase, but not as exhibiting a philosophical\nnotion. A real conversion of mechanical movement into heat would require\nthat a movement of translation should be transformed into a movement of\nvibration by being distributed among the molecules of the body which is\nheated. This I have already shown to be impossible. Things follow a\ndifferent course. When the hammer falls upon the anvil, its action (and\nnot its movement) shakes the first range of molecules which it encounters.\nThese molecules are thus constrained to approach the following set of\nmolecules lying immediately under them, and to trouble their relative\nequilibrium. These latter, in their turn, trouble the equilibrium of the\nfollowing set, and so on till all the molecules of the anvil partake in\nthe movement, each molecule undergoing alternate _compression_ and\n_dilatation_, the first through the violent action of its neighbors, and\nthe second by the reaction due to its immanent powers. The consequence of\nall this is that a rapid succession of vibratory movements is originated\nin each molecule; and thus, as soon as the movement of translation of the\nfalling hammer is extinguished, the movement of vibration is awakened in\nthe molecules of both the anvil and the hammer. Now, what is this but a\ncase of impact? For just as the hammer impinges on the surface of the\nanvil does each molecule of the anvil impinge on its neighbor; and\ntherefore what you call a transformation of mechanical into vibratory\nmovement is not a real transformation of the one into the other, but the\nextinction of the one and the production of the other. Thus heat is\ngenerated by percussion; and in a similar manner it would be generated by\nfriction and by other mechanical processes. Whenever heat is produced,\nmolecules are set into vibrations of a certain intensity, and their\nrelative equilibrium disturbed. Evidently, such a disturbance of the\nmolecular equilibrium is due to interaction of molecules\u2014that is, to\nmolecular impact. Now, I have already shown, and you have understood it, I\nhope, that, in the case of impact, the movement never passes identically\nfrom this matter to that, but is produced in the one at the same rate as\nit is extinguished in the other.\n\nI might say a great deal more on this subject, but here I stop, as I\nalmost regret having said so much. Your theory of the conservation of\nforce does not bear out your \u201cimmortality of force,\u201d and is so destitute\nof proof that it does not deserve the honor of a longer refutation.(154)\n\n\n\nVI. Infinity Of Matter.\n\n\n_Reader._ How do you account, doctor, for your assertion that \u201cmatter is\ninfinite\u201d?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ In a very simple manner: \u201cWhether we investigate the extension\nof matter in its magnitude or minuteness, we never come to an end or to an\nultimate form of it. When the invention of the microscope disclosed\nunknown worlds, and exhibited to the eye of the investigator the infinite\nminuteness of organic elements, the hope was raised that we might discover\nthe ultimate organic atom, perhaps the mode of its origin. This hope\nvanished with the improvement of our instruments. The microscope showed\nthat in the hundredth part of a drop of water there existed a world of\nanimalcules, of the most delicate and definite forms, which move and\ndigest like other animals, and are endowed with organs, the structure of\nwhich we have little conception of\u201d (p. 23). \u201cWe term the most minute\nparticle of matter, which we imagine to be no longer capable of division,\nan _atom_, and consider matter to be composed of such atoms, acquiring\nfrom them its qualities, and existing by their reciprocal attraction and\nrepulsion. But the word _atom_ is merely an expression for a necessary\nconception, required for certain purposes. We have no real notion of the\nthing we term _atom_; we know nothing of its size, form, composition, etc.\nNo one has seen it. The speculative philosophers deny its existence, as\nthey do not admit that a thing can exist which is no longer divisible.\nThus neither observation nor thought leads us, in regard to the minuteness\nof matter, to a point where we can stop; nor have we any hope that we\nshall ever reach that point\u201d (p. 24, 25).\n\n_Reader._ That point has been reached, doctor. The theory of primitive,\nunextended elements is well known and advocated by good scientists and\nthoughtful philosophers. But let this pass, as I long for your\ndemonstration of the infinity of matter.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cLike the microscope in respect to the minuteness, so does the\ntelescope conduct us to the universe at large. Astronomers boldly thought\nto penetrate into the inmost recesses of the world; but the more their\ninstruments were improved, the more worlds expanded before their\nastonished eyes. The telescope resolved the whitish nebul\u00e6 in the sky into\nmyriads of stars, worlds, solar and planetary systems; and the earth with\nits inhabitants, hitherto imagined to be the crown and centre of\nexistence, was degraded from its imaginary height to be a mere atom moving\nin universal space. The distances of the celestial bodies are so immense\nthat our intellect wonders at the contemplation of them, and becomes\nconfused. Light, moving with a velocity of millions of miles in a minute,\nrequired no less than two thousand years to reach the earth from the\ngalaxy! And the large telescope of Lord Rosse has disclosed stars so\ndistant from us that their light must have travelled thirty millions of\nyears before it reached the earth. But a simple observation must convince\nus that these stars are not at the limit of space. All bodies obey the law\nof gravitation, and attract each other. In assuming, now, a limitation,\nthe attraction must tend towards an imagined centre of gravity, and the\nconsequence would be the conglomeration of all matter in one celestial\nbody. However great the distances may be, such an union must happen; but\nas it does not happen, although the world exists from eternity, there can\nbe no attraction towards a common centre. And this gravitation towards a\ncentre can only be prevented by there being, beyond the bodies visible to\nus, others still further which attract from without\u2014and so forth _ad\ninfinitum_. Every imagined limitation would render the existence of the\nworld impossible\u201d (pp. 25, 26).\n\n_Reader._ Is this the whole of your argument?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Yes, sir.\n\n_Reader._ I should like to know how could the large telescope of Lord\nRosse disclose stars so distant from us that their light must have\ntravelled thirty millions of years before it reached the earth? Do you not\nknow that in thirty millions of years light travels two million millions\nof times over the distance from the earth to the sun? And do you hope the\nworld will believe that, thanks to Lord Rosse\u2019s telescope, it has been\npossible to determine the parallax of a star two million millions of times\nmore distant from us than we are from the sun? The world indeed is\nignorant and credulous; but when the lie is too impudent, it is apt to cry\nyou down as a charlatan. You are most imprudent, doctor. You had no need\nof Lord Rosse\u2019s telescope for your argumentation; and your mention of the\ndistant stars disclosed by it was therefore an inexcusable blunder. But\nthe argument itself has no foundation. You imagine that, if the world were\nnot infinitely expanded in all directions, all matter, by universal\ngravitation, would have conglomerated into one celestial body. But tell\nme, Does the moon gravitate towards the earth?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Of course it does.\n\n_Reader._ How do you account, then, for the fact that the moon has not\nfallen, nor is likely to fall, on the earth? Is it because the moon is\nattracted by some matter lying outside its orbit?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ It is on account of centrifugal force accompanying its\ncurvilinear motion.\n\n_Reader._ I am delighted to see that you can explain the fact without\nappealing to the infinity of matter. Let us go on. As the moon gravitates\ntowards the earth, so do all satellites towards their planets, and all\nplanets towards the sun. And yet none of the satellites have fallen into\ntheir planets, and none of the planets into the sun. Is this owing to the\nmatter which lies outside of the planetary and solar system? I presume,\ndoctor, that the enormous distance of fixed stars from us will not\nencourage you to believe that their attraction on any planet can cope with\nits gravitation towards the sun. On the other hand, this gravitation is\nnot neutralized by the action of any exterior matter; for all planets\nactually obey the solar attraction, as their orbital movement conclusively\nshows. This same orbital movement implies also a centrifugal tendency; and\nthis tendency sufficiently prevents the falling of the planets on the sun.\nThis is unquestionable doctrine.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I admit the doctrine.\n\n_Reader._ Accordingly it is evident there is no need of infinite matter to\nprevent the celestial bodies from clustering into one central body.\nCentrifugal forces, in fact, are sufficient, even by your own admission,\nto remove all danger of such a catastrophe; and centrifugal forces are to\nbe found wherever there is curvilinear movement around a centre of\nattraction, that is, throughout all the world, according to astronomical\ninduction. Consequently your argument in favor of the infinity of matter\nis a mere delusion.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cIf we can find no limit to minuteness, and are still less able\nto reach it in respect to magnitude, we must declare matter to be infinite\nin either direction, and incapable of limitation in time or space. If the\nlaws of thought demonstrate an infinite divisibility of matter, and if it\nbe further impossible to imagine a limited space or a nothing, it must be\nadmitted that there is here a remarkable concordance of logical laws with\nthe results of our scientific investigations\u201d (p. 27).\n\n_Reader._ Your great scientific investigations give no result that favors\nthe infinity of matter. This we have just seen. Logical laws give no\nbetter results. It is idle, doctor, to assume that there is any law of\nthought which demonstrates the infinite divisibility of matter; and it is\nas capricious to assert the impossibility of imagining that the space\noccupied by matter is limited. You say that outside that space there would\nbe nothing, and therefore there would be no space except that occupied by\nmatter; whence you conclude that space would be limited. Do not fear,\ndoctor, for the fate of space. Outside the space which is occupied by\nmatter there is yet infinite space unoccupied by matter. Space is not made\nup of matter. Move the matter; you will not move space. Remove all matter;\nspace will not disappear. Of course you cannot understand this, because\nwhoever blots God out of the world extinguishes the source of his\nintellectual light, and is therefore doomed to grope for ever in the dark.\nBut we Christian philosophers, who admit a God infinite and immense, have\nno great difficulty to understand how there can be space not occupied by\nmatter. Wherever God is, there is space which can be occupied by matter;\nfor wherever God is, there he can create any amount of matter; and\nwherever matter can be placed, there is space; for space is nothing but\nthe possibility of locating matter.\n\nIt is not my intention to dilate on this topic, nor is it necessary. To\nanswer your difficulty I need only say that space, though void of matter,\nis always full of God\u2019s substance, to whose immensity alone we must\nresort, if we desire to account at all for the existence of infinite\nspace.\n\n\n\nVII. Dignity Of Matter.\n\n\n_Reader._ I scarcely expected, doctor, that you would devote a chapter of\nyour book to such a trifling and unscientific subject as the dignity of\nmatter. Is not matter, as such, the lowest of all known substances? What\nis the dignity of matter?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ You belong to the old school, sir. I will tell you what is the\nmodern view of matter: \u201cTo despise matter and our own body because it is\nmaterial, to consider nature and the world as dust which we must endeavor\nto shake off, nay, to torment our own body, can only arise from a\nconfusion of notions, the result of ignorance and fanaticism\u201d (p. 28).\n\n_Reader._ You begin with a false assumption, doctor. We of the old school\ndo not despise the body \u201cbecause it is material.\u201d God created matter; and\nwhatever proceeds from God is very good. We, however, consider the body as\nof a lower nature than our rational soul, and try to put a check to its\nunruly appetites\u2014a thing which you, being a physician, will surely approve\nand commend as conducive to the preservation of health, not to say of\nmorality.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cMatter is not inferior to, but the peer of, spirit; the one\ncannot exist without the other; and matter is the vehicle of all mental\npower, of all human and earthly greatness\u201d (p. 28).\n\n_Reader._ This is, doctor, the most abject and degrading materialism.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I am not afraid of this word, sir. \u201cWe frequently hear those\npersons contemptuously called _materialists_ who do not share the\nfashionable contempt for matter, but endeavor to fathom by its means the\npowers and laws of existence; who have discerned that spirit could not\nhave built the world out of itself, and that it is impossible to arrive at\na just conception of the world without an exact knowledge of matter and\nits laws. In this sense the name of materialist can nowadays be only a\ntitle of honor. It is to materialists that we owe the conquest over matter\nand a knowledge of its laws, so that, almost released from the chains of\ngravitation, we fly with the swiftness of the wind across the plain, and\nare enabled to communicate, with the celerity of thought, with the most\ndistant parts of the globe. Malevolence is silenced by such facts; and the\ntimes are past in which a world produced by a deceitful fancy was\nconsidered of more value than the reality\u201d (p. 29).\n\n_Reader._ You commit blunders upon blunders, doctor. We do not call\nmaterialists those who do not share \u201cthe fashionable contempt for matter,\u201d\nbut those who deny the existence of a spiritual soul, or teach that matter\nis not inferior to, but the peer of, spirit, and that the one cannot exist\nwithout the other, just as you teach. And therefore your definition of\nmaterialism is your first blunder. Again, contempt for matter is not, and\nnever has been, \u201cfashionable\u201d; second blunder. That materialists endeavor\n\u201cto fathom the powers and laws of existence\u201d is a third blunder; for they\nare not even capable of fathoming their own ignorance, as our present\ndiscussion shows very clearly. A further blunder is to speak of \u201cthe\npowers and laws of existence,\u201d as if there were any law of existence. A\nfifth blunder is to give credit to the materialists for having discerned\n\u201cthat spirit could not have built the world _out of itself_.\u201d This was\ndiscerned long ago by Christian philosophers; whereas your materialists\nhave even failed to discern that spirit could create the world _out of\nnothing_. A sixth blunder is contained in your assertion that \u201cit is to\nmaterialists that we owe the conquest over matter and a knowledge of its\nlaws.\u201d Indeed, you might as well say that we owe light to darkness, and\nwisdom to dolts. Go and study, O great doctor and president of the medical\nassociation of Hessen\u2010Darmstadt! and then tell us whether Newton, Volta,\nGalileo, Galvani, Biot, Amp\u00e8re, Cuvier, Faraday, Liebig, and scores of\nother great scientists were materialists. To such men we owe modern\nscience; but what does science owe to your materialists? What law did they\ndiscover? What conquests have they achieved? It is absurd for them to\ncomplain of \u201cmalevolence\u201d when they are treated with the contempt they\ndeserve. They are, in fact, mere plunderers and traitors of science.\n\nBut I wonder, doctor, whether your love of materialism is much calculated\nto show the _dignity_ of matter. You have not adduced as yet any reason\nwhy we should think of matter very highly. You have said, indeed, that\nmatter is \u201cthe peer of spirit\u201d; but this is mere twaddle, as you admit of\nno other spirit than what would be a result of material combination. I\nwant something better\u2014something like a good argument\u2014before I can\nappreciate the dignity of matter.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cPretended worshippers of God have in the middle ages carried\ntheir contempt for matter so far as to nail their own bodies, the noble\nworks of nature, to the pillory\u201d (p. 29).\n\n_Reader._ What do you mean?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cSome have tormented, others crucified themselves ...\u201d\n(_ibid._)\n\n_Reader._ Who crucified himself? When? Where? Can any one nail himself to\na cross any more than he can raise himself by his belt?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cCrowds of flagellants travelled through the country,\nexhibiting their lacerated backs. Strength and health were undermined in\nthe most refined manner, in order to render to the spirit\u2014considered as\nindependent of the body\u2014its superiority over the sinful flesh\u201d (p. 29).\n\n_Reader._ The flagellants were a set of fanatics; but their excesses do\nnot prove the dignity of matter. After all, had they been materialists,\nthey would surely have done something worse than to scourge themselves.\nThey may have undermined their strength and their health, as you remark;\nbut how much greater is the number of materialists who shorten their lives\nby shameful disorders, since they have lost all hope of a future and\nbetter life? Do you pretend that what is done by your adepts for the sake\nof worldly or sensual pleasure cannot be done by Christians for the sake\nof eternal salvation? We believe in eternal salvation, and we know what we\nbelieve. Strength and health are goods of a lower order than morality, and\nno true man would hesitate to endanger them for a superior good. But on\nwhat authority do you assume that in the middle ages strength and health\nwere undermined \u201cin the most refined manner\u201d?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cFeuerbach relates that S. Bernard had, by his exaggerated\nasceticism, lost his sense of taste, so that he took grease for butter,\noil for water\u201d (p. 30).\n\n_Reader._ You know that Feuerbach is no authority; and yet I should like\nto know, how can a man lose his sense of taste _by asceticism_? Does\nasceticism affect the tongue or the palate? S. Bernard lived sixty\u2010three\nyears, in spite of continuous intellectual and corporal work, so that you\ncan scarcely say that his manner of undermining his strength and health\nwas \u201cmost refined.\u201d As to grease and butter, I have the honor to inform\nyou that S. Bernard seldom tasted either, as they were excluded from the\nCistercian table. What do you say to that?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cRostan reports that in many cloisters the superiors were in\nthe habit of frequently bleeding their monks, in order to repress their\npassions\u201d (p. 30).\n\n_Reader._ Bosh.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cHe further states that injured nature avenged itself, and that\nrebellion, the use of poison and the dagger against superiors, were by no\nmeans rare in these living tombs\u201d (p. 30).\n\n_Reader._ And you believe such lies? Of course there is no reason why they\nshould not be circulated among the ignorant and superstitious. They are\nfond of believing such things, and they are served according to their\ntaste. The supply always meets the demand. Oh! how truly right was S. Paul\nwhen he said that _those who turn a deaf ear to truth are doomed to\nswallow fables_! Those who do not believe the Catholic Church, the highest\nauthority on earth, by just judgment stupidly believe the lies of a Rostan\nand of a hundred other charlatans of modern times. But let us not forget\nthe real point at issue. Your object was to show the dignity of matter.\nWhere are your proofs? Do you think that the dignity of matter can be\nestablished by defamation? Every intelligent reader will infer, on the\ncontrary, that it is from lack of reasons that you are obliged to disgrace\nyour work with libel and slander.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I am not a forger, after all. I have cited my authorities. But\nthe dignity of matter appears from the fact that it is to matter that we\nowe science. \u201cHave those who start from God and not from matter ever given\nus any clue as to the quality of matter and its laws, after which they say\nthe world is governed? Could they tell us whether the sun moves or is at\nrest? whether the earth is a globe or a plain? what was God\u2019s design? No!\nThat would be an impossibility. To start from God in the investigation of\nnature is a phrase without meaning. The unfortunate tendency to proceed in\nthe investigation of nature from theoretical premises, and to construe the\nworld and natural truths by way of speculation, is long abandoned; and it\nis by pursuing an opposite course of scientific investigation that the\ngreat advance of our knowledge of nature in recent times must be ascribed\u201d\n(pp. 31, 32).\n\n_Reader._ It is evident that all our knowledge begins in sensible\nrepresentations, and therefore depends on matter. But how can you infer\nfrom this the dignity of matter? When you ascend a ladder, the first step\nis always the lowest; which shows the contrary of what you wish to prove.\nMatter is the lowest of all objects of knowledge, while the highest is\nGod. From matter we start, and in God we must end. This every one admits;\nyou, however, assume that some philosophers \u201cstart from God, and not from\nmatter.\u201d Who are they? Are they, forsooth, those who teach that matter has\nbeen created by God? Then you are unjust to them, and falsify the history\nof science, by giving us to understand that they could not tell us whether\nthe sun moves or is at rest, and whether the earth is a globe or a plain.\nIt was not the atheist or the materialist that taught us astronomy and\ngeography. The materialist can only tell us, as you do, that \u201call natural\nand mental forces are inherent in matter\u201d (p. 32), which is no science at\nall; and that \u201cin matter alone forces can manifest themselves,\u201d or that\n\u201cmatter is the origin of all that exists\u201d (_ibid._), which is the reverse\nof science. _This_ they can prate; but as for the great laws of nature,\nthey had to learn them from us\u2014I mean from men who did not preach the\ndignity of matter with the foolish and ignoble purpose of dethroning God.\nYou condemn those who \u201cconstrue the world and natural truths by way of\nspeculation.\u201d This I have already answered; but I may remind you that by\ncondemning speculation you condemn yourself. Experimental knowledge is\nvery good; but it is by speculation alone that our knowledge acquires its\nscientific character. Hence your view of science without speculation is as\nabsurd as your assumption of matter without spirit and without God. This\nmay suit materialists, for they stop supinely at the lowest step of the\nladder; but intellectual men have a mind to ascend the ladder to the very\ntop. What is the use of knowing matter, if you know nothing else? Matter\nis the alphabet of science; to study matter, and to ignore the methods of\nrising from matter to spirit, and from the world to God, is to study the\nalphabet alone during all your life, and to die an abecedarian. This is\nwhat you crave; this is what you adorn with the venerable name of science;\nwhereas we believers not only study the alphabet, but also read the great\nbook of the universe, and know that the book has an Author, whose thoughts\nit reveals. You have vainly labored to establish the dignity of matter.\nHad you known how to read the book of nature, you would have discovered\nthat matter has no natural dignity but that of being the lowest work _of\nHim whose works are all perfect_.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nWho Will Remember?\n\n\nLike as a pebble on the salt sea\u2010sands\n  That some wave washes to an unknown shore,\nSo shall we quietly be swept away\n  From out the millions to be seen no more.\n\nWho will remember, who will say \u201cdear friend\u201d?\n  Who will walk sadly seeking yet a trace\nOf well\u2010known footsteps, of caressing hands,\n  Of some remembrance of a lost, dead face?\n\nAsk not too much of human hearts that wait;\n  Fresh buds will blossom for their eyes at last,\nAnd flowers dead, however sweet they were,\n  Are, like the whole of earth\u2019s dead treasures, past.\n\n\n\n\nChurch Music.(155)\n\n\n\nI.\n\n\nFrom the earliest times music has had a place in the public worship of all\npeoples\u2014among the pagans, among the Jews, among Christians. Its use in\nthis connection has been dictated by God himself in the act of\nconstituting the human mind; it has, moreover, received his express\nsanction, as we learn from the ordinances of the Jewish people. In the new\nlaw it has even been consecrated by his own divine example, since we read\nthat our Lord and his apostles sang hymns together. His birth was heralded\nto the world by the song of his angels, and heaven is represented to the\nChristian as a place where we shall sing for ever the praises of God.\n\nChurch music, therefore, dates from the origin of Christianity, and has\nconstituted ever since an integral, though not an essential, part of\npublic worship among Christians.\n\nThe church has her simple offices and her solemn offices, and she has made\nthe use of music one of the chief marks by which they are distinguished.\n\nChurch music grew with the growth of the church. As Christians increased\nand prospered, music was more and more cultivated, and was more largely\nintroduced into their solemn exercises of worship.\n\nThe extent to which sacred music was cultivated in the early church cannot\nbe easily determined; we have no reason to think it was very great.\n\nWhen Europe emerged from that sad state of confusion which came over it\nwith the invasion of the northern barbarians, and music was revived as a\nscience and an art, it was, like the other branches of learning, at first\nconfined mostly to the clergy, and its productions were for a long time\nalmost exclusively of a sacred character.\n\nThe church being an indestructible institution, her traditions are handed\ndown by one generation of her children to another. It was thus that in a\ndark day of confusion and destruction she preserved for us the treasures\nof ancient learning and the arts; and the world to\u2010day owes to her not\nonly the modern developments of poetry, painting, sculpture, and\narchitecture, but also the beautiful and varied combinations of modern\nmusic.\n\nAt first, as we have just said, there was no music but that which was\ndedicated to holy purposes, except such rude melodies as nature in all\nages teaches the most uncultivated.\n\nThe musical drama did not exist; and music does not seem to have made any\nessential part of the pageants or spectacles destined for the public\nentertainment.\n\nIt was from the church that music was introduced into the chamber, the\nhall, and the street, and in the beginning secular music imitated and\nborrowed the forms of that which was sacred.\n\nThe music used in the sacred offices at first and during many centuries\nwas the plain chant. How much of this chant was taken from pagan or Jewish\nsources cannot be determined, for authorities differ widely; but in any\ncase it was so modified and improved by the fathers of the Eastern Church,\nand afterwards in the West by SS. Ambrose and Gregory, when they adapted\nit to the purposes of Christian worship, that it is now frequently called\nthe _ecclesiastical chant_, though it is oftener called _Gregorian_, from\nthe pope just mentioned.\n\nIn the beginning it was what its name indicates\u2014_plain_ and simple. It was\nsung in unison, and its melodies did not exceed the compass of the most\nordinary voices.\n\nBut unison was found monotonous, as also the uniformity of time or measure\ngenerally observed in plain chant. The first departure from the old and\nsevere forms was made when, about the middle of the IXth century, they\nintroduced a sort of rude harmony constructed on the chant.\n\nBut this did not satisfy the craving for change, and the love of novelty,\nonce indulged, led the way to many excesses.\n\nBaini gives us an example of the abuses that then became prevalent. \u201cThey\nwould write, for example, a Mass,\u201d he says, \u201ctaking as a subject the\nmelody of the Gregorian _Ave Maria_. Three parts in the harmony would sing\nportions of the _Kyrie_, _Gloria_, and _Credo_ at the same time, while a\nfourth would take up at intervals the entire _Ave Maria_.\u201d\n\nNot merely were the sacred words of the composition itself \u201cshaken\ntogether in most admired confusion,\u201d but, as we have just said, the words\nof other sacred pieces were foisted among them, so that they no longer\nexpressed any one idea. Worse far, the gaps were even sometimes filled up\n\u201cwith snatches of old songs,\u201d the ballads of the day, and those not always\nof the most unexceptionable character.\n\nAttempts were also made to vary the stately measure of the chant.\n\nIndeed, all sorts of devices were introduced in the search for novelty,\nand so great had become the abuse about the period of the Council of Trent\nthat a celebrated cardinal declared that some of the church music of his\nday was so unfit to be offered to God that nothing but invincible\nignorance could excuse from mortal sin those who offered it.\n\nAt this juncture arose the illustrious Palestrina.\n\nBorn in an age of the most vitiated taste, and himself not quite exempt\nfrom its unfavorable influences at the opening of his professional career,\nhis exalted and discriminating genius was guided to disentangle the sweet\nspirit of song from the mazes in which it was well\u2010nigh lost, and to\nrescue his art from the merited reproaches which it was receiving on every\nside. He was encouraged and assisted in his task by two saints, S. Charles\nBorromeo and S. Philip Neri. When his celebrated _Missa Pap\u00e6 Marcelli_ was\nfirst heard in 1565, it at once banished from the churches all the profane\nnovelties that had preceded it, and became the model for church\ncompositions during the next hundred years, when with Carissimi began the\nchange to what is modern.\n\nWhen Pius IV., the reigning pontiff, heard it, he declared it satisfied\nall the requirements of sacred music; in fact, so charmed was he by its\nexquisite strains that he compared it to the melodies that the Apostle S.\nJohn had heard in the heavenly Jerusalem, saying that another John\n(Palestrina\u2019s Christian name was John) had given us in the earthly\nJerusalem a foretaste of the music in heaven.\n\nFrom that day to this the use of Palestrina\u2019s music has been retained in\nthe Pope\u2019s own choir, to the exclusion of all other except the simple\nplain chant, with which it is made to alternate. Even when the Pope\nofficiates or presides at any celebration outside his own chapel, his\nchoir accompanies him and sings the same music.\n\nIt is this music, _alla Palestrina_, that travellers go to Rome to hear,\nespecially during Holy Week. One generation has thus followed another to\nRome for three hundred years; and the harmonies of Palestrina, though ever\nancient, are, like the beauty of divine truth, found to be ever new.\n\nThough Palestrina has retained his hold on the Papal choir at Rome, music\nfar different in character from his has been introduced into the other\nchoirs, even of Rome.\n\nThe perfection of the organ and of other instruments used to accompany the\nvoices of singers, and the consequent discovery of other and more\nscientific complications in the art of harmony, especially since the\nintroduction of the natural discord, the development of melody, joined\nwith much greater skill in execution and the incessant thirst for novelty,\nhave led to the introduction into nearly all the churches of compositions\nin which the voices and instruments are heard together in every variety of\ncombination.\n\nAdd to this that about two centuries ago the opera took its rise, and the\ndramatic style, followed in it and developed by it, made its influence\nfelt in the church.\n\nFor kings and princes then began the practice of selecting the same\nmusician to preside over the performances of their theatres and of their\nchapels; nay, the whole staff of the theatre was brought into the chapel\non Sundays, as is done to\u2010day in Dresden. Nothing better and nothing\ndifferent was required for the chapel, except the substitution of other\nwords and a toning down of the measures of the drama, and thus the chapel\nbecame merely a sort of sacred concert\u2010room.\n\nBut the _ma\u00eetres de chapelle_ at these courts were the first musicians of\ntheir day, and their success in operatic music, sounded over all Europe,\ncaused their sacred compositions to be looked on with undiscriminating\nfavor by the public. And as the weakness of human nature is such that\ninferiors naturally imitate their superiors, and sometimes even copy their\nfaults, it became the fashion to sing in churches the sacred music used in\ncourt\u2010chapels, especially as this was more easily obtained, being printed\nat the expense of the courts.\n\nBesides this, the modern composers of opera seem to have the ambition of\ncomposing also for the church. But they generally forget how very\ndifferent the church and the theatre are, and they seldom care to follow a\ndifferent method in the church from that which gains them applause in the\ntheatre; and the public are frequently as forgetful in this matter as the\ncomposers.\n\nIt must be added that the directors of choirs seem to have a fatal habit\nof following, even in church, if they are allowed, the _prevailing __\nstyle_ set by the latest and most popular writers for the stage.\n\nWhen the model so successfully set by Palestrina was first departed from,\nand instrumental music used in conjunction with vocal, there may have been\na certain gain, as the chant became more melodious and less monotonous\nwithout losing its depth and solemnity. Gradually, however, the grave\nstyle of the older musicians disappeared, and the music of the church has\nbecome, at least in some places, almost as light and as airy as that of\nthe theatre.\n\nThis music sometimes seems written in derision or contempt of the sacred\nwords; as, 1, when a prayer of supplication, such as the _Kyrie eleison_\nand _Dona nobis pacem_, is set to numbers as lively as those of a jig\n(frequently the case with Haydn). 2. When the words are omitted, even\nthough they be of importance; as the words of the Creed, _qui ex Patre\nFilioque procedit_ (nearly always omitted, even in the longest Masses of\nHaydn). 3. When they are interminably repeated or senselessly inverted. In\nMozart\u2019s Twelfth Mass we have: _Crucifixus, et homo factus est_.\n\nWhat shall we say of the operatic solos, duos, trios, etc., instrumental\ninterludes, sincopations, etc., which, to any one who reflects, are in\ndirect contradiction to all our notions of what is reverent and\nappropriate to the church?\n\n\n\nII.\n\n\nFrom what has been said in the preceding pages, there are three general\nforms of church music: the plain chant, the music termed _alla\nPalestrina_, and modern figured music.\n\n(a.) Plain chant is the old and original song of the church, of which the\nforms, like those of a dead language, are fixed and immutable. Long, long\nago the secret of plain chant _composition_ was lost, and it is probable\nthat we have lost in great measure also the secret of its proper\n_execution_.\n\n\u201cThe leading idea which is represented by plain chant,\u201d says Canon\nOakeley,(156) \u201cand in no degree by any other style of music, except that\nwhich consists in bare recitative, is that in certain cases music best\ndischarges her office by retreating, as it were, in despair before certain\ndivine words, and contenting herself with merely providing a vehicle for\ntheir utterance, so simple as not by any studied beauty of its own to\ndetract from their intrinsic majesty and power. This, I think, will be\nadmitted to be the leading idea of plain chant, though I am far from\ndenying that accidentally this idea produces some of the most attractive\ncharms of the divine art in its results.... In many of these accidental\ninstances plain chant not only excels other music, but absolutely sets it\nat defiance in its own particular line.\u201d Hence a celebrated musician is\nreported to have said that he preferred the plain chant of the Preface and\nthe _Pater Noster_ to all he himself had ever written.\n\nIn the beginning this chant was not even harmonized. It was plain and\nunadorned, as its name implies\u2014_cantus planus_.\n\n(b.) The music of Palestrina is the last and triumphant result of the\nefforts that were made in his time and before it to vary, to modify, and\nto adorn the plain chant, which all had found too simple and too\nmonotonous.\n\nPope John XXII., elected in 1316, complains of the novelties introduced\ninto the execution of plain chant in his day. These innovations he\ncondemns as unbecoming and undevotional, especially the attempts to vary\nthe measure; but he immediately adds: \u201cWe do not intend by this to\nprohibit that occasionally, especially on festival days, either at the\nsolemn Masses or the other divine offices, some harmonious combinations\n(_consonanti\u00e6 qu\u00e6 melodiam sapiunt_), viz., harmonies of the octave, the\nfifth, the fourth, and such like, on the simple ecclesiastical chant, be\nsung; in such manner, however, that the integrity of the chant remain\nuntouched, and nothing of this grave and stately music (_musica bene\nmorata_) be changed, especially since _these harmonies delight the ear,\nexcite devotion, and prevent the spirit of those who sing to God from\ndrooping_\u201d (_torpere non sinunt_). (Extr. Comm., lib. iii., cap. 1, _Docta\nSanctorum_.) This Constitution is the earliest utterance of the popes\nconcerning church music\u2014at least since innovations were attempted\u2014that we\npossess. The abuses of which Pope John XXII. complained continued to\nexist, and even to increase, till the time of the Council of Trent, when\nPalestrina produced that style of music which is known by his name, and\nwhich, though built upon the plain chant, is as unlike it as Grecian is\nunlike Italian architecture. It is equally unlike modern music. It differs\nfrom plain chant, being an unbroken series of artistically\u2010constructed\nharmonies, in which unison is unknown. It differs from modern music by the\nabsolute disuse of instruments of any kind (even the organ), by the\nexclusion of all passages for _soli_, and by being written in plain chant\ntonality. \u201cWith the grave Gregorian melody, learnedly elaborated in\nrigorous counterpoint, and reduced to greater clearness and elegance\nwithout any instrumental aid,\u201d says Picchianti, \u201cPalestrina knew how to\nawaken among his hearers mysterious, grand, deep, vague sensations that\nseemed caused by the objects of an unknown world, or by superior powers in\nthe human imagination.\u201d(157)\n\n(c.) Modern music differs essentially from all that went before it, and\nthis difference is attributable to two principal causes: 1. The\nimprovement in the manufacture and the use of instruments, and their\nintroduction into the church; and, 2, The influence of theatrical music on\nthat of the church, before alluded to. Modern music could not be in\nancient times, for the want of modern instruments. As the perfection of\nthe art of vaulting gave us that advance on the simple lines and heavy\nmasses of Grecian architecture which we have in Gothic and Italian\narchitecture, so the modern developments in orchestration have changed the\nwhole character of music in the church and out of it.\n\nThe influence of operatic music on that of the church is seen in the\nattempt of modern composers of church music to make it dramatic. Church\nmusic, as Palestrina and the other great masters of the old Roman school\nhad conceived it, had been treated as an emanation of pure sentiment,\nstripped of all human passion\u2014as something ideal. The modern composers, on\nthe contrary, pretend by their music to express dramatically the sense of\nthe text. They say that, to be dramatic, it is not necessary to be\ntheatrical, and they point to certain compositions of Cherubini,\nBeethoven, Hummel, and even Haydn, in which they say the contrary is\npractically demonstrated.(158)\n\nIt must, however, be confessed that modern composers, by trying to be\ndramatic, have more frequently fallen into the great fault of being\ntheatrical than they have avoided it.\n\nThe use of instrumentation and of dramatic expression has given them\nimmense scope, but their success bears no proportion to their talents,\ntheir opportunities, their numbers, and the immense quantity of their\ncompositions.\n\nLike the Athenians of old (Acts xvii.) spoken of by S. Paul, they\nincessantly crave something new, and, in their search for novelty, more\noften give us what is novel and strange than what is beautiful and\nappropriate, so that their compositions hardly ever continue to be used\nfor a long time; they are soon thrown aside and forgotten; and, indeed, we\nthink it no exaggeration to say that, if all their compositions, except a\nvery few, were burned, or should otherwise perish, the church would suffer\nno loss.\n\nIn consequence of the failure of modern composers to meet the requirements\nof Catholic devotion, though their music has been introduced into our\nchurches and given every chance of trial, complaints against it are heard\non every side. We grumble about it in our conversations; we write against\nits excesses in the public journals; bishops complain of it in pastoral\nletters; provincial councils are forced to issue decrees about it; the\nSovereign Pontiffs themselves not unfrequently raise their voices,\nsometimes in warning, sometimes in threats\u2014in a word, the evil seems to\nhave attracted general attention, as a similar evil did in the time of\nJohn XXII. and at the period of the Council of Trent, and a remedy is\ncalled for.\n\nI. On account of the unsatisfactory character of most modern compositions,\nsome have proposed that we should go back plainly and simply to the\noriginal or plain song. This was proposed in two able articles in THE\nCATHOLIC WORLD, Dec., 1869, and Feb., 1870, and the Paulists of New York\nhave actually made the experiment.\n\nThe reasons in favor of the resumption of plain chant and the exclusion of\nall other music may be stated thus:\n\n1. It is the original song of the church; it is of venerable antiquity; it\nwas originated under ecclesiastical influences, and has been sanctified by\nhaving been always associated with what is best and holiest in the history\nof the church.\n\n2. It is so dissimilar from the music of the world that it is recognized\nat once and by everybody as ecclesiastical, and can never be confounded\nwith secular music.\n\n3. It possesses, when well sung, an air of stateliness and solemnity which\nis never reached by all the refinements and artifices of modern music. If\nit is less dramatic than figured music, it is also more expressive,\nbecause in it the words of the ritual speak for themselves naturally and\nwithout affectation, and therefore most eloquently; whereas in figured\nmusic the words are made so subservient to the musical numbers, are so\nsenselessly repeated and so jumbled together, that their meaning is\ndisguised rather than conveyed, and they cannot speak intelligibly to the\nmind, especially of the uneducated. Now, S. Paul says that psalmody should\nspeak to the understanding; and Benedict XIV., speaking of S. Augustine,\nwho used to be moved to tears by the Ambrosian chants he heard at Milan,\nsays: \u201cThe music moved him indeed, but still more so the words he heard.\nBut he would weep now also for grief; for although he heard the singing,\nhe could not distinguish the words.\u201d\n\nNo one will dare to say that to the ninety\u2010nine one\u2010hundredths of every\ncongregation the Requiem of Mozart, with all its beauty of melody and its\nwealth of harmony, would be as expressive and as provocative of the\nfeelings proper to the funeral service as the old and ever\u2010charming plain\nchant Requiem.\n\n4. Plain chant is the best safeguard against vainglorious display and its\nhost of attendant evils, because it allows no scope for personal\nexhibition, and does not give undue prominence to individuals.\n\n5. It is the only chant used in many places, and is found sufficient for\nthe purposes of worship.\n\n6. It alone has had the express authorization of the church.\n\nThis is a fair exposition of the arguments in favor of plain chant.\n\nWe admit the full force of the arguments derived from the venerable\nantiquity of plain chant, its Christian origin, its long and exclusive\nconnection with the rites of religion, its dissimilarity with the music of\nthe world, its simplicity, its impressiveness, and its incompatibility\nwith individual display; but it must be remembered against it that it\nrequires for its execution, especially here, where the knowledge of it and\nthe taste for it are to be acquired, conditions not easily fulfilled; that\nits range is very limited; and that, however grand the impression it\nsometimes creates, its resources are soon exhausted; whence to those who\nfor a long time hear it and nothing else it becomes extremely monotonous,\nand burdens the ear with a dull weight of sound not always tolerable. This\nwill be admitted by all who in seminaries and monasteries have been most\naccustomed to hear it.\n\nIn those countries where plain chant is exclusively used every sort of\ndevice is resorted to on festival days to escape its monotony, _e.g._, by\nharmonies on the chant which are out of all keeping with it, as also by\ninterludes on the _grand orgue_, by which one\u2010half of the words of the\ntext are absolutely omitted, and the recollections of the world are\nfrequently as vividly brought to mind as by any modern vocal compositions.\n\nNo one will deny the appropriateness and impressiveness of plain chant on\ncertain solemn occasions, especially those of sorrow, but it is\nconfessedly unequal to the task of evoking and expressing the feelings of\nChristian joy and triumph. If the plain chant Requiem is superior to\nMozart\u2019s, the Masses of Haydn are far more suitable to the joys of Easter\u2010\nday than anything we can find in plain chant.\n\nThe writer in THE CATHOLIC WORLD before alluded to tells us that plain\nchant prays. Give me, he says, the chant that prays. But prayer is\nfourfold, like the Sacrifice of the Mass; viz., it is latreutic\u2014that is,\nthe homage of adoration; it is propitiatory, inasmuch as it tries to\nappease God\u2019s anger; it is impetratory\u2014that is, it asks and supplicates\nfor what we need; but it is also eucharistic\u2014that is, it gives God praise\nand thanksgiving. Now, if plain chant expresses better our feelings of\nadoration and supplication, it certainly must borrow from figured music\nthe triumphant strains of praise and thanksgiving.\n\nHowever, if the argument from authority for plain chant held good,\nnotwithstanding all we have said, we should instantly waive further\ndiscussion. But the force of this argument we absolutely deny.\n\nDr. Burney has created the impression that the Council of Trent was at one\ntime on the point of banishing figured music from the church. This was not\nthe case. Benedict XIV. (l. xi., c. 7, _De Syn. Di\u0153c._), following\nCardinal Pallavicini, the historian of the council, says: \u201cIt was proposed\nby some bishops, zealous for ecclesiastical discipline, that musical chant\nshould altogether be banished from the churches, and the plain chant alone\nretained; [but] as others observed that this novelty [_sic_] would give\nrise to innumerable complaints and immense trouble, it was finally\nresolved, not that musical chants should be prohibited, but that they\nshould be reformed, according to certain rules, to the requirements of\npiety and gravity.\u201d And, in fact, the Council of Trent merely decreed that\nOrdinaries should banish from their churches that music in which, either\nby the organ or by the chant, \u201canything lascivious or impure is\nintroduced, in order that the house of God may seem to be and may be a\nhouse of prayer\u201d (Sess. xxii., _Decr. de obs. et ev. in cel. Miss\u00e6._) The\nother decree (Sess. xxiv., cap. 12, _De Ref._) adds nothing to this.\n\nThe teaching of the theologians is much more lenient than that of many of\nour modern dogmatists.\n\nThe great theologian, Suarez (_De Orat. Voc._, lib. iii., c. 8), arguing\nagainst Navarre, a rigorist of his day, says: \u201cIt is a sufficient argument\nthat this use (of organic or figured music) is retained throughout the\nchurch, and that in the very church of Rome itself, and in the chapel of\nthe Sovereign Pontiff, the divine offices are sung after this manner.\u201d He\nthen proceeds to comment as strongly as any one on the danger of excesses\nand abuses; only he does not seem to feel, either with the objectors of\nhis day or with some writers of the present time, that figured music is\nintrinsically mischievous, any more than that it is ecclesiastically\nirregular.\n\nA later and better authority, Benedict XIV., speaking as a theologian in\nhis work _De Synodo Di\u0153c._, loco cit., and as Pope, in his Constitution\n_Annuus_; 19th Feb., 1749, addressed to the bishops of the Pontifical\nStates, says that it would be an extreme measure to banish figured music\nfrom the church, and that he considers it sufficient to banish such music\nas is theatrical (_modi theatrales_).\n\nMuch has been made of the plea that plain chant is the only chant that has\never been expressly authorized.\n\nNow, it must be remembered, 1, that when plain chant originated, music was\nnot used outside of the church, and that in the dark ages churchmen were\nthe only ones who knew music, and that the church was necessarily its\nguardian; and, 2, that for three hundred years the church has treated her\n_authorized_ version with strange _incuria_; for of this chant there is\nnow no version _commanded_ (though the differences of versions are very\nremarkable indeed), and till within a year or two there was no version to\nwhich any special _authorization_ or even _recommendation_ was given by\nthe popes. Even the version now being prepared under the supervision of\nthe Roman Congregation of Rites is merely recommended.\n\nWe must be excused for this long argument about plain chant, but we have\nbeen forced into it by the exaggerations of the advocates of this chant,\nwho are, like some of the advocates of Gothic architecture, extremists,\nand in their zeal fear not to censure the whole church, and even the Pope\nhimself.\n\nThey indeed censure the church; for the use of figured music has\npenetrated everywhere with episcopal sanction and Papal toleration, and,\nsay what we may, it must be admitted that all the theories advanced for\nthe exclusive use of plain chant have invariably fallen to the ground\nunder the hand of practice.\n\nWe deny, then, the obligation of confining ourselves to plain chant, if we\nexcept that which is in the _Missal_ and the _Pontifical_, and which\ncontains what is sung by the priest or bishop at the altar.\n\nBut while we deny the obligation of using the plain chant exclusively, we\nwould retain a large portion of it, 1, because there are parts of it so\nappropriate to special services that we can invent nothing better; such as\nthe Requiem, the Lamentations, the _Veni Creator_, and many hymns, and the\nincomparable psalm tones, as charming to\u2010day as when heard by S.\nAugustine, who says of them: \u201cAs the voices flowed into my ears, truth was\ninstilled into my heart, and the affections of piety overflowed in tears\nof joy.\u201d 2. Because, like our vestments and other appendages of our\nceremonial, it carries us back to the never\u2010to\u2010be\u2010forgotten past. 3.\nBecause by being used alternately (as in the Papal choir) with music of a\ndifferent and more modern character, it contributes most powerfully, by\nthe effect of contrast, to the dignity and grandeur of church\ncelebrations.\n\nTo Be Concluded Next Month.\n\n\n\n\nComparison Of Waves With Flowers.\n\n\nCertainly, no more am I gladdened by the emulous reflections which the\nearth and sea, with dark shades and distant projections, form; when alike\nin charms and powers the sparkling foam competes with snow\u2010white flowers,\nfor the garden, envious of the curling waves of ocean, loves to imitate\ntheir motion, and the amorous zephyr gives back the perfumes which it\ndrinks in by blowing over the shining waters, and makes the waving leaves\nan ocean of bright flowers; when the sea, sad to view the natural beauties\nof the garden, while it tries to adorn its own realm, destroys its\nmajestic mien, and, subject to second laws, blends with sweet effect\nfields of blue with waves of green; colored now like heaven\u2019s blue dome,\nnow plumed with various hues, the garden seems a sea of flowers, and the\nsea a garden of bright foam.\u2014_Calderon._\n\n\n\n\nA Glimpse of the Green Isle. III\u2014Concluded.\n\n\nI return to some incidents in our journey to and arrival at Dublin.\nGoold\u2019s Cross is the nearest station to the Rock of Cashel, from which it\nis distant about five miles. We alight here. We go to visit one who is kin\nand more than kind. His lares are enshrined at Mora House. An Irish\nconveyance, called a covered car, takes us thither pretty comfortably.\nThere are three kinds of cars for the transportation of travellers in\nIreland, not including the \u201clow\u2010backed car\u201d which is, or was, designed for\nthe movement of farm produce, and, according to Sam Lover, of rustics on\nante\u2010nuptial expeditions intent. Apropos, I did not see a specimen of the\n\u201clow\u2010backed car\u201d from Queenstown to Kingstown. That time\u2010honored and\npoetical vehicle seems to have given place to a modern box\u2010cart, in the\nEast and South at least. The three varieties of car above mentioned belong\nto the genus known as jaunting\u2010cars. First, there is the \u201coutside car,\u201d on\nwhich the passengers are seated facing outward and back to back. The space\nbetween the backs of the sitters is railed off into a place for\nbaggage\u2014or, _Anglic\u00e9_, luggage\u2014called the \u201cwell.\u201d It is one of the wells\nin which truth is not always to be found. At the front end of \u201cthe well\u201d\nis a raised seat for the driver. The \u201coutside car\u201d furnishes seats for\nfrom two to three persons on each side. When the seats are not full, the\ndriver usually sits on a side \u201cto balance the cyar.\u201d The \u201cinside car\u201d is\nthe converse of the \u201coutside.\u201d In the former the sitters face each other;\ntheir legs are in a space between the wheels, instead of outside them, as\non the latter. It is entered by a small door at the back. The driver\noccupies a raised seat in front. The \u201ccovered car\u201d is an \u201cinside\u201d with a\nhigh, square covering of black oil\u2010cloth. It is used in rainy weather. It\nhas some disadvantages. You can see only through the curtain at the back.\nThere are no openings at the sides, and the small glazed apertures in\nfront are placed too high to admit even of an occasional glimpse of the\nface of Nature. You can only see the dame from behind. Both the \u201cinside\u201d\nand the \u201ccovered car\u201d have a tendency to tilt backwards. You are eternally\nslipping down the seat toward the door. A sudden start may drop you out\nlike a too well\u2010warmed plate from the hand of a greedy guest. I came near\ndropping out once or twice in a ride of a few miles. In one of these\nconveyances it is wise to take a double hitch around infant America.\n\nA hearty welcome meets us at Mora House. It is situated in the heart of a\nmost lovely country. The house is embowered in trees and shrubbery. The\nwalls, offices, and outhouses are covered with ivy. Along the front of the\nhouse is a conservatory. Around it are parterres with evergreens and early\nflowers, and borders of dark\u2010green box. Broad pastures, spreading their\ngreen slopes into the distance, are relieved here and there by clumps of\ntall oaks. Cattle and sheep dot the landscape, giving it life without\ntaking from its beautiful repose. In the background the Rock of Cashel,\nwith its ruins and lofty round tower, rears its grim silhouette against\nthe evening sky. The frame of the picture is completed by the mountains of\nmisty blue in the far distance. Among them towers the peak from which,\naccording to tradition, his sable majesty\u2014in a very hungry moment\ndoubtless\u2014is said to have taken a \u201cDevil\u2019s Bit.\u201d Over all this is spread a\nsky half blue, half cloud, with the softest of clare\u2010obscures. What a\nfeeling of peace steals over my soul as I look upon this sweet landscape!\nWhat a lovely spot for that retirement, \u201cfriend to life\u2019s decline,\u201d\n\n\n    \u201cTo husband out life\u2019s taper at the close,\n    And keep the lamp from wasting by repose\u201d!\n\n\nAlas! there is no such gentle decline for us, poor nomads of the New\nWorld! We must work with tongue, or pen, or sword, or pencil by the\nfailing light of the lamp until the last of its flickering rays dies into\ndarkness for ever.\n\nAfter luncheon our gentle cousin takes us to look at his horses and his\ndogs. One is a Mount St. Bernard, a colossal brute and a prime favorite.\nThen we visit his kitchen garden, and his cows, and his bee\u2010hives, and, in\nshort, everything that is his. Next we examine the paintings and the\nphotographs; among the former a life\u2010size oil\u2010painting, by O\u2019Keefe, of an\nuncle, a university man, a brilliant scholar, who sat in more than one\nprofessor\u2019s chair.\n\nThus we occupied the time until dinner was announced. Then we sat down to\none of those long\u2010drawn\u2010out, old\u2010fashioned dinners which commence at six\nin the evening and end any time before midnight. Gentle cousin, having\nheard the Lady from Idaho express a desire to see an Irish turf\u2010fire, had\none made in the dining\u2010room; and a bright, pleasant, cheerful, cleanly\nfire it is. We persuaded the ladies to honor in the breach, for this once,\nthe absurd British custom of withdrawing from the table after the dessert.\nWhat a pleasant evening we spent!\n\nNext morning we found rain still falling. It softened the atmosphere\nwithout obscuring it. The Rock of Cashel loomed up grimly but distinctly\nin the distance.\n\nThere is now little that is regal about \u201cCashel of the Kings.\u201d It has its\nruins, but nothing else. The approaches to the ruins show more of poverty\nand discomfort than I remember to have seen in any other town in Ireland.\nThere is a majesty about the ruins. The rock on which they stand is about\nthree hundred feet high. There is a lofty round tower in a good state of\npreservation. The frescos in one of the halls, said to have been the\ncouncil\u2010chamber, are in a state of wonderful freshness. The floors of some\nof the apartments in the second story seem as perfect as ever they could\nhave been. The carved stone\u2010work over the porch of one of the entrances\u2014to\nCormac\u2019s Chapel, I think\u2014is the admiration of connoisseurs. Every foot of\nthis ground awakens a historical remembrance. I see the rude rulers of\nancient Ireland assembled in their regal state. The second Henry and\nEdward Bruce pass before my mind\u2019s eye. I see that fierce and unscrupulous\nnobleman, the eighth of the Geraldine earls of Kildare, and think of his\nastonishing ideas of right and wrong. When Mormon Harry took him to task\nfor burning the Cathedral of Cashel, he pleaded as his excuse that when he\nfired the church he thought the bishop was in it! What a pleasant neighbor\nLord Gerald must have been!\n\nWe have a delightful drive to the little old town of Thurles. The green of\nthe fields and the hedges is enhanced by the contrast of thousands of\nsoft, yellow primroses. How purely fresh those primroses look! Here\nbunches of violets peer forth bashfully, their modest little faces freshly\nwashed by the gently\u2010dropping rain!\n\nThurles is a station on the Great Southern and Western Railway. There we\ntake rail for Dublin. It is an old town with a quaint old ivy\u2010mantled\ntower which dates from the XIIIth century. The tower stands by a bridge,\nand watches over an infant stream that becomes a broad river before it\nreaches the sea. It is a relic of the time when Thurles was a walled town.\nThurles is the seat of the Catholic Archbishop of Cashel. There are two\nconvents, the Presentation and the Ursuline. The Sisters of the former\ninstitution devote themselves to the education of the poor. The Ursuline\nSisters have an academy for young ladies of the wealthier and more\naristocratic classes. The Presentation school gets a share of the\nGovernment educational fund, and is subject to the supervision of the\nGovernment inspectors. The mode of teaching in the Presentation school is\nvery similar to that of the public schools in New York. The children sang\nin chorus remarkably well. There is also a collegiate institution for the\neducation of candidates for the priesthood. We visited both convents, and\nwere kindly and hospitably received.\n\nAmong the objects most worthy of a visit is the cathedral, which in taste\nand magnificence of decoration promises to surpass all modern\necclesiastical buildings in Ireland. It has rich marbles from Italy, fine\nspecimens of native marble, _lapis lazuli_ and _verd\u2010antique_, in stones\nthat are worth their weight in gold. Some of the work on the altars is\nexquisite. The cathedral will be a superb memorial of the piety and taste\nof the present archbishop, Dr. Leahy. We had the pleasure of visiting, and\nbeing visited by, that distinguished ecclesiastic and most refined and\ncourteous gentleman. Very kindly and hospitably did he entreat us.\n\nAbout four or five miles from Thurles are the ruins of Holy Cross Abbey.\nOur ride thither was through a delightful country in all the humid beauty\nof an Irish spring. The ruins are not extensive. They have been so often\nand so minutely described that a detailed description is not necessary\nhere. Besides, I am not writing a guide\u2010book. I must mention, however, a\nstone balustrade which is quite artistic in its effect. The principal\nwindow is a splendid piece of work. It is in excellent preservation. There\nare a number of tombs of considerable age in the abbey. Near the principal\nwindow is one to which a singular legend is attached. It was related to us\nby the guardian of the place, an old woman of eighty, but hale and hearty,\nchatty and cheerful\u2014such a pleasant female Old Mortality as the immortal\nSir Walter would have loved to study and depict. I have often wondered at\nthe cheerfulness with which the old among the Irish poor bear the burden\nof lengthened existence. The tomb is of stone, and in its upper surface is\na hollow. The old woman told us that it was worn by a rain\u2010drop which for\nmany years fell unceasingly from the roof until the constant dropping wore\ninto the stone the hollow that we saw. The drop began to fall on the\ncommission of some crime, or some offence against the church\u2014she did not\nrecollect which\u2014by \u201cone of the family\u201d\u2014\u201cperhaps some trouble with the\npriest of the parish.\u201d It continued to fall, drip, drip, drip, rain or\nshine, year in and year out, until the crime was atoned for, or the\noffence pardoned, or the family sold out and left the country. Then the\ndrop ceased to fall, and has never fallen since.\n\n\u201cDo you think the story is really true?\u201d asked the Lady from Idaho of the\nold custodian.\n\n\u201cDo I think its thrue, ma\u2019am?\u201d said the old woman, giving her territorial\nladyship a diplomatic look. \u201cShure, it isn\u2019t for the likes o\u2019 me to be\ndenyin\u2019 the likes of that. And shure, ma\u2019am, can\u2019t you see the hole for\nyourself?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course. There is no better proof than that.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd don\u2019t you see, ma\u2019am, that it\u2019s rainin\u2019 now at the very minnit that\nI\u2019m talkin\u2019 to ye?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere certainly can be no doubt about that,\u201d replied the Lady from Idaho,\nglancing upwards at the umbrella which Cousin George held over her head.\n\n\u201cAnd don\u2019t you see, ma\u2019am, that niver a dhrop falls on the tomb where the\nhole is, now?\u201d added the old woman triumphantly.\n\n\u201cI do indeed,\u201d replied Mme. Idaho. \u201cThat last argument is conclusive. Even\nif it were not, I am of easy faith in such matters.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd wisely so,\u201d chimed in Cousin George. \u201cDoubting Thomas makes a\nmiserable traveller. He loses the pleasures of travel in the search for\nproofs that he is not enjoying himself without proper warrant. If he finds\nevidence for us that our pleasures of association are not justified by\nfact, that we have no right to be pleased by legends he can disprove, we\ntell him he is a fool for his pains. We do not want his facts. We are\ndetermined to believe in our favorite legends, in spite of him and all the\nGradgrinds in the world.\u201d\n\nThe old woman looked at Cousin George with rather a puzzled air. She had\nlistened most attentively, leaning her old head forward, and with withered\nforefinger pushing back her mob\u2010cap from her time\u2010dulled ear; but Cousin\nGeorge\u2019s harangue was evidently Greek to her. She instinctively divined,\nnevertheless, that George was talking on her side of the question; for she\nsaid, nodding her head approvingly the while:\n\n\u201cFaith, and shure it\u2019s mighty right ye are, yer honor!\u201d\n\nA gratuity, calculated according to the American standard, resulted in a\nseries of blessings and a succession of antique \u201cdips,\u201d known as\n\u201ccourtesies\u201d by the Irish peasant women of a past generation.\n\nWe took the cars again at Thurles on our way Dublin\u2010ward.\n\nThere is an air of comfort and solidity about the few farm\u2010houses we\nnotice on our route, but they were indeed few. The proportion of land\nunder tillage was comparatively very small. The country seemed generally\nto be in pasturage. Large flocks of sheep and herds of cattle were to be\nseen. The small proprietors and farmers had disappeared. We saw a couple\nof women working in the fields. This annoyed the Lady from Idaho very\nmuch. She said that no matter how beautiful the landscape might be, that\nblot destroyed all her enjoyment of it. Our travelling companion, Viator,\nbade her season her admiration for a while until she reached the interior\nof Germany, where she would see many a team of wayward sisters harnessed\nto the plough and driven by a beery lord of the creation. Mme. Idaho said\nshe did not want to go where such sights could be seen.\n\nWe pass Kildare, with its world\u2010famed \u201cCurragh,\u201d an extensive flat, on\nwhich a few thousand British troops were encamped at the time. At every\nstation we find a policeman or two casting argus eyes over things in\ngeneral. Physically, the policemen\u2014the \u201cRoyal Irish Constabulary\u201d\u2014are\namong the finest specimens of the _genus homo_ I have seen. They are tall,\ngenerally over six feet, and magnificently moulded. Their uniform, though\nsomewhat sombre, is in good taste: a dark, green tunic and trousers, with\na small, visorless forage\u2010cap ornamented in front with a harp in scarlet.\n\nClondalkin, which is within a few miles of Dublin, possesses a round tower\nin excellent preservation. It is about eighty feet high. The entrance is\nabout twelve feet from the ground. It has four openings or windows some\nten feet below the roof.\n\nWe are in Dublin, at King\u2019s Bridge terminus, so called from being near the\nbridge erected over the Liffey to commemorate the visit to Dublin of the\nfourth of the royal personages so unflatteringly designated by the author\nof _Childe Harold_. A charming Irish landscape greets the eye as you\napproach the city; on the left the prettiest portion of the Liffey and the\nPh\u0153nix Park; on the right a gently\u2010undulating expanse of green fields\nbordered by old trees and dotted with ancient churches and picturesque\ncottages, bounded in the distance by the soft outline of the Wicklow\nHills.\n\nOne of our party expected to meet a brother whom he had not seen since\nthey were both boys nearly a quarter of a century ago. Arrived at the\nterminus, and once more restored to liberty by the unlocking of the\ncarriage\u2010doors, he looked around anxiously for the individual he expected\nto find waiting for him. He could pick out no one in the crowd whom he\ncould claim as a brother.\n\n\u201cI do not think there is any one here,\u201d said Mr. Hibernicus with an air of\ndisappointment, after vainly peering into the faces of a dozen gentlemen,\nwho seemed rather surprised by his close scrutiny.\n\n\u201cWhat kind of a brother do you expect, Mr. Hibernicus?\u201d asked the Lady\nfrom Idaho.\n\n\u201cI assure you, my dear madam,\u201d replied Mr. Hibernicus, \u201cI have not the\nremotest idea what Jack looks like now. He was quite a boy when we parted,\nand I have not seen even a photograph of him since. I hoped that instinct\nwould reveal to me, as to honest Jack Falstaff, the \u2018true prince.\u2019 \u201d\n\nWe stood irresolute for a moment, when a gentleman with a long beard _\u00e0\nl\u2019Am\u00e9ricaine_ approached our group. Raising his hat, and acknowledging the\npresence of ladies by a bow, he said to Mr. Hibernicus, who was still\nendeavoring to bring his instinct into play:\n\n\u201cMay I ask, sir, if you are looking for anybody?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am looking for my brother, sir,\u201d replied Mr. Hibernicus. \u201cPermit me to\ninquire if you expect any one?\u201d\n\n\u201cI expect my brother,\u201d returned the gentleman.\n\n\u201cAre you Jack?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am Jack.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow are you, Jack?\u201d\n\nAnd the brothers, after a vigorous hand\u2010shake and some inquiries after\n\u201cSo\u2010and\u2010so,\u201d took things as coolly as if they had only been parted a\nquarter of an hour instead of a quarter of a century.\n\nDecidedly, people born to the English tongue have a horror of anything\napproaching to demonstrative sensibility. They have nothing dramatic about\nthem. What a _sc\u00e8ne_ two Frenchmen or two Italians would have made out of\nsuch a meeting after many roving years! During the days when a generous\nand romantic credulity gave me undeserved credit for burning the midnight\noil over Homer and Horace, I had a French student\u2010friend named l\u2019Orient\u2014an\n_ami intime_ of six months\u2019 standing. L\u2019Orient made a six weeks\u2019 trip to\nEngland, and I was at the station to receive the great traveller when he\nreturned.\n\n\u201c_Te revoil\u00e0 toi! Comment vas\u2010tu?_\u201d said I, putting forth my hand for a\nfriendly shake. But l\u2019Orient was not to be put off with anything so\ncommonplace as the usual English pump\u2010handle reception.\n\n\u201c_Enfin, je te revois!_\u201d he exclaimed, throwing his arms around me, \u201c_ce\ncher ami! Ce brave Jeem! Ce vieux de la vieille!_\u201d And putting a hand\nbehind each of my ears, thus rendering escape impossible, he kissed me\nvigorously on both cheeks. Then we walked toward our hotel, l\u2019Orient\nholding my hand in his. We met Jules; and l\u2019Orient left me, and threw\nhimself on Jules: \u201cCe cher Jules! Ce brave Jules!\u201d etc., etc., and\nperformed a double osculation on Jules. Next we met Victor, and then\nBenoit and several others, each of whom was accosted by l\u2019Orient and\nembraced in the same effusive manner. Our two brothers meet after a\nseparation of half a century with a simple \u201cHow are you, Jack?\u201d and a\nhand\u2010shake. What demonstration would be lively enough for my old friend\nl\u2019Orient under such circumstances? Yet l\u2019Orient did not feel a tithe of\nwhat Jack and his brother felt. I often think it would be better for us if\nwe were more demonstrative. We should perhaps be better satisfied with\nourselves, and perhaps others would be better satisfied with us also.\n\nI had directed my telegram from Queenstown to a wrong number, but the\ntelegraph people took the trouble to find the person to whom it was\naddressed. I have had occasion frequently to use the postal telegraph. I\nhave found its management admirable. The post\u2010office department is also\nexcellently well conducted. If there is any possibility of delivery, a\nletter is sure to be delivered. One of my friends writes a hand so hard to\ndecipher that I can generally achieve most success in unravelling its\nmysteries by turning his missives upside down and studying his\nhieroglyphics in an inverted position. He wrote to me at Dublin, and\naddressed me at a street unknown to the Dublin directory. In New York this\nwould have been the last of the letter. The Dublin post\u2010officials referred\nthe letter from one postal district to the other until the person to whose\ncare it was addressed was found, and it was forwarded to Paris, where I\nhappened to be at the time.\n\nDublin occupies both sides of the Liffey. The river runs through the city\nfrom east to west. The streets along its banks are subdivided into\n\u201cquays.\u201d The banks are faced with granite, of which the parapets are also\nconstructed. The river is spanned by nine handsome bridges, seven of stone\nand two of iron. The river streets extend about three miles on either\nside. Each block, as we would say in New York, has a different name. Thus\nthere is Usher\u2019s Quay, Merchants\u2019 Quay, Wellington Quay, etc., on the\nnorth side, extending from the Ph\u0153nix Park gate to the North Wall\nLighthouse. On the south side are Arran Quay, King\u2019s Inn Quay, where the\nFour Courts are situated, Upper Ormond Quay and Lower, Eden Quay, Custom\u2010\nHouse Quay, etc. The entire street reaches from King\u2019s Bridge to the end\nof the South Wall at Dublin Bar Lighthouse. The Liffey may be considered\nas the diameter of a circle in which Dublin is contained; the circular\nroads which run around it describe the circumference. West of Carlisle\nBridge, which is the head of navigation, the Liffey is a dull and\nuninviting stream, especially at low water. It is not more than eighty\nyards wide. The mouths of the sewers which empty into it are some feet\nabove low\u2010water mark. Their contributions to its by no means pellucid\nflood are not agreeable to contemplate either from an \u00e6sthetic or from a\nsanitary point of view. I should suppose the quays to be unhealthy places\nfor residence. One must have the suicidal mania very strong indeed who\nwould throw himself into the Liffey between King\u2019s and Carlisle Bridges.\nBeyond King\u2019s Bridge you get into the country, where the stream is not\ndefiled by the filth of the city.\n\nSackville Street is the principal street of Dublin. It is about twice as\nwide as Broadway, but is not longer than from Canal Street to Houston\nStreet. Its shortness takes away from its impressiveness. At the foot of\nSackville Street stands Nelson\u2019s Pillar, a Doric column about a hundred\nand twenty feet high, with a figure of the great admiral leaning against a\ncapstan on the summit. A fine view can be had on a _clear_ day (which is\nnot always to be had) from the top of the monument, to which you may\nascend by a spiral staircase in the interior on payment of a small fee.\nThe steps at the base of the column are generally occupied by squatting\nidlers of all ages. On a fine day\u2014_i.e._, when it does not rain\u2014every inch\nof sitting space is occupied. Belated \u201csquatters\u201d may be seen waiting for\nhours until place is made by the retirement of some of the sitting\nmembers. Then a general rush is made for the vacant place. Here the\npolitics of the nation and of the universe are discussed by the unwashed\npoliticians of the Irish capital. I endeavored to ascertain how these\nsquatters manage to live; but I was told that it is one of those mysteries\nwhich no one can penetrate.\n\nThe General Post\u2010Office and the Rotunda are near the monument. The Post\u2010\nOffice is a fine structure of stone with a portico of Ionic pillars five\nfeet in diameter. Its pediment is surmounted by three statues: Ireland at\nthe apex, Fidelity on the left, and Mercury on the right. In certain post\u2010\noffices that we wot of Mercury would indeed be the right statue in the\nright place, and might be considered to have a double significance\u2014as a\ncelestial messenger and a patron of thieving post\u2010office clerks.\n\nCertain tourists have claimed for Sackville Street the proud pre\u2010eminence\nof being \u201cthe finest thoroughfare in Europe.\u201d I do not think the claim\nwell founded. I do not consider it equal to some of the new boulevards in\nParis, or even to some of those in Brussels. It is certainly grand and\nimposing as far as it goes, but it does not go far enough. Sackville\nStreet, however, presents a lively scene on a fine afternoon. Beautiful\nwomen, well\u2010dressed gentlemen, rich toilets, and magnificent equipages may\nthen be seen; the toilets superior to anything to be seen out of Paris,\nthe equipages not to be equalled out of London. Nothing that I have seen\non the Continent of Europe can compare with the \u201cturn\u2010outs\u201d and \u201ccattle\u201d\ndriven in Dublin. The most beautiful equipage I have noticed, and at the\nsame time the chastest in its elegant simplicity, was that of Earl\nSpencer, the present viceroy; four dark bays\u2014blood\u2010horses\u2014with postillions\nand outriders in a dark livery almost black, with white buckskin breeches\nand top\u2010boots. Not a brass button or strip of tawdry gold lace to be seen.\nCompared with this equipage, the state carriages at Buckingham Palace and\nthose at Versailles looked like circus wagons.\n\nCarlisle Bridge, the _embouchure_ of Sackville Street, being considerably\nnarrower than the street, is generally the scene of something like a\n\u201cBroadway jam.\u201d On a busy day it reminds one of the Fulton Street\ncrossing\u2014even to the policeman.\n\nThe _\u00e9lite_ of Dublin, however, will be found in Grafton Street about four\nP.M. This street, though narrow\u2014narrower even than Broadway\u2014is the\nbrightest, cheeriest street in Dublin. It is laid with asphaltum, and is\ndelightfully free from mud or noise. It is the fashionable shopping\u2010\nstreet. Equipages in the very perfection of good taste may be seen in long\nlines at both sides of the street in front of the principal shops, while\nranks of magnificent \u201cYellowplushes,\u201d in rich liveries and powdered heads,\nwait, with the grand imperturbability of flunky dignity, to open the\ncarriage\u2010door for madame or \u201cmy lady.\u201d\n\nI have already said that the Irish in Ireland are becoming a serious\npeople. I did not meet a single specimen of the Irish joker, indispensable\nto the tourist in Ireland a quarter of a century ago. If he ever existed\nas they represented him, the railways have killed him. Now there is no\ntime for display of wit, so called. I think the extinction of the genus\n\u201cjoker\u201d is something to be grateful for. I did not see any evidence of\nsuffering among the laboring classes or any more raggedness than in\nEngland, France, or Germany. Artisans are becoming scarce, and can command\ngood wages. It is hard to get agricultural laborers; they can almost set\ntheir own terms. Those who may be obtained cannot be kept very long; they\nwork merely to save enough to join their relatives and friends in the Land\nof the Free.\n\nThe traditional costume of the stage Irishman is as rarely seen in Ireland\nas the short\u2010waisted, long\u2010tailed coat, and striped trousers of the stage\nYankee in the United States. I saw but one pair of \u201cknee\u2010breeches\u201d between\nCork and Kingstown.\n\nI did not encounter a single shillelah.\n\n\n\n\nGrapes And Thorns. Chapter XIV\u2014Uprooting Thorns.\n\n\nBy The Author Of \u201cThe House Of Yorke.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are happy, then!\u201d F. Chevreuse said to Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger the next\nevening when they were talking together.\n\nHis companion repeated the word with a doubting inflection. \u201cI have always\nassociated the idea of happiness with excitement,\u201d he said; \u201cand I am too\ncalm for that. I should say that I am deeply satisfied.\u201d\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger had been rehearsing in the church the music for the next\nday, and F. Chevreuse had sat in the sanctuary listening, marking with\nwhat will and effect the leader accomplished his work. He showed small\nregard, indeed, for the vanity or the personal dignity of the singers he\nwas training, but the success was admirable. If the men and women around\nhim had been organ\u2010pipes or keys, he could scarcely have treated them with\nless ceremony. When the rehearsal was over, he dismissed them without a\nword, except the command to be promptly in their places the next morning.\nKnowing the touchiness of singers in general, and the peculiar touchiness\nof some of his own choir, the priest fully expected to see some\nmanifestation of resentment among them; but they seemed merely surprised\nand a little awe\u2010struck, and, after a momentary hesitation, withdrew in\nsilence, leaving the organist alone in the loft, with the soft gloaming\npainting the air about him, as he closed the instrument with tender care,\nand drew the curtain about it.\n\nWhile waiting for him to come down, the priest perceived for the first\ntime a lady dressed in deep mourning, who knelt near the door, and who\nquietly followed the singers from the church. Miss Pembroke had the habit\nof visiting the Blessed Sacrament at this hour; and she was, moreover,\nmaking a Novena, which she had begun the night before, with a special\nintention. In that Novena her dear Sisters at the convent had joined, only\nSister Cecilia knowing what the intention was.\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger went into the house with F. Chevreuse, and stood with him\nat an open window looking out in that exquisite hour when day and night\nmeet in mid\u2010air, the sunset not yet relinquishing all its rose and gold,\nthe night drawing only her tenderest film of purple across the sky, and\ncrushing back her trembling stars like glimmering tears crushed between\ndark\u2010fringed eyelids.\n\nThe two men looked out, both unconsciously pleased because the evening was\nbeautiful and spring in its freshness, and consciously thinking of other\nthings.\n\n\u201cThey are all taking their places again,\u201d Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger said, after\nlooking upward a moment in silence. \u201cMy patriarchs and prophets! I hated\nto see them discrowned, and growing dim, and fading away into myths. Now\nthey burn out again with a greater splendor than ever. The church of the\nfulfilment has never shown such men as my prophetic church. The glory of\nthe later ritual is theirs. When the church which sees would express her\nemotion, she borrows the song of the men who foresaw. They were a grand\nrace. I would like to build a church, and dedicate it to King David, and\nhave a stone statue of him playing on his harp over against the altar.\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse smiled, but said nothing. He was watching with intense\ninterest the development of this new Christian, who took his religion as\nhe might have taken a crown. Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger had an odd way of performing\nwhat in any one else would have been acts of humility with a proud\nunconsciousness, or an unconscious pride that was a little puzzling. Of\nwhat is commonly called piety he showed not a sign; yet he did without\nhesitation or apparent effort what ordinary piety shrinks from. One might\nsay that he possessed a sublime common sense, which, perceiving the\nrelative importance of God and man, worshipped God as a matter of course,\ntaking no thought whether man were pleased or not. Certainly, had any\nreligious persecution threatened him, he would have taken it as a piece of\nastonishing impertinence.\n\nF. Chevreuse had only just checked in himself an intention to compliment\nthe convert on what he took to be the bravery of his profession of faith\nthe evening before, finding that Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger had been as disregardful\nof the crowd who had listened to him as if they had been wooden posts; and\nhe refrained also from referring to the cool \u201cOh! come to think of it, I\ndo not eat meat to\u2010day,\u201d with which he had that day, at the hotel table,\nsent his plate away in the face of a score of staring people, who,\nhowever, did not venture to smile.\n\nIf any one had exhorted him not to be ashamed of God, he would probably\nhave asked simply, Do you think I am a fool?\n\nTheir conversation approached this topic after a while.\n\n\u201cOne thing that has always astonished me is the mean spirit so many\nChristians have,\u201d Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger said. \u201cTheir religion seems to degrade\nrather than ennoble their character. They make such grand, heroic talk\nbecause they overcome some contemptible temptation which a pagan should be\nashamed to yield to, and seem to regard themselves as constant proofs of\nspecial divine interposition because they are not habitual liars, thieves,\nand robbers. They delight, apparently, in calling themselves miserable and\nworthless, which is a shame to them and a contradiction of God. If they\nhad been so worthless, the Almighty would not have taken so great pains to\nbe reconciled to them.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are regarding the dignity of man, not that of God,\u201d remarked the\npriest quietly. Then, seeing that his companion did not understand his\nmeaning, added: \u201cThese expressions of humility and abasement come with\nsincerity only from those souls which, gazing heavenward, have seen so\nmuch of the glory of God that they shrink to nothingness in comparison. It\nis by looking at him that they grow small in their own eyes, and their\nlittle faults, if you would call them so, become so mountainous in\nappearance. There is, indeed, an immense dignity in man, but he loses in\ncontemplating it; for there is sure to grow up in his soul as immense a\npride and egotism. We are quite safe when we leave our honors to the\nguardianship of the God who gave them, and occupy our minds in caring for\nhis honor, which was once so fatally lost sight of that all mankind were\nsmitten with a curse. We are a fallen race. Adam and Eve could once walk\nwith heads erect in the face of heaven, but no human being since.\u201d\n\nSeeing his pupil frown, F. Chevreuse added more lightly: \u201cBut I do not\nthink it worth while to make the devil of too much consequence. Our Lord\nsaid, \u2018Get thee behind me, Satan.\u2019 Now, most people would be afraid to\nhave the devil behind them. They would be continually peeping over their\nshoulder to see what he was about. His great strength is in our\nmisconception of him. I don\u2019t suppose any man ever yielded to him and\nconsented to offend God but he was astonished afterward to see how easily\nhe might have conquered, and how small was the bribe for which he had\nsacrificed so much.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe devil, too,\u201d said Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger with an odd little smile. \u201cMust I\naccept him?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; you must reject him,\u201d retorted the priest.\n\nAnd then came question after question. How did the church explain this?\nWhat was the meaning of that? F. Chevreuse found his philosophy and\ntheology somewhat tested by this searching questioner, who, without\ndoubting, wished that all things should be made plain to him.\n\n\u201cI always had a tender feeling for Christ,\u201d he said, \u201cand sometimes a\nslight questioning if he might not be the Messias; but only last night\nwere the needed links supplied which made my fragmentary acquiescences a\nsingle conviction. But though satisfied with Christ, I am not satisfied\nwith religion as I see it. There are too many trumpery glozes and comments\nand complications. I like common sense in religion, and without it\nreligion has no dignity in my eyes. Nothing, not even his humility and\nlove, was more conspicuous in the character of Jesus Christ than his\ncommon sense and consistency. How honest he was! I say it with all\nreverence and adoration. How free he was from evasion and policy, and that\nprudence which is founded on an infinite number of small lies! He always\ndetected a fallacy, and exposed it; and he was constantly appealing to the\nreason and good sense of his followers. When he propounded a mystery, it\nwas not a mystery because it was involved and obscure, but because it was\nso great that we could not see all the parts of it. His mysteries hang\nlike suns in space. How little there is in common between his transparent\nnobleness and the petty tricks of, I must say, the majority of Christians,\ntheir weights and measures for the offences they may dare against him, and\nthose which are over the permitted guilt, their excuses, their\ncompromises! Why, sir, there never was a time when I did not think, there\nnever will be a time when I shall not believe, that the greatest foes to\nthe Christian church are Christians themselves.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are quite right,\u201d F. Chevreuse answered with an air of sorrow and\nmortification. \u201cThere is a vast difference between Christ and Christians.\nHe is God, and we are men. And it is the thought of this difference which\nmakes us walk with that downcast face which so offended you a few minutes\nago. Do not come to too many decisions at once. Wait, and learn by\nexperience. Here in your reach now is all the splendor of faith, a free\ngift for you to work out your life by. Your privileges are peculiar. You\nhave had no sacrament to misuse; and when you are baptized, you will stand\nas new and sinless a man as Adam was at his creation. In that instant, if\nyour intention is pure, you will possess heaven in your soul. It does not\noften fall to the lot of a man to be sure of such happiness. Let us see\nhow you will use the privilege. Show us, if you will, the ideal Christian,\nand we will be glad to see and imitate him. But beware of pride!\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear friend!\u201d exclaimed Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger, \u201cI did not mean to be\npresuming nor to wound you. I am sure you do not wish me to say it, but to\nme you, at least, are perfect.\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse laughed slightly. \u201cOnly wait and see,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd now a\nscore or two of penitents are waiting to confess, and F. O\u2019Donovan is\nwondering if I am going to let him stay in the confessional till midnight.\nI must leave you. Why do you not go up and see Mrs. Ferrier? She has been\nanxiously inquiring for you to\u2010day, and complaining a little. Go and make\nthe good soul happy. Miss Pembroke will be glad to see you too, I am sure.\nShe has gone to live with Mrs. Ferrier. They do not receive company; but\nsend your name in, and you will be welcome.\u201d\n\n\u201cI had forgotten them both!\u201d Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger said with some compunction. \u201cI\nwill go at once.\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse soon found that he had been mistaken in two of his\nassertions; F. O\u2019Donovan was not in the confessional, and Miss Pembroke\nwas not at that moment in Mrs. Ferrier\u2019s house. Both had gone to the\nconvent, one called there, the other hastening to follow when she knew his\nerrand.\n\nLittle Anita was dying, killed by her first vision of the wickedness and\nagony of the world. She had heard of sin as one living far inland hears of\nthe ocean, which he has never seen; and now the bitter waves of that wide,\nsalt sea she believed so far away and alien had rolled in about her. It\ntouched her feet and her garments, and left its poisonous rime there; it\ncaught and strangled before her eyes those she had trusted and been near\nto; it tossed its sacrilegious foam on to the very altar of God. Her soul\ntrembled within her, and she turned her face away from life, and hid it in\nthe bosom of her Lord.\n\n\u201cO my God! my God!\u201d she prayed. \u201cForgive me! but I cannot live.\u201d\n\nThere was no physical malady; but the heart, which, like a busy shuttle,\ntosses to and fro its rosy threads, weaving soul and body together,\nfaltered, and let slip link after link. The invisible folded wings\ndetached themselves, trembling; the spiritual hands left the bodily hands\ncold, and stretched out into eternity, trembling, always trembling; the\nwhole soul, still full of the fear and agony of the world, shrank outward.\n\nThe Sisters knelt about her, cruelly grieved. Was this delicate saint to\nbe torn away from them thus, leaving them no consolation but the memory of\nher blameless life? Was she to go down to the grave without a sign of\nvictory? Were they to keep for ever this last vision of her, prostrate in\nthe shadow of that low portal?\n\nAnd even while they prayed, just giving up hope, as the slight form grew\ncold and rigid, all at once it shone out like a marble statue on which a\nsudden sunbeam falls. The eyes flashed wide open, the shining soul stood\ntiptoe in them an instant, then parted softly.\n\nIt is not for us to follow, even in fancy, the flight of that innocent\nsoul, nor to witness the tears of mingled sorrow and joy which the Sisters\nshed over their young companion, nor to listen to the prayers they said,\nnor the sacred communings they held together.\n\nOur business is with earth, with Honora Pembroke, driving homeward soberly\nthrough the still evening.\n\n\u201cDrive slowly,\u201d she said to the footman\u2014not John now. \u201cThere is no haste.\u201d\nAnd she added to herself: \u201cI want a chance to think.\u201d\n\nThere was, indeed, little chance to think in her new home; for good Mrs.\nFerrier, who did her thinking with her tongue, could not conceive any need\nfor solitude, and was constantly breaking in upon the few moments of\nretirement her young friend allowed herself to ask if she had \u201cgot\nthrough,\u201d if she were ill, if she would please to come down, or if she\nobjected to company. And then would come the recapitulation of her trials,\nher fears for her daughter, and lamentations without end. That Miss\nPembroke herself might be sad and troubled, and stand in need of cheering\nand sympathy, did not seem to enter her mind.\n\nSo thus early in their intercourse the young woman was fain to seize every\nexcuse for a moment of solitude. Whether she would have taken advantage of\nthis had she known that a visitor awaited her return is doubtful.\n\nThe drive was not interminable, however, and it was still early in the\nevening when she reached the house and entered. She stopped at sound of a\nvoice in the drawing\u2010room. It was Mrs. Ferrier who spoke, but her words\nwere quite sufficient to tell whom she spoke to.\n\n\u201cI shall never, never get over your having been treated so\u2014never!\u201d\n\n\u201cMadam,\u201d said Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger with a decision which scarcely covered his\ndispleasure, \u201cI request as a favor that you will never again mention this\nsubject to me. I am sorry for your trouble in the matter, and grateful for\nthe kindness you have shown me; but you must see that it is something of\nwhich I do not wish to be reminded.\u201d\n\nMiss Pembroke\u2019s impulse was to go immediately up\u2010stairs. A kind of terror\nseized her at the thought of meeting him. What if he should know that she\nwas making a Novena, and what it was for!\n\nShe stopped one moment, irresolute, then went into the bright drawing\u2010room\nwhere the two sat. Mrs. Ferrier uttered a little exclamation, not having\nheard her come; but Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger had heard the carriage, the door, even\nthe step that paused at sound of their voices, and half divined that he\nhad come near not seeing Miss Pembroke that night.\n\nShe gave him her hand with dignified and earnest friendliness. \u201cI cannot\ntell you how happy you made us all last night,\u201d she said. \u201cYou are\nwelcome.\u201d\n\nHe found something haughty in her mode of address, like that of a queen\nspeaking to a subject, and looked at her intently to discern its meaning,\nif possible.\n\nAlarmed at his searching expression, she turned abruptly away from him\nwith unmistakable haughtiness this time. But no sooner had she done so\nthan, smitten by a swift recollection of the folly and injustice of the\nact, she returned with a glance and gesture so full of mute, impulsive\npenitence that it more than atoned; it explained.\n\nThe proud surprise in his face melted to a quiet smile. He resumed his\nseat by Mrs. Ferrier, and began to talk with her, taking no further notice\nof Honora for a few minutes. But when he saw her sitting silent and pale,\nher momentary trouble forgotten in the recollection of the solemn scenes\nwhich she had witnessed in the last few days, he spoke to her.\n\n\u201cI hope you will take some interest in my choir,\u201d he said; \u201cfor I wish to\nimprove it very much. The material is bad, the greater part of it. Those\npersons seem to have been selected who had loud, blatant voices and a firm\nbelief that they were excellent singers. They make noise enough, and are\nnot afraid; but they are vulgar singers. I want a choir of boys in\naddition to them. You must know some good voices among the children.\u201d\n\nShe brightened. It was a pleasant surprise to hear something in common\nlife spoken of, and to have one who knew all assume that all was not lost.\n\n\u201cI know a good many such voices,\u201d she said; \u201cand I should be glad to help\nyou. Could not I make the selection, and teach them the first lessons? It\nwould be small work for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you would be so good,\u201d he replied, quite as if he had expected the\noffer.\n\nAnd so, without more words, Miss Pembroke was installed as Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger\u2019s musical assistant. It was a timely employment and interest in\nher changed life, and exerted a softening influence on his. He gradually\nrelinquished the designs he had meditated, and looked on his sufferings in\na more impartial light. Whatever prejudice had existed, he could not\ndoubt, when he examined the subject calmly, that he had been condemned on\na reasonable array of circumstantial evidence, and that, without\nprejudice, any other man would have been condemned on the same evidence.\nBesides, even had there been a chance of success in the attempt, he could\nnot have received as much in legal reparation as was voluntarily given him\nby the public. The city was, in a manner, at his feet. The highest\nofficials, both in private and in their public capacity, tendered to him\ntheir respect, their regrets, and offers of any assistance he might need.\nPeople felt that they could not do too much for him. It was quite true, as\nMrs. Ferrier said to him: \u201cNow is the time for you to break the law, if\nyou want to. You could do anything, and no one would find fault with you\nfor it.\u201d\n\nFor the real criminal, who shall say how it happened that he was not\nbrought to justice? There was certainly an immense activity in searching\nwhere he was not. The law put on its most piercing spectacles, then shut\nits eyes and looked in every direction. The spectacles saw nothing. If\nthey were on the point of having a glimpse, they were instantly turned in\nanother direction. We have all seen such justice when wealth and influence\nare on the side of the culprit. Letters came from Annette to her mother\nwith only the smallest circumlocution, and answers were sent to them with\nthe most transparent diplomacy in the world.\n\n\u201cWhen my poor Gerald heard of his mother\u2019s death,\u201d Annette wrote, \u201cI\nthought for a while that he would die. He lay for hours almost insensible,\nand only revived from one swoon to fall into another. But he soon\nrecovered from the first shock, and is, I think, glad to know that her\nsufferings were so short. But he says nothing, and I do not talk to him. I\nwait to see what God will do with his soul. He is like a frail building\nthat has been overthrown so thoroughly that not one stone remains upon\nanother, and is being built up again in a different shape. I can perceive\na strength in the new foundations of his life which I had not believed him\ncapable of. Indeed, he is not humanly capable of them. But this is the\ncity of miracles, and ours is a miraculous faith. As I have told you, he\nsays nothing. His life is almost an absolute silence, and, I might say,\nblindness to earthly things. I never see him looking at any beautiful or\nsublime object except the crucifix. Even I seem to be only a voice to him.\nHe begins lately to show a disposition to be active, which is to me a sign\nthat his mind is becoming settled.\u201d\n\nAnnette did not think it best to describe the nature of the activity that\nher husband was showing, well knowing that it would have made Mrs. Ferrier\nbelieve herself to be, in addition to her other afflictions, the mother\u2010\nin\u2010law of a maniac. For the work he did, here and there, wherever it could\nbe quietly done without attracting attention, was menial. She had seen him\nhelp the poor man unload his cart of stones, or take the spade from his\nhands to labor in his stead, and he was constantly performing menial\nlabors in the house. All this was done, not with any appearance of being\nan eccentric gentleman, but as one of the poor. For day by day his dress\nhad been growing rude and his whole aspect changed. The sun had burnt his\nfair skin and faded his unshorn beard, and, by means best known to\nhimself, his delicate hands had become dark and rough. Looking at the\nfirm, silent lips and downcast eyes, Annette could scarcely doubt that the\nman she had called her husband was gradually and purposely effacing all\nthe beauty and daintiness of which he had been so proud. He never went out\nwith her, and if by chance they were likely to encounter in the street, he\navoided the meeting. No one, except the people of the house where they\nlived, suspected that there was any acquaintance or connection between\nthis dainty _signora_ and this man, who grew every day less and less to be\ndistinguished from the common laborer.\n\nBut in humbling himself Lawrence Gerald had not been unmindful of the one\nearthly duty remaining to him. \u201cAre you willing to give me up entirely,\nAnnette?\u201d he asked her one day.\n\nShe answered with a brief affirmative. \u201cFollow wherever God leads you,\u201d\nshe said; \u201cand do not stop an instant to think of me.\u201d\n\nHe was used to depending on her, and to being sure that she meant what she\nsaid, and could perform her promises. Yet he wished to make certain. \u201cYou\nhave to go out alone, and have no protection but that of servants,\u201d he\nsaid.\n\n\u201cI do not need any other protection; I am quite safe here,\u201d she replied.\n\n\u201cYou cannot marry again,\u201d he went on.\n\n\u201cI have no wish to!\u201d\n\nPerhaps there could not have been a stronger proof of the purification\nwhich Annette Gerald\u2019s character had undergone than the fact that this\nreply was made without a tinge of bitterness or regret. She spoke with\ngentle sincerity\u2014that was all. As an absorbing affection had made her\nconsent to be taken without love, so now a pity and charity yet more\nengrossing enabled her to find herself discarded without anger.\n\n\u201cFollow God, and think no more of me,\u201d she said. \u201cI remain here. Go when\nand where you will.\u201d\n\nIt was the first time they had spoken together for several days, and was\nmore by accident, apparently, than of their seeking. Passing through the\nroom where Annette was, Lawrence had seen her trying to open a window that\nresisted her slight hands, and had opened it for her. Then the sweet\nclangor of the Ave Maria breaking out from all the towers at once, they\nhad paused side by side a moment.\n\nPerhaps he had wished to speak, and seized this opportunity.\n\nAt her answer he looked at her earnestly, for the first time in months, it\nseemed to her, and with a look she could not endure without emotion, so\nfar\u2010away and mournful, yet so searching, was it. It was a gaze like that\nof one dying, who sees the impassable gulf widening between his eyes and\nwhat they rest upon. How many, many glances she had encountered of\nhis!\u2014laughing, critical, impatient, in the old days that now seemed\ncenturies past; superficially kind, penitent, disregardful, careless, but\nnever from the depths of his soul till now. Now she knew at last that his\nsoul had depths, and that, as she stood before him, he was aware of her,\nand saw her as she was.\n\n\u201cAnnette,\u201d he said, almost in a whisper, \u201cwords cannot tell my sense of\nthe wrong and insult which I have heaped upon you\u2014on you more than all the\nrest put together.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo not speak of that,\u201d she said, trying still to be calm.\n\n\u201cOf all the women I have hurt or destroyed, you are the noblest,\u201d he went\non, seeming not to have heard her.\n\nShe drew her breath in quickly, and stood mute, looking down, and some\nstrong band that had been holding her down\u2014how long she knew not, perhaps\nfor years, perhaps for her whole life\u2014loosened, and she felt herself\ngrowing upright. She was like the graceful silver birch that has been\nbowed over by the snow, flake after flake, till its head touches the\nground, when the warm sun begins to melt its burden, and it lifts a\nlittle, and feels itself elastic.\n\nIn days when Honora Pembroke was his ideal, \u201cnoble\u201d was the word he\napplied to her, and Annette Ferrier always felt herself grow small when\nshe heard him utter it.\n\n\u201cOf all women I have ever known, you are the noblest and most lovely,\u201d he\nsaid slowly. \u201cI was blind. Too late I have learned that. And if I had a\nwish left, it would be that God would reunite us in heaven.\u201d\n\nThe snows had melted, and she stood upright at last.\n\nThere was a confused whispering in her brain. Since she was loved and\nhonored, why need they part? She could comfort him, be at his side always,\nand help him to win back peace, if not happiness. They would perform works\nof charity together, and in humbling herself she would raise him.\n\nShe lifted her eyes, and opened her lips to speak some such word, but\nchecked herself on seeing him turn away. His face was no longer calm and\nsad, but full of anguish. All the enticements of human life had assailed\nhis soul, and were fighting against its one stern tenant, remorse.\nSilently, and with a feeling of unacknowledged disappointment, she awaited\nthe result, scarcely doubting that he would yield. When had he not\nyielded? was the bitter question that rose in spite of her, only to be\nthrust down again under many excuses, as she called to mind his sufferings\nand his isolation.\n\nHe stood near the window, with his face turned to the light, and she\nwatched the struggle without daring to move or to speak. What silent clash\nof warring passion held him thus rigid she could only guess; what voices\nsweet and pitiful were pleading, and what voices stern and terrible\nreplying, who can say? It did not need that angels of darkness should be\nthere; the human heart was enough. In that swift review when the soul,\nanticipating a privilege of eternity, can compress a lifetime into a\nmoment, what visions of all that life might give could have presented\nthemselves!\u2014dusky eves and sunlighted mornings, when the singing of birds,\nmingled with the prattle of children, and quiet and elegant leisure, and\nsmiling friends, made earthly existence seem like an Elysian dream; ever\u2010\npresent affection, with its excuses for every fault, its recognition,\nprompt and inspiring, of every virtue, its cheering word for the hour of\nsadness, its loving check, its sympathy, its silent tenderness; the\nfreedom of earth which wealth can give, every portal opening as if by\nmagic, existence a perpetual feast. They crowded upon him mercilessly, and\ntossed to and fro his grief and remorse as the sea tosses its dead, that\nare now but faint white outlines, half lost in froth, now cold faces\nstarting clearly out of the thin, green wave.\n\nHow many times that soul was lost and won in those few minutes none but\nthe invisible witnesses of the scene could tell.\n\nHe moved at length, and Annette stepped nearer with sudden alarm, as she\nsaw him put his hand into his bosom slowly, as if with dread to draw forth\nwhat was there. The hand closed on what it sought, and with bitter\nshrinking, as if it were his heart he was thus uprooting, brought it to\nlight. It was no knife, nor pistol, nor vial of poison, as she had feared,\nbut a folded paper. She had seen it in his hands before, and wondered what\nhe kept with such care.\n\nHe opened it and read; and she, leaning nearer, read also, without\nstopping to consider her right.\n\nThis was the breviary Lawrence Gerald carried in his bosom, written\nlargely and clearly, and signed with his name in full:\n\n\u201cI am a gambler, a housebreaker, a thief, a sacrilegious liar, a murderer,\nand a matricide.\u201d\n\n\u201cO my love! stand firm! stand firm!\u201d the wife tried to say; but the words\ndied in a whisper on her lips, as her heart fainted with pain and delight.\n\nHe did stand firm without having heard her admonition. She saw the\nunsteady lips close again, the gazing eyes droop, the whole face and form\ncompose itself. That brief reminder, written to be a visible witness when\nthe voice of conscience should fail, was more potent than poison or blade\nor bullet.\n\n\u201cI wish to take a room by myself in another part of the city,\u201d he said.\n\u201cAre you willing?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly!\u201d she replied. \u201cBut I would like to know where it is. Not,\u201d she\nadded quickly, \u201cthat I would intrude or trouble you in any way. But you\ncannot expect me to lose all interest in you, and I shall feel better to\nknow where you are, and to go once to see your room and the people you are\nwith.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will let you know as soon as I find a place,\u201d he said. \u201cOf course I\nwish to support myself, to be removed from all society, except those\npersons whom I must see, and to wait my time in penance. You understand it\nall, Annette. I no longer exist in the ordinary life of men. I am either\nin purgatory or in hell\u2014I do not yet feel sure which.\u201d\n\nHe was going away, but turned at a little distance, and looked at her once\nagain. \u201cMy dear,\u201d he said faintly, \u201cgood\u2010by!\u201d\n\nShe could not utter a word, could only clasp her hands over her face, and\nso lose his last glance. For as he spoke that farewell, and as she heard\nhis retreating step, the door of her sealed and frozen heart burst open,\nand her dead love, stirring uneasily in its grave during these last days,\nrose up stronger than ever before, and resumed the throne it was never\nagain to abdicate. There, at last, was a man worth loving!\n\nThe next evening she received his new address; and he added: \u201cI shall be\nout to\u2010morrow, and the _padrona_ will admit you, if you wish to come.\u201d\n\nOf course she went; but, what had not been to her a matter of course, the\nplace pleased her. The house was in an old and crowded part of the city,\nwhere the streets swarmed with poor people; but the room was at the very\ntop, in an odd corner quite removed from noise and communication with any\nother apartment, and had an eastern and a northern window that looked off\nover palace roofs and through towers and domes to the beautiful mountains.\nClose to its southern wall pressed a church tower, and on a level with its\nwindows rose the sculptured fa\u00e7ade, wreathed with angels. Once there, one\nmight easily forget the steep, dark stair, the squalid street below, and\neven the bare walls and floor of the room itself.\n\nAnnette had not allowed herself to bring any article of comfort, still\nless of adornment, though her heart had ached with longing to do so. But\nshe placed a beautiful crucifix on the one poor table, and left a volume\nof lives of saints beside it. A bunch of roses hung at her belt, and her\nfingers lingered on them in doubt for a moment. But she checked that\nimpulse also. How much might roses breathe of woman\u2019s presence there and\nall the graces and sweetnesses of life! But before leaving, she hung over\nan arm of the crucifix a single small bud, where the petals showed like a\ndrop of blood oozing through the green.\n\nAs she was placing this last souvenir, her tears dropping over flowers and\ncross, there was a sound as though a hurricane should draw in its breath\nbefore blowing, the floor of the room trembled, then there came a\ntremendous and reverberating stroke. The great bell in the tower was\nstriking the hour of noon, and the chamber shook as a bird\u2019s nest shakes\nwhen a storm sweeps over the tree in which it is built. For the moment\neverything in the universe was obliterated but sound. She breathed its\ntremulous waves, she was enveloped and borne up by its strong tide; the\nvery sunshine and the blue of the sky were like bright, resounding tones.\nThen the stroke ceased; and, circling round and round in fainting rings,\nthe music of the bells went out to join the music of the spheres, perhaps\nto creep with a golden ripple up the shores of heaven.\n\nThe woman who had opened the door wondered much to see the pale _signora_\ncome down with a face flushed with weeping; but a liberal gift disposed\nher to think the best of everything.\n\n\u201cYou must be very good to him, and not allow any one to intrude,\u201d Annette\nsaid to her. \u201cI shall come to the church here below every morning at seven\no\u2019clock; and if he should be ill, or any accident should happen to him, I\nwish you to come there and tell me. But you must not talk to him. Speak to\nhim only when he asks you to.\u201d\n\nThat evening she wrote to her mother: \u201cLawrence has left me, and is in the\narms of God. That is all I can say, except that I trust he has won a\nperfect forgiveness.\n\n\u201cI am sorry, dear mamma, if you are lonely, but I cannot return to\nAmerica. I do not wish for society anywhere. Here in Rome is my place,\nwith my religion and the poor to occupy my time. Try to be happy, and to\nthink of me as peaceful and contented. And, mamma, if there should be any\ngood, honest man whom you would like to marry, I shall be glad of it.\nGoodness is the chief thing.\u201d\n\nMrs. Ferrier wept profusely over this letter, not doubting that Lawrence\nwas dead.\n\n\u201cThe poor fellow!\u201d she said. \u201cAfter all, he wasn\u2019t so bad as he might have\nbeen.\u201d\n\nAnd then, bethinking herself, she wiped away her tears, and calmed her\ngrief as much as possible; for it would not do to render herself\nunpresentable. It was necessary to go at once with the news to F.\nChevreuse.\n\nThe way that Mrs. Ferrier took to the priest\u2019s house was a roundabout one;\nit led in an opposite direction, and stopped before a new dry\u2010goods store\nof the most glittering sort. There was, in fact, no shop in Crichton so\nfine or so much frequented as this. People went there at first from\ncuriosity, and were disposed to make themselves very merry regarding it;\nbut there seemed to be nothing to laugh at, unless it might be certain\nerroneous notions in their own minds. Everything was well ordered and\nbusiness\u2010like, the clerks attentive and respectful, and the proprietor\nperfectly dignified and watchful. Indeed, a slight excess of dignity and\nwatchfulness had at first marked his conduct, and made his customers wary\nof giving offence.\n\nWe have already intimated that Mrs. Ferrier had a new footman.\n\nThis functionary, a slim and sentimental young man, let down the step for\nhis mistress; but before she had made her majestic descent, the proprietor\nof the shop stood in the door, bowing to his wealthy customer. She\nbeckoned him out, and motioned the footman away out of hearing.\n\n\u201cPoor Lawrence is dead, John!\u201d she said plaintively, a smile tempering her\ngrief. \u201cAnd it\u2019s best so, of course. I\u2019ve just got a letter from Annette.\nAnd, John\u2014\u201d\n\nThe lady paused, and looked down, and laughed a little.\n\n\u201cWell, what is it?\u201d asked the new merchant with an appearance of\ncuriosity.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s willing.\u201d\n\nJohn\u2019s face expressed two contrary emotions at this announcement\u2014one of\npleasure, the other a dogged sort of resentment that Annette\u2019s willingness\nshould have been considered of consequence.\n\n\u201cIt is pleasanter to have everybody pleased,\u201d the lady said soothingly.\n\u201cOf course, though, it doesn\u2019t make one bit of difference with me so far\nas what I shall do; for you know, John, I\u2019d stand by you through thick and\nthin. Now I must go to F. Chevreuse.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere isn\u2019t a more respectable\u2010looking merchant in the city of Crichton,\u201d\nsaid Mrs. Ferrier emphatically to herself, as she drove away.\n\n\u201cBeg y\u2019r pardon, mum?\u201d said the slim footman, leaning over.\n\n\u201cI wasn\u2019t talking to you!\u201d exclaimed his mistress indignantly.\n\nIt was, indeed, observed by everybody that Mrs. Ferrier was very high with\nthis unfortunate man, who was humility personified, and only too assiduous\nin his obedience. She had assumed a trifle more of state with all her\nservants; but the footman was scarcely allowed to breathe freely.\n\n\u201cI shouldn\u2019t wonder, now, if he might think he could marry Annette,\u201d she\nmuttered to herself, as they drove on.\n\nPoor fellow! his ambition did not soar beyond Betty, and she was treating\nhim with cruelty. However, with a story\u2010teller\u2019s prescience, we are fully\naware that his trials are only the little waves which are sending him\nnearer and nearer to his haven, and that before the year is over the day\nwill be named. Already in our mind\u2019s eye we see the fair Betty in her\nbridal robes, with her magnificent and patronizing mistress fastening on\nthe veil, and giving her a kind and resounding kiss at the same time. We\neven hear the small whisper with which she silences her bridegroom\u2019s last\njealous misgiving when he comments on the salute given her by the master\nof the house:\n\n\u201cWhat! you think that I could ever have had a fancy for him\u2014a man who\ndrops his h\u2019s?\u201d\n\nThe withering contempt of this remark was decisive.\n\nBut we are anticipating.\n\nMrs. Ferrier found the priest at home, and gave him the letter to read. He\nread it attentively, but came to a different conclusion from hers. He did\nnot tell her so, though, for it was evident that Annette wished them to\nthink that her husband was dead. Her former letters had prepared him to\nsuspect a state of things very near the truth.\n\nAfter a long conversation, in which F. Chevreuse perceived that his\nvisitor was lingering and hesitating in an unusual manner, Mrs. Ferrier at\nlast called his attention to the concluding sentences of the letter.\n\nHe read it a second time, glanced up through his spectacles at his\nvisitor, read it again, and gave the letter back, quite uncomprehending.\nHe was, doubtless, the only person in Crichton who could have been\nunconscious of her meaning.\n\n\u201cYou may think me foolish, father, at my time of life, to be thinking of\nmarrying again,\u201d she said deprecatingly. \u201cBut you have no idea how lonely\nI am. Honora will soon have a house of her own, anybody can see that;\nAnnette won\u2019t come back, and Louis won\u2019t live here, after what has\nhappened. I have nothing to do but wander from room to room of my great\nhouse, and think how awfully lonesome I am, and almost wish that I had a\nlittle cabin that I could fill. I don\u2019t feel as if I were in a house, but\nas if I were out somewhere. Many a time I\u2019ve gone and sat in my chamber\u2010\ncloset, just to feel my elbows hit something.\u201d\n\nShe paused, and F. Chevreuse said, \u201cYes!\u201d as sympathizingly as he could,\nwondering greatly what was to come.\n\n\u201cJohn is a decent man, and my equal in everything but money,\u201d she went on.\n\n\u201cOh! it\u2019s John!\u201d F. Chevreuse exclaimed, light breaking in.\n\nMrs. Ferrier dropped her eyes and smiled.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see any harm in it, if you have got your mind made up,\u201d the\npriest said, recovering from his first astonishment. \u201cI suppose it would\nbe of no use for me to try to break off the arrangement, even if I wanted\nto.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, John is pretty set,\u201d the lady admitted modestly.\n\n\u201cI dare say,\u201d was the smiling rejoinder. \u201cWhen is it to be?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn a month, if you please. He is started in business now, and is doing\nwell, and there\u2019s no reason why he shouldn\u2019t be a great merchant as well\nas any other man. He\u2019s capable of it, if anybody is,\u201d she said, becoming a\nlittle defiant.\n\n\u201cCertainly!\u201d replied F. Chevreuse with perfect gravity. \u201cThere is not a\nlaw in the commonwealth which will prevent his being as great a merchant\nas he pleases. The world of trade is open to John, and I wish him all\nsuccess in it. Do you put your property into his hands?\u201d\n\nInstantly the beautiful modesty of the bride\u2010elect gave place to the\nbusiness\u2010like acuteness of the woman who knew perfectly well the value of\nmoney.\n\n\u201cNo, father, we keep our accounts separate,\u201d she said. \u201cHe had half enough\nto start in business with, and I lent him the other half. The income of\nthe whole is to go toward our housekeeping, but he will have nothing to do\nwith the rest of my property.\u201d\n\nF. Chevreuse nodded. \u201cI see that you haven\u2019t lost your head. You have\nmanaged your own affairs so well thus far, you may as well continue to do\nthe same, for your children\u2019s sake.\u201d\n\nA month later there was a quiet marriage at the priest\u2019s house; and the\nonly notice the Crichtonians had of it was when John appeared again in\nMrs. Ferrier\u2019s carriage, this time by her side, instead of in the dicky.\n\nEverybody smiled except Honora Pembroke. She alone, perfectly polite, and\nrefraining from all interference, felt haughtily indignant at the\nmarriage. It was in vain that F. Chevreuse tried to reason away her\nprejudices.\n\n\u201cI do not object because he was poor,\u201d she said. \u201cRiches are less a\ndistinction than a difference. But he has been a servant, and that is\nirreparable.\u201d\n\nThe priest began to hum a tune:\n\n\n    \u201cAh! \u00e7a ira, \u00e7a ira, \u00e7a ira!\n    Les aristocrats \u00e0 la lanterne.\u201d\n\n\nSomewhat to his surprise, she blushed slightly, but did not smile.\n\n\u201cYou may think me foolish, or even guilty of sinful pride,\u201d she said with\na certain stiffness; \u201cbut this is a feeling of which I cannot rid myself.\nI do not like to sit at table with a person who has once brought me my\nsoup, nor on the same seat in the carriage with one who used to let down\nthe step for me. Of course I recognize and submit to the situation; but I\nshall go to my own house again immediately.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell!\u201d said the priest, \u201cit takes a good while to get acquainted with\npeople. Here have I known you these ten years and more, have seen you\nsimple, unpretending, humble, apparently, good to the poor, and going\nfreely among them. I thought I knew you thoroughly; yet all at once I come\nupon the rock in that smooth stream. Have I ever caught a little gray\nshadow of it before, I wonder? Well, well! I won\u2019t undertake to blast it\nout of the way at once. I am sorry, though, that you do not like John.\u201d\n\n\u201cI like him in liveries,\u201d said Miss Pembroke with dignity.\n\n\u201cI tell you,\u201d persisted the priest, \u201cthey are going to be a very happy\ncouple.\u201d\n\n\u201cI haven\u2019t a doubt of it,\u201d she replied. \u201cBut that is no excuse.\u201d\n\nHe laughed, and let her go. The haughty recoil of pride in the fibre was\nnot to be reasoned away.\n\nIt was a clear afternoon in mid\u2010autumn; and when Miss Pembroke stepped\nfrom the priest\u2019s door, she paused a minute on the sidewalk, and hesitated\nwhich way to go. She did not wish to return home, and she did not think of\nany other place where she would rather go.\n\nAnd then, without looking, she was aware of a tall gentleman, who came\ndown the street, and, still without looking, knew that he had crossed to\nher side of the street, and was approaching her. And then, with a\nperverseness which was scarcely natural to her, she turned quite coolly in\nthe opposite direction, and walked from him, perhaps lest he might think\nthat she wished for his company. Not but she and Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger were on\nthe most friendly, and even cordial, terms\u2014it was, indeed, taken for\ngranted in Crichton that they were the best of friends\u2014but\u2014in short, she\nwalked away from him. Perhaps she found his full and prosperous life a\nlittle discordant with her saddened one. She almost fancied sometimes that\nhe had an air of triumphant pride, and that he was being spoiled by the\nadulation paid him on all sides.\n\nShe had been wishing lately that she could go to Annette; and, now that\nGerald was dead, if the ambiguous letter they had received really meant\nthat, perhaps Annette would like to have her. Miss Pembroke felt strangely\nlonely in her native town, where she knew everybody, and where she had\nnot, certainly, to complain of any lack of attention. But she would be\nlonely for ever rather than Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger should think that she waited on\nF. Chevreuse\u2019s step for him. He must have been at the end of the street\nwhen she came out, and\u2014surely he would never dare to think that she saw\nhim, and had been giving him time to overtake her!\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger was meantime walking leisurely behind her quickening steps,\nintending to overtake her presently, but wishing first to watch her a\nlittle, and to think of some things. One was that he did not approve of\nher wearing black any longer. She was beautiful in anything, but too sad\nin this; and, besides, it interfered with certain plans of his. He made a\nslight reckoning, as nearly correct as the masculine mind could make it on\nsuch a subject. She might put on gray, or black and white, immediately.\nThat would enable her to wear a rich purple in the winter. He liked to see\nher in purple. Some day, when she should be older, she must have a\ntrailing robe of purple velvet with diamonds. Well, in the spring, then,\nshe could change her deeper color for one of those delicate lavenders or\nlilacs that women know how to look pretty in; and then the way would be\nquite open for white, and rose, and blue, and all the fresh, gay colors a\nbride might wish to wear.\n\n\u201cWe should be married by the first of May, at latest,\u201d thought the\ngentleman very decidedly.\n\nMiss Pembroke was quite right in fancying that there was something\ntriumphant in Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger\u2019s air; but she did not believe, and it was\nnot true, her pettish charge that he was being spoiled by adulation. All\nwas going well with him. Hosts of friends surrounded him\u2014friends as\nsincere as any one can claim; he did not believe they would stand any\ngreat test, but, also, he did not believe that they were hypocrites. In\nhis profession he was winning gold and reputation; and, what no one but\nhimself knew as yet, the fortune for which he had vainly struggled so long\nwas approaching him of itself. Two of those who had stood between it and\nhim had died, and there remained now but a feeble old man. With his death\nall other claims would die. And not least in his cause of congratulation\nwas his conviction that this fair woman, who walked before him with the\nblack drapery fluttering back from her light foot, the braid of hair just\nshowing its glossy bronze beneath the mourning veil, and, as she turned\nthe corner of a street, the curve of her smooth cheek glowing like a\npeach, was his own.\n\nWhat made her cheek so red now?\n\n\u201cHonora!\u201d he said, quickening his pace.\n\nShe stopped with a start.\n\n\u201cMr. Sch\u00f6ninger!\u201d\n\n\u201cI beg your pardon!\u201d he exclaimed, recollecting that he had never called\nher by her Christian name before. \u201cI was thinking, and I forgot.\u201d\n\nShe walked soberly by his side without asking what the subject of his\nthoughts had been. His exclamation may have revealed to her something of\ntheir nature; but she was far from suspecting that she was engaged, still\nless that her marriage\u2010day was fixed. She had, indeed, no reason to\nsuppose that Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger had any intention of renewing the suit that\nshe had once rejected.\n\n\u201cYou are willing to take a walk?\u201d he asked, and, when she nodded assent,\nadded:\n\n\u201cLet us go up the Cocheco. Last night\u2019s frost has added the finishing\ntouch to the trees, and everybody is admiring them.\u201d\n\nA beautiful road, almost as wild as a country lane, led between the river\u2010\nbank and the flowery cliffs beside it, and here at evening all the youths\nand maidens, and many of their elders in whom age had not chilled the love\nof nature, used to walk soberly in the soundless path, or climb the\ncliffs, or sit on the mossy rocks, or venture out on the rocks that\nstudded the stream. Not a pleasant evening but found people strolling\nthrough this romantic avenue.\n\n\u201cNowhere but in New England does nature dazzle, I think,\u201d Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger\nsaid. \u201cSee this maple\u2010leaf! It is a fine scarlet, and as glossy as a gem,\neven when examined closely. And the elm\u2010leaf is as fine a gold. Everywhere\nelse the autumn foliage is dingy when looked at so closely. The sky, too.\nLook at those long lines of fire that are beginning to stretch overhead,\nand at the gathering crimsons! In half an hour the heavens will be as\nbrilliant as the earth. In Italy the colors are soft, like the colors in\nan old painting; they have great depth and richness, but they lack the\nfresh brilliancy of the skies in the New World. You must go to Italy soon,\nHonora.\u201d\n\nThis time the name was used without an apology.\n\n\u201cI have been thinking of it,\u201d she replied quietly, and began to feel as a\nstranded seaweed may when, after having lain awhile painfully on the dry\nsand, it finds the bright sea slipping under it, and lifting it from its\nhard resting\u2010place. Without a word of explanation she found herself\nclaimed and cared for.\n\n\u201cI wish to go there again as a Catholic,\u201d he continued, \u201cand see with the\neyes of faith what I saw before with the eyes of an artist. I shall always\nadmire most the Catholicism of America, or what the Catholicism of America\nis going to be. It is more intelligent, noble, and reverent. It isn\u2019t a\nsort of devotion that expresses itself in tawdry paper flowers. Indeed, I\nbelieve that America is destined to show the world a Catholicism morally\nmore grand than any it has yet seen\u2014a worship of the heart and the\nintellect, where children shall be delighted, and yet common sense find\nnothing to regret. Still, Rome is the sacred city of the martyrs, the\npopes, and the temples. I think we should go there in two years at\nlatest.\u201d\n\nHe had spoken earnestly, and had absolutely forgotten how much remained\nunsaid, so sure was he of her.\n\nHonora\u2019s glance of astonishment and incredulity reminded him. He bent a\nlittle nearer, smiling, and said softly: \u201cBut we shall be married long\nbefore that time, dear, shall we not?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is the first I have heard of it,\u201d Miss Pembroke managed to say with a\ncertain degree of composure, after a moment.\n\n\u201cYou surely are not vexed!\u201d he said quickly, beginning to fear that he had\nassumed too much. \u201cI asked you once in the proper, lover\u2010like fashion, and\nyou refused me, not because you were indifferent to me\u2014you never said\nthat\u2014but because you would not marry and would not love one who denied\nyour Saviour. That obstacle no longer exists. You did not imagine that I\nhad become indifferent to you? That is out of the question. Have I made a\nmistake?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; it is I who have made a mistake,\u201d she answered frankly. \u201cI was afraid\nthat you had given me up.\u201d She hesitated a little, then, since he still\nlistened, added: \u201cI am very glad that you have not.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you!\u201d he said.\n\nThey walked slowly up the road between the foaming river and the glowing\ncliffs, praising the skies and the trees as they went, finding everything\nbeautiful, finding each the other more beautiful than all else. And when\nthe evening began to fade a little, they turned their steps, and went down\nagain with the river, filled with that deep and quiet happiness which\nleaves nothing to wish for and nothing to tell.\n\nThe very next morning a little note was sped from Miss Pembroke to Sister\nCecilia with the following mysterious announcement:\n\n\u201cMy _Novena_ has succeeded perfectly! I will come very soon and tell you\nall about it.\u201d\n\nSince the matter is settled, we may as well own at once that when Mr.\nSch\u00f6ninger first announced himself a Catholic, Honora had said to her\nfriend and confidant at the convent, \u201cIf I do not marry him, I shall never\nmarry any one\u201d; and that the result of this confession was a _Novena_, in\nwhich the young woman had asked that she might find favor in his sight.\n\n\u201cI told him about the _Novena_,\u201d Miss Pembroke said when she made her\nexplanatory visit to the convent. \u201cAnd I told him that you and all the\nSisters joined with me; and he bade me thank you for his part, and say\nthat he hoped you would never be sorry for having done so.\u201d\n\nBut Honora did not tell how astonished and touched her lover had been at\nthis confession of what seemed to her the most simple thing in the world.\n\n\u201cI never thought of asking God for you,\u201d he said; \u201cand yet there is\nnothing in the world so well worth praying for. I am a very ignorant\nCatholic, Honora, in all except doctrine. You will have much to teach me.\nBut, then,\u201d he added, smiling, \u201cwe have all our lives for that.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe only blot on my happiness,\u201d Honora said to her friends, \u201cis the\nthought of Annette. A letter came from her last night which seems to shut\nus all out from giving her either society or comfort. She evidently does\nnot wish to see any one she has ever known. She says that her time and\nthoughts are entirely occupied.\u201d\n\nAnnette Gerald was fully occupied. She was like one who stands at the head\nof a long flight of winding stairs, watching another descend, and,\nbeginning to lose sight of the object of her attention, begins to follow\nslowly, intent, at the same time, not to be too near or too far away.\n\nIt was necessary that she should keep Lawrence Gerald in sight without\nattracting attention either to him or to herself. As a rich lady, driving\nin her own carriage, she could not do this. She therefore gave up her\ncarriage, and moved to an humbler apartment, where she lived with one\nservant. Still, the dainty elegance of the widow\u2019s attire she had assumed,\nfastidious in her choice, not consciously, but from habit, pointed her out\nas of a different class from the people she went most among. To remedy\nthis, it was necessary only to be passive; and in a few months Roman dust\nand mud and brambles had reduced her to a dinginess almost Roman, and she\ncould go unremarked, could see Lawrence about his work, digging in the\nexcavations, carrying stone and mortar for the masons, doing any rough\nlabor that offered. She could see him in the church, where he spent an\nhour every morning; she knew that every Sunday he entered the same\nconfessional, and, as she could well guess, told the same tale to the\npriest, who, when his penitent left him, leaned forward and looked after\nhim with a sad and earnest gaze. More than once, late in the evening, she\nhad looked up from the street where her close carriage stood waiting, and\nseen, out on the corner of the open roof, to which no one but he had\naccess, his form drawn clearly against the transparent purple of the sky,\nand, after waiting as long as prudence would allow, had gone away to her\nlonely apartment, leaving him there in company of the marble angels that\nclustered about the church front, and the blessed bells, and whatever\ninvisible spirits God should will and his own soul invoke. Never did she\nsee a light in that lofty window; and, after a while, it occurred to her\nto ask the reason of the _padrona_, who often came to the church in the\nhope of receiving money from the lady.\n\n\u201cHe never will have a candle,\u201d the woman said. \u201cI think he is very poor.\nAnd he never drinks wine or eats meat. And, _signora_, he is growing very\npale.\u201d\n\nThat night Annette Gerald extinguished the candles in her own apartment,\nand never lighted them again. She could weep and pray without light. The\nnext day she dismissed her one servant, and thenceforward waited on\nherself. No ease or elegance must her life know while his was passed in\nsuch poverty. He ate the dry, sour bread of the poor; she ate it too. He\ndiscarded every luxury of the table; she also became an ascetic. If she\nput wine or fruit to her lips, tears choked her, and she set them aside.\nAs he went down, so she followed him, unseen, weeping pitifully, watching\nconstantly, loving utterly.\n\nWithout suspecting it, both became after a while objects of interest to\nthose about them. No dinginess or apparent poverty could hide their\nrefinement; and the extraordinary piety of both invested them with a\ncertain sacredness in the eyes of these people, who had walked and talked\nwith saints. The rude workmen ceased, not only to jest with, but to jest\nin the presence of this man who never smiled, or spoke without necessity,\nwhose pale face was for ever downcast, and who, in the midst of Italian\nindelicacy, carried himself with the refinement of an angel. In the long\nnoon rest of the hot summer days they withdrew from the place where he\nthrew himself down, faint with fatigue and the heat, and left him to that\nsolitude he unmistakably desired. Only little children ventured near the\n\u201cpenitent,\u201d as he began to be called, and smiled wistfully in his face,\nand kissed the hand that now and then gave them a _soldo_.\n\nOnce, as he lay asleep on the grass, in the shadow of a ruined arch, an\nartist, who was just returning home from a morning\u2019s sketching in the\nCampagna, paused to look at him. The other workmen lounged about at a\ndistance, some asleep, some eating their noon luncheon of dry bread,\nothers smoking and talking. This one seemed laid there apart for a\npicture. Thrown carelessly on his back, with his hand under the cheek\nturned a little aside, and the hat dropped off, his form and face were\nfully seen. It was not the form and face of a plebeian. The elegant shape\nwas not disguised by its faded garments; the beauty of the face,\ndelicately flushed with heat, and beaded with perspiration, was even\nenhanced by the unshorn and untended beard and the confused mass of\nclustering hair; and the expression of calm melancholy, which was not\nobliterated even by the unconsciousness of sleep, did not belong to a\ncommon nature.\n\nThe artist drew softly nearer, and opened his portfolio, too much engaged\nto give more than a passing glance to a woman who stood by the arch. With\na rapid pencil he sketched his subject, trying to catch that hovering\nsadness and the weary bend of the head.\n\nDrawing back presently to see if he could add anything to his sketch, he\nperceived that the woman who had been standing by the arch was at his\nside, watching his progress.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t let the shadow run off so,\u201d she said, looking at the sketch, not at\nhim. \u201cShow how the sunshine comes, close to his feet, so that he has only\na step to take to reach it. And do you see how those yellow flowers lean\nagainst his hair in the form of a crown? Put them in too; and the group of\nworkmen yonder, and a corner of the excavation, with that beautiful\npedestal half uncovered. As you have it, it is only a pretty poem without\nmeaning; give the whole, and it will be a tragical story.\u201d\n\nThe artist looked intently at the lady while she spoke. Surely she must be\nthe sister of the sleeper! Their two faces would do to stamp on a coin,\nthe man\u2019s profile showing beyond the woman\u2019s.\n\n\u201cFinish the sketch quickly before he wakes,\u201d she said. \u201cI will pay you\nwhatever you want for it. Some day I will have you paint it. Don\u2019t forget\nthe red poppies at his feet. And can you see, can you show, that there is\na blister on his hand?\u201d\n\nWondering much at this strange sort of poor people whom he found himself\namong, the artist obeyed.\n\n\u201cBut I want to keep the sketch,\u201d he said. \u201cI will make a copy for you, if\nyou will come to my studio for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly not!\u201d she exclaimed, and for the first time looked at him with\na clear and haughty gaze. \u201cYou have no right to keep it, for you took it\nwithout permission. It would be dishonorable and intrusive of you to show\nthat to any person. We are not _contadini_!\u201d\n\nThe artist rose and bowed.\n\n\u201cMadam, allow me to present my sketch to you,\u201d he said with equal pride.\n\n\u201cSome day you will know, and then you will no longer be offended,\u201d she\nsaid calmly, and took the sketch from his hand just as the sleeper stirred\nand began to awake. \u201cAnd now, I beg you never to notice him again, or\nmention him to any one till I come to you for the picture.\u201d\n\nAnd so three years passed away, and there came an Easter morning such as\nEasters used to be in the days when the pope was King of Rome, and there\nwas one city in the world where the business was religion.\n\nWho can forget the scene, having once beheld it\u2014the sky built up of\nsapphires, glitter on glitter of such blue as the queen of heaven might\nmake her mantle of; the full, warm gold of the sunshine looking the sad\nruins in the face till they smile, and revealing its hidden rainbows now\nand then, as the foamy columns of fountains sway in the light breeze, and\ncatch it unawares; the birds, with long, pointed wings, that cut the air,\nand seem inebriated with the delight of flying. Then the crowd in the\npiazza of S. Peter\u2019s, the millennial mingling of rich and poor, royal and\nplebeian, making in all a scene to be witnessed nowhere else.\n\n\u201cHow familiar, yet how new!\u201d said a lady who stepped from her carriage at\nthe barrier. \u201cIt is all I could wish! I am glad, Max, that we did not come\nsooner to Rome. I would rather my first sight of it should be a festal\none.\u201d\n\nThis lady was richly dressed, and the black lace of her large Spanish veil\nwas drawn back from a face like a fresh lily.\n\nShe was instantly addressed as _principessa_ by all the beggars about.\n\n\u201cI am sorry I cannot give you the title, Honora,\u201d her husband said, and\nsmilingly dropped a coin into each outstretched hand. \u201cSo nothing\ndisappoints you? I thought it would be so. Now, we must not linger\noutside.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us go slowly up; and please do not speak to me,\u201d Mrs. Sch\u00f6ninger\nsaid. \u201cNo, I do not want your arm now. I must enter S. Peter\u2019s the first\ntime praying.\u201d\n\nThey went slowly up the ascent, Honora with her hands clasped, and her\neyes dilating as they entered the grand vestibule. Then Mr. Sch\u00f6ninger\nlifted the heavy curtain, and she crossed the threshold.\n\nAt that first step into S. Peter\u2019s a Catholic feels as though he had\ntouched the beating heart of mother church.\n\nThe crowd pressed in; but still another crowd remained outside, keeping\ntheir places for the papal benediction, and listening for the silvery\nburst of trumpets inside which should tell that the risen God stood on the\ncentral altar of Christendom.\n\nAmong this crowd was a group, for which they made way, as it crossed the\npiazza and approached the steps. Yet it was only two poor laborers who\nsupported a sick man between them.\n\nThe thin and transparent face of this invalid, bathed now in the\nperspiration of weakness, showed that he was worn by consumption or by a\nlong and exhausting fever. He was so weak, indeed, that his two assistants\nsupported him in their arms; and when they reached the stone posts at the\nfoot of the steps, he knelt there, and leaned against one of them, almost\ninsensible.\n\nA lady, following closely behind, wet her handkerchief in cologne\u2010water,\nand handed it over his shoulder to one of the men, but did not herself\nspeak to them. He revived a little at that, and, still leaning against the\ncentral post, remained fixed in prayer.\n\nA whisper began to creep among the poor people about. Some of them had\nseen this man, and knew what they conceived to be his story, and they told\nit in intervals of listening to the strains of heavenly music faintly\nheard now and then from the church.\n\n\u201cHe is a penitent,\u201d one whispered, \u201cand has been doing penance here as a\nlaborer, though he is so rich\u2014so rich! Some say that he killed his own\nmother; but who knows? The beautiful _signore_! Look at his face! She must\nhave provoked him; and perhaps she was a very wicked woman. Ah! I could\ntell stories of mothers. They are not all like the blessed Madonna.\u2014There\nare the trumpets! Alleluia! alleluia! Blessed is he who cometh in the name\nof the Lord!\u2014And so this poor _signore_ has been living a hard life, and\nis about to die; and he has come at last to get the Holy Father\u2019s\nblessing. He would not ask for it before. But, indeed, he might, for he is\nas holy as the blessed Labr\u00e9, though he sleeps in a bed and works for his\nliving, instead of begging it. The pale _signora_ who stands behind him is\nhis sister. She has been in Rome all these years, watching over him,\nwithout his knowing it. See! she stands out of his sight now. He worked up\nto a week ago, and then he fell one day in a faint. She was near by, and\ncalled a carriage to take him home. And since then she has had a room in\nthe same house, but told the _padrona_ not to let him know. She is rich,\nfor all her poor clothes. She puts something into every hand that is held\nout to her. See the way she looks at him!\u2014Ah! there they come.\u201d\n\nMass was over, and the crowd in the church came pouring out. It was with\ndifficulty that Lawrence Gerald\u2019s protectors could keep his place in that\npressure. But that he had revived, they could not have done so. With the\nfirst intimation that the moment for which he had so long waited was at\nhand, he had roused himself, and exerted his whole strength. Upright on\nhis knees, with his arms clinging to the post against which he leaned, he\nfixed his eager eyes upon the balcony where the Pope would in a short time\nappear. He saw nothing else, not even two familiar forms and faces\ndirectly in front of him, which he could scarcely have seen even then with\nindifference.\n\n\u201cMy God!\u201d exclaimed Honora Sch\u00f6ninger, and clung to her husband\u2019s arm.\n\u201cLook, Max! It is Lawrence, and he is dying!\u201d\n\nMr. Sch\u00f6ninger drew his wife aside. \u201cIt is no time to recognize him now,\u201d\nhe said. \u201cAnd there is Annette behind him. Poor fellow! poor fellow!\u201d\n\nAnnette pressed close to her husband, ready to catch him if he should\nfall. She knew that he had had an exhausting day. He had risen at early\ndawn to hear Mass and receive communion, though not really able to leave\nhis bed, and had afterwards spent his remaining strength in the first\ncareful toilet he had made for years. After having so long heaped every\nindignity on his own body, to\u2010day he had seemed desirous of treating it\nwith respect as the temple of God. He still wore the dress of the laborer,\nbut his face was shorn of its ill\u2010tended beard, his hair brushed once more\ninto silken waves, and his linen snowy white. And more exhausting than\nthese efforts had been the excitement of mind under which he labored, and\nhis fear lest in some way he should miss the benediction he so longed for.\n\n\u201cI want to be placed directly in front of the balcony,\u201d he had said,\n\u201cwhere I can see the Pope\u2019s face. I shall recognize his face at once. Who\nknows but he may look at me? If he should, then I shall think that at last\nGod looks at me.\u201d\n\nThe crowd hushed itself, as the golden cross came in sight, and after it\nthe crowned and mitred heads, all in white save one. And that one, under\nits glittering tiara, wore a crown of snowy hair dearer to Catholic hearts\nthan gold or jewels. On this central face the eyes of the sick man fixed\nthemselves with a wide and imploring gaze, and his hands stretched\nthemselves out, as if to beg that he might not be forgotten.\n\n\u201cDo not fear!\u201d Annette whispered in his ear. \u201cThe Holy Father knows all\nyour story, and pities you; and there is one standing beside him who will\nremind him that you are here. He will know just where you are.\u201d\n\nTo the waiting and trembling penitent this was like a whisper from his\ngood angel. He associated no other thought with the voice.\n\nThe silence deepened till nothing could be heard but the swift wings of a\nbird flying over the piazza, and the soft \u201czitti! zitti!\u201d of the\nfountains, and the heart that each one in that vast crowd felt beat in his\nbosom.\n\nSurely that mild and blessed face was turned his way! the penitent\nthought. Surely, surely, the Holy Father had looked at him, searching the\ncrowd one instant with his eyes, and finding him!\n\nThen a single voice was heard\u2014the only voice in the universe, it seemed.\n\n\u201cMay the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, in whose power and authority we\nconfide, intercede for us with the Lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cAmen!\u201d chanted the choir, as though the world had found voice.\n\nAgain the single voice:\n\n\u201cThrough the prayers and merits of blessed Mary ever Virgin, of blessed\nMichael the archangel, of blessed John the Baptist, of the holy Apostles\nPeter and Paul, and all the saints, may the omnipotent God have mercy upon\nyou, may all your sins be remitted, and Jesus Christ lead you to eternal\nlife.\u201d\n\n\u201cAmen!\u201d\n\n\u201cIndulgence, absolution, and remission of all your sins, space for true\nand faithful repentance, hearts ever contrite, and amendment of life, may\nthe omnipotent and merciful God afford you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAmen!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd may the blessing of the omnipotent God, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,\ndescend upon you, and remain with you for ever.\u201d\n\n\u201cAmen!\u201d\n\nEvery stain was washed away! Full and strong the blessing flowed, a divine\nriver from the throne of God himself! On its tide were borne away, not\nonly guilt, but the memory of guilt; not only fear, but the remembrance\nthat fear had been. Supported in the arms of his wife and attendants, and\nof the old friends of whose presence he was unconscious, Lawrence Gerald\nlay back with his eyes half closed, and a smile of such peace and ecstasy\non his face as could only come from God. His soul was gliding sweetly away\non the echoes of that last amen.\n\nThe military bands began to play, the guns boomed from Sant\u2019 Angelo, the\nbells of S. Peter\u2019s rang out with a joyful clash on the air, and all Rome\nbroke into music over the resurrection.\n\nAnd there was joy before the angels of God over one sinful soul redeemed.\n\nThe End.\n\n\n\n\nMadame Du Deffand.\n\n\n\u201cMen have died, and worms have eaten them, but not of love,\u201d the poet\ntells us. And women too have died, and worms have eaten them, but not of\n_ennui_, although Mme. du Deffand for nearly fourscore years woke the\nechoes of Versailles and Paris with the pitiful lament: \u201cI am bored! I am\nbored! I am dying of _ennui_!\u201d If she eventually did die of it\u2014which we\nstoutly deny\u2014a malady that took eighty years to kill its victim can hardly\nbe called a very cruel one. The vivacious, gossipping, wearied old lady\ncontrived to extract a very reasonable amount of amusement, even of\nexcitement, out of the existence whose wearisomeness she was for ever\ndenouncing; and it is only fair to add that she contributed a very goodly\nshare of amusement to other people. This renowned heroine and victim of\n_ennui_, Marie de Vichy\u2010Chamroud, was born into this wearisome world in\nthe year of grace 1697, of a noble family of the province of Burgundy. The\nDe Vichy\u2010Chamrouds were richer in parchments than in lands; so it fell out\nthat Marie, young, lovely, accomplished, and teeming with wit, was\ncondemned to marry an old man, and, what was still more terrible, a\nwearisome old man, who had not a single taste in common with her.\nImmediately on leaving the convent where she received what in those days\nwas considered a liberal education, the beautiful young lady was presented\nto her future lord. If she bored herself as a young girl, free and happy,\nand with life before her, what must she have done as the wife of a\nquerulous, stingy old man? All the revenge that was in her power Marie\ntook. She bored her husband as much as he bored her, until at last, in\nsheer desperation, he agreed to give her an annuity, and let her go her\nway without him. As Marquise du Deffand, free and comparatively wealthy,\nthe young wife began a new era. She opened a _salon_ which soon became the\ncentre of the wit and fashion of Paris. All that was eminent in war, arts,\nsciences, literature, and folly came there, and tried to chase away her\neternal _ennui_. Amongst her many admirers, the President H\u00e9nault occupies\nthe most conspicuous place, both from the dignity of his own character and\nthe enduring nature of their mutual attachment. H\u00e9nault was one of the\nmost remarkable men of his time. He was educated by the Oratorians, and\nhad early the inestimable advantage of enjoying the advice, and almost the\nintimacy, of Massillon. He counted the scarcely lesser privilege of early\npersonal acquaintance with the great poet Racine. As soon as he had\ncompleted his studies, young H\u00e9nault was introduced at court, where he at\nonce made a favorable impression. \u201cThis is not to be wondered at,\u201d says a\nchronicler of the times; \u201cfor, in truth, he was a youth of gracious parts,\ngay, witty, amiable, a good musician, and gifted with the art of making\nlight and graceful verses.\u201d While the Duchesse de Maine held her brilliant\ncourt, H\u00e9nault was a constant presence there, and one of its principal\nornaments. He was so universally beloved that it was popularly said of\nhim: \u201cThere is a man who has more friends than he can count, and not a\nsingle enemy.\u201d And this lucky man was the devoted admirer of Mme. du\nDeffand for over fifty years.\n\nHe attained considerable fame as an author, and not the least remarkable\nfeature in his works is that their authorship was vehemently contested,\nnot only during H\u00e9nault\u2019s life, but for many years after his death. Most\nof his books were first published anonymously\u2014a circumstance which, in\ntheir early career, may have explained the doubts concerning their origin.\nBut the _Abr\u00e9g\u00e9 Chronologique_, which H\u00e9nault regarded as his best,\nappeared with the author\u2019s name at the outset, and this, strange to say,\nwas the one which the world refused longest to believe was his, and\npersevered in long attributing to the Abb\u00e9 Boudot. A copy of the book was\nfound, in the _abb\u00e9\u2019s_ own writing, amongst his papers when he died, and\nthis is the only piece of evidence on which H\u00e9nault\u2019s detractors built\ntheir obstinate denial that he was the author of the _Abr\u00e9g\u00e9_. Admitting\nthat this fact looked suspicious, the book itself from first to last bears\nthe stamp of H\u00e9nault\u2019s composition in the most unmistakable manner; the\nchoice of the subject, its style and treatment, all point emphatically to\nhim as the author, while there is abundant explanation of the accidental\npresence of the compromising copy amongst Boudot\u2019s papers. H\u00e9nault was in\nthe habit of employing him to copy out his compositions. Voltaire, in one\nof his letters to the president, recommends the _abb\u00e9_ as a very clever\ncopyist, and also as a useful person to make researches for him at the\nRoyal Library; and Grimm also recommends him for the same purpose,\ninforming H\u00e9nault that Boudot had employment at the library, and was in\ncharge of the literary and historical department. A man who held this\nsubaltern post, and was treated as a mere scribe by such authorities, and\nwho never pleaded guilty to writing even a pamphlet in his life, is, to\nsay the least, a very unlikely person to be the author of such a work as\nH\u00e9nault\u2019s _Abr\u00e9g\u00e9_. Mme. du Deffand and Grimm, who both liked to sharpen\ntheir wits pretty freely at the president\u2019s expense, never for an instant\ndoubted the reality of his authorship, or suspected that any one had had a\nshare in his books.\n\nUnlike so many of his distinguished literary contemporaries, H\u00e9nault was a\npractical Christian. \u201cHis piety,\u201d says the Marquis de Agesson, \u201cwas as\nfree from fanaticism or bitterness as his books were from pedantry.\u201d\n\nMme. du Deffand, who spared her friend on no other points, spared him on\nthis. She never laughed at his religion. On that score alone he was safe\nfrom her irony and sarcasm. She even openly commended him for challenging\nVoltaire\u2019s impious vituperation of the faith; and in her own\ncorrespondence with the infidel philosopher she speaks almost with\nenthusiasm of the clear intellect, the pointed wit, and irresistible\ngoodness of his antagonist. When he was past eighty, H\u00e9nault wrote\nprivately to Voltaire, imploring him, in the most touching terms, to\nretract some of his diabolical satires on religion; and this letter,\nwhich, unhappily, we know remained without effect, was found amongst\nVoltaire\u2019s papers after his death. He, on his side, strove to win over\nH\u00e9nault to the \u201cenlightened school,\u201d and with artful flattery and subtlest\nsophistry urged him to change certain historical passages in the _Abr\u00e9g\u00e9\nChronologique_ which strongly vindicated the influence of Christianity.\nBut the Christian writer withstood these blandishments. In a literary\npoint Voltaire contributed in no small degree to the reputation of\nH\u00e9nault, whose style he praised with creditable candor. It is strange to\nsee the lively and bored old _marquise_ holding steadily the friendship of\nthese widely dissimilar men. Diderot, D\u2019Alembert, and Montesquieu were\nalso _habitu\u00e9s_ of her brilliant _salon_. But none of them could do more\nthan give her momentary deliverance from her life\u2010long enemy\u2014_ennui_. She\nwent on boring herself, in spite of the perpetual cross\u2010fire of _esprit_\nthat the brightest wits of the age kept up around her, and she bored her\nfriends almost to exasperation by the unceasing repetition of the\ncomplaint: _Que je m\u2019ennuie! Que je m\u2019ennuie!_\n\nAt the age of fifty\u2010four a terrible misfortune befell the _marquise_. She\ngrew blind. It was soon after this that she became acquainted with Mlle.\nde l\u2019Espinasse. The sprightliness and the energy of this young girl were\nan immense consolation to Mme. du Deffand, and cheered her for a time in\nthat \u201ceternal night,\u201d as she pathetically described it, in which she now\ndwelt. But they did not agree for long. After living happily together for\nsome few years, they quarrelled and separated. It is impossible to say\nwhose fault it was. Each had violent partisans, who accused the other, but\nproved nothing. Mme. du Deffand was undoubtedly difficult to live with, as\nall people are who draw exclusively on those around them for amusement;\nbut she was old and she was blind, and it is beyond doubt she was a kind\nbenefactress to her young companion, and that, at the moment of\nseparation, she wrote a most touching letter to her, asking forgiveness\nfor all she had done inadvertently to pain her, and urging the young girl\nto remember how cruelly she was afflicted both by blindness and by\n_ennui_. To this Mlle. de l\u2019Espinasse returned a curt and ungracious\nanswer. Nor did she imitate the kindliness of speech of her quondam\nemployer, who always spoke of her ever after their quarrel with the utmost\ngood\u2010nature and forbearance.\n\nJust as her home was resounding to these domestic discords, Mme. du\nDeffand made the acquaintance of Horace Walpole. They were spontaneously\npleased with each other. Mme. du Deffand would have probably been still\nmore so, if she could have foreseen how triumphantly this new friendship\nwas destined to rescue her memory from oblivion. We know more of her and\nher _salon_ through the voluminous correspondence that passed between her\nand that prince of gossips and most brilliant of scribblers than through\nany other source; although she comes in, it is true, for more ridicule at\nhis hands than eulogy. He constantly reproaches her for making him the\nlaughing\u2010stock of Paris and London by her absurd affection, and coarsely\ntells her he does not want to be the hero of a novel where the heroine is\na blind octogenarian.\n\nThis correspondence was published at the beginning of the century, and was\nhailed as a valuable addition to the French literature of that period. On\nreading it, one feels transported into the society of the fascinating\nwomen and accomplished men whom it so cleverly depicts. Mme. du Deffand\npasses in review the authors and actors of her time with a graphic power\nof delineation rarely equalled. Unsparing in her criticism, she is in some\ninstances no doubt too severe, and occasionally even unjust; it is\nnevertheless acknowledged that in her literary judgments she is rarely at\nfault; they are marked throughout by discrimination, taste, and delicacy.\n\nHorace Walpole made Mme. du Deffand\u2019s acquaintance when she had become\nquite blind; on his being presented to her, she drew her hand over his\nface, in order to ascertain whether he was plain or handsome, and what his\nage was. Her touch had acquired such sensitive delicacy in course of time\nthat it enabled her to calculate people\u2019s ages and looks with the greatest\naccuracy. In quite the latter years of her life Mme. du Deffand, who had\nnever been avowedly an unbeliever, although practically so, turned her\nthoughts to religion, and sought in the teaching of the faith those\nconsolations to her _ennui_ that wit and philosophy had failed to secure\nher. She announces this change of sentiment, with her usual frankness, in\none of her letters to Walpole. Her biographers throw but little light on\nthe subject. La Harpe alludes to her having had many interviews with the\ncelebrated Jesuit, F. Lenfant\u2014an episode which is dismissed by Mme. du\nDeffand herself with the remark that \u201cthe P\u00e8re Lenfant was very clever,\nand that she was much pleased with him.\u201d\n\nThe P\u00e8re Lenfant who is thus incidentally introduced to us in the memoirs\nof the lively French woman was one of the countless noble and touching\nvictims of the Revolution\u2014that raging torrent that drowned so many gentle\nvoices in its roar. He was gifted with an eloquence that drew around him\nall the lovers of rhetoric and the most able men of his day. The poet\nYoung heard him, and was so struck by his power and pathos that he\nentreated a Protestant clergyman of his acquaintance to go and hear him;\nthe latter did so, and embraced the faith. Once, on coming out from a\nsermon of the P\u00e8re Lenfant\u2019s, preached at S. Sulpice during Lent, Diderot\nexclaimed to D\u2019Alembert, who had been drinking in every word from\nbeginning to end, with his eyes riveted on the preacher: \u201cIt would be hard\nto hear that man often without becoming a Christian.\u201d\n\nWhen the order of the Jesuits was disbanded in France, the P\u00e8re Lenfant\nwas thrown upon the world. He was then forty\u2010seven years of age. The\ndecree which despoiled him of his religious garb could not rob him of its\nspirit. He continued his good works and his apostolate with fervor and\nwisdom. Several crowned heads tried to win him to their courts, but in\nvain. The son of S. Ignatius held steadily aloof from the tempting snare.\nHe preached indefatigably at all times and places, at Lun\u00e9ville, Vienne,\nVersailles, wherever he was called; and everywhere the great and the\nlearned flocked round his pulpit. His contemporaries describe the effects\nof his eloquence as electrical. He captivated his hearers, not so much by\nthe magnificence of his language, as by the pathos of his voice and the\nforce of his own faith. P\u00e8re Lenfant preached the Lent of 1791 before the\ncourt; but on refusing to take the oath of the clergy to the civil\nconstitution, he was obliged to withdraw. Shortly afterwards he was taken\nprisoner and condemned to death. On being brought before his judges, the\npeople cried out that his life might be spared, and, yielding to the\ncries, his jailers let him go; before, however, he had got free from the\ncrowd, a woman called out: \u201cThere goes the king\u2019s confessor!\u201d At these\nwords the thirst for blood, that had seemed for a moment satiated or\nsuspended, rose up anew. The mob set upon him like tigers. The P\u00e8re\nLenfant uttered only words of love and forgiveness, and, raising his hands\nto heaven, exclaimed: \u201cMy God, I thank thee for allowing me to offer my\nlife for thee, as thou hast offered thine for me!\u201d And with this gracious\nsentence on his lips the Jesuit father fell and expired under the blows of\nthe murderers.\n\nThis little sketch of the Marquise du Deffand would be incomplete without\na passing mention of the author of the _Esprit des Lois_, who was one of\nthe most distinguished of her numerous friends.\n\nHer letters to Montesquieu have been preserved; they are, however, much\nless interesting than those to Walpole, and consequently much less known.\nMme. du Deffand could be a staunch friend, though she was often a trying\none; she proved herself such to Montesquieu. Amongst other good offices,\nshe cleared him from the charge of avarice which was laid at his door so\ngenerally. History revoked the verdict, it is true, but only when the\nsubject of it was gone beyond the reach of earthly rehabilitation.\nMontesquieu\u2019s exceeding modesty and desire to have his benefits known only\nto the recipients was the real, and perhaps the only, cause of his reputed\navarice. One example of his delicate generosity we cannot refrain from\ngiving.\n\nHe was in the habit of visiting Marseilles to see his sister, Mme.\nd\u2019H\u00e9ricourt, who resided there. During one of these visits he happened one\nevening to be lounging on the quay; the weather was sultry, and it\noccurred to Montesquieu that he would take a boat, and have a row on the\nsea. His attention was drawn to a young man who was looking out for a\ncustomer. He hailed him, and got in. As soon as they were out a little at\nsea, Montesquieu perceived that his boatman was a novice at the work, and\nrowed with difficulty. He questioned him, and learned that he was, in\ntruth, a jeweller by trade, and a boatman only on Sundays and holidays, in\norder to gain a trifle towards helping his mother and sisters, who were\nworking to procure 4,000 crowns to ransom his father, who was a prisoner\nat Tetuan. Montesquieu was deeply touched by the story. He made a\nresolution on the spot, but said nothing. Before landing, however, he got\nfrom the boatman his father\u2019s name and the name of his master. On parting,\nhe handed him his purse, and walked away rapidly; great was the delight of\nthe young man, on opening it, to find that it contained sixteen golden\n_louis_.\n\nSix weeks after this the captive suddenly appeared in the midst of his\nwife and children. He saw, by the astonishment mingled with their joy,\nthat it was not to them he owed his liberation; but the surprise and\ngratitude of all were increased on his telling them that not only was his\nransom paid, but likewise his voyage home and his clothing; and, over and\nabove this, a sum of fifty _louis d\u2019or_ had been handed to him on\nstarting. The young boatman no sooner heard this fairy tale than he\nbethought him of the generous stranger who had presented him the purse and\nexpressed such sympathy on hearing of his sorrow. He determined to seek\nhim. For two years he did so, but in vain. The name of the benefactor to\nwhom he and his owed such a sweet and magnificent debt of gratitude\nremained an impenetrable mystery. At last one day, while walking in the\nstreets of Paris, he suddenly encountered Montesquieu face to face; the\nyoung man fell upon his knees, kissed the hand of his benefactor, and\nentreated him to come with him to the home he had blessed, and witness the\njoy that he had brought back to a desolate family. But Montesquieu feigned\nignorance and surprise, declared he knew nothing of what the young man was\ntalking about, and at last, wrenching his hand away abruptly, he\ndisappeared in the crowd, nor did his pursuer succeed in finding him\nagain.\n\nThis action would never have been discovered had not Montesquieu\u2019s\nexecutor found among his papers a memorandum in his own handwriting,\nstating that he had sent 7,500 francs to Mr. Main, an English banker at\nCadiz; on the latter being applied to for information, he replied that he\nhad given that sum, by the order of M. de Montesquieu, for the ransom of a\nman named Robert, a Marseillais, detained as a slave at Tetuan. Inquiries\nwere set on foot, and the Robert family told the rest.\n\nThis touching incident was made the foundation of many dramatic pieces. If\nit did no more than clear a noble character from the unworthy charge of\nheartlessness and avarice, the world would have been the better for its\ndiscovery.\n\n\n\n\nCain, What Hast Thou Done With Thy Brother?\n\n\nBy Ernest Hello.\n\nFrom The Revue Du Monde Catholique.\n\nBy way of preface, I will relate a true story given by F. Agathon, a\npriest of the Monastery of Ruba, and preserved in the _Lives of the\nFathers of the Desert_.\n\nF. Agathon says: \u201cOne day I descended into the valley of Ruba to find the\nholy solitary, F. P\u00e9meu, as I wished to consult him on a subject that\nweighed heavily upon my mind. We conversed until late in the evening, and\nthen he sent me into a cavern to pass the rest of the night. Now, as it\nwas winter, and the cold extreme, I was nearly frozen. The next morning,\nwhen the old man came in to see me, he asked: \u2018How have you passed the\nnight, my son?\u2019\n\n\u201c \u2018Father,\u2019 I answered, \u2018I must say, in truth, I passed a terrible night,\non account of the extraordinary severity of the cold.\u2019\n\n\u201c \u2018And I did not feel it at all,\u2019 he replied.\n\n\u201cThese words filled me with astonishment, as he was nearly naked, and I\nsaid: \u2018I beg of you, father, to tell me how that could have happened.\u2019\n\n\u201c \u2018For the reason,\u2019 he answered, \u2018that a lion came and lay down beside me,\nand kept me warm. But nevertheless, my dear son, I can assure you that I\nshall be devoured by wild beasts.\u2019\n\n\u201c \u2018Why do you say so?\u2019 I asked.\n\n\u201c \u2018Because,\u2019 he replied, \u2018when I was a shepherd in our country (we were\nboth from Galatia), I would have saved the life of a traveller, if I had\naccompanied him; but I did not show him that charity, and he was devoured\nby the dogs. Therefore I shall most certainly meet with a similar death.\u2019\n\n\u201cAnd it really happened as he said. For three years afterwards he was torn\nto pieces by wild beasts.\u201d\n\n\n\nI.\n\n\nDear Marie, cease to think of me; all is ended; I am lost. I do not tell\nyou what will become of me; I know nothing myself. I only know that\nyesterday I received the fatal blow, from which I cannot recover.\n\nI had just finished the last picture, of which I have so often spoke to\nyou\u2014The First Glance. It is the portrait of a young man, who awakens and\nlooks around him, as though he saw everything for the first time.\n\nSome of my friends thought the picture splendid, but added that it would\nnot sell well, as my name was unknown to the public.\n\nAfter innumerable attempts, all equally unfortunate, I showed it yesterday\nto a very rich amateur\u2014Baron de Brienne. He examined the picture, thought\nit remarkable, and then asked if I had often exhibited my pictures.\n\nOn my replying in the negative, his expression changed.\n\n\u201cI thought,\u201d said he, \u201cI did not know your name. You must make yourself\nknown. This picture has great merit, and this sketch also,\u201d he added,\nthrowing a rapid glance at my other picture just commenced\u2014you know it,\nMarie\u2014Cain after his Crime\u2014\u201cbut, in fact, you are not known,\u201d he\nconcluded.\n\n\u201cBut, sir,\u201d I replied, \u201cI am endeavoring to make myself known.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d continued the baron, \u201cyou have talent, that I acknowledge; but I\ndoubt if it is the kind of talent that will be appreciated by the public.\nIf I bought your picture, I would be asked where I found it. As it stands\nthere, it has a certain value; but if you were dead, it would be worth a\nhundred times as much, and perhaps would soon find purchasers, possibly\nmyself among the first. You see I can\u2019t change the world. So it is with\nmen; they will pay the most ridiculous price for objects of art whose\nworth is guaranteed by a signature, but will not bother themselves to talk\nup unknown talent. I,\u201d he added with a happy smile, \u201crecently gave a\nhundred thousand francs for a picture which I do not place above yours;\nbut it was a Murillo! I am a modest man, and always side with the\nmajority. The majority is always right, and, for my part, I am not vain\nenough to think I know more than the entire human race. Make yourself\nknown; everything is in that. Make yourself known; put your pictures in\nthe exhibition; receive medals and decorations. But, above all, die; your\npictures then will be worth so much gold. You see you are talking to a\npractical man, who don\u2019t believe in neglected genius. _Au revoir_,\nmonsieur. You really have talent; more even than that, I do not hesitate\nto say you have genius. _Au revoir_.\u201d\n\nThis, Marie, was my last adventure. All the others were similar. I will\nspare you any further details. I have told you in a few words what in\nreality was a long agony. But despair is brief; it has not the courage to\ndwell on separate facts; it sums up the causes, and only shows the\neffects.\n\nNow, my dear Marie, you know what happened yesterday. The day before there\ncame another gentleman, who had not the time to examine my picture as it\ndeserved. This he explained to me for two hours without looking at the\npicture. He really had no time; for example, every morning he visits his\nstables from ten to twelve, and in the afternoon rows on the lake from\nfour to six.\n\nAs for Baron de Brienne, when he left, he assured me he held my talent in\nthe highest estimation; that he would like to have a gallery of pictures\nall painted by me, as it would probably one day be very valuable; later,\nmy pictures would sell splendidly, and he could make money by the\noperation.\n\nIf there is ever to be a later day for me, I shall find him, when I will\nno longer need him, and he will be the first to show me honor.\n\nAdieu, Marie. I was so sanguine, so buoyed up with hope, it needed all\nthis time\u2014all this precious time, of which these gentlemen had so little\nto waste\u2014to bring me where I am now.\n\nI think the baron saw despair in my face, for he used a singular\nexpression on leaving which I had not provoked by any remark.\n\n\u201cMy dear sir, do not look so dismal and wretched. I am not the Don Quixote\nof budding genius. Make yourself known, make yourself known, and you will\nfind me! But if your courage fails, you will commit blunders and spoil\nyour talent, for which I will not be responsible; like Pilate, I wash my\nhands of you!\u201d\n\nI listened to them going down the stairs.\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d said he to his wife; \u201cyou see for my portrait I must have a\nmaster, a signature.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps,\u201d replied the baroness\u2014\u201cperhaps we have done wrong to discourage\nthe young man.\u201d\n\n\u201cDiscourage? What are you talking about? I told him he had great talent.\nDo you wish to know what I think?\u201d he added, as he stood for an instant\nbefore her. \u201cWhat ruins art in the present day is that it is gorged with\ngold, and that too few men of genius die in the hospital\u2014that is the\nreason!\u201d\n\nAdieu, Marie.\n\n\n\nSomething else was said, which Paul did not hear.\n\nThe baroness paused, as she was about to enter the carriage.\n\n\u201cWell, what is the matter with you?\u201d said her husband.\n\n\u201cI am not very well,\u201d she replied.\n\n\u201cSo much more reason for getting in the carriage. What ails you?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe face of that young man haunts me. Who knows what despair may drive\nhim to? Who knows how terrible may be his hidden suffering? Let us go\nback. I feel as though we had just committed a crime. Let us go back.\nThirty years ago I read a story which I had long forgotten, but that now\nreturns vaguely to my memory as a warning. I no longer remember the whole,\nbut the impression comes back vague and terrible after thirty years. Ah!\nlet us go back.\u201d\n\nThe baron stopped, and laughed immensely.\n\n\u201cHa! ha! Are you crazy? Haven\u2019t I the _right_ to choose the pictures I\nwish to buy? Is there a law which compels me to buy pictures from this\ngentleman? I speak to you very seriously, my dear; such fancies as these\nwill make you crazy. There is a great deal of insanity in our present day.\nLet us take care, let us take care!\u201d\n\n\n\nII.\n\n\nMarie, after reading her brother\u2019s letter, was half frantic with terror,\nas she knew him thoroughly, and understood his bitter despair. She lost no\ntime, but left in the first train. Arrived in Paris, she ran to the little\nhouse in the Quartier Latin where Paul lived. She was too excited to take\na carriage. The rapid walk seemed to soothe her. In the cars she longed\nfor quicker movement; in the street she wished for wings; at the door she\nwould rather have been at the other end of the world. She dared not go up.\nShe stopped, suffocated with the beating of her heart. If it was already\ntoo late\u2014the thought nearly paralyzed her with horror. If she were a\nminute too late!\n\nFinally, when on the stairs, she wept. Then she dared ring.\n\n\u201cI have wept,\u201d she thought; \u201che is saved.\u201d Taught by a long and singular\nexperience, the young girl knew that tears were for her the mysterious and\ncertain sign that her prayer was granted. She rang. A servant\u2010girl,\nwithout speaking, led her to a bed, and uttered a single word\u2014\u201cDead\u201d\u2014and\nthen added: \u201cThe funeral will take place in two hours. He threw himself\ninto the Seine from the bridge of Austerlitz.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is not dead,\u201d said Marie.\n\n\u201cThe registration of the death has been made,\u201d said the woman.\n\nWithout replying, Marie looked fixedly at him, and said to herself:\n\n\u201cHe is not dead. I have wept; he is not dead. Paul!\u201d she called. Silence.\n\u201cPaul!\u201d Silence.\n\nShe seized a mirror, and held it to her brother\u2019s lips. At the moment she\ntook it in her hand she burst into tears. \u201cYou will see that he is saved!\u201d\nshe said.\n\nThe woman thought her crazy. Marie still held the mirror before Paul\u2019s\nlips. Dead silence; her own poor heart nearly stopped\u2014the mirror was\ntarnished!\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n\nSeven years afterwards M. le Baron de Brienne was conversing in a numerous\nand choice circle. It was at a grand dinner. The women were crowned with\nflowers and sparkling with jewels. The conversation turned upon a great\ncrime which had recently been committed, the details of which filled two\ncolumns of every paper. Suddenly the Baron de Brienne became singularly\nagitated, and then, in a voice which he endeavored to keep calm, but whose\ntrembling was still further shown by the effort to subdue it, said:\n\n\u201cIt appears that the police have not yet discovered any trace of the\nassassin.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d replied a guest.\n\n\u201cI believe not,\u201d said another.\n\n\u201cExcuse me,\u201d replied a third person; \u201caccording to the latest accounts,\nthe police, if not positively sure, had at least great hopes.\u201d\n\nThe Baron de Brienne was as white as his napkin. He tried to overcome and\nconceal his excitement, and attempted to eat; but the effort was too\ngreat. He swooned, and fell heavily to the ground.\n\nEvery one rose and crowded around him. Water was thrown in his face, salts\nwere held for him to inhale. The hostess neglected none of the ceremonies\nusual in such cases. Fortunately, there was a physician among the guests.\nEvery attention was lavished upon M. le Baron. His carriage was called,\nand he was taken home.\n\nThe next day he was better; at the end of three days he was well. He made\nthem bring any quantity of papers, and read them to him. Mme. la Baronne,\nwho was the reader, suddenly paused, and said:\n\n\u201cHere is more of the horrid crime of which we were all talking when you\nwere taken ill.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell?\u201d said the baron in a singular tone.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d continued the baroness, \u201cthe murderer has been arrested. But what\na strange interest you take in the affair!\u201d\n\n\u201cI?\u201d replied the baron. \u201cOh! not at all; I can very truly say that. Why do\nyou think otherwise?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause you are so strangely excited whenever the subject is mentioned.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean, talking about my excitement?\u201d he replied. \u201cCan you\npossibly imagine, like those stupid people at dinner the other evening,\nthat this affair interests me in the slightest degree? They were all there\nlooking at me, looking at me ... with eyes ... with eyes.... Are you, too,\ngoing to stare at me now with those eyes ... with those eyes....\u201d\n\nMme. la Baronne rose, and wrote two lines: \u201c_Dear doctor, come\ninstantly._\u201d\n\n\u201cCarry that to the telegraph office,\u201d she said to the servant.\n\n\u201cShe did not count the words,\u201d muttered the man in astonishment, as he\nwithdrew. \u201cIt must be something very serious.\u201d\n\n\n\nIV.\n\n\nThree months had elapsed, and the baron had resumed his ordinary life,\nwhen one evening, in a _salon_ in the faubourg Saint\u2010Honor\u00e9, a gentleman\nremarked, in the course of conversation, that it was astonishing the\nnumber of crimes one daily heard of. And he related the last murder that\nthe daily paper had brought under his eyes.\n\nSaid the baron: \u201cWhy do you make such an assertion? Never were crimes so\nrare as to\u2010day; manners and customs are so much softened, we can almost\nsay there are no longer any criminals. None can be found in the higher\nclass of society; and when we speak of the aristocracy, it means the\nentire nation. Indeed, to speak the truth, I believe very little in the\nwonderful crimes with which the daily journals fill their columns when\nthere is a dearth of political news.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are very incredulous, M. le Baron,\u201d replied the Comte de Sartigny.\n\u201cProbably it is from kindness to the editors that the police seek the\ncriminals, and the courts judge them.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou say,\u201d answered the baron, \u201cthat the police seek the criminals. It is\nfalse, M. le Comte. In the first place, only one is guilty, and the police\nare not hunting him up; he is already found, and he has no accomplice. He\nhas been found, I tell you, he has been found; and the man has no\naccomplice. Perhaps I don\u2019t know it. Ha! ha!\u201d\n\nWhile the baron, pale as death, spoke these words, with terror imprinted\non his face, the count looked steadily at him, and said:\n\n\u201cYou say that I have spoken falsely, M. le Baron? Will you repeat that\nremark? I think those were your words, but perhaps I was mistaken.\u201d\n\n\u201cI only say one thing,\u201d replied the baron, \u201cwhich is, that the criminal\nhas been found and arrested.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut a moment ago you denied the reality of the crime.\u201d\n\n\u201cI only say one thing, M. le Comte: that there is no doubt about the name\nof the assassin.\u201d\n\nThe master of the house took the count by the arm, and led him to the\nrecess of a window....\n\n\u201cAh! very well, very well; I did not know it,\u201d said the count, as he left\nthe room.\n\nWhile they were conversing together, the baron made several vain efforts\nto rise. He experienced the supreme anguish of a man who, while still in\nthe possession of his faculties, feels they are leaving him\u2014of a man who\nhas not fainted, but who is about to faint, and who feels on his brow the\nfirst drops of cold sweat.\n\nThe baroness made her excuses for leaving so early, and, when alone with\nher husband, asked anxiously:\n\n\u201cWhat can be the matter with you?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you too, you too,\u201d he replied, pushing her from him, as he raised his\nblood\u2010shot eyes.\n\n\n\nV.\n\n\n\u201cWe must,\u201d said the doctor, \u201center into his mania, so as to endeavor to\ndiscover the cause. We must make him talk without questioning him. Do you\nknow, madame, in the life of M. le Baron, of any fact that may have left a\ndisagreeable remembrance?\u201d\n\n\u201cDoctor, do you mean a guilty remembrance?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, madame; something terrifying.\u201d\n\nThe baroness thought a long while.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said she, \u201cnot one. Our life has always passed most tranquilly. You\nknow how people of the world live; well, so we live, and have always\nlived. My husband is a quiet man, who has never had a quarrel in his life\nwith any one, and has never done an injury that I know of.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have never seen in the baron any anxiety of conscience?\u201d\n\n\u201cAny anxiety of conscience? He? Why should he have any? He has never in\nhis life done anything to reproach himself with.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe baron,\u201d replied the doctor, \u201chas the reputation of being benevolent\nand kind\u2010hearted. I don\u2019t think he is naturally very imaginative; do you,\nmadame?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all, doctor. I think he is just the contrary. I can even say he\nhas very little faith.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut when and where did you first perceive the commencement of this\nmania?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was one day when nothing strange had happened. Some one had been\nspeaking of a young sculptor, who now is very famous. A friend told us\nthat he owed his success to a rich banker, who had discovered his talents\nby some happy accident, and had aided him with his fortune and influence.\nWhen our guests had left, and we were alone, I thought he would kill\nhimself; as now, without the slightest reason.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn his daily life does he show any eccentricity of which I am yet\nignorant?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot precisely eccentricity,\u201d said Mme. de Brienne. \u201cHis tastes have\nchanged very much, but that cannot be called eccentricity. He formerly\nspent quite a fortune in purchasing pictures, of which he has a very fine\ncollection, that he admired extravagantly; now he never looks at them. But\nhe has always been rather fickle.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoes he talk in his sleep?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; but one morning (now that you make me think of it) he awoke terribly\nfrightened at a dream. \u2018Ah! what a dream I have had,\u2019 he said to me. His\nface looked worn and haggard, and, as I begged him to relate it, he turned\naway his eyes, and refused peremptorily. I insisted, but he kept silent,\nand I have never been able to make him relate it.\u201d\n\nThe doctor reflected.\n\n\u201cPerhaps that is the whole secret,\u201d said he. \u201cBut if we were to ask him\nabout it now, probably to\u2010morrow we would be obliged to confine him.\u201d\n\n\u201cConfine him?\u201d cried the baroness. \u201cDo you think him so seriously\naffected?\u201d\n\n\u201cVery seriously, madame, and more so as he is perfectly sane in relation\nto other affairs. His mania is confined to one point, and is what we call\nhallucination. My duty compels me to tell you, madame, that it is a case\nwhere science up to the present time has been very unsuccessful.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, doctor, never was there a man less crazy. As for the pictures, which\nwas the only passion I ever knew him to have, he prided himself on never\nhaving done a foolish thing; he only bought pictures of known value, with\nthe signatures of the artists fully guaranteed. I, for instance, who am\nspeaking to you, would have sometimes acted more unwisely than he. I\nremember once he even refused....\u201d\n\n\u201cNevertheless,\u201d interrupted the doctor, \u201cthe case is very serious.\u201d\n\nThe baron was alone in his room. His wife listened attentively at the\ndoor, and watched him through the key\u2010hole. He raised the curtains, shook\nthe cushions on the sofa, searched around, and, when convinced that he was\nalone, spoke in a low voice; but his wife caught his words.\n\n\u201cNo one suspects me. No one, not even she; and yet everything should warn\nthem, everything.... The circumstances that accompanied the act are\nreproduced every instant. For example, the clouds in the sky have nearly\nalways the same form as at that moment.... The clouds do it purposely;\nthey have assumed since that day certain positions always the same. What\ndo they resemble? What I do not wish to say, but I know well since my\ndream. Oh! that dream.... I am cold, frozen. Why is it no one ever speaks\nto me of that dream; that no one in this house remembers it? And yet they\nwere all there ... in the dream.... My wife was there, and the other one\nalso,\u201d he added, lowering his voice.\n\nAnd after a silence, occasionally broken by unintelligible words, and\njoined to a strange pantomime, he continued:\n\n\u201cIt was frightful. How that man struggled for his life!\u201d\n\nAnd speaking always lower and lower, the baron gasped out:\n\n\u201cHe clung to me, and, when I pushed him into the water, an expression\npassed over his face such as was never seen but then in this world. It was\nnear the bridge of Austerlitz. How he glared at me as he disappeared the\nlast time! How is it that in the street the passers\u2010by do not say on\nseeing me, \u2018There is the man, there he is\u2014the man who had the dream\u2019? But\nwas it a dream or reality? Men often pass me quickly in the street. Who\nknows but that they know or see something?\u201d\n\nThe baron walked around the room, greatly excited, and then, pausing, he\nsighed, and said in a mournful tone:\n\n\u201cHow do other men act\u2014those who are not followed? They can take a step\nwithout hearing behind them another step that goes quicker or slower,\naccording as they walk. Then there are men who do not hear steps behind\nthem as they walk. Yet I always seek the noisiest places; but no noise\never deadens the sound of that step, so faint but so invincible. The noise\nof carriages, the roar of cannon\u2014I have tried everything.... If possible I\nwould live amidst thunder; but the lightning might fall near me, and cover\nme with ruins; still should I hear that faint, almost imperceptible noise,\na foot that just touches the ground. I am cold! How cold it is! Fire no\nlonger warms me! How lightly that foot touches the ground. It does not\npress heavily like ours. No, decidedly not; it was no dream\u2014it was\nreality. That foot never is tired; but when I stop, it stops. It has a\ncertain manner of stopping that makes me always feel that it is there, and\nthat it will resume its walk when I do mine. Sometimes I would rather hear\nit, and I walk to make it walk; when it is silent, its menace is to me\nmore terrible than the sound of the step.... If it would only change\nplace!... But, no; always at an equal distance from me. Ah! how cruel. If\nI could but see some one, I think the most horrible spectacle would be\nless terrifying than this dreary void. To hear and not see!\u201d\n\nHere the baron rapidly jumped backwards, and put out his hand as though to\ngrasp something in the air, then exclaimed:\n\n\u201cGone! He has escaped\u2014escaped, as ever!\u201d\n\n\n\nVI.\n\n\nThe course of the baron\u2019s ordinary life flowed on as smoothly as ever.\nNothing was changed, and those who were not much with him perceived no\ndifference; to them he was the same as heretofore.\n\nThe following summer he wished to go to the sea\u2010shore.\n\nThey left for Brittany. They spoke of the pleasant walks and drives, and\nthe baron, in an absent manner, asked on which part of the coast was the\nmost sand. He would not hear of the cliffs; he wanted sand\u2014only sand.\nG\u00e2vre was recommended by a gentleman who was seated near them at the\n_table d\u2019h\u00f4te_.\n\nThe baron instantly decided upon going to G\u00e2vre.\n\n\u201cAt what hour shall we leave?\u201d asked the baroness.\n\nThe _we_ evidently displeased the baron. He wished to go alone. He gave a\nthousand pretexts to prevent his wife accompanying him. As she would not\nadmit them, he said, contrary to his usual custom, \u201cI will\u201d ... \u201cI wish to\ngo alone,\u201d said he. \u201cAm I in prison? Do you take me for a criminal?\u201d\n\nThe baron left Port Louis in the steamboat. His wife followed him, without\nbeing seen, on another boat, and watched his movements through a spy\u2010\nglass, as he paced up and down the shore at G\u00e2vre.\n\nFirst, according to his usual custom, he assured himself that he was\nalone. Then he would take several steps, and return quickly, seeing\nnothing; he searched in the sand, and, finding his own footsteps, he\nsought a little further on the trace of the _other_ one. All in vain.\nDisappointed, he went to another spot, and recommenced his weary walk,\nalways seeing his own footprints, never the _other_. He had hoped in the\nsand; the sand had proved false, as everything else.\n\n\n\nVII.\n\n\nMeanwhile, the doctor was in Paris, and one evening in a _salon_ in the\nfaubourg Saint Germain. The conversation was on madness; and the doctor,\nwho was a celebrated _alieniste_, was asked many questions as to the\ncauses of insanity.\n\n\u201cThe causes of insanity,\u201d said he, \u201care so profound and mysterious that to\nknow them one must make the tour of the invisible world.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have known,\u201d said one gentleman, \u201cinsane persons who thought themselves\nguilty of crimes which they had never committed\u2014innocent men, intelligent\nand good, incapable of harming a bird, and who thought themselves\nassassins.\u201d\n\nAmong the guests that evening was a famous artist, M. Paul Bayard, whose\nmost admired works, The First Glance, and Cain after his Crime, ranked\nwith the _chefs\u2010d\u2019\u0153uvre_ of the greatest masters of the day.\n\nSaid M. Bayard: \u201cI have not studied, like you, doctor, from life. I don\u2019t\nknow any insane persons, and what I am going to tell you is not founded on\nfact. But this is what I think about this strange remorse felt by innocent\npeople: who knows if they may not have committed _spiritually_ the crime\nof which they think themselves guilty _materially_? In this hypothesis\nthey have completely forgotten the real and spiritual crime, which they\ncommitted really and spiritually; they did not even know or feel it at the\ninstant they committed it. But this crime real, spiritual, and forgotten\nis transformed, by virtue of madness, into a material crime, of which they\nare innocent, but of which they believe themselves guilty. Perhaps a man\nhas betrayed his friend; instead of accusing himself of this treason, he\naccuses himself of another fault which resembles that one, as the body\nresembles the soul. I repeat, I cannot cite an example. It is purely\nhypothetical; but something which I cannot define makes me think it\npossible, nay, even probable. The guilty person deceived his conscience;\nconscience in turn deceives him. To make a child understand, we give\nexamples of sensible things. Perhaps justice thus acts with these men,\nand, finding them insensible in the sphere of the mind, transports their\ncrime into the sphere of the body.\n\n\u201cPerhaps it is a real crime, but too subtle to be understood by them, that\ndescends to their level, and pursues them under the appearance of an\nexternal and sensible crime, the only one which they can understand. There\nare whimsical scruples which resemble madness, as exaggeration resembles\nfalsehood. Who knows if these scruples are not the wanderings, or, if you\nprefer it, the transpositions of remorse? I say _remorse_. I do not say\nrepentance, for repentance enlightens, and remorse blinds. Between\nrepentance and remorse there is an abyss: the first gives peace, the\nsecond destroys it. Perhaps conscience, not being able to make itself felt\nby the guilty person on its own ground, speaks to him, by way of revenge,\nin language as coarse as himself, on his own domain. Through a terrible\njustice, it makes him reproach himself with what appears unjust on the\nsurface, but which is a thousand times just at the bottom. Conscience,\nwhich spoke in vain at the moment of the crime, now arms itself against\nthe criminal as a phantom. We are men here to\u2010night, as we appear to each\nother; but who knows if we are not for some one somewhere, at this moment,\nphantoms?\u201d\n\nThe doctor rose, and, taking the artist\u2019s hand, said: \u201cI do not know how\nmuch truth there may be in your theory. I only know one thing: that you\nare a man of genius, and, if I had doubted it before, I am now convinced\nof it. I will reflect on your words; they open to me a new horizon.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have always been pursued by the thought,\u201d said the artist, \u201cthat there\nis a moment when a man understands for the first time what he has seen\nsince his infancy. It is the day when the eyes of the mind open. It is\nthis I have attempted to show in my picture\u2014The First Glance. But as the\nhorizon is constantly enlarging, I endeavor to throw upon everything, each\ntime, a look which I may call The First Glance. In the other composition,\nCain after his Crime, I wished to show in Cain, not the melodramatic\nassassin, but a vulgar, common man. The _stigmata_ of anger, of which he\nreceived the visible mark, opens to him the eyes of the soul. He throws\nupon his crime a first glance. There are spiritual Cains whose arms are\ninnocent. Perhaps there may be some among the insane, of whom we have\nspoken; and in that case there is more truth in their madness than in\ntheir previous security. Their insanity only deceives them about the\nnature of the crime; their security deceived them about the crime itself.\u201d\n\nThe doctor was thoughtful. He took the artist aside, and in a low tone\nsaid: \u201cShall we leave together?\u201d And they left.\n\nAfter their departure the conversation turned on what had just been said.\n\n\u201cWere you always a materialist?\u201d asked one person of his neighbor.\n\n\u201cIt is scarcely fair or generous to choose this moment for such a\nquestion,\u201d was the reply.\n\n\u201cAs for me,\u201d said a young lady, \u201cI don\u2019t like to hear M. Bayard talk. He\nis a great artist\u2014that I admit; but when he commences in that style, he\nworries me!\u201d\n\n\u201cWould it be indiscreet, madame, to ask you why?\u201d timidly inquired a young\nman with a badly\u2010tied cravat.\n\n\u201cBecause I am afraid he is right in his opinions. I wish to pass gaily\nthrough life; and if we believe what he says, life would be such a serious\naffair, we should have to think. Really, to hear him, we can imagine\nourselves surrounded with mysteries.\u201d\n\n\n\nVIII.\n\n\n\u201cI wish to see and study your picture of Cain. I was going to say your\nportrait of Cain,\u201d said the doctor to the painter; \u201cfor it seems to me\nthat you must have known him personally, from the manner in which you have\nspoken to me of him.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps I have known him,\u201d said Paul. \u201cAt any rate, come!\u201d And they\nentered the studio.\n\nArrived before the picture, the doctor started back in surprise.\n\nThe portrait of Cain was that of the baron, horrible in the resemblance.\n\nThere was on that face the coldness of the criminal and the horror of the\ncursed. The coldness did not impair the horror, nor the horror the\ncoldness; and from the mouth of Cain the spectator might expect to hear\nthe words that S. Bridget heard from the mouth of Satan when he said to\nGod:\n\n\u201cO Judge! I am coldness itself.\u201d\n\nIndifference and despair were in those eyes, on those lips, and on that\nbrow. But the despair was not heartrending, for repentance was wanting,\nand this despair even appeared expiatory, like justice eating its bread.\n\nThe doctor remained a long while motionless. The horizon opened before his\neyes. His science sought new depths. He did not precisely reflect, but he\nremembered, and, perhaps for the first time in his life, passed an hour in\nprofound contemplation.\n\n\u201cSo you know him?\u201d said he at last to Paul.\n\n\u201cWhom do you mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, my patient!\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know any of your patients.\u201d\n\nProfessional discretion arrested the name before it passed the doctor\u2019s\nlips.\n\n\u201cBut, really,\u201d said he, \u201cthis head is a portrait. You could not have drawn\nit by chance.\u201d\n\n\u201cNeither one nor the other,\u201d replied Paul. \u201cNo one sat for me, and I did\nnot draw it by chance. It appears to me, when I work, certain faces are\noffered to me without forcing themselves upon me. I perceive them\ninteriorly; for my eyes are closed and I see nothing. Perceive is not the\nproper word, for the sense of sight is not needed. If I perceive them, it\nis with an unknown sense which is not that of sight, and in a peculiar\ncondition, in comparison with which wakefulness is profound sleep. I think\nthese perceptions correspond with some reality, either distant or future,\nwhose photographic likeness at that moment passes before the eyes of the\nmind.\n\n\u201cThis faculty, which may be called natural inspiration, has never\nabandoned me. The aptitude to surmise what I do not know is the highest\nform of the activity of my mind, and not only do I surmise what I do not\nknow, but very often I do it, I realize it, without intention and without\nknowledge. It is as though I were an actor in a drama of which I was\nignorant. I recite a part in a play that I do not know, and whose title\nand plot are equally unknown.\n\n\u201cYet I feel myself free, and the profound sentiment of my liberty bursts\nforth, above all, in the remembrance of my faults. I wished to die, but\ndeath did not want me. I have sometimes asked myself if, having wished to\nlose my life, I might not lose inspiration, which would be for me a subtle\nand cruel manner of death. It has seemed to me that the question has been\nagitated somewhere, and that inspiration, which has compassion on the\nweak, came back to me gratuitously. If I had been criminal from malice, it\nwould have abandoned me, perhaps, or have become in me the auxiliary of a\nfuture crime. It might have refused to help me, or have assisted me in\ndoing wrong.\u201d\n\n\n\nIX.\n\n\nShortly after this interview the baron returned to Paris, apparently\ncalmer than usual.\n\n\u201cHe is much better,\u201d said Mme. la Baronne. \u201cThe doctor alarmed me\nterribly; but I knew very well in reality there was no danger. My husband\nis a cold man, and I have nothing to fear for his reason.\u201d\n\nThe following night the baron waited until the house was quiet, and then\nwent on tiptoe, as though afraid of being surprised or disturbed. Once\nsafely in his picture gallery, he cut each of the pictures with a\npenknife, and then one by one burst them open by placing his knee against\nthe canvas; and, that accomplished, left the house toward morning. The\nporter saw him pass, but did not recognize him.\n\n\u201cWho is that old man,\u201d said he to his wife, \u201cwho passed the night in the\nhouse?\u201d\n\nThe baron\u2019s hair, black the night before, was white as snow.\n\nThey waited for him at breakfast, they waited for him at dinner; he did\nnot return. In searching his papers his wife found a note containing these\nwords:\n\n\u201cThis time I will not escape; the police are on my track.\u201d\n\nSaid madame: \u201cI always feared some misfortune would happen to me.\u201d\n\nThe next day the baron\u2019s body was found in the Seine under the bridge of\nAusterlitz.\n\n\u201cI am much distressed, but not astonished,\u201d said the doctor to madame. \u201cI\nalways thought his madness absolutely incurable.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! doctor, he destroyed all the pictures. I have not even his portrait.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou shall have it, madame,\u201d said the doctor.\n\nEight days afterwards the doctor kept his promise. He brought the baroness\na photograph.\n\nMadame de Brienne was profoundly agitated, and nearly fainted.\n\n\u201cOh! what a resemblance,\u201d she gasped, \u201cwhat a resemblance! Doctor, how was\nit done? This is not natural. It is not his portrait, it is himself. He is\ngoing to speak. I am afraid!\u201d\n\nThere was horror in the astonishment of the poor woman. She threw upon her\nhusband and herself a first glance.\n\n\u201cBut tell me, doctor, where did you find it?\u201d\n\n\u201cAllow me to keep the secret, madame.\u201d\n\nIn reality, the thing was very simple: they had only photographed the\npicture of the great artist\u2014Cain after his Crime.\n\n\n\n\nThe Legend Of Vallambrosa.\n\n\nAn ancient myth like ivied vesture clings\nAbout fair Vallambrosa\u2019s cloistered walls,\nTelling that \u2019neath the roof sweet charity\nHas spread her soft, warm draperies within\nWhat time eight circling centuries have traced,\nIn memories gray and green, her blessedness.\n\nOf the fair, nestling valley here to sing,\nWith sweet\u2010strung choice of cadenced synonymes,\nCould better music hold the ear, to note\nIts silver\u2010dropping streams and shadowy dells\nThan that wherewith Italia christened it,\nCalling it _Aqua\u2010Bella_, or the _Val\u2010Ambrosa_, liquid\u2010toned and clear? No\n            ripple,\nMethinks, of happier tones or tenderer hues\nCould voice its lapsing falls and verdant vales\nThan lives within such naming!\n          Hither came\nLong years agone\u2014long years before the years\nThat gave the legend birth\u2014a prayerful priest,\nBearing the cross where untamed beast and bird,\nAlone frequenting, poured in wildest notes\nThe praise for life which lowest life uplifts!\nAnd here, as ever, man\u2019s triumphant voice\nLeaped up above the brute\u2019s, beseeching heaven\nTo consecrate with holy dews, and bless,\nThe heights which, cycles later, cradling held\nThe hermitage of one so famed; and grew,\nAs seed luxuriant in rich soil _will_ grow,\nBecause all teeming life must needs expand,\nThese walls of generous hospice that outstretch\nTheir sheltering arms to weary travellers.\n\nIf it be true, as we have often heard,\nThat lukewarm sinners make but lukewarm saints,\nPerhaps the converse proof we hold in hand;\nFor, mark! once lived in Florence, of the proud\nGualberto house, one heir to all its pride,\nGiovanni named\u2014_he_ this same sinner\u2010saint.\n\nQuickened by summers of some eighteen years,\nAnd flushed by southern suns to fervid warmth\nOf life impetuous, his youthful form\nBore stamp already of the venturous will\nOf a gay, dashing cavalier outgiven\nTo heedless coursings in the round of sense.\nAnd yet there dwelt adeep within his breast\nA living well of tenderness that flowed\nIn gentle care for Hubert, his beloved\nAnd only brother.\n          Hubert (a twelvemonth\nScarce younger) stood between his tempted soul\nAnd much that might have swayed it past recall\nOver the margin of sin\u2019s dread abyss.\n\u2019Twas not that Hubert was a chastened saint,\nBut love within the brother\u2019s ardent soul\nInvested him with raiment pure and white\u2014\nLove holding from assoil the fabric fine\nItself had wove, and still will choose to weave\nSo long as life is life, or love is love.\nThus, when unto Giovanni came a dawn\nThat kindled to a conscious glow of health\nHis own quick pulse, yet, warming, failed to melt\nThe frozen current in pale Hubert\u2019s veins,\nBecause those veins had felt the frigid touch\nOf steel in duelling combat, there arose\nWithin his anguished heart a stern demand\nAgainst the murderer of life for life\u2014\nAn unrelenting thirst of blood, to quell\nThe ghostly phantoms of his fevered brain,\nAnd satisfy with feast of sweet revenge\nHis brother\u2019s manes.\n          On one Good\u2010Friday morn,\nFollowed by armed retainers, and slow bent\nUnto San Miniato to attend\nHigh Mass, in faithfulness to Hubert\u2019s soul,\nHe met unwittingly within a pass\nThat leads to the Basilica this man,\nOf all men hated most. Close, face to face,\nSpell\u2010bound they stood a moment\u2019s span; then flashed\nFrom out Giovanni\u2019s sheath his gleaming sword,\nAnd by its glittering sign with one will rose\nFrom every trusty scabbard near at hand\nSharp kindred swords that gleamed defiant fire\nInto the bright\u2019ning day, and in _his_ face\nWho stood unarmed, alone.\n          The unsheathed sword\nOf pitiless Giovanni had well\u2010nigh\nIts rueful deed of deadly wrath made sure\nWhen he, the helpless foe confronted thus\nBy certain death, saw in death\u2019s pallid light\nThe spectre of his sin as it must seem\nTo disembodied spirits, and he fell\nProne, horror\u2010stricken, at the avenger\u2019s feet.\nThere, graving on the ground with level arms\nThe crucial sign, he prayed for pardoning grace,\nAnd grace of lengthened days for penitence,\nAnd all in name of Him whose agony\nUpon the cross he thus in dust recalled!\n\nThe sword is stayed, and in the tremulous pause\nGreat waves of varying passions meet\nAnd battle in Giovanni\u2019s breast. Through all\nA voice, as of faint music o\u2019er the din\nOf tumult, whispers: \u201c_Who loveth brother more_\n_Than me, or any loved one more than me,_\n_Is all unworthy of me._\u201d Quick, with ever\nConquering motions of the Spirit\u2019s power,\nAs winds of peace the passionate waters calm,\nHis sword is dropped, and, offering helpful hands,\nHe cries: \u201cThou who hast slain my brother be\nAs Christ doth will\u2014a brother unto me.\u201d\n\nO\u2019erwhelmed with gratitude, and filled with deep\nContrition for his sin, the uplifted foe\nLets fall his head upon Giovanni\u2019s neck,\nAnd there with loosened torrent of remorse\nHe pours the unguent of his tears, as once\nAnother penitent poured costly balm\nUpon the Holiest One, growing therefrom\nThrough mercy\u2019s twofold grace to peace and joy.\n\nWhile yet the day was young, the legend tells\nHow both these humbled, contrite cavaliers\nOffered their thanks for comfort at the shrine\nWhither their steps together now were led;\nAnd how, while kneeling at the crucifix,\nBroke from the Saviour\u2019s parted lips a smile\nUpon Giovanni, while the sacred head\nIn gracious token bowed.\n          O crowning joy!\nToo much to halo one poor human brow,\nAnd not the radiance divine extend\nTo others all unconscious, even as once\nHimself had been of its illumining might!\nHenceforth no other smile was aught to him\nIf for a passing moment it could hide\nThe memory of that glory from his eyes.\n\nHenceforth the impulse of his life was one\nDeep, passionate desire to shadow forth,\nIn the best shadowy way a mortal can,\nThe glowing flame of beatific fire\n_That_ hallowed smile had kindled in his soul.\nAnd thence so perfect was his Godward walk\nThat scarce five summers of devoted life\nWere added to his eighteen worldly years\nBefore San Miniato\u2019s brotherhood\nDecreed him to its abbacy. But, no!\nNor stole nor triple crown had charm for one\nToo wholly Christ\u2019s to care for stole or crown,\nSave for that lustrous crown of ransomed souls\nHis earnest life might win to shine as stars.\nFor _this_ to Vallambrosa\u2019s lonely height\nIn rapt and silent vigil he withdrew;\nBut even as sweetness bursts the seedling\u2019s cell,\nSo holiness from him exhaled in light\nThat drew, to seek his counsel, devotees\nLed faithfully by his unswerving faith\nTo live with him a life of prayer and praise.\nOr, if they came not cowled as lowly monks,\nStill hither fared the noble of the land,\nEven kings whose purple paled beside his gray,\nAnd royal ladies and most knightly knights,\nTo pour their wealth of treasure at the feet\nOf one all saintly.\n          Thus the order grew\nOf world\u2010famed Vallambrosa, where to\u2010day\nThe weary find repose and welcoming cheer,\nAnd benison of heavenly graciousness.\nAnd thus of one soul\u2019s overflow of light\nThe Saviour\u2019s smile is seen in saving love\nTo stream adown the ever\u2010widening years\nThat close and closer bring us to the day\nOf promised joy, when all our utmost need\nShall in that glorious smile be satisfied.\n\n\n\n\nOdd Stories. VIII. Snifkin.\n\n\nThere certainly was a time when dogs were more respected than now. Such a\nperiod in particular must have been the reign of Gigag, when the Odomites,\nwho had once kicked, maimed, and starved their poor curs in a manner\ninhuman, now fed and fondled them with an affection that was almost\ncanine. This revolution in sentiment was entirely due to what may be\ncalled a genius of instinct possessed by one extraordinary dog. His owner,\nwho was none other than the goblin Gigag, had, in one of those journeys\nwhich he sometimes took through his underground thoroughfare, named his\nfour\u2010footed companion, with a fond conceit, Snifkin; and when they emerged\ninto the atmosphere of the king\u2019s grounds, the latter was allowed the\nchief place at supper among the royal dogs. Some of this many\u2010colored pack\nwere wont to bark, as others were to bite. Some were renowned for scent\nand vigilance, and others for speed and courage; still others for motley\nskins, lapping lips, great ears, and yelling, yelping, and howling. But\nthe dog Snifkin united their best qualities with a sagacity that was\nalmost diplomatic. He never barked till he was prepared to bite, and he\nsometimes bit without barking. He had a scent and sight which are only\nacquired by dogs who have seen a great deal of human nature. So various\nand cabalistic seemed the marks and colors upon him, that the vulgar\nascribed them to the science of Gigag rather than to natural revelation.\nTo crown all, the dog Snifkin showed his ivory teeth at times, sneezing,\nsnorting, and laughing in a way next to human for its friendliness.\n\nFrom a number of the faculties described arose two incidents which\nincreased the fame and worth of all dogs, and which no man can\nsufficiently admire. A miser, in whom the sagacious Snifkin recognized a\nformer oppressor of his kind, came to plead his cause at court, alleging\nhis ownership of four hundred and ninety\u2010five thriving estates, and\nprosecuting his poor nephew for about as many cents. At a contrast so\npreposterous the knowing dog could not contain himself, and sniffed,\nsnorted, and showed his teeth to such a degree that even his royal master,\nat whose side he sat during the hearing of the plea, was forced to join in\nthe general guffaw which greeted the miser.\n\nAnother incident related chiefly to one of four malcontent noblemen, who,\nwith bows and smiles, came to the royal presence. With no more ado the dog\nSnifkin jumped at his throat, bringing him to the foot of the king, when a\nconcealed bodkin fell out of his bosom, and a number of poisons, which\nGigag recognized as badly prepared, were strewn upon the floor. Without a\nword the king understood why it was that his dumb counsellor had not taken\nsoup that day. While irons were being placed on the limbs of the\nmalcontents, a collar made of the finest cloth of gold, adorned with\nprecious stones, was put upon the neck of the loyal dog. By sovereign\norder it was decreed that, taking with him all the dogs in the kennels of\nthe palace, the crown crier should go out and cry to all the people the\npatriotism of Snifkin, and the fidelity of dogs generally.\n\nBut it would require a million miracles to convince those whose unreason\nhas placed them nearest to the brutes, that dogs and other animals, human\nand inhuman, exist for the trying and proving of the souls of men. As\nSnifkin was one day seated in the high easy\u2010chair of the barber who\nclipped and shaved for the king\u2019s dogs, a commotion in the street provoked\nhim to bark loudly, hazarding thereby the loss of his nose at the hands of\nthe barber. Arrived in the street, what was his surprise to see fifty of\nthe royal hounds yelping in the most distressful manner over the loss of\nhis tail by the chief hound, who had provoked by impudent barking a\nslashing cut from the sword of a cavalier, who, it came to be known, was a\nconspirator against the life of King Gigag. Not being able to contend with\nswordsmen, Snifkin quickly seized upon the largest and finest specimen of\nthe breed of curs who barked against the king\u2019s hounds, and made short\nwork of him.\n\nThis act, loyal though it was, became the signal for that factious state\nof feeling among the Odomites which eventuated in the famous war of tails.\nMost of the best dogs belonging to the houses which barked against the\nking having had their tails cut off, it grew to be a fashion with the\nmalcontents of the realm to reject everything with a tail to it, even were\nit a shirt, or an entailed estate not already owned and occupied by one of\ntheir number, or a story which was not to be continued. In fact, it became\na question whether they would give ear to any tale whatever, and hence it\nwas truly said of the malcontent faction that their ears were longer than\ntheir tails. Of course the scientific king lost no time in improving the\nsituation; indeed, of putting an end to it. He trained a pack of dogs,\nunder the teaching of Snifkin, to scent out treason, and, when that was\ndone, he managed to give the hydrophobia to a large number of rebellious\ncurs, who afterwards bit their masters. The dog Snifkin barked against\nthis measure in vain.\n\nA war now broke out, assisted by the prince of a neighboring country, who\nhad conceived a great hatred of the goblin Gigag. It was the habit of the\nroyal dogs to discover supplies to their masters, and guard their camp at\nnight, and, besides, to indicate in what direction were the princely\nheadquarters and trains of the enemy, which they knew by the smell of many\nviands.\n\nThe same, perhaps, would have been the practice of those dogs without\ntails who barked for the malcontents and their ally, were it not that the\npoor fare they received compelled their flight to the better provisions of\nthe enemy. Nevertheless, it would have gone hard with King Gigag if his\nrival\u2019s device of drawing off the dogs by a concentration of savory meats\nin an ambushed ravine had succeeded; for the king, had it not been for the\nsagacity of Snifkin, would certainly have gone to the dogs. Despairing now\nof being able to foil their antagonists, the allies heard with growing\ndismay the general bark and howl in the king\u2019s camp at night ere his\nwarriors slept upon their arms. Only a low growl here and there, or\nperhaps the voice of some lonely hound who had strayed out of camp to bay\nthe moon, broke the silence of the sleep of war.\n\nWhile thus the silent avalanche was prepared that was to overwhelm the\nallies in the carnage of civil strife, a most unforeseen accident\noccurred. King Gigag was on his rounds through the camp when a dog taken\nwith hydrophobia bit him in the leg. Returning mad to his headquarters, he\nsaw the dog Snifkin laughing and wagging his tail, and, frenzied by the\nsight, he drew his sword, and at once cut off the whole of that pleasant\nappendage. Immediately the dog Snifkin became the most beautiful young\nprince you ever saw. Seizing an enchanted blade that hung up in the tent\nof the goblin, he defended himself with fury, and by an artful stroke put\nthe unlucky Gigag out of his pains. When it became known throughout both\ncamps that King Gigag had cut off the tail of the dog Snifkin, a\nreconciliation grew apace between those dogs who had tails and those dogs\nwho had none; and, indeed, the royal hounds especially were anxious to\nhave their tails cut off, so that they might turn at once into princes;\nbut, unfortunately, this result never happened, two of these dogs at least\nhaving been curtailed, to their great shame and mortification, without so\nmuch as becoming scullions, or anything but unlucky dogs. It was then seen\nby the Odomites that the dog Snifkin was none other than their long\u2010lost\nPrince Gudood, who would have been devoured by the giant Googloom, had not\nthe goblins got hold of him and changed him into a dog; in which character\nhe served the excellent goblin Gigag, who, however, was not made aware of\nhis identity by the evil goblins from whom he had escaped. By means of a\nbirthmark on his right arm the allied lords were speedily brought to\nunderstand that this, indeed, was the long\u2010lost prince who had been\naffianced to the daughter of the neighboring king. And now with one heart\nand soul they hastened the marriage of the prince and princess, who ever\nafterwards lived happily in the joy and glory and union of both kingdoms.\nIn the magnificent bridal procession nothing was more astonishing than the\nthousand trained dogs of all kinds, large and small, who marched in order,\nclad sometimes in variegated suits, and wearing rich collars. First came\nthe royal hounds and mastiffs; second, a fine breed of mountaineer dogs as\nlarge as wolves; third, two or three hundred pointers, spotted all colors;\nfourth, as many setters, their backs streaked with colors like gold and\nsnow; fifth, a battalion of mixed red, white, and blue dogs; sixth, a body\nof sky\u2010terriers, followed by the finest array of black\u2010and\u2010tan dogs that\nwas ever known; sixth, a large number of dogs who looked like nothing so\nmuch as walking hearth\u2010rugs; seventh, a noble lot of shaggy water\u2010dogs as\nlarge as men; then a great many shepherd\u2010dogs, spaniels, poodles, pups;\nafter these a battalion of dogs shaved to look like lions; and finally a\nrear\u2010guard of bull\u2010dogs with their tails cut off, walking as steadily as\nfiremen on parade. A loud and harmonious barking at intervals interrupted\nthe sound of the wedding bells, and five hundred terrier dogs at least\nstood up on their hind legs when the marriage ceremony was performed.\n\nThus the reign of humanity and utility succeeded to the reign of science\nand pelf. Only dogs were allowed to do the fighting, and they were treated\nso well that they did nothing worse than bark. The following conversation\nwas one time overhead among them in a street near the king\u2019s palace:\n\n_Royal Mastiff._\u2014Bowoghowow! Bowgh!\n\n_Hound without tail._\u2014Boowoogh! Boohoo! Wowoo!\n\n_Terrier dog._\u2014Gr\u2010r\u2010r\u2010r\u2010row, r\u2010row!\n\n_Bull\u2010dog._\u2014Hr\u2010r\u2010r\u2010um\u2010g\u2010r\u2010r\u2010u\u2010m. Bowowgh!\n\nFrom these syllables it was conjectured by the knowing that the new King\nGudood had no enemies, and that peace abode in the land.\n\n\n\n\nNew Publications.\n\n\n    DE L\u2019AUTORITE; OU, LA PHILOSOPHIE DU PERSONNALISME. LETTRE AU REV.\n    PERE J. F. HECKER, SUIVIE D\u2019UN APPENDICE SUR LA SOUVERAINETE DU\n    PEUPLE. PAR DWIGHT H. OLMSTEAD. Traduction approuv\u00e9e par l\u2019auteur.\n    Gen\u00e8ve: Japonnier et Steuder. 1874.\n\n\nThis pamphlet, the English original of which we have not seen, has been\nsent to us from Geneva, by the author, we presume. The Rev. F. I. T. (not\nJ. F.) Hecker has been abroad, travelling for the restoration of his\nimpaired health, for more than a year, and cannot, therefore, give his\npersonal attention to Mr. Olmstead\u2019s very courteous _Letter_, at least for\nthe present, and in the columns of THE CATHOLIC WORLD. Moreover, the\nauthor is mistaken in attributing a certain article in THE CATHOLIC WORLD,\nwith which he chiefly employs his pen in the _Letter_, to F. Hecker. The\narticle in question is one of the numerous contributions with which Dr.\nBrownson enriched and adorned our pages during the interval of the\nsuspension of his own _Review_. In our opinion, Mr. Olmstead has not dealt\na very heavy blow upon the head\u2010piece of his veteran antagonist. In fact,\nwe do not see that he has attempted any serious answer to arguments which\nhe would find it no easy task to refute. Mr. Olmstead deals more in\nobjections and assertions than in arguments, and his assertions are so\ngeneral and vague that one would need to write a treatise on general and\nspecial metaphysics to refute them. They merely amount to this: that Mr.\nOlmstead agrees with Kant and J. Stuart Mill. F. Hecker\u2019s works were\nwritten for persons who either believe in some sense in Christianity, or\nat least in God and in human reason and intelligence. It is not necessary\nto prove the premises admitted by the persons with whom you argue. If they\nare Protestants, you assume the truth of Christianity. Your only effort is\nthen to prove that Catholicity is the genuine Christianity. If they are\nrationalistic theists, you prove that the truth of Christianity, and\nspecifically the authority of the church as one of its essential doctrines\nand laws, is demonstrable from principles of reason and natural theology.\nWhen it is a question of arguing with an atheist or sceptic, these topics\nmust be postponed, and the discussion turned upon the first principles of\nmetaphysics. Even here something in common must be admitted as a starting\u2010\npoint for argument. If a man denies everything or doubts everything, the\nonly thing which can possibly be done is to watch him closely until he\nasserts something, and then you can do no more than show to a bystander\nhis absurdity. If we understand Mr. Olmstead correctly, he admits the\nreality of all that is contained within self\u2010consciousness, and considers\nall else, by the mere fact of its being exterior to consciousness, as an\nunknown quantity in respect to its reality. He merely holds this, however,\nas an opinion, and admits that the contrary is very probable. If he is in\nearnest\u2014and it is fair to presume that he is\u2014in searching for\nphilosophical truth, the only way in which a Catholic philosopher could\nargue with him to any purpose would be by presenting a theory of the\norigin of ideas and knowledge, which would give him something objective as\na primitive element in his very first act of intellectual self\u2010\nconsciousness. This is rather too serious a task to be performed in a\nhurry. Whatever we have to say on these great fundamental topics of\nphilosophy has been already partly said in the elaborate articles which\nhave appeared in our columns, and will be said hereafter in articles of a\nsimilar nature. We refer the author of the _Letter_ and others in a\nsimilar position to THE CATHOLIC WORLD, _passim_, to get what modicum of\nlight we are able to furnish them. If they wish for more light, they must\ngo to the great works of great authors, and study them carefully. As for\nthe great number of very excellent persons who do not trouble their heads\nwith philosophy, and who complain that our philosophical articles are too\ndry and abstruse, we must beg them to content themselves with the lighter\nportions of the magazine, and allow us to give a reasonable amount of\nspace to the few readers who have some taste and capacity for real\nscience.\n\n\n    HOLY PLACES: THEIR SANCTITY AND AUTHENTICITY. By F. Philpin de\n    Rivi\u00e8res, of the London Oratory. London: Washbourne. 1874. (New\n    York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nF. De Rivi\u00e8res gives play both to reason and imagination in an instructive\nand agreeable manner in treating of the attractive topic of holy places.\nThe book contains some interesting information about the recent\nexplorations in Jerusalem.\n\n\n    THE MONTH OF MARY OF OUR LADY OF LOURDES. By Henri Lasserre.\n    Translated from the French (23d edition) by Mrs. Crosier. London:\n    Burns and Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication\n    Society.)\n\n\nHenri Lasserre\u2019s beautiful work\u2014of which a translation, which the best\njudges have pronounced to be of the very highest literary merit as well as\nthe most literal accuracy, appeared in this magazine\u2014is abridged and\ndivided into thirty\u2010one chapters for each day of the month of May, in this\nneat and pretty volume.\n\nThe Blessed Virgin pressed very hard on the head of the old serpent when\nshe appeared at the rocks of Massabielle. The sympathizers with this\n\u201crevolutionnaire malheureux,\u201d as Renan calls him, in his warfare on the\nQueen of Heaven, frequently show their perplexity and vexation at the\noverwhelming proof of the miracles she has wrought, by an attempt at\nscornful ridicule, which is always unaccompanied by any argument, or any\nattempt at meeting the challenge so often addressed to them to rebut the\nevidence M. Lasserre has furnished. Louis Veuillot, probably the wittiest\nman now on the earth, once said of a certain Frenchman that he was a\nclever writer, but _fort piqu\u00e9 contre le Saint Esprit_. Dr. Coxe, who has\nformerly shown himself to be a clever poet, to say the least, in his\nrecent pamphlet against Bishop Ryan, which is not at all clever, but only\ncunning, has exhibited a great pique against Our Lady of Lourdes. In this\nwe see a fulfilment of the ancient prophecy, \u201cI will place enmity between\nthee and the woman, between thy seed and her seed.\u201d The vulgar and\nunmeaning jibes of the infidel and the heretic, as well as the pious\nwritings and devout pilgrimages of the faithful, alike serve to make the\nwonderful event of Lourdes more and more widely known all over the world,\nto the greater glory of God, and his Blessed Mother.\n\n\n    A FULL CATECHISM OF THE CATHOLIC RELIGION (preceded by a short\n    history of religion), from the creation of the world to the\n    present time. With Questions for Examination. Translated from the\n    German of the Rev. Joseph Deharbe, S.J., by the Rev. John Fander.\n    Fourth Edition. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by\n    The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nThis is the most celebrated catechism of the century, has been most\nextensively approved and brought into use, and will be of great service to\nthose who are employed in teaching young people the Christian doctrine, as\nwell as for the instruction of converts.\n\n\n    THE COMMONITORY OF S. VINCENT OF LERINS. London: Washbourne. 1874.\n    (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nThere is no treatise of such small size as the _Commonitory_ among\nChristian writings, so far as we know, which has been so universal in fame\nand influence, and has made its author so illustrious, as this one.\n\nThe neat little _libretto_, containing the translation, with some\naccompanying testimonies of eminent Protestant divines to the excellence\nof the work, is edited by the Rev. John Lynch, of Ballymena, Diocese of\nDown and Connor, Ireland. In the preface he mentions the fact that S.\nVincent and S. Patrick were fellow\u2010students. The treatise can be easily\nread and understood by any intelligent person, and yet contains an amount\nof instruction and information on Catholic doctrine equal to that which is\nordinarily spread through volumes.\n\n\n    MONASTICON HIBERNICUM. With Engravings in Gold and Colors, Maps\n    and Views. By Mervyn Archdall, A.M. Edited by the Right Rev. Dr.\n    Moran. Vol. I., 4to. Dublin: W. B. Kelly. 1873.\n\n\nThis well\u2010known historical work is now republished in the most splendid\nstyle. It is a history of religious houses and orders in Ireland,\nextensive, learned, and full of romantic and religious interest. The first\nvolume contains two fine views of the exterior and interior of S.\nPatrick\u2019s Cathedral, Dublin, one of the ancient episcopal palace, and\nseveral engravings, in gold, of different religious orders. The work is,\nof course, a costly one, and is only published by subscription. Every\nwealthy Irishman in the United States ought to subscribe for a work which\nis an honor to his country and the Catholic religion. The first edition\nis, however, limited to one thousand copies, and we presume that persons\ndesiring to procure a copy will find it necessary to send on their names\nimmediately.\n\n\n    CHERUBINI: MEMORIALS ILLUSTRATIVE OF HIS LIFE. By Edward Bellasis,\n    Barrister\u2010at\u2010Law. London: Burns & Oates. (With a portrait.)\n\n\nThis is an elaborate biography of the great musical composer, edited and\npublished with the greatest care in an attractive style of typography. It\ncannot fail to interest very much those who have a taste for musical\nliterature.\n\n\n    LA SAINTE ECRITURE ET LA REGLE DE FOI. Par l\u2019Abb\u00e9 B\u00e9gin, de\n    l\u2019Universit\u00e9 Laval. Qu\u00e9bec: Cot\u00e9 et Cie. 1874.\n\n\nWith admirable precision and clearness the Abb\u00e9 B\u00e9gin develops and defends\nin this volume the Catholic doctrine of the rule of faith in accordance\nwith the soundest and most orthodox theology. We cannot sufficiently\nrecommend his treatise to clergymen and other students of sacred science.\nThere are some mistakes in the spelling of English names, as is very usual\nin French books. For example, we have Richard Buxter instead of Baxter.\nWhoever wishes to preach, lecture, or write for the press on the topics\ntreated in this volume will find it even more available for use than the\ntreatises contained in our dogmatic text\u2010books.\n\n\n    SKETCHES OF ILLUSTRIOUS SOLDIERS. By James Grant Wilson. New York.\n    George P. Putnam\u2019s Sons. 1874.\n\n\nThis work has a promising look, the author\u2019s name reminding us that the\nmilitary profession was for some time his own, and that he is a diligent\nstudent of the literature of his subject.\n\nMilitary biography has a strange charm for most readers; indeed, it is\ndoubtful whether fiction has an equal fascination at certain periods of\nour lives. Few of us have attained middle age without having had our\ncheeks frequently glow and our patriotism grow warm at the narration of\ndeeds of prowess performed by our favorite heroes. Unfortunately, however,\nthe production of this species of literature has fallen to a great extent\ninto the hands of literary adventurers\u2010writers who looked only to making\nthe most of a profitable enterprise. Hence the periodical eruption of\nlives of great captains, distinguished, indeed, as men count greatness,\nbut whose most valid claim to eminence consisted in their ability to\ndestroy whatever opposed the realization of the objects of their ambition,\nand the permanent maintenance of unjustly\u2010won crowns. To this cause we may\npartly attribute the fact that people have well\u2010nigh lost sight of the\nloftiest form of heroism\u2014that which prompts a man to stake everything on\nthe defence of a principle; to brave all dangers and sustain all\nprivations, so that conscience be kept pure and the Christian character\npreserved unsullied.\n\nThe work under notice belongs to a different category. It is written, for\nthe most part, in a calm, judicial spirit, the author evidently intending\nto avoid partisanship, and exhibiting a painstaking fidelity to the data\nbefore him. Occasionally, however, he betrays the hero\u2010worshipper in the\ncase of individuals who appear anything but admirable to us. On such\ncommon ground as the sketch of Washington we are glad to express our\nagreement with the author. We also like his estimate of anecdotes as\nillustrations of character.\n\n\n    UNIVERSAL PRONOUNCING DICTIONARY OF BIOGRAPHY AND MYTHOLOGY. By J.\n    Thomas, A.M., M.D. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1874.\n\n    A COMPLETE PRONOUNCING GAZETTEER. Edited by J. Thomas and T.\n    Baldwin, assisted by several other gentlemen. Philadelphia: J. B.\n    Lippincott & Co. (Sold at 25 Bond St., New York)\n\n\nNext to a dictionary of the language we rank dictionaries of persons and\nplaces, as works of reference for those engaged in writing, and, indeed,\nfor all intelligent readers as well. We hear of so many men of eminence,\nor of localities so nearly alike in orthography, that we never feel\nentirely at ease without reference to a good authority; so that, for the\nmere purpose of identification, books like these are worth all they cost.\nThe period and country at and in which a given subject lived, his\noccupation, his contemporaries, and for what he was distinguished; the\ncounty, state, or kingdom in which a certain city or town lies, serve all\nordinary uses. Should we desire more, we can at our leisure resort to the\nencyclop\u00e6dias or individual biographies for fuller information. Of course\nthese works would be more acceptable if written from our point of view;\nbut that we cannot expect for a long time to come. Meanwhile, being\nreasonably impartial, as we have found them to be so far as we have\nexamined, we accept them as the best attainable. Lest the fact that they\nare each in one volume should convey an inadequate idea of their extent,\nwe may state that the _Biographical Dictionary_ has 2,345 closely\u2010printed\nroyal octavo pages, and the _Gazetteer_ xviii.\u20102,182 pages of the same\nsize and compactness. We know of no works of the kind so convenient and\nfull in all matters for which they are ordinarily consulted.\n\n\n    A DICTIONARY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. By Joseph E. Worcester,\n    LL.D. Boston: Brewer & Tileston. 1874.\n\n\nAs it would be quite superfluous to advise any one to get a dictionary at\nthe present time, we content ourselves with asking our readers to get _the\nbest_\u2014Worcester\u2019s Unabridged. We have warmed towards this author, among\nother reasons, because he is less of an iconoclast than some of his\nfellow\u2010lexicographers. It has grieved us not a little to see our favorite\nwords maltreated as if they had no personality about which to be\nsensitive, or pedigree whereof to be proud. We can scarcely recognize them\nin the new dress, or rather mask, in which they are often presented. Were\nwe a boy again, not a hair of our head would rise at a spect_er_, and we\nshould have an additional reason for refusing allegiance to a sovereign\nwho held only a scept_er_\u2014though the sun should still refuse to set on her\ndominions.\n\nIn saying this we would by no means disparage a standard in spelling. When\nsome new Ursa Major shall arise who will not only give us an uniform,\nharmonious system of orthography, but such substantial reasons in favor of\nit as will satisfy the learned and confound all opponents, we may yield to\nthe general verdict. But we are not at all on the lookout for such a\ncontingency while our language is in the process of formation, and expect\nto possess our Worcester Unabridged in peace for many long years to come.\nThe work has lxviii.\u20101,786 pages quarto, and is quite as full, we believe,\nas any other extant in the various tables, grammatical and other\ninformation having a bearing on the main purpose of the volume.\n\nThe same publishers also issue Worcester\u2019s _Comprehensive Dictionary_,\nWorcester\u2019s _Primary Dictionary_, and _A Pocket Dictionary_, compiled from\nthe quarto and school dictionaries of J. E. Worcester, by Loomis J.\nCampbell; for those who desire inexpensive and portable manuals.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XIX., NO. 114.\u2014SEPTEMBER, 1874.\n\n\n\n\nMatter.\n\n\n\nII.\n\n\nThe activity displayed by matter in the production of natural phenomena is\ntwofold, viz., attractive and repulsive; and the question has been raised\nwhether these two kinds of activity can reside in one and the same\nsubject, or, owing to their opposite nature, require separate subjects.\nWith regard to molecules, it is quite certain, though some have thought\notherwise, that in all ponderable bodies each molecule is in possession of\nboth powers; but with regard to the primitive elements which enter into\nthe constitution of a molecule, the question needs a special treatment, as\nno direct evidence is supplied by experimental science for an affirmative\nmore than for a negative solution, and different views have been advanced\nwhich it is important to examine in the light of philosophical principles,\nthat we may ascertain which of them has the best claim to adoption both in\nphilosophy and in molecular mechanics.\n\n\nAttractive and repulsive powers.\n\n\nSince it is well known that all the phenomena of the material order,\nwhether physical or chemical, ultimately depend on attractions and\nrepulsions, we are compelled to admit the existence in nature of\nattractive and repulsive powers. Neither attractive powers alone nor\nrepulsive powers alone would afford us a rational explanation of natural\nfacts. If the primitive elements of matter were all repulsive, and nothing\nbut repulsive, then neither the cohesion of material particles nor the\ngravitation of bodies would be possible; no solid and no liquid would\nexist; and all matter from the very beginning of its existence would have\nvanished in a state of extreme attenuation through the immensity of space.\nIf, on the contrary, the primitive elements of matter were all attractive,\nand nothing but attractive, no expansive power would be found in nature;\nfor the expansion of bodies evidently depends on a repulsion prevailing\nbetween their molecules. All solid and liquid bodies likewise proclaim the\nexistence of repulsive powers by the resistance they oppose to\ncompression. This resistance shows that their molecules are endowed with\npowers whose exertion impedes their mutual approach as soon as they have\nreached a certain limit of distance. It is plain that the power which\nimpedes the approach under pressure must be a repulsive one. Thus both\nattractive and repulsive powers exist in nature.\n\nBut do they exist together in the same primitive element of matter?\nBoscovich answers in the affirmative; but his answer is not supported by\nany cogent reason. Having found no other means of accounting for the\nimpenetrability of bodies, he assumed that every element of matter is so\nconstituted as to be attractive at all great distances, according to the\nlaw of universal attraction, but that each element, at molecular\ndistances, becomes repulsive in order to resist pressure, and again\nattractive in order to exercise chemical affinity, and then repulsive\nagain, these alternations going on a certain number of times, till at last\nrepulsivity alone prevails, which indefinitely increases when the distance\nof two elements indefinitely diminishes.\n\nYet this theory is by no means needed to account either for the\nimpenetrability of bodies or for any other phenomenon; as what Boscovich\nascribes to elements may be, and is in fact, a property of molecules\u2014that\nis, of a compound system of elements. On the other hand, the theory is\nunnaturally complex, and the alternation of the attractive and repulsive\nexertions looks as unscientific as the epicycles of the old astronomers\nand other hypotheses once admitted as plausible, and now superseded by a\nfuller knowledge of natural laws. To a mind which examines the question of\nattractive and repulsive powers in the light of philosophy, it must be\nevident that each primitive element of matter cannot possess them both.\n_If an element is attractive at any distance, it must be attractive at all\ndistances, whether enormously great or indefinitely small; likewise, if an\nelement is repulsive at any distance, it must be repulsive at all\ndistances._\n\nThis proposition can be proved as follows: Opposite actions cannot\noriginate from one and the same simple principle when such a principle has\nno control over itself, but acts by inherent necessity. But in each\nprimitive element of matter there is but one simple principle of activity,\nwhich has no control over itself, as it acts by inherent necessity. And\ntherefore no primitive element can be both attractive and repulsive, but\nis either attractive at all distances or at all distances repulsive.\n\nIn this syllogism the major is evident. An active principle which, like\nthe human soul, can, by immanent operations, assume at pleasure different\nattitudes towards the term of its action, and which masters the conditions\nand controls the intensity of its exertions, may perhaps be considered\ncompetent to originate actions of opposite kinds.(159) But a being which\nis destitute of immanent operations, and acts by an inherent necessity of\nits nature, has no power to modify itself or to alter its intrinsic\ndetermination; and its action is so ruled by its intrinsic determination\nthat there is no chance of its being either transmuted into its opposite,\nor even partially suspended. Now, in a primitive being the principle of\nactivity is nothing else than the simple act which formally determines its\nnature; and it is plain that wherever there is one simple formal act,\nthere can be only one formal determination to act. And consequently a\nsimple principle of activity which has no immanent operations cannot be\nthe source of two opposite kinds of actions. Bodies and their molecules,\non account of their physical composition, contain as many distinct\nprinciples of activity as they contain physical components or elements;\nhence we can easily account for their capability of originating opposite\nactions by admitting that among those elements some are attractive and\nothers repulsive. But in a primitive element it is impossible to admit of\ntwo opposite active principles; for a primitive element is a being\nentitatively one, having only one essential act, and consequently only one\nactive principle and one intrinsic determination to act. It would\ntherefore be absurd to expect from such an element actions of such an\nopposite nature as are attraction and repulsion. For evidently, to enable\nthe element to display two opposite powers, two opposite determinations\nwould be necessary. Hence, if the intrinsic determination enables the\nprimitive element to attract, such an element will always attract, and\nnever repel; and if, on the contrary, the intrinsic determination enables\nthe primitive element to repel, such an element will always repel, and\nnever attract. In other terms, the attractive and the repulsive power\ncannot coexist in the same primitive element.\n\nThis conclusion, which affords the only possible basis for the\nspeculations of molecular mechanics, is one of those which mere scientists\ncannot reach through their empirical and inductive method; but its truth\nis not less certain for that; it is rather all the more certain, as it is\nnot founded on accidental facts, but on the unchangeable nature of things\nand the transcendental relation of the principles involved in the\nconstitution of real beings.\n\nOur proposition may be confirmed by reflecting that the change of\nattraction into repulsion, according to Boscovich, would depend on the\ndiminution of the distance between the agent and the patient. Now, this\nview is inadmissible. For a change of distance, though necessarily\naccompanied by a change in the intensity of the action, cannot exercise\nany influence on the specific nature of the action. The _intensity_ of the\naction is an accidental thing, and can change without in the least\ninterfering with the nature of the agent; and for this reason it can, and\nmust, depend on distance as a condition implied in the exercise of the\nactive power. But the _nature_ of the action always follows the nature of\nthe substance from which it proceeds. Now, a change of distance does not\nchange the nature of the substance. And accordingly the nature of the\naction must remain the same, even though the distance be indefinitely\ndiminished.\n\nMoreover, if there were any distance at which the action of a primitive\nelement could change from attractive to repulsive, evidently the element,\nat such a distance, would be unable to exercise either attraction or\nrepulsion, as Boscovich concedes; and therefore, at such a distance, the\nmaterial element would have no activity. We may, then, ask: Whence does\nthe attractive power emanate which is to have uncontrolled sway at all\ngreater distances? Does it emanate from any point of space outside the\nelement? Then it would not be the active power of the element, as it would\nhave nothing to do with it. On the other hand, it is obvious that if it\nemanates from the element, it does not end at a distance from it. For,\nsince the active power is really identical with the formal principle from\nwhich the primitive element receives its nature, it is as necessary for\nthe elementary power to reach the very centre of the element as it is for\nthe form to be intrinsically terminated to its matter. Whence it follows\nthat the elementary power of attraction, which prevails at all great\ndistances, must emanate from the very centre of the element. But if so,\nwhy shall it not prevail up to that very centre? Is it, forsooth, because\nin the neighborhood of the centre an opposite principle prevails? Were\nthis the case, the same primitive being would have two formal acts, and it\nwould be _two beings_ and _two natures_; which is an evident\ncontradiction. As long, therefore, as we adhere to the fundamental\ndoctrine that a primitive being cannot have more than one simple principle\nof activity, we must admit that a primitive element, if attractive at any\ndistance, is attractive at all molecular distances, and, if repulsive at\nmolecular distances, is repulsive at all distances.\n\nAgainst the existence of attractive and repulsive powers in distinct\nprimitive elements some objections now and then have been made. It has\nbeen said, first, that what we call repulsion is only a result of certain\nvortical movements of the ether all around the molecules of ponderable\nbodies. This objection is based on a false supposition. We have already\nshown that the arbitrary theory of the vortices fails altogether to\nexplain the great phenomenon of universal attraction; and we may easily\nshow that it fails as completely in regard to molecular repulsion. In\nfact, the centrifugal forces which are developed by vortical movements,\nand which in this theory are assumed as the cause of the phenomena of\nmolecular resistances, are not active powers. They are components of the\nvortical movements, and nothing more; that is to say, they do not\n_efficiently_ produce movements, but are the _formal_ principles of\nmovements already produced. To ascribe to them the molecular resistances\nand the impenetrability of bodies is, therefore, to admit the effect\nwithout the cause.\n\nSecondly, some authors object that the resistance called into play by\npressure is not a real action, and requires no efficient repulsive powers.\nThey consider it, according to the vulgar prejudice, as a merely _passive_\nresistance; for they imagine that a body, when pressed or impinged on,\nresists the progress of the obtruding body _by its own inert matter_,\nwhich with its materiality obstructs the way onward. This old explanation\nis still popular with the great mass of the uninstructed, but is\nscientifically and philosophically worthless. For whatever causes a real\nchange really acts; now, a body resisting the advance of another body\ncauses a real change in the rate of its movement; therefore a body\nresisting the advance of another body really acts. Its resistance is\ntherefore _active_, and not passive; that is, it consists in an exertion\nof repulsive power, and not in a material obstruction of the path.\n\nHence what physicists call \u201cforce of inertia\u201d is not a passive resistance\nproceeding from the inertia of matter, but an active exertion of the\nmolecular powers, and has been so called only because, all other things\nbeing equal, its intensity is proportional to the mass of the inert\nbody.(160) Evidently, inertia itself cannot resist or check the advance of\nan impinging body. Nothing but a positive action can do it; for nothing\nbut a positive action can communicate to the advancing body that impetus\nin the opposite direction which alone is competent to neutralize the\nimpetus of the advance. Physicists know this very well, though many of\nthem, owing to the difficulty of analyzing and expressing certain things\nwith philosophical accuracy, do not always use, in this particular, a very\ncorrect language\u2014a thing which, after all, must not surprise us, as one\ncan be well read in physics without necessarily being a profound\nphilosopher.\n\nThe third objection is aimed at our argument against Boscovich\u2019s theory,\nin which we have said that attraction and repulsion are actions of\nopposite kinds. Boscovich, on the contrary, maintains that attraction and\nrepulsion differ only as the greater from the less, and therefore cannot\nbe considered as actions of a different kind. He says: \u201cBoth actions are\nof the same kind; for the one, as compared with the other, is negative;\nand negative things do not differ in kind from positive ones. That the\none, as compared with the other, is negative, is evident from this: that\nthey differ only in direction. That the negative and the positive belong\nto the same kind is evident from the principle, _More and less do not\ndiffer in kind_. In fact, from the positive, by a continued subtraction or\ndiminution, we obtain first some smaller positive quantities, then zero,\nand lastly, if we still go on in our subtraction, negative\nquantities.\u201d(161)\n\nThis argument, notwithstanding its speciousness, is not difficult to\nupset. It is not true, in the first place, that attraction and repulsion\ndiffer only in direction; on the contrary, they differ in everything\nexcept in direction. Two points _A_ and _B_ being given, there is only one\ndirection from _A_ to *B*, whether _A_ be attractive or repulsive. If _A_\nis attractive, its attraction is directed from _A_ to _B_; and if _A_ is\nrepulsive, its repulsion is no less directed from _A_ to _B_. This is\nquite evident, as the action must in all cases proceed from the agent to\nthe patient. It is evident, therefore, that the two actions must have the\nsame direction. The movements of _B_ will indeed have opposite directions,\naccording as _B_ is attracted or repelled; but this does not show that the\nactions themselves have opposite directions; it shows, on the contrary,\nthat those actions, though directed in the same manner from _A_ to _B_,\nare of a different nature, and proceed from opposite principles. And this\nconclusion may be confirmed by remarking that the direction is always from\na point to a point, or from matter to matter; and consequently it is not\nthe active power or the action, but only the position of the material\ncentres, that can determine any direction. Accordingly, so long as such a\nposition is not inverted, it is impossible to conceive two opposite\ndirections from _A_ to _B_. It is therefore evidently false that\nattraction and repulsion differ in direction.\n\nIt is not true, in the second place, that attraction and repulsion differ\nonly as the positive differs from the negative, or the greater from the\nless. In the mathematical expression of mechanical relations, if we\nconsider a movement as positive, the movement which points to an opposite\ndirection must, of course, be affected by the negative sign. The same we\nmust do with regard to forces and actions; for we estimate the actions by\nthe movements which they produce, and we express them only in terms of\nmovement\u2014that is, by their effects. But this does not mean that there is\neither any movement or any action _absolutely_ negative; for a negative\nmovement would be no movement, and a negative action no action. It is in a\nrelative and conventional sense only that movements are considered as\npositive or negative; and, moreover, either of the two opposite movements\ncan be assumed as positive or as negative, at will; which shows very\nclearly that the negative and the positive do not differ in this case as\nthe greater differs from the less, as Boscovich assumes; for either of the\ntwo can, at pleasure, be taken as positive, whereas it would be absurd to\npretend that either of the two can, at pleasure, be pronounced to be the\ngreater. Thus, when a stone is thrown up vertically, and abandoned to\nitself, if its ascent is taken as positive, its descent will be considered\nas negative. Now, according to Boscovich\u2019s reasoning, we should infer that\n_the ascent is greater than the descent_, though they are evidently equal.\nAnd in the same manner, if the ascent is taken as negative (which nothing\nforbids), the descent must be taken as positive; whence, according to\nBoscovich, we ought to infer also that _the descent is greater than the\nascent_. Any argument which leads to such glaring contradictions must be\nradically false. And therefore it is false that attraction and repulsion\ndiffer from one another as the greater from the less.\n\nIt might be urged, as a fourth objection, that if an attractive and a\nrepulsive power differ in kind, then a repulsive element and an attractive\nelement will be two kinds of material substance; which is inadmissible.\nFor we cannot admit two kinds of primitive material beings essentially\ndifferent, as the essence of matter must be the same in all the elements.\n\nTo this we answer that although there are two kinds of elements, there are\nnot two kinds of matter. In other terms, an attractive element differs\nfrom a repulsive one as to the principle of action, but not as to the\nmatter itself. In fact, the essence of a material being _as such_ requires\nnothing more than a form giving existence to matter; hence, wherever there\nis a form giving existence to matter, there also is the essence of matter.\nNow, matter is as much and as completely actuated by a form or act which\nis a principle of attraction as by a form or act which is a principle of\nrepulsion. For the actuation of the matter by its form is not _efficient_,\nbut _formal_; and its result is not _to approach_ by attraction or _to\nrecede_ by repulsion, but _to be_ simply and absolutely; so that neither\nattractivity nor repulsivity has any bearing on the essential constitution\nof a material element as such\u2014that is, inasmuch as it is material.\nAccordingly, two elements of opposite natures differ in kind as agents,\nbut not as _material_ beings; and thus the essence of matter _as such_\nremains one and the same in all the elements. Matter, as we have already\nshown, is the centre of a sphere of activity; and it is evident that, by\nthis activity of an attractive or of a repulsive nature, the centre\nremains a centre, and the sphere a sphere, without the least alteration.\nGold and ivory differ in kind; but a sphere of ivory and a sphere of gold\ndo not differ in kind _as spheres_, and their centres do not differ in\nkind _as centres_. In a like manner the sphere of activity of an\nattractive element does not differ from the sphere of activity of a\nrepulsive element, nor the centre of the one from the centre of the other.\nAnd therefore two elements, however different in their nature as agents,\ndo not cease to be of the same kind as material. Their form is different,\nbut informs equally, and their matter is exactly the same.\n\nWe have stated that Boscovich was led to admit two opposite powers in the\nsame element, because he thought this to be the only means of accounting\nfor the impenetrability of bodies. We observe that, although the\nimpenetrability of bodies peremptorily proves the existence of repulsive\npowers, it by no means proves that the repulsive power coexists with the\nattractive _in the same primitive element_. Hence Boscovich\u2019s inference is\nnot legitimate. Molecules, as we have already remarked, may possess both\npowers, as their composition involves a great number of elements, which\ncan be of different natures. And this suffices to explain the\nimpenetrability of bodies, and all other properties dependent on molecular\nactions, without need of arbitrary hypotheses.\n\nA last objection against the doctrine we have established might be drawn\nfrom the difficulty of reconciling the existence of repulsive elements\nwith universal attraction; for if we admit that repulsion can be exercised\nat astronomical distances, it will be difficult to see how the celestial\nbodies can attract one another in the direct ratio of their masses, as the\nlaw of attraction requires.\n\nThe answer is obvious. If all matter were repulsive, universal repulsion\nwould be the consequence. But if bodies are made up partly of attractive\nand partly of repulsive elements, then will either universal repulsion or\nuniversal attraction prevail, according as the number and power of the\nrepulsive elements is greater or smaller than that of the attractive ones.\nHence, from the fact that in the solar system and elsewhere attraction\nprevails, it follows, indeed, that the attractive powers are the stronger,\nbut it does not follow that they are the whole stuff of which bodies are\ncompounded.\n\nAs to the law of attraction _in the direct ratio of the masses_, a\ndistinction is to be made. The law is certainly true if by masses we mean\nthe masses _acted on_; not so, however, if for the masses acted on we\nsubstitute the masses of the attracting bodies. The fact of universal\nattraction shows that two planets, all other things being equal, must be\nattracted by the sun in the direct ratio of their masses. This is an\nestablished truth. But to say that, all other things being equal, the sun\nand the earth would attract the moon in the direct ratio of their\n_absolute_ masses, is to assume what no fact whatever gives us the right\nto assert. Physicists very commonly admit this second assumption, and\nconsider it a part of the law of attraction; but they would be not a\nlittle embarrassed were they required to undertake its demonstration. They\ntake for granted that all the particles of matter are equally and\nuniformly attractive. Now, this assumption has never been established by\nfacts; it simply arises from an unlawful generalization\u2014that is, from the\nextension of the law of kinetic forces to dynamical actions. The momenta\nof two bodies animated by equal velocities are proportional to the masses\nof the same bodies; but nothing justifies the inference that therefore the\nattractive powers must be proportional to the masses. Indeed, it is\nscarcely possible to believe that equal masses of lead, iron, and zinc\npossess equal powers. Their properties are, in fact, so different that we\ncannot assume their constitution to be the result of an assemblage of\nequal powers. Hence we maintain that, unless two bodies have the same\nmolecular constitution, their attractions cannot be proportional to their\nmasses.(162)\n\nUniversal attraction being also proportional to the inverse squares of the\ndistances, as we are going to show, we may add that the existence of\nrepulsive elements in the sun and in the planets by no means interferes\nwith this law. In fact, the total action of one celestial body on another,\non account of the great distance at which the law of universal attraction\nis applied, equals the algebraic sum of all the actions by which one body\nmakes an impression upon the other. Hence, if all the elements of which\nthe body consists, whether they be attractive or repulsive, act\nproportionally to the inverse square of the distance, it is evident that\nthe resultant of all such actions will also be proportional to the inverse\nsquare of the distance, whenever the form of the body is spherical, or\nnearly so, as is the case with the celestial bodies. And thus it is plain\nthat no valid objection can be drawn from universal attraction against the\nexistence of repulsive elements.\n\n\nLaw of elementary actions.\n\n\nWe have now to establish the general law of elementary attraction and\nrepulsion. We hold that _the actions of every primitive element are always\ninversely proportional to the squares of the distances, no matter whether\nsuch distances be great or small, astronomical or molecular_.\n\nThis proposition can be briefly proved in the following manner: Astronomy\nteaches us that the Newtonian law, according to which the actions are\ninversely proportional to the squares of the distances, is true for all\nthe celestial bodies. Now, the total action of one celestial body upon\nanother is a resultant of elementary actions, and arises from the\nalgebraic sum of them all. Hence it follows that every element of matter,\nwhen acting from certain distances, obeys the Newtonian law; for it is\nevident, from the theory of the composition of forces, that the sum of the\nelementary actions cannot follow the Newtonian law unless these actions\nthemselves follow it. But if the law is true in the case of astronomical\ndistances, it must be true also in the case of microscopical and molecular\ndistances. For as a primitive element cannot have two laws of action, so\nneither can it follow at molecular distances any other law than that which\nit follows at all other distances.\n\nThat a primitive element cannot have two different laws of action will be\nmanifest by considering that the law which an element obeys in its actions\nresults from the intrinsic determination of its nature\u2014that is, from its\nformal constitution\u2014inasmuch as the principle of action is, in every\nprimitive substance, the formal principle of its very being: _Principium\nessendi est principium operandi_. Now, a primitive element has but one\nformal principle of being; for it is entitatively one, and therefore it\nhas but one formal determination to act, which, as resulting from its\nessential constitution, is unchangeable and inviolable. But it is evident\nthat from _one_ formal determination to act only _one_ law of action can\npossibly result. Two laws would be two formal results, and would require\ntwo formal principles giving two different determinations. Accordingly,\nsince each primitive element has but one formal principle, it cannot have\ntwo laws of action. And therefore the Newtonian law, which primitive\nelements follow at astronomical distances, must prevail also at all other\ndistances.\n\nLet the reader observe that this conclusion regards the action of\nprimitive _elements_, not the action of _molecules_. That molecular\nactions at molecular distances are not inversely proportional to the\nsquare of the distance is a known fact. Molecular cohesion, for instance,\nis immensely greater than it could possibly be by the Newtonian law; so\nalso molecular repulsion. This is what prevented physicists from\nrecognizing the applicability of the Newtonian law at molecular distances.\nAs long as the primitive elements were confounded, under the name of\natoms, with the molecules of the so\u2010called primitive bodies, hydrogen,\noxygen, carbon, etc., it was impossible to recognize in the molecular\nactions any trace of the Newtonian law; hence came the division of\nattraction into _universal_ and _molecular_, the first following a known\nlaw, the second following some other law or laws which physicists could\nnever discover. Their embarrassment was a necessary consequence of an\nincomplete analysis of the material compound. The molecule of a given\nsubstance, though often called an atom, is a system of primitive elements;\nand elements acting according to the Newtonian law can give rise to\nmolecular systems which, at very small distances, will act according to\nany other law that may be indicated by molecular phenomena. This other law\ndepends entirely on the number, kind, strength, and geometrical\narrangement of the primitive elements which enter into the constitution of\nthe molecule; and since molecules of different primitive substances are\nvery differently constituted, every kind of molecule must have its own\npeculiar law of acting at molecular distances\u2014a fact on which the\nscientific explanation of the different physical and chemical properties\nof different substances entirely depends. Hence it is clear that all the\nattempts at finding a general law of molecular attraction were, from the\nvery nature of the case, destined to fail. The only general law of action\nwhich all matter obeys is the Newtonian law; and what was once considered\nto form an exception to it is now acknowledged to be the result of its\napplication to a complex system of attractive and repulsive elements.\n\nFrom the fact that the actions of all elements are proportional to the\ninverse squares of the distances, it follows that the sphere of activity\nof material elements extends beyond any assignable limit. The intensity of\nthe action cannot, in fact, become = 0 unless the distance becomes\ninfinite. The objections to which this corollary of the Newtonian law may\ngive rise will be answered in our next article, where all the difficulties\nconcerning the _actio in distans_ will be solved.\n\n\nMode of action.\n\n\nA last question remains here to be examined respecting the action of\nprimitive material elements\u2014viz., whether such an action needs a medium\nthrough which it may be transmitted and communicated to distant bodies, or\nwhether, on the contrary, it is exerted upon them directly without\ndependence on any material medium.\n\nIn answering this question we must be careful not to confound action with\nmovement. Movement, though not properly transmitted, is propagated, as we\nshall explain; and this cannot take place where there is no movable\nmatter. Those who are wont to identify movement with force, and force with\naction, as is unfortunately the fashion even in scientific treatises, will\nno doubt imagine that actions must be transmitted or propagated through a\nmaterial medium, just as sound through air, or as light through\nluminiferous ether. But action is not movement; and therefore the question\nhow elementary actions\u2014that is, how attractions or repulsions\u2014reach\ndistant bodies has to be resolved on its own merit, as one altogether\ndistinct from the question about the propagation of movement. This\npremised, we are going to show that _the elementary actions are\nindependent of all material medium of communication_.\n\nIn the first place, there is no reason why we should assume that the\nelementary action (attraction or repulsion) depends on a medium of\ncommunication, except inasmuch as we may apprehend that the action itself,\nor the active power whence it proceeds, is in need of being transmitted to\nsome matter located at a certain distance. But neither the elementary\npower nor the elementary action can be transmitted to the distant matter.\nAnd therefore neither the power nor the action can be dependent on a\nmedium of communication.\n\nIn this syllogism the major is evident; and the minor can be proved in two\nmanners: First, because the power and the action are, of their own nature,\nintransmissible. Secondly, because, prescinding from their\nintransmissibility, no medium can be assigned which would be capable of\ntransmitting them. And as to the first, we know that nothing can be\ntransmitted to a distant place except by local movement; but neither the\nactive power nor the elementary action is capable of receiving local\nmovement; for there is no other subject capable of local movement than\nmatter alone, on account of its passive potentiality. Hence neither power\nnor action can be transmitted. And in the second place, even were they\ntransmissible, what medium could be found for their transmission? If any\nsuch medium could be found, it would consist of some matter like ether or\nair, this being the view of those who admit the necessity of such a\nmedium. On the other hand, a material substance is not a suitable medium\nfor transmitting action or power. For whenever an active power is exerted\nupon matter, the result of the exertion is nothing but a determination to\na change of place; as it is well known that matter cannot receive any\nother determination. And therefore it is not the power that is received in\nthe matter acted on, but only the act produced by its exertion, which act\nis otherwise called a momentum either statical or dynamical. Strictly\nspeaking, not even the action itself is received in the matter, although\nwe are wont to tolerate such an expression; for the action properly so\ncalled is the production of an act, and the matter receives, indeed, the\nact produced, but not its production. And thus the action, properly\nspeaking, is _terminated_ to the matter, and not _received_ in it. Hence\nwe see that neither the power of the agent nor its exertion is received in\nthe matter acted on; it is merely the produced accidental act, or, in\nother terms, the momentum, that is received. But evidently matter cannot\ntransmit what it does not receive. And therefore matter cannot be a medium\nfor transmitting either power or action. Whether it can transmit movement\nwe shall examine at the end of the present question.\n\nThis argument would suffice to show that elementary actions are quite\nindependent of a material medium. Yet as the prejudice against which we\nare fighting is ancient, popular, and deeply rooted, we think it will not\nbe superfluous to confirm our proof by a few other considerations.\n\nThose who maintain the transmission of forces admit a material medium, in\nwhich, by successive contact of particles with particles, the transmission\nof the force to a distant body is supposed to be carried on. By the word\n\u201cforce\u201d they understand action as well as movement. Now, let us ask them\nwhether the particles of their material medium come into mathematical\ncontact or not. If they do not come into mathematical contact, then the\naction is not transmitted by the medium from one particle to another, for\nthere will be a vacuum between them; and vacuum is not a material medium.\nIf, on the contrary, the particles come into mathematical contact with\ntheir own matter, then, as we have already shown in our past article, they\ncannot by such a contact communicate any movement to each other; and since\nthe transmission in question should be carried on by successive\ncommunications of movement, it is plain that no such transmission will be\npossible. And accordingly the theory of the transmission of actions\nthrough a medium must be rejected.\n\nMoreover, elementary actions are either attractive or repulsive, and\nneither of them can be conceived without intensity and direction. Now, no\ndirection is possible unless there be two points distinctly ubicated in\nspace. And therefore the action, no matter whether attractive or\nrepulsive, cannot reach any material point which is not distant from the\nmatter of the agent. But if so, the action is independent of a medium of\ncommunication; for the material medium, if it were needed, should lie\nbetween the agent and the patient in such a manner as to link them\ntogether, and fill by its material continuity the gap by which they are\nseparated; and if this were the case, the medium could not be set in\nmotion, as its contact with the agent would exclude distance, and\nconsequently the possibility of any direction from the agent to the medium\nitself.\n\nSome will say that this argument proves nothing, as the direction of the\naction can be sufficiently accounted for by the direction of the impulse.\nBut this conclusion is evidently wrong. For what impulse can they imagine\nto proceed from the sun to the moon? Uncultivated minds are easily deluded\nby unlawful generalizations. They apply to all actions what they imagine\nto agree with some special phenomenon; and because they see that in the\ncase of impact there is an impulse in a certain direction, they hastily\nconclude that the direction of every action depends on the direction of\nsome impulse. We may remark that, even in the case of impact, it is not\nsafe to conclude that the direction of the movement will follow the\ndirection of the impulse, unless the impulse be central, and the body\nimpinged upon homogeneous. But leaving aside the theory of impact, which\nhas nothing to do with the present question, what impulse can explain the\ncontinuous resistance of a body to statical forces? What impulse can\naccount for the expansive tendency of gases, and for their continuous\npressure against the recipients in which they are contained? What impulse,\nabove all, can account for universal attraction?\n\nWe have mentioned this objection, not because it needed any scientific or\nphilosophical discussion, but simply because it is one of those notions to\nwhich the prejudices of our infancy give easy admittance into our minds\nwhen we allow ourselves to be guided, as is often the case, by our senses\nand imagination, in matters pertaining in great part to the intellectual\norder. Our mistakes in the appreciation of the character and conditions of\nnatural facts most ordinarily originate in the unwarranted assumption\nthat, since the facts are sensible, our knowledge of them must wholly\ndepend on our senses; whilst the truth is that our senses perceive the\nmovements, but not the actions which cause them, and therefore do not see\nthe entirety of the natural facts, but that portion only which is most\nsuperficial. \u201cA fundamental fact, like an elementary principle, never\nfails us,\u201d says M. Faraday, speaking of natural philosophy; \u201cits evidence\nis always true; but, on the other hand, we frequently have to ask, What is\nthe fact? often fail in distinguishing it\u2014often fail in the very statement\nof it\u2014and mostly overpass or come short of its true recognition. If we are\nsubject to mistake in the interpretation of our mere sense impressions, we\nare much more liable to error when we proceed to deduce from these\nimpressions (as supplied to us by our ordinary experience) the relation of\ncause and effect; and the accuracy of our judgment, consequently, is more\nendangered.\u201d(163)\n\nAnd now, let no one imagine that we have any intention of denying the\nexistence of a material medium between the celestial bodies. We only deny\nthat there is a medium _for transmitting actions_. Again, we do not deny\nthat when the earth, for instance, acts upon the moon, the elements of\nmatter lying between the earth and the moon exert their activity on one\nanother. But we maintain that their actions are _their own_, and proceed\nfrom their own intrinsic and permanent power, and not from any extrinsic\nagent, and that such actions are not travelling from element to element\ntill they reach the moon. Neither do we deny that the elements located\nbetween the earth and the moon are also acted on, for it is clear that\ngravity must tend to alter their position in space; but we hold that the\nwhole possible effect of gravity on all such elements is movement, and\nthat movement is a mere change of place, and not a transmission of the\naction by which it is produced. How the movements themselves are\ncommunicated from element to element we shall explain presently.\n\nMeanwhile, from the fact that the elementary actions are independent of\nall material medium of communication, we infer that bodies, in attracting\nand in repelling, act with equal promptitude, and without loss of time,\nwhether the distance of the body acted on be great or small. Time, in\nfact, follows movement; for without movement there is no succession. Now,\nthe action of a body does not reach the distant body through movement\u2014that\nis, through successive transmission; on the contrary, each element is, of\nits own nature, determined to act _directly_ and _immediately_ on every\nother element existing in the indefinite sphere of its activity. Hence a\nbody will indeed act with a greater intensity at a less distance, but will\nnot act sooner than at a greater distance. There have been scientists who\nsurmised that the solar attraction may perhaps need time for reaching the\nearth and the planets, and therefore that the attraction may reach Mercury\nin a shorter time than Jupiter or Neptune. From what precedes it is\nmanifest that the surmise is wholly without foundation. Light needs time\nfor its propagation, because it consists in a kind of movement; but\nattraction, as we have just remarked, is not movement, and therefore is\nnot dependent on time.\n\n\nPropagation of movements.\n\n\nWe have shown that there is no material medium for the transmission of\nforces, if the word \u201cforces\u201d is taken to mean \u201cactions\u201d; but if the word\nis intended to express \u201cmovements,\u201d then the material medium is quite\nindispensable. We read very frequently in scientific books that actions\nare transmitted; but as this is not true of the actions themselves, we\nmust suppose that the phrase is intended to express only the fact of a\nprogressive development of the effects resulting from those actions. In\nthe same way, when we read that actions are conveyed through a material\nmedium, we interpret this expression as meaning that a material medium is\nstrictly required for the progressive development of the series of effects\ndue to such actions. We will explain the fact by an example.\n\nIf, a mass of air being at rest, a string is stretched in order to elicit\nsound, the vibrations of the string will be communicated to the\nneighboring molecules of air by the action (not by the movement) of the\nstring itself; these first molecules, being thrust out of their position\nof equilibrium, will, by their action (that is, by the exertion of a power\nresiding in each of their component elements, not of a power coming from\nthe string, nor by their movement, nor by transmitted action), put in\nmovement a following set of molecules, and so on indefinitely; so that, in\nthe whole series of molecular vibrations, each preceding molecule causes\nthe motion of the following one, and causes it by the exertion of its own\npowers, not of any power transmitted. It is evident that the string cannot\ngive activity to the molecules of air. These molecules, whether the string\nvibrates or not, have already their own activity and their own mutual\naction; only their actions balance each other as long as the mass of air\nis at rest. But when the string begins to vibrate, the equilibrium being\nbroken near it, those molecules of air which first cease to be in\nequilibrium begin to act on the following molecules with a different\nintensity, according to the change of the molecular distance. Thus the\nmovement by which the distance is altered is not the cause, but the\ncondition, of the phenomenon.\n\nWhat we say of air and sound applies to any other medium, as ether with\nits vibrations, whether luminous or calorific. The molecules of ether have\ntheir own powers, and exert them continually, whether there exists a flame\ndetermining a series of vibrations or not; but with the flame the first\nmolecules of ether which are displaced from their position of equilibrium\nwill acquire a new local relation with regard to the following, and their\nactions will be of a new intensity, sufficient to cause the displacement\nof the next set of molecules, and so on. The flame, then, causes the\ndisplacement of the first set of molecules; the first set displaced causes\nthe displacement of the second; the second displaced causes the\ndisplacement of the third, etc.; each set producing its own effect by its\nown inherent powers, not by the exertion of any power communicated to them\nby the flame, and their displacement being not a cause, but only a\ncondition, on which the intensity of the exertion depends.\n\nHence it appears that in phenomena of this description it is not the\naction, and much less the power, that is transmitted, but only the\nmovement, or the formal perturbation of the equilibrium; and even the\nmovement is not properly _transmitted_, but only _propagated_; because the\nmovement of each following molecule is not the identical movement of each\npreceding one, but is a movement really produced in the very impact of the\none on the other, as our reader must have easily gathered from our\npreceding discussion. And therefore one movement succeeds another\nindefinitely, the one being a condition for the existence of the other;\nwhich constitutes propagation, not properly transmission.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nAntar And Zara; Or, \u201cThe Only True Lovers.\u201d V.\n\n\nAn Eastern Romance Narrated In Songs.\n\nBy Aubrey De Vere.\n\n\n\nPart V.\n\n\nThey Sang.\n\nI.\n\nSudden, in golden arms he came:\n  I stood begirt with maiden bands:\nSudden he came, all bright like flame;\n  Upon my head he laid his hands.\n\n\u201cThis day past victories I disown:\n  This day I seek the battle\u2010field\nA stranger chief, a knight unknown,\n  Without a blazon on my shield.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot man, but He the worlds who made,\n  My hope shall frustrate or approve\u201d\u2014\nI only bent my knee, and said,\n  \u201cVictor or vanquished, thee I love.\u201d\n\nII.\n\nThey set me on a milk\u2010white horse;\n  Our household tribe around me trod;\nLike rivers down a rocky course,\n  On rushed the warriors vowed to God.\n\nI rode, the victor\u2019s destined prize,\n  Last stake when hope was all but gone:\nThe flashes from a virgin\u2019s eyes\n  Like music swept the warriors on!\n\n\u2019Twas theirs their maid elect to guard,\n  The direful battle\u2019s gentle guest:\n\u2019Twas mine to watch, inspire, reward;\n  To honor all\u2014to crown the best.\n\nBut who that stranger chief from far\n  That like some brave ship tempest\u2010tossed\nBore on o\u2019er all the waves of war;\n  Redeemed a battle all but lost?\n\nI knew. The victor\u2019s crown I dropp\u2019d\n  Upon thy brows, my future lord:\nThat night thou satt\u2019st\u2014O boon unhoped\u2014\n  The first time by my father\u2019s board!\n\nIII.\n\nThe victory ours, the feasting o\u2019er,\n  The nameless victor gazed around;\n\u201cEmir! I claim the prize of war,\n  Thy daughter\u2019s hand.\u201d My father frowned.\n\n\u201cUplift her in thine arms,\u201d he said;\n  \u201cThen scale yon hillside smooth and dry:\nThis done, my daughter thou shalt wed:\n  To halt\u2014forget not\u2014is to die.\u201d\n\nI stood: my beating heart cried out,\n  \u201cThou canst not fail!\u201d That cry he heard:\nHe raised me \u2019mid the warriors\u2019 shout;\n  Forward he rushed without a word.\n\nHis breath came quick: his brows grew dark:\n  \u201cMy brother, lover, friend,\u201d I cried:\nHe reeled: his eyes were stiff and stark:\n  I wept, \u201cThis day thou winn\u2019st thy bride!\u201d\n\nHe fell\u2014but on the summit won,\n  Amid the vast and wide acclaim:\nHe lay, a dead man, in the sun:\n  I kissed his lips, and felt no shame.\n\nRound him the warriors stood amazed;\n  His love\u2014\u2019twas that brought back his life:\nDown on him long my father gazed,\n  Then spake, \u201cMy son, behold thy wife!\u201d\n\nIV.\n\nOn carpets heaped my mother sate:\n  I sate, I nestled on her knee;\nWe heard a murmur round the gate:\n  My mantle, purple as the sea,\n\nI drew about my little feet,\n  And nearer sought my mother\u2019s breast:\nHe came; she spake, not slow to greet\n  With courteous words the victor\u2010guest.\n\nSlowly my veil my mother\u2019s hands\n  Lifted, to boast the battle\u2019s prize;\u2014\n\u201cPrince! thou would\u2019st give thy life and lands,\n  If I but raised it to her eyes!\u201d\n\nV.\n\nI knew thee well when first we met;\n  I knew thee well when seldom seen;\nWhen we had parted, plainlier yet\n  I read thy nature\u2014nay, thy mien.\n\nThine earliest glance my tremors stayed;\n  Then softly, and by slow degrees,\nWith thee my confidence I made,\n  And, pleased, discovered I could please.\n\nBut now that we are drawn so near,\n  I lose thee in thine own fair light;\nVanish the outlines once so clear:\u2014\n  I know thee more by faith than sight.\n\nVI.\n\nUpon my shoulder, lightly as a bird,\n  Her white hand lit: then back she fled, afraid;\nBeside my seat once more she stood, nor stirred,\n  But loosed her hair, and round me dropped its shade.\n\nDown to my feet it fell\u2014a sudden night:\n  She spake, \u201cThy darkness and eclipse am I;\nBut thou my sunrise art, and all my light;\n  Still to weak things love grants the victory.\u201d\n\nMore dulcet than the viol rang her laugh;\n  Low laughed her mother; laughed her nurse full loud:\n\u201cNot _thee_ I fear,\u201d she cried, indignant half,\n  And kissed, methought, the head o\u2019er which she bowed.\n\nVII.\n\nMy Lyre reproved my childish mirth:\n  My Lute, remembering sad, old years,\nComplained, \u201cThy feet are yet on earth;\n  Thou caroll\u2019st in the vale of tears.\u201d\n\nI hung my head: ashamed I moved;\n  I answered soft with whispering voice,\n\u201cO Love! \u2019tis thou that stand\u2019st reproved;\n  The fault is thine, if I rejoice;\n\n\u201cNot less this covenant have I made:\n  I will not fold my hands in sleep\nTill aid to those who cry for aid\n  I stretch\u2014have wept with them that weep.\u201d\n\nVIII.\n\nHe sang, \u201cI dreamed. Of thee, all night, one thought\n  Shone like a white flower on a darkling mere\nOr like one star that flashes, rapture\u2010fraught,\n  Through one blue gulf of heaven serene, and clear.\u201d\n\nShe sang, \u201cI dreamed not: happiest sleep is deep:\n  I woke as wakes the young bird in the woods;\u2014\nThy spirit must have hung above my sleep,\n  A bower balm\u2010breathing from a thousand buds.\u201d\n\nWe strove in song; we sang, my love and I,\n  Where laughed the streams, and where the rock\u2019s broad breast\nEchoed the untaught, ecstatic harmony:\n  We warred in happy songs; but hers was best.\n\nIX.\n\nThou art not mine as I am thine:\n  As great, or greater, is thy love;\nBut loftier thoughts above thee shine,\n  And lordlier aims before thee move.\n\nThe hand now clasping mine\u2014that hand\n  Let drop this hand to grasp the sword;\nIt hurled in ruin from our land\n  The impostor Prophet\u2019s sons abhorred.\n\nManhood fell on thee with my tears\n  At parting. With a woman\u2019s joy\nI loved the warrior \u2019mid his peers\u2014\n  \u2019Twas girlish fancy loved the boy!\n\nX.\n\nMother of him I loved and love,\n  My mother too, ere long, to be!\nWith loving words his choice approve,\n  And take thy daughter to thy knee:\n\nSo shall mine eyes, up\u2010gazing still,\n  Thine eyes in filial reverence watch;\nMy hand be subject to thy will;\n  My heart from thine its greatness catch.\n\nThe young can learn, and I am young\n  And labor to be good and true\u2014\nTell her, O thou that know\u2019st! I long\n  To give her age its honors due.\n\nXI.\n\nHe sang, \u201cUpon the myrtle\u2019s silver stem\n  Thy name I carved. Henceforth that tree is mine!\u201d\nLow\u2010laughing \u2019neath her vine\u2010wrought anadem\n  She sang, \u201cThy name I graved upon the pine!\n\n\u201cThe slenderer hand the stronger bark subdued\u2014\n  Say, is it lordlier, bound and tamed to lead\nThe forest\u2010monarch from his sunburnt wood,\n  Or snare some little bird that took no heed?\u201d\n\nWe sang in valleys where the spring flowers sprang\n  To passionate life: the eagle o\u2019er us sailed:\nDown plunged the torrents, and the gray cliffs rang:\n  We clashed our songs in war; but hers prevailed.\n\nXII.\n\nMethought to thine my angel spake:\u2014\n  Near us he seemed, and yet above\u2014\n\u201cTwo children these! their sport they take;\n  They teach each other how to love.\u201d\n\nThine angel answered thus to mine:\n  \u201cWhen Virtue, perfected by pain,\nHas changed earth\u2010love to love divine,\n  Then, stooping, we will lift these twain\n\n\u201cFrom this dull cave of mortal life\n  Low\u2010roofed, and dimly lit with spars,\nTo realms with love\u2019s whole glories rife,\n  And over\u2010vaulted by the stars,\n\n\u201cWhere souls that love their God are one;\n  Where He who made them is their joy:\nPlay on\u2014too young for love\u2014play on!\n  Your sports are sport of girl and boy!\u201d\n\nXIII.\n\nTwo hands\u2014they meet; they part\u2014\u2019tis better so;\n  Parted, they meet to shape one coronal:\nTwo feet\u2014they meet; they part, now swift, now slow\n  They pace to music through one palace hall.\n\nTwo eyes\u2014they move in concord: wanderers long,\n  At last they rest on one unmoving star:\nTwo mouths, in kisses met, dispart in song\u2014\n  Sweet are our meetings; sweet our partings are.\n\nXIV.\n\nI come, I go; yet neither shall repine:\n  Sad is the parting; the return is sweet:\nOnce more the battle with a voice divine\n  Decrees our severance. Soon once more we meet.\n\nWe part not, save in seeming. We are one,\n  In spirit one; in spirit we rejoice;\nTwo voices are we, blent in unison,\n  Two echoes of one mountain\u2010thrilling voice.\n\nNearer we are than words, than thought, can reach;\n  Nearer we shall be; nearest, met on high;\nNearest as not belonging each to each,\n  But both to Him\u2014that Love Who cannot die.\n\n\n\n\nThe Veil Withdrawn.\n\n\nTranslated, By Permission, From The French Of Madame Craven, Author Of \u201cA\nSister\u2019s Story,\u201d \u201cFleurange,\u201d Etc.\n\n\n\nXIII.\n\n\nThat evening we went to the opera, the next night to the theatre; then\ncame invitations without number to a series of dinners, _matin\u00e9es_, and\n_soir\u00e9es_ that succeeded each other without intermission. I refrain from\nenumerating them, for I am writing the history of my soul rather than my\nexterior life. I will merely say, therefore, that after continuing this\ncourse several weeks, I found myself in a most singular and unhappy frame\nof mind. My thoughts, imagination, and whole mind became too much absorbed\nin the amusements and pleasures the young are often carried away with\nthrough curiosity and a superabundance of life and activity, which might\nbe satisfied more completely, however, and in a less dangerous way, than\nby a career of pleasure, the almost inevitable effect of which is to\nproduce a kind of intoxication. This intoxication overpowered me to a\ncertain degree, but it left me, however, the faculty of realizing the\nchange that had come over me, and I felt a painful desire to be what I\nonce was. I had no peace of mind. I could not reflect or pray, even in my\nshort intervals of leisure, and, in order to avoid the irksomeness of\nsolitude, I gladly returned to the round of pleasure into which my husband\nliked to draw me. I had, it is true, the double safeguard of his love for\nme and my indifference to any other admiration but his. A vague uneasiness\nsometimes crossed my mind like an ominous cloud, but I did not dream there\ncould possibly be any danger for either of us in the enervating atmosphere\nof flattery and frivolity which we breathed more and more constantly.\n\nLorenzo continued to hover around me in public, or, if he remained at a\ndistance, to watch me with an attention that was disagreeable because it\nseemed inexplicable. Nothing could have pleased me more than to have his\neyes always meeting mine, and to find him everywhere near enough to speak\nto; but this was quite a different thing, for, even when I was not looking\ntowards him, I could feel his persistent eyes fastened on me, and as soon\nas I raised my head he would turn away as if to avoid encountering my\nglance. Was it with love or pride that his eyes thus followed me? Was it\nnot rather as if he expected to take me by surprise, or was mistrustful of\nme? When this doubt occurred to my mind, I felt the blood rush to my face,\nand love and pride revolt in my heart.\n\nOne day we were invited to a large dinner\u2010party in one of those\nmagnificent houses in Paris which have the now rare advantage of a fine\ngarden. It was past the season for full dress, and I merely wore a white\nmuslin trimmed with lace, and a wreath of flowers whose colors harmonized\nwith that perfect taste shown in everything at Paris. When I made my\nappearance, the whole company united in exclaiming that my fresh toilet\nwas wonderfully becoming. Perhaps they were right. I was of an age that\nflowers suited better than jewels, and my complexion could bear the light\nof day without any danger. The days were now at their longest, so, in\nspite of the interminable length of a grand dinner, the delicious twilight\nhour was not quite gone when we rose from the table, and all issued forth\nthrough the windows into the garden. If ever the sight of the green grass,\nthe leaves on the trees, the perfume and brilliancy of the flowers, and\nthe varied hues of the sky as day declines, are more attractive and\ngrateful at one time than another, it is certainly when contrasted with\nthe stifling atmosphere, the air impregnated with the odor of dishes, and\nthe brilliant artificial light, at a grand dinner in mid\u2010summer. Therefore\nit was with inexpressible relief and an almost child\u2010like joy I flew down\nthe steps into the garden as soon as the master of the house left my\nmovements free, and strolled along the broad alley that divided the lawn,\ninhaling with delight the freshness of the balmy air.... My life of\npleasure had never quenched the ardent love of solitude that sometimes\ncame over me, and I now longed to be alone. I desired this the more\nbecause I felt uneasy about a new change in Lorenzo\u2019s manner, and wished\nto reflect undisturbed on the inference I should draw from it.\n\nFor the first time since our arrival at Paris he had not, to my knowledge,\nwatched one of my movements, though I had received more flattery that day,\nperhaps, than ever before.... During the dinner he appeared devoted to his\nneighbors\u2014on one side, a lady who was still beautiful, though no longer in\nthe bloom of youth; and on the other, a young gentleman with a thoughtful,\nstriking face, who grew animated whenever Lorenzo addressed him, and\nseemed to reply with much interest. I was told that the former was Mme. de\nB\u2014\u2014, the other the young Count Gilbert de Kergy, \u201ca great traveller also,\u201d\nadded the master of the house, beside whom I was seated. \u201cAnd it was\nsolely the hope of meeting the Duca di Valenzano that induced him to\naccept my invitation to dine with us to\u2010day. He does not care for the\n_grand monde_; and when he returns from one of his extensive journeys, he\nshuts himself up at home, or plunges into the charitable world, which is\nanother _grand monde_ little suspected by strangers who only come to Paris\nfor a time.\u201d\n\nAll this might perhaps have interested me at some other time, but my mind\nwas now occupied in trying to ascertain the reality of the change I had\nremarked. It was now my turn to give sly glances towards the other side of\nthe table, but I did not once detect Lorenzo looking towards me. And yet\nit was not owing to the interest he took in the conversation. How many\ntimes I had seen him apparently absorbed in conversation, while a rapid\nglance of the eye convinced me he had been constantly attentive to every\nmovement I made. There was nothing of this kind to\u2010day. I knew him too\nwell not to perceive the difference, but I did not know what to think of\nit, or if I had any reason to rejoice at it.\n\nThese thoughts beset me during the trifling conversation that varies the\n_ennui_ of a large dinner, and even prevented me from perceiving that our\nhost was a gentleman of superior intelligence, and profiting by it. Before\nleaving the table, I stealthily turned my eyes once more in the direction\nthey had so often taken within an hour. It was evident that Lorenzo did\nnot trouble himself any more about me to\u2010day than any other husband about\nhis wife in public. But this time I perceived his young neighbor looking\nat me rather attentively, though with a look of seriousness almost\namounting to austerity, very different from the glances so often\nencountered in the world which always made me lower my eyes. His inspired\nme with a kind of sympathy, and did not give me the slightest\nembarrassment.\n\nI had, however, no opportunity for reflection during my walk, for I was\nalmost immediately surrounded by friends, and I soon turned back to hunt\nfor Lorenzo. Daylight was almost gone, which made it difficult to\nrecognize any one; but at last I discovered him on the steps by means of\nhis lofty stature and noble features, which were distinctly defined\nagainst the light of the _salon_ within. Near him sat his next neighbor at\ndinner, holding a fan in her hand, and talking in an animated manner.\nLorenzo appeared to be listening without making any attempt to reply. Once\nor twice he turned his head towards the garden. He was looking for me,\nperhaps....\n\nIt had now grown entirely too dark to distinguish any one around me. I was\nstanding motionless near a bench on which sat two or three gentlemen\ntalking together.\n\n\u201cMme. de B\u2014\u2014 looks almost as handsome as ever this evening,\u201d said one of\nthem. \u201cOne would really think she was trying to regain her ascendency!...\u201d\n\n\u201cIt would be very difficult, however, to supplant that lovely, golden\u2010\nhaired Sicilian.\u201d\n\n\u201cImpossible, certainly, in the eyes of any other man; but in those of her\nhusband, who knows?\u201d\n\nThis was one of those speeches that are always flying at random, and\nstriking the ear on every side in the world\u2014speeches which one hears\nwithout listening to, but which weaken the moral sense, as physical\ndiseases are produced by breathing dangerous miasmata too frequently.\nSince I had lived in this atmosphere many things of a similar nature had\nbeen said in my presence. Alas! it was sufficient to hear Lorenzo and\nLando\u2019s conversation to learn how far light words of this kind can go. I\ntherefore tried to attach no importance to the gossip I had thus\naccidentally overheard. Even if Lorenzo did formerly pay homage to this\nnow somewhat faded beauty, why should I care? That did not trouble me for\nthe moment. My only anxiety was to ascertain if his happening to meet her\nwas the cause of the change I had observed, or if I must seek some other.\nIn a word, ought I to be anxious or to rejoice?\n\nHaving escaped, in the almost utter darkness, from those who tried to\ndetain me, I was slowly advancing towards the steps when I suddenly met\nLorenzo.... He was in search of me, for he had on his arm my thin mantle\nof white cashmere, which he wrapped around my shoulders. I joyfully seized\nhold of his arm, and said in a low tone: \u201cPray do not go in yet, Lorenzo.\nLet us walk awhile in this beautiful covered alley.\u201d\n\nHe began to laugh. \u201cThat would be very sentimental,\u201d said he, \u201cfor people\nwho are no longer in their honey\u2010moon; but no matter, I consent. _Honi\nsoit qui mal y pense._ Besides, I see yonder an illuminated tent, where, I\nam told, they are preparing a musical surprise for us. Let us go in that\ndirection.\u201d\n\nWe walked a short distance without speaking. There was nothing absolutely\ncalculated to wound me in what he said, but his light, indifferent tone\nwas not what I longed to hear. Amid all the excitement of fashionable\nsociety, I felt that his love constituted the only happiness of my life;\nand if I had supposed that to be the only cause of his vigilance and\nanxiety concerning me, I should never have sought to escape from it. But I\nhad been doubtful about this, and felt so still. And I was too open, too\nconfiding, and perhaps too petulant, to remain in doubt any longer.\n\n\u201cLet us stop here, Lorenzo,\u201d I said when we arrived at the end of the\ncovered walk. \u201cI see people coming this way. We can follow them into the\ntent, and it will be supposed we came with the crowd.\u201d\n\nIn fact, a brilliant _soir\u00e9e_ succeeded the dinner. The _salons_ and\ngarden were filled with company. The light from the tent extended to the\nplace where we were standing, though we were out of sight. I sat down on a\nbench against a tree, and Lorenzo took a seat beside me.\n\n\u201cI have a question to ask you,\u201d said I suddenly. \u201cPromise to give me a\nsincere reply.\u201d\n\nHe seemed surprised. He raised his eyebrows slightly, and his smiling face\nbecame clouded.\n\n\u201cI do not much like to be questioned, Ginevra, I forewarn you.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you always seem to like to have me answer your questions.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, but without depending on it; for I know how to question and obtain\nan answer without giving you the trouble to reply.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd is that why you look at me instead of speaking, and your eyes are\nalways following me so attentively?\u201d\n\nHe smiled, and made no reply for a while.\n\n\u201cPerhaps that has been the cause of my doing so till to\u2010day.\u201d\n\n\u201cTill to\u2010day?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; since you ask me, I confess it without any hesitation. Love does not\nalways, among its privileges, possess the faculty of seeing clearly.\nTherefore I have been mistrustful of mine, and have not allowed it to\ninfluence me in the least in studying you.\u201d\n\nI made a slight gesture of surprise.\n\n\u201cListen, Ginevra. One never knows what a young soldier is till his first\nbattle. Neither can one tell what a young woman of your age is till she\nappears on the terrible battle\u2010field of the fashionable world. But if I\nhave any faculty, it is, I believe, that of not being deceived in a study\nof this kind. Be assured, Ginevra, that from this time I shall watch you\nno more.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, Lorenzo,\u201d said I, somewhat hurt, \u201cyou really watched me through\nsuspicion, and all this time was necessary to convince you I am to be\ntrusted?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wished to see you under fire,\u201d said he, resuming his jesting tone. \u201cDo\nnot complain of this, ma belle Ginevra. You have come out of the trial\nvictorious\u2014victorious to such a degree that, though I thought you more\ncharming to\u2010day than ever, I have not once thought of watching you. And\nyet,\u201d continued he in a tone he tried to render playful, but which was\nbitter in spite of himself, \u201cthose flowers that are so becoming to you are\nnot all calculated to reassure me.\u201d And plucking a red carnation from my\nwreath, he held it up before me with a smile that seemed cruel, and was\nabout to put it in his button\u2010hole when, pale as death, I snatched it from\nhis hand, and threw it as far as I could.\n\n\u201cLorenzo!\u201d I said in a trembling voice, \u201cyou are ungenerous!... and you\nare very unjust!...\u201d\n\nI should have done better to say, as well as think, that he did not know\nwhat he was doing. No; he little knew what had taken place in my soul\nsince the day he thus recalled, which was so sanguinary, so fatal in its\nresults. No; he could not conceive the intolerable pain he gave me by thus\nsuddenly reviving my regret, my sorrow, and my shame!...\n\nHe could read my heart to a certain extent, but how far he was\u2014alas! how\nincapable he was\u2014of penetrating to the bottom of my soul, and fully\ncomprehending, or even suspecting, the radical change which that one day\nhad wrought in my nature.\n\nHe saw with surprise and alarm my agitation and the sudden paleness of my\nface, and endeavored to calm me; but I noticed he was at once anxious and\nannoyed about the emotion he had excited.\n\nI made a violent effort to regain my self\u2010control, and soon succeeded in\nallaying the throbbing of my heart. But I felt as if an icy wind had\ncrossed my path, chilling too soon the opening flowers of my dawning\nhappiness, and causing them to droop their heads.\n\n\n\nXIV.\n\n\nFrom that day Lorenzo, as he promised, ceased to manifest any interest in\nwhat I did in society. But this apparent confidence afforded me no\npleasure. I remained painfully wounded at what had passed between us. I\nconsidered his suspicions even more humiliating than those of my father,\nand began to feel that the fault I had so greatly deplored had not merited\nso long and cruel a chastisement.\n\nMoreover, I was only relieved from the anxiety caused by his vigilance to\nexperience another which was soon to increase and reveal to me at last my\ntrue destiny. It did not, in fact, require a long time to discover that\nLorenzo\u2019s new attitude was sometimes less like confidence than\nindifference. It frequently happened that I searched a long time for him\nin the different _salons_ where we were accustomed to spend all our\nevenings, without being able to find him. One day I perceived him talking\nin a very animated manner with Mme. de B\u2014\u2014, and, when I approached, I\nfancied there was a slight expression of displeasure in his face, which,\nthough promptly concealed, was sufficient to cause me a painful sensation\nof embarrassment.\n\nWhen we were alone, however, I found him unchanged. His manner towards me\nhad lost nothing of its charm; he seemed as affectionate as ever, and yet\nan invisible barrier had risen between us, which was constantly\nincreasing, and I began to experience a feeling of solitude that was\nespecially painful in society, but from which I was nowhere completely\nexempt.\n\nBut the success of my first appearance in the world had now given way to\nthat of fashion. The arrival of some foreign prince, whose name I no\nlonger remember, prolonged the gay season at Paris this year, and one\nreunion succeeded another as if it were carnival time. There was not one\nto which I was not invited, and, though an undeniable need of rest began\nto overpower the feverish activity that for some time had come over me, I\nwas unable to stop, for I began to perceive that a quiet, tranquil life\nwas insupportable to Lorenzo unless in his studio. Out of that, he wished\nto be incessantly in motion, and, as he could not now seriously resume his\nartist life, he gave himself up entirely to that of the world, and was not\nyet indifferent to the pleasure of having me accompany him.\n\nIt was therefore impossible for me to extricate myself from the giddy\nround of which I had grown so weary, and I sometimes envied those who were\nsatisfied with the mere pleasure of attracting attention. I felt\nastonished then, and I still am, at the wonderful part played by vanity in\nthese gayeties, which are so different to those who participate in them\nfrom what they seem to the crowd who are excluded. The music, the dancing,\nthe splendid apartments, the gayety of youth requisite to enjoy all this,\nand, to crown the whole, the pleasure of meeting those who are dear, are\nthe chief attractions and keenest enjoyments which cause those who have\nthe power of exhausting them to be envied by all who are deprived of them.\nIf this were really all, such a life would be ennobled to a certain degree\nin my eyes, for its dangers and its pleasures would at least be\ncommensurate with the love and the disapprobation of which they are the\nobject. But the seductions of the world consist chiefly in the\nsatisfaction of eclipsing others, and the intoxication it causes is almost\nalways produced, not by the pleasure it gives, but by the vanity of those\nwho mingle in it. This seems strange when we reflect upon it, and we can\nsee, without rising very high, that not only happiness, but pleasure, and\neven amusement, can find a better source; and consequently those who\nreally possess these envied blessings are the people who are supposed to\nbe the most debarred from them.\n\nAs for me, I was no longer light\u2010hearted, but I tried to appear so in\nsociety; for the sad expression I could not always disguise had excited\nsome observations that wounded my pride.\n\n\u201cWhat! the fair Ginevra really melancholy?\u201d said Lando Landi, sitting down\nbeside me one evening at a concert, and speaking in the familiar tone\nauthorized by his relationship, but which was none the less displeasing.\n\u201cI have always denied it, because you are so invariably cheerful when I\nsee you out of this everlasting din, as I do every day. I only supposed\nyou a little weary of so gay a life\u2014a thing conceivable, even in your\ncase, for one gets tired of everything, even of turning people\u2019s heads;\nbut this evening you really have the air of a tragic muse.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am a little fatigued, that is all.\u201d\n\n\u201cListen to me, cousin, and do not treat me so badly. I see you do not like\nme, which proves I am not self\u2010conceited; and I am not angry with you,\nwhich proves I am not malicious. Moreover, I greatly admire and love you,\nand yet (give me some credit for this) I do not pay court to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, Lando, no more of such jests, but come to the point.\u201d\n\n\u201cI was about to beg you to show some confidence in me. You are sad, and I\nwill tell you why: you have heard some nonsensical gossip about Lorenzo.\nNow, cousin, let me tell you....\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat gossip?\u201d I asked, turning red with an air of displeasure.\n\n\u201cYou understand me perfectly well. I am certain I tell you nothing new. It\nmay seem presuming to speak of this, but I must justify Lorenzo. Believe\nwhat I say, and do not attach any importance to a passing politeness in\nmemory of former times, which means nothing, and really does not, on my\nword of honor, merit such a flash from your beautiful eyes.\u201d\n\nHe had indeed found the means of making them flame up.\n\n\u201cReally, Lando,\u201d said I haughtily, \u201cit would serve you right if I never\nspoke to you again.\u201d\n\nBut he was evidently so seriously astonished that I saw I was wrong. He\nhad been presuming without knowing it or intending it. I therefore\ncontinued in a milder tone:\n\n\u201cI assure you, you are absolutely mistaken. I am neither sad nor anxious,\n... only a little _ennuy\u00e9e_, that is all. And to\u2010night I am sleepy, and\nwish to return home as soon as possible. Give me your arm, and let us go\nin search of Lorenzo.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not much after midnight,\u201d he said; \u201cyou must really remain a while\nlonger to hear the last two pieces.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I tell you I have had enough of it. But if you wish to remain here,\nyou need not feel obliged to escort me. The first person I meet will\nrender me that service.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Ma cher!_\u201d said he, rising and shaking his head, as he concluded to give\nme his arm.\n\nWe began our voyage of discovery through the long row of _salons_, but\ncould not find Lorenzo anywhere. Lando said nothing, but I noticed he cast\na quick, mistrustful glance around every room we entered, and it occurred\nto me he had not told the truth, but merely wished to reassure me when he\nknew Lorenzo was having a _t\u00eate\u2010\u00e0\u2010t\u00eate_ it was as humiliating for me to be\nignorant of as to discover. Lando had touched a sorer spot than I was\nwilling he should see. For in spite of an apparently very frank\nexplanation on this point from Lorenzo himself a few days before,\nsuspicion had entered my heart, and I was in constant need of being\nreassured. Was not this acknowledging I already had reason to tremble?\n\nAt length we arrived at the last _salon_. Lorenzo was not there. There was\nonly a small room beyond, not as well lighted as the rest.\n\n\u201cThat is the library,\u201d explained Lando in his way; \u201cor, at least, a\ncabinet full of books, where no one ever goes.\u201d\n\nAn almost imperceptible movement of his arm made me feel he wished to\nprevent me from entering. This was enough to induce me to go straight to\nthe door, where I stopped short, at once reassured and amazed. Four men\nwere there by themselves, sitting around a card\u2010table with a green\ncovering. Two of them were playing, and Lorenzo was one of them; the\nothers followed the game with the most intense interest. I remained\nleaning against the door, motionless, and my eyes fastened on him. Was\nthat really Lorenzo?... What a change in his countenance!... What a\nstrange expression in his mobile face! He did not perceive me, and I felt\nthat my voice would have sounded in his ear in vain. He neither saw nor\nheard anything around him. His looks, his attention, his mind, and his\nwhole being seemed absorbed in the cards he held in his hand. He was calm,\nbut his slightly\u2010compressed eyebrows showed that luck was against him.\n\nIn a few minutes he drew a roll of gold pieces from his pocket, and threw\nthem on the table. His opponent rose, but Lorenzo remained in his seat,\nand began a new game with one of those who had been watching the old one.\n\n\u201cTake a seat here,\u201d said Lando, leading me towards one of the sofas in the\nroom where we were. \u201cI am going to tell Lorenzo you are waiting for him.\nDo not go in yourself.\u201d\n\nI made a sign of assent, and for the first time gave Lando credit for some\ntact. His usually smiling face had, moreover, an air of anxious solicitude\nthat not only surprised me, but redoubled the strange, unexpected shock I\nhad just experienced. He went into the next room, and, after waiting a\nlong time, I at last saw him come out; but he was alone.\n\n\u201cIt is impossible to speak to him till the end of the game,\u201d he said in a\ntone of vexation. Then, after a moment\u2019s silence, he added with a forced\nlaugh: \u201cMy dear cousin, you would have done much better to follow my\nadvice and wait for Lorenzo in the concert\u2010room instead of coming here\nafter him. But since you persisted in doing so, allow me to give you one\nbit of advice, now you have caught him falling into his old bad habit\nagain.\u201d\n\n\u201cAgain?\u201d I said with an air of surprise.\n\n\u201cWell, yes.... For a year he did not touch a card, he told me, for he well\nknew that for him the mere touch was like a spark that kindles a fire. He\nvowed\u2014not to play moderately, for he is incapable of moderation in\nanything\u2014but never to touch a card again, and he expressed great\nsatisfaction some days since that he had kept his promise so faithfully.\nBut to\u2010day he has broken it. Who knows what will happen to\u2010morrow? Make\nuse, therefore, of the influence you still have over him; use all the\npersuasive powers you possess to induce him to resolve once more on a wise\ncourse. It is a thing, you may be sure, that threatens your happiness, as\nwell as his, a thousand times more than all the fair ones in the past,\npresent, or future who should attempt to rival you!\u201d\n\nIn spite of all that was displeasing in Lando\u2019s manner, language, and\nsentiments, and even in the expressions he made use of in giving me this\nadvice, I felt it was dictated by sincere interest, and it touched me. I\nfelt weighed down by this new trouble. This was a fear I had never\nexperienced before. It was absolutely foreign to everything that had\ncrossed my mind. Was this to live, love, and be happy? Everything around\nme looked dark, and the night seemed to penetrate to my very soul.\n\nThe time I had to wait seemed interminable. The concert was over, the\nrooms were growing empty, and we were to be the last. I rose with an\nimpatience I could no longer control, and went again to the cabinet.\nLorenzo was rising from the table just as I entered. I saw him slip\nanother roll of money into his opponent\u2019s hands. Then he came towards me\nwith his usual expression. It was evident he had no suspicion of my having\nbeen so near him for more than an hour.\n\n\u201cExcuse me, Ginevra,\u201d said he. \u201cWhat! is the concert over? And you had to\nsearch for me?... It is unpardonable; but I had no idea they would get to\nthe end of that interminable programme so early.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it is nearly two o\u2019clock,\u201d said I.\n\nHe glanced towards the clock, and looked surprised. Lando, meanwhile, had\nhurried away to get my cloak; but he soon returned with it, saying the\ncarriage was waiting for us. I entered it with Lorenzo, after giving my\nhand more cordially to his cousin than I had ever done before.\n\nOn the way home Lorenzo, after a long silence, thought proper to explain\nthat he had got tired of the concert, and for amusement had had recourse\nto a game of _\u00e9cart\u00e9_. Lando\u2019s words were still in my ears. My heart, too,\nwas filled with inexpressible anxiety and profound affection for this dear\npartner of my life who was so charming in manner, and whom it would have\nbeen so sweet to love in peace! I leaned my head against his shoulder,\nand, passing my arm through his, said:\n\n\u201cLorenzo, if I take the liberty of giving you one word of advice, will you\nfollow it? If I beg you to make me one promise\u2014a promise that will render\nme happy\u2014will you not grant it?\u201d\n\nHe made so abrupt a movement that I was almost frightened. But he\nimmediately resumed his self\u2010control, and, softly kissing my hand and\nforehead, said in a tone that was not rude, but which seemed to forbid all\nreply:\n\n\u201cGinevra, I think I told you the other day that I do not like to be\nquestioned, and I now tell you that I like advice still less, and, above\nall, I cannot bear to make promises. So let this warning suffice. Avoid\nthese three shoals, if you wish to remain in my eyes what I now consider\nyou\u2014the most charming of women.\u201d\n\n\n\nXV.\n\n\nThe following day was Sunday. Notwithstanding so fatiguing an evening, the\nlateness of the hour when I retired, and the restless night that followed,\nI was ready for Mass at the usual hour. But for the first time since my\nmarriage Lorenzo sent me word not to wait for him. Of course I had never\nbeen under any great illusion as to his religious sentiments. I supposed\nthat habit, rather than piety, induced him to accompany me to church; but\nI was far from suspecting that he had hitherto made it a point to do so\nbecause he thought it necessary to keep an eye on me there as well as\nelsewhere. Above all, I little expected the habit to be laid aside as soon\nas he was reassured or became interested in something else. I consoled\nmyself on this occasion by thinking he would go to a later Mass; and for\nthe first time I went out alone and on foot, the distance being so short\nbetween our hotel in the Rue de Rivoli and the Church of S. Roch.\n\nThe life I had led for two months was not precisely adapted to dispose my\nsoul for prayer. Besides, accustomed as I had been to the churches of\nItaly, those at Paris seemed destitute of all beauty, and I found it\ndifficult to get used to so different an aspect. But other impressions\nsoon modified this. The goodness and piety that so thoroughly impregnated\nthe atmosphere which surrounded my childhood were rather the spirit of our\nfamily than of the land that had providentially given me birth. And yet\nthere is, in Sicily, as well as all Southern Italy, a great deal of faith,\nthough it cannot be denied that, at this time, great moral relaxation and\nreligious indifference were too prevalent, especially among those who\nbelonged to the upper classes. There, more than anywhere else even, holy\nsouls led hidden lives, and edification was rather to be found in the\nobscurity of certain firesides than in the world at large, or even in the\nusages of public worship. All the religious exercises of our family were\nperformed in the chapel of the old palace we occupied. This chapel was\nspacious, richly ornamented, and architecturally beautiful. We not only\nheard Mass there on Sundays, but every day, and two or three times a week\nDon Placido gave us an instructive, edifying discourse. My father, mother,\nLivia, Ottavia, Mario (who, in spite of his faults, retained his respect\nfor holy things), and several faithful old servants constituted the\nattentive, devout congregation. My childhood was not wanting in any of\nthose influences that have so powerful an effect on after\u2010life. Ottavia\noften took Livia and myself to the evening Benediction in one of the\nneighboring churches, and my heart still throbs at the remembrance of the\npious transport with which I knelt before the illuminated tabernacle on\nwhich stood the monstrance. The church used to be filled solely by people\nof the humbler classes, even on festivals. It was a rare thing to find a\nsingle person belonging to the upper classes. What struck me, therefore,\nabove all, at Paris, was the complete difference of the churches in this\nrespect. I was at first even more surprised than edified. For if I had\noften remarked the absence of the wealthy in Sicily, here I was struck\nwith the absence of the poor. I looked around for the people clothed in\nrags, whose fervor had so often redoubled mine, and did not like to feel\nthat I was separated from them. This separation is much more marked where\nthe custom of private chapels has been established. Christian equality\ncalls the rich and great to the foot of the altar, no less than the poor\nand lowly; and if they do not all meet there, whether in France or Italy,\nwe cannot blame those whose attendance at church is an example to the\nabsent, whatever rank they may belong to.\n\nBut to return to this Sunday morning. I knelt down and heard Mass with\nmuch less distraction than usual. I was, it is true, rather sad than\ndevout at the time, but I prayed more fervently than I had done for a long\ntime, and, when I slowly and reluctantly left the church, the inner soul,\nthat resounds like a lyre under the divine hand, had received a slight\ntouch, and for the first time for a long while I felt the movement of one\nof those hidden chords that cannot be sounded without causing all the\nothers to vibrate.\n\nAs I approached the door of the church, I noticed a young girl kneeling on\na chair, whose face did not seem wholly unknown to me. She held a purse in\nher hand, and was soliciting contributions for orphans. I deposited my\noffering, and received her smiling thanks in return. As I passed on, I\nheard her whisper my name to a lady of noble and distinguished appearance\nbeside her (whom I supposed to be her mother), who, with her eyes fastened\non her book, had not observed me. As I went on, I recollected having met\nthis pretty girl two or three times in company, but did not know her name.\nI felt surprised that she should know mine, though this often happens to\nstrangers who are pointed out as objects of curiosity, while they only\nknow a few of those around them.\n\nI had no time, however, to dwell on this accidental meeting, or quietly\nenjoy the impressions left by the services at church; for Lorenzo\u2019s first\nwords immediately revived all the recollections of the morning.\n\n\u201cYou are late, Ginevra,\u201d said he. \u201cIt is half\u2010past eleven. Breakfast is\nwaiting, and I am in a hurry.\u201d\n\nWe took seats at the table in silence, but he soon resumed:\n\n\u201cYou have scarcely time to dress. Have you forgotten that we are going to\nthe races? Lando Landi is to come for us before one o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\nYes, I had completely forgotten it. I felt an earnest desire to withdraw\nfrom the engagement. I wanted one day of peace and quiet repose. I felt\nthe need of drinking in more deeply the breath of pure air I had just\ntasted. Could I not have a few hours to myself? Must I at once go where I\nshould inhale a different atmosphere? And what an atmosphere!...\n\nSeeing that I remained silent and had a pensive air, he said in an\nimpatient tone:\n\n\u201cWell, Ginevra, what is it? What have you to tell me or ask me?...\u201d\n\nI replied without any circumlocution: \u201cI have nothing to say, except that\nI am tired to death of those races, and beg you to excuse me from\naccompanying you to\u2010day.\u201d\n\nHis face immediately cleared up. \u201cIs that all?\u201d said he. \u201cAs to that, you\nare at perfect liberty to do as you please. You may be sure,\u201d continued\nhe, laughing, \u201cthat I shall only contradict you on great occasions.... But\nwhat will you do with yourself this afternoon, if you do not go to the\nraces?\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall do like everybody else in France\u2014go to Vespers.\u201d\n\nHe gave a derisive laugh that was horrible.\n\n\u201cEverybody else, do you say? It would be very difficult to tell how many\nin Paris even go to Mass!\u201d\n\nI looked at him, as he said this. He understood my meaning, and appeared\ndispleased.\n\n\u201cCome, Ginevra,\u201d said he in an ill\u2010humored manner, \u201care you going to\ninsist that I must always agree with you?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy no means, Lorenzo, you know very well.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you did not like it because you had to go to church without me this\nmorning.\u201d\n\nI hesitated an instant, but at last replied with some emotion:\n\n\u201cOf course I love to have you with me wherever I go, and more especially\nthere; but it would be better, however, for you to go to church always\nwithout me than ever to go _solely_ for me.\u201d\n\nThis reply increased his displeasure, and he said in a tone he had never\nused before:\n\n\u201cUnfortunately, the truth is, my dear child, if I should consult my own\ninclinations, I might perhaps never go at all.\u201d\n\nTears came into my eyes, and my heart ached with the strongest feeling of\ngrief I had ever experienced!...\n\nO my God!... I must have had some love for thee, even at that time, since\nthe very thought of any one\u2019s not loving thee caused me so much pain!...\n\nLorenzo\u2019s tone, look, and whole manner not only showed his utter\nindifference, but the complete incredulity he felt. I had never suspected\nit before, because it was something foreign to my experience. I knew it\nwas possible to violate the law of God, but did not know it could be\ndenied. I understood lukewarmness and negligence, for I had seen both in\nothers as well as in him; but I had never before encountered lack of\nrepentance and ignorance of duty. This cold denial of any love for God and\nof all belief in him Lorenzo, of course, had not expressly declared, but\nit had been betrayed by his manner doubtless even more than he would have\nwished. With all the inconsistencies of my character and the faults of my\nage, he must have seen that I had too lively and profound a faith not to\nbe displeased at anything that jarred on it, and heretofore he had been\ncircumspect without being hypocritical.\n\nHe saw the effect he had produced, and, as he had not become indifferent\nto me, he regretted it; but he knew he could not at once repair his\nmistake, and contented himself for the moment by trying to divert my mind\nfrom it by a change of subject. And I likewise felt it would be better to\ntalk of something else. This prudence was by no means natural to my\ndisposition, but I began to understand his. Besides, his injunctions of\nthe evening before were still too recent to be forgotten.\n\nThe conversation did not last long, for Lando, punctual to his engagement,\narrived at half\u2010past twelve with a beaming face, a flower in his button\u2010\nhole, and in his hand an enormous bunch of violets destined for me.\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d he exclaimed when he learned my intentions for the afternoon....\n\u201cBut that is impossible! Not go to the races? Why, you must. Remain at\nhome when the weather is the finest in the world? I never heard of such a\nthing.... Deprive me of the pleasure of taking you in my _cal\u00e8che_, and\nmaking everybody envy me?... That is the most cruel caprice that ever\nentered a woman\u2019s head!...\u201d\n\nHere Lorenzo left the room an instant to look for his hat, and Lando\nsuddenly began in another tone: \u201cI am in earnest, cousin. You would do\nmuch better to go.\u201d\n\nWhat did he mean? I remained doubtful and troubled, but Lorenzo\nimmediately returned, and I had no time for reflection. As they were\nleaving the room, my husband approached, and, taking me by the hand,\nlooked at me with an expression his eyes now and then assumed, and which\nalways dispersed, as by some enchantment, the clouds that rose too often\nbetween us. He slightly caressed my cheek with the glove in his hand, and\nwhispered with a smile:\n\n\u201cCome, Ginevra mia, do not be angry. Let me see you smile again.\u201d\n\nThen turning towards Lando, \u201cIt is not yet one o\u2019clock,\u201d he said. \u201cLet us\nstart, and, before going to the Bois de Boulogne, we will stop at the\nMadeleine.\u201d\n\nHis looks, as well as his words, allayed my anxiety; but a thousand\ndifferent ideas crossed my mind, and after they were gone I remained\nthoughtfully leaning on the balustrade of my balcony, where I followed\nthem with my eyes to the end of the street, wondering what Lando meant,\nand if I had really done wrong not to accompany them.\n\nThe weather at that time was fine. The clearness of the sky, as well as\nthe verdure of the trees, attracted my attention more than the aspect of\nthe street, and of the garden already filled with the crowd of animated,\nhappy, and gayly\u2010dressed people, that give every pleasant summer day at\nParis the appearance of a festival. But I was absorbed in my own thoughts,\nand looked at it all without noticing anything. I had a vague feeling\nthat, among the dangers that seemed to encompass me in the new life into\nwhich I had been thrown, there were two I had special reason to dread. The\nfirst\u2014the greatest\u2014would have broken my heart, and on that I could not\ndwell for an instant.... The second threatened the loss of our property,\nand would diminish our income, if not absolutely ruin us. This, too was\nalarming, but much less so than the other in my eyes, though just the\ncontrary in Lando\u2019s estimation, if I read him aright. After considerable\nreflection, I concluded that he merely referred to something of the same\nnature he had alluded to the evening before, and I put it aside to ask\nmyself with far deeper anxiety if I had really had a glimpse of Lorenzo\u2019s\nheart, as he looked at me on leaving the room, or whether he was playing a\npart, and deliberately deceiving me. The heavenly expression that\nsometimes beamed from his eyes always inspired me with a confidence in him\nthat was equal to my affection. I had just experienced its effect. The\nlook, however, was so transient that it rather resembled the reflection of\na distant light than any actual, real feeling. Whereas his mocking laugh\nand the tone that to\u2010day for the first time accompanied it were\u2014alas! I\ncould not doubt it\u2014the expression of his real sentiments, and this\ncontradiction terrified me.... He seemed to possess two natures, and my\nhead grew weary in trying to decide which of the two was his real one\u2014a\nquestion I frequently had occasion to ask afterwards, and to wait a long\ntime for the reply\u2014as doubtful to him then as it was to myself....\n\nI left the window, and, buried in an arm\u2010chair, I allowed the time to pass\naway in reflections of this kind without opening the book I held in my\nhand, or noticing the gradual obscurity of the sky, that a short time\nbefore had been so clear. It was not threatening enough, however, to\nhinder me from going on foot to Vespers, which it was nearly time for, the\nhour not being as late at S. Roch\u2019s as elsewhere. I started without any\ndelay, giving orders for my carriage to be at the church door at the end\nof the service.\n\nThe salutary impressions of the morning and the excessive anxiety and\nsadness that I afterwards experienced had somewhat counteracted the more\nor less unhealthy influences that result from a continued life of\npleasure. I was now in that frame of mind when it is easy to collect one\u2019s\nthoughts; when the soul, so to speak, flies to the first place of refuge\nin which it is sure of repose.... Who has not experienced the strange,\nmysterious, refreshing influence of prayer, even when mute and\ninarticulate?... Who has not, in this way, laid down for an instant all\nhis sorrows, all his fears, all his sufferings, and afterwards taken up\nthe load again with a renewed strength that seemed to have lightened the\nburden?...\n\nI had suffered but little at that time in comparison with what life still\nhad in reserve for me. But after a while we learn to suffer, and in this\nscience, as in all others, it is the beginning one always finds the most\ndifficult. A fearful storm, it is true, had assailed the first flower of\nmy spring\u2010time, and spread darkness and gloom over the heavens of my\nsixteenth year; but spring\u2010time and the sun returned, and at an age when\nothers only begin life I was commencing mine the second time. But this new\nlife of happiness was, I now felt, threatened in a thousand ways.\nApprehension, a worse torture than sadness; a vague, undefined fear, more\ndifficult to endure than the woes it anticipates; the uncertainty, doubt,\nand suspicion, so much more intolerable to one of my nature than any\npositive suffering, rendered my heart heavy and depressed, and I felt it\nwould be a relief to weep as well as to pray.\n\nI knelt on the only vacant chair in the church, and remained a long time\nmotionless, my face buried in my hands, unable to give utterance to my\nwants, but knowing God could read my heart, as, when we meet a friend\nafter a long separation, we are often silent merely because we have so\nmuch to communicate, and know not where to begin. In this attitude I heard\nVespers sung for the first time in my life, this office of the church\nbeing, as is well known, much less frequently used in the south of Italy\nthan in other places. I have already mentioned the public religious\nobservances of my childhood. I had, therefore, never heard Vespers chanted\nin this way. The voices of the choristers were harmonious, and the\nresponses were no less so. A large number of the congregation joined in\nthe chant. There was something monotonous rather than musical in it, but\nit was more musical than reading, and it produced a strangely soothing\ninfluence on me. I laid aside all thought of myself, and attentively\nfollowed the admirable lines of the Psalmist; and when the Magnificat was\nintoned, I rose with the whole congregation to chant this divine hymn with\na sensation of joy and hope that, for the moment, made me forget the\npainful impressions I felt when I entered beneath these arches now\nresounding with its words....\n\nBenediction followed, recalling the earliest, dearest remembrances of my\nchildhood, and increasing the emotion I already felt. When the monstrance\ncontaining the divine Host was placed above the altar, I lost all thought\nof where I was. I forgot whether it was Paris, Rome, or Messina, and\nwhether the arches above me were those of some magnificent church, or some\nhumble chapel, or a mere oratory like that in which I had prayed from my\nchildhood. What difference did it make? The sun shines everywhere alike,\nand diffuses equal light in all places. How much more truly shines\nthroughout the whole Catholic world the living, uncreated Light, present\non all our altars! Time and place were forgotten. I was once more with my\nbeloved mother, once more with Livia, my sweet, saintly sister, and the\nfaithful Ottavia; and when, at the end of one of those hymns that are\nusually sung before the Blessed Sacrament, a young voice, pure and clear,\nuttered the word _Patria_,(164) it seemed at that moment to have a double\nmeaning, and designate, not only my earthly, but my heavenly country.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nPius VI.\n\n\nThose were terrible days. Even the faithful quailed, and asked each other\ntimidly whether it was possible that God\u2019s enemies had at last prevailed,\nand that the Rock had been shaken and the Word passed away. Voltaire had\ncome and done his work, and gone, leaving a new generation behind him to\nfight the devil\u2019s cause, to flaunt his standard over Christendom, to\nrevile \u201cthe Galilean,\u201d and wage war against his church\u2014the subtle, deadly,\npersevering war of envious hatred, conquered impotence, malignant fury.\nThere was a shout of hellish triumph throughout the ranks of Voltaire\u2019s\ndisciples; it seemed as if their victory was now secure; the old man of\nthe Vatican, who for generations had remained unconquerable as fate, was\nin the power of the soldier who had conquered fate, who held Europe in the\nhollow of his hand, who raised up kings with a nod, and overthrew\ndynasties with a word. He had overcome the world, why should he not\novercome the pope? He had demolished a score of thrones, why should he not\nannihilate this fisherman\u2019s chair that for seventeen centuries had defied\nthe combined forces of the world? Poor fools! Why not!\n\nJean Angelo Braschi was born at Cesena on the 27th of December, 1717, of a\nnoble but poor family. His parents left him all the patrimony they had, a\nfaith of the royal antique sort, and an education worthy of the name he\nbore. He was little more than a boy when Clement XIV. saw of what stuff\nthe young cleric was made, and appointed him his secretary. This was\nBraschi\u2019s first step on the ladder which was to lead him to the perilous\nheights of the purple\u2014\u201cthe dye of empire and of martyrdom.\u201d\n\nWhen Clement XIV., pursued by the entreaties and threats of European\npotentates, yielded a weak concession to their cabals, and spoke of\n\u201creform\u201d to the general of the Jesuits (who answered, Loyola\u2010like, in\nroyal scorn of the implied calumny: _Sint ut sunt, aut non sint_),\nBraschi, then cardinal, took his stand by their side, resented every\noutrage offered to the sons of Ignatius, those courtiers of martyrdom in\nall ages, and thus vindicated his future claim to a place in the palm\u2010\nbearers\u2019 ranks. He opened his house to the persecuted Jesuits; he braved\neverything in his unswerving, uncompromising fidelity to their order. What\nelse could befall him but the crown of the confessor or the martyr?\n\nEurope hailed his accession with delight. The pulses of the rising\nmonster, Revolution, were beginning to beat, and the nations were growing\nafraid, they knew not yet of what; but all eyes were turned to Rome, as to\nthe rock where the safety of the world was anchored. The advent of a man\nlike Pius VI., firm as adamant, who could brave death, not merely for the\nfaith, but for every tittle of principle which the uttermost integrity of\nthe faith included\u2014a man whom his enemies likened to Moses for his\nmeekness, and to Solomon for his strong wisdom; who lived like an\nanchorite and officiated with the splendor of the prophet king, who loved\nthe beauty of God\u2019s house and the place where his glory dwelt\u2014the advent\nof a priest like this to the papal throne gave joy all over Christendom.\n\nPius VI. was elected on the 15th of February, 1775. Seldom has the weight\nof that unearthly crown fallen more heavily on its wearer\u2019s brow than it\nfell on that of the new pontiff. In the temporal order he saw before him a\nmountain to be uplifted; in the spiritual order no far\u2010seeing eye could\nfail to detect the ominous signs of the coming storm. Pius lost not a\nmoment in designing and carrying out vast schemes of material improvement\nin his dominions. In those days the Pontine marshes were swamps of poison\nthat had hitherto defied all petty attempts at reclaiming them.\n\n\u201cHow do you live in this dreadful place?\u201d inquired a traveller of one of\nthe inhabitants of the dismal soil.\n\n\u201cSignor, we do not live; we die!\u201d was the answer.\n\nPius VI. declared that henceforth they should live. Colossal works were\nset on foot, and, if the pestilential marshes were not radically purified,\nthey were so much improved as to justify the people in proclaiming the\nenergetic pontiff as the worker of that miracle. During his pontificate\nthe draining was so successful that Pius himself declared this alone was\nample reward for all his sufferings. The port of Ancona was repaired, and\nits entrance adorned with a light\u2010house; works of art were sought for,\nrevealed, and cherished. Spiritual works were founded and fostered with\nroyal munificence and paternal care. The Christian Brothers were called to\nRome and a noble school built for them, on the front of which was\ninscribed the title so glorious and so dear to the Vicar of Christ: \u201cPius\nVI., the Father of the Poor.\u201d\n\nBut not even the wisdom and prestige of this ideal pontiff could suffice\nto shelter him from the tempest that was slowly but steadily travelling\ntowards the Holy City. The infidel philosophers of France and Germany had\ndone their work; they had sown, and now the time had come for reaping.\nAustria first showed symptoms of disaffection. Joseph II., who was too\ncowardly to rescue his own sister(165) from the hands of the torturers,\nhad become the tool of his minister, Kaunitz, whose delight it was to\nworry the pope with the small artillery of a cunning and treacherous\ndiplomacy. These weapons, however, were not the ones that could move Pius\nVI. They glided off from the shield of his unalterable patience, humility,\nand truth like arrows from a marble surface. Nor could the weak monarch\nwithstand the charm of the saintly pope when he came within its influence.\nHe rallied to his side when he visited Rome in 1783, and promised to be\nfaithful to him. But it was a broken reed, the friendship of the\nvacillating Joseph.\n\nSpain, Tuscany, and Venice next came to sadden the Holy Father\u2019s heart and\nstrengthen his growing fears. His gentleness held them captive for a time;\nbut they too were of the tribe of broken reeds. When friends prove false,\nthen is the time for the treason of foes to flourish. Catherine of Russia,\nthe woman with the wily head of the snake joined to the cruel heart of the\ntiger, came with honeyed words of reverence to tender offers of service,\nnay, even of allegiance, to Pius. A far\u2010sighted woman, this tiger queen\nwho was stealing into Poland, and sucking the nation\u2019s blood, as she\ncrawled into its heart. Then there was Frederick of Prussia, more honest\nthan many a self\u2010styled son of the church in those days; he was grateful\nto the prince who first assigned him his title of king. Gustavus III. came\nto do homage to the man who had drained the Pontine marshes, and made a\nnoble road through that region, so long the tomb of all who dwelt within\nits poisonous area. Pius received these marks of courtesy with his\naccustomed gentle grace; he knew what they were worth, and was grateful\nwithout being beguiled. They were, in truth, the last rays of the sun that\nwas soon to set in darkness over his reign, and to close it in sufferings\nunparalleled for fourteen centuries in the annals of the church.\n\nFrance was to give the signal, and she was now ready. France, that had so\noften raised the standard of the church, and defended it with the blood of\nher fairest chivalry\u2014France was to sound the war\u2010cry hounding on the\nfanatics to the destruction of her own purest glory. The Reign of Terror\nwas inaugurated. The Constituent Assembly had decreed the civil\nconstitution of the clergy. Bishops were no longer to be what they had\nhitherto been; they were henceforth to be the nominees of an unbelieving\nmob; the beautiful structure of the spiritual hierarchy was to be\ndestroyed. To legalize the crime, an oath was exacted from the priesthood;\nthose who refused to take it\u2014and their name was legion\u2014were deprived of\nthe pittance allotted them by the state, and turned away to starve. Sixty\nthousand preferred starvation to the bread thus bought at the price of\nperjury. Of one hundred and thirty\u2010eight bishops, four only took the oath.\nMonasteries were dissolved; scandals arose on all sides. The papal nuncio,\nCardinal de Bernis, was insulted and compelled to fly from Paris. The pope\nwas burned in effigy. Thus did France sound the tocsin that was to herald\nin the earthquake\u2014\u201ca great horror of darkness and shakings of the world,\nand a cup of trembling which all the nations shall drink.\u201d Faith is being\ndriven out, and \u201cphilosophy\u201d is riding in like a conqueror on her ruins.\nPeace and the brave pageant of virtue and all goodly things are banished,\nand in their place enter decay and chaos and unbelief; and then the\nRevolution is ready. The world is wheeling round, humanity is going mad,\nnothing is stable on the earth\u2014nothing but the rock of Peter, against\nwhich the storm beats in foolish and impotent rage. Pius raises his voice\nabove the whirlwind, and those who hearken hear it: \u201cGod is unchangeable.\nTruth is immutable. The church can make no compromise. Let us stand\nfaithfully by the cross. God will save his own and redeem his word.\u201d\nAvignon exhibited a hecatomb of murdered priests. On the 24th of October,\n1791, over two hundred were butchered in the _Glaci\u00e8re_ of that city. In\nSeptember of the following year three bishops and three hundred priests\nwere on one day massacred in Paris. Numbers fled to Rome for protection.\nThe fragments of the altar and the throne met in the Eternal City\u2014Mesdames\nde France and the King and Queen of Sardinia, proscribed prelates and\npriests; and Pius opened his fatherly arms to all. This shelter was,\nhowever, soon to be torn from them.\n\nOn the 15th of February, 1793, the commandant of the French fleet at\nNaples walked into the Roman consulate, and ordered the consul to hoist\nthe red flag and the cap of liberty over the building. The consul refused;\na row ensued; blood was shed. The French government declared itself\ninsulted, and threatened the pope in violent language. Meantime, the\nDirectory succeeded to the Convention, and people drew a long breath, and\nhoped a change had come for the better. But, as Carnot said: \u201cIf now there\nwas less blood shed, there were more tears.\u201d The guillotine was still\nerect, and its work only slackened because the arms of the executioners\nwere weary. The republican armies were progressing in their triumphal\nmarches. Italy still remained to be conquered. Bonaparte was entrusted\nwith the expedition. A series of victories brought him quickly to the\ngates of Rome. He proposed the most humiliating conditions to the\nSovereign Pontiff. Pius was summoned to cancel every bull, brief, and\npastoral that the Holy See had issued from the beginning of the Revolution\nto the present time. The pope firmly refused to comply. Bonaparte was at\nfirst full of insolent fury, and threatened to annihilate Rome and the\nVatican. He relented, however, not out of deference to Pius, but to show\nhis defiance of the home government, and drew up a treaty of his own\ninvention, which, ruinous as it was, the Holy Father meekly signed, in\norder to save his people and prevent bloodshed. This treaty of Tolentino,\nas it was called, secured to Bonaparte the sum of thirty\u2010one millions of\nfrancs, sixteen hundred cavalry horses, and a portion of the Romagna. The\nRoman treasury was drained by this monstrous ransom; the people were\nstarving, the misery was terrible. Pius was broken\u2010hearted, but his\ncourage, fed by a faith that was anchored in God, never faltered. His\nconduct all through these dreadful days was that of a saint. He found his\nonly solace in prayer and in fortifying the faith of his suffering flock.\nBut he had as yet only tasted the first drops of his chalice. The\nDirectory had resolved to get possession of Rome. A pretext must be\ncreated, since Pius would not furnish even the semblance of one, for\nbreaking the iniquitous treaty, which had thus far secured to him the\nintegrity of the Holy City. General Duphot was fired on by the Roman\ntroops acting in discharge of their duty. Berthier was at once ordered to\nleave Ancona, where he was stationed with the French army, and to march on\nRome and encamp under its walls. His first step was to issue a\nproclamation exciting the citizens to revolt, insulting and calumniating\nthe pope and his government, and announcing himself as the liberator of an\noppressed people. He entered the city next day, and took possession by\nplacing seals on the museums and galleries, which were \u201chenceforth the\nproperty of the _grande nation_ that had come to set free the Roman\npeople.\u201d A tree of liberty was planted on the capitol; tricolor flags\nfloated on the public monuments, and tricolor ribbons decked the ears of\nMarcus Aurelius\u2019 horse. The Holy Father was outraged in his own house; his\nfurniture was taken from him, and his jewels; he was despoiled even of his\npontifical robes; his private library, a valuable collection of 40,000\nvolumes, was seized and sold to a dealer for 12,000 crowns. The deliverers\nof Rome crowned these proceedings by inviting their victim to wear the\ntricolor cockade by way of a badge of authority from France. Pius VI.\nreplied with majestic meekness: \u201cI can wear no livery but that with which\nthe church has clothed me.\u201d This answer was distorted into an insulting\nchallenge to the French government, and Haller immediately received orders\nto convey the pope by force out of Rome. Pius gently pleaded his age and\nmany infirmities, and entreated the poor grace of being allowed to die in\nthe midst of his people. \u201cOh! for that matter, you can die wherever you\nare,\u201d was the brutal retort, and measures were commenced for carrying him\naway by force, in case he made any resistance. This was not likely; but\nthe old pontiff\u2019s heart was breaking. \u201cGod\u2019s will be done!\u201d he murmured.\n\u201cLet us bow to whatever he sees good to ordain!\u201d\n\nForty\u2010eight hours were all that was allowed him to prepare for this sudden\ndeparture. He devoted the short time entirely to the affairs of the church\nand to the performance of his religious duties. The night of the 20th of\nFebruary was fixed for the departure. It was late when Haller brusquely\nentered the Holy Father\u2019s room, and found him prostrate before the\ncrucifix, bathed in tears. \u201cIt is time to go,\u201d he said, and the French\nescort entered and rudely hurried the old man down the Vatican stairs and\ninto the carriage that was waiting for him. In it were seated his\nphysician and his groom of the chambers, and two other officers of his\nhousehold. The people followed the carriage, loudly lamenting, and\ninvoking all blessings on their beloved pastor. At Viterbo many French\npriests flocked round him with the Italian crowds, and fell on their knees\nfor a last benediction. The first halt of the travellers was in Tuscany.\nThe Directory would fain have sent their august prisoner to Sardinia, but\nthey were deterred in this by fear of the English government, and so\nproceeded to Sienna, where for three months the Augustinian convent had\nthe privilege of harboring the persecuted Vicar of Christ. Whilst here the\nfinger of Providence showed visibly its protecting care of him. The Holy\nFather had just left his room one morning when the ceiling fell in, and\ncrushed everything beneath it; the house was violently shaken by an\nearthquake, and suffered much damage. This event forced Pius to seek\nhospitality at the Monastery of Chartreuse, in Florence, where he arrived\non the 2d of June. Here some tender consolations awaited him. The Grand\nDuke of Tuscany came frequently to the feet of his venerated pastor, to\nassure him of his loyal attachment. The King and Queen of Sardinia also\ngathered round him, driven from Rome, where they had been so lovingly\nwelcomed on being robbed of the throne which the saintly sister of Louis\nXVI. had adorned so nobly. Her husband had ever been a devoted son of the\nHoly Father, and now declared that the sight of his serenity in the midst\nof trials so overwhelming was enough to make him forget his own sorrows.\n\n\u201cI cannot regret my throne, for I find more than it gave me at the feet of\nyour Holiness!\u201d he once exclaimed.\n\n\u201cAlas! beloved prince,\u201d replied Pius, \u201call is vanity here below. What\nexamples of this are we both! Let us look up to heaven; there await us\nthose thrones that can never perish.\u201d They entreated him to go with them\nto Sardinia the moment it was possible for themselves to return there; but\nPius refused. He alleged his age and suffering health as a reason for\nremaining where he was; but the true motive was the fear that his presence\nin the generous king\u2019s dominions might prove fatal to him and his people.\nThey parted with many tears, never to meet again on earth.\n\nAll this time the captive pope devoted his whole mind to the government of\nthe church and the strengthening of his afflicted children. He lost no\nopportunity of sending messages of encouragement to those who were at a\ndistance, exhorting them to suffer cheerfully, pointing to the day of joy\nand of triumph that would soon dawn after the short night of darkness. His\nown serenity was a fountain of hope and sweetness to all who beheld it.\nLike the great apostle, he seemed in deed and in truth to glory in his\ninfirmities and in Christ crucified.\n\nA multitude of proscribed priests and prelates had fled to England, whence\nthey wrote eloquent letters of condolence to their captive chief,\nprotesting their allegiance to him and to the faith, and their readiness\nto die for both, if needful. These proofs of devout affection deeply moved\nthe Holy Father, and consoled him for much. The Directory began at last to\nfeel alarmed at the attitude of foreign cabinets towards the Holy See.\nEngland spoke in fearless condemnation of the cruelty of the French\ngovernment towards Pius, and made no disguise of her sympathy with the\nexiled priests and royalists. France commanded the Grand Duke of Tuscany\nto drive the pontiff out of his states; but that prince replied with royal\ndignity: \u201cI did not bring the pope here, and I certainly will not drive\nhim away.\u201d The grand duke paid for his boldness; his dominions were\nforthwith invaded, and Etruria added to the French territory. Austria was\nnext appealed to, and requested to receive the pope into custody, a\nconvent on the Danube being named as a suitable abode; but Austria\nhaughtily declined. Spain lastly refused to become his jailer.\n\nNothing, therefore, remained but to secure his person by bringing him to\nFrance. Humanity cried out against the barbarity of subjecting the\nvenerable old man to so long and painful a journey in his present state;\nbut France had no ears for the voice of humanity. Pius VI. was now\npartially paralyzed; he was covered with blisters, and unable to move\nwithout labor and acute pain. But what of that? He was dragged to Parma,\nwhere a few days\u2019 rest was granted. The medical men even then declared\nthey would not take the responsibility of proceeding with their prisoner,\nlest he should die on the road. The French commissioner, impatient of so\npaltry an obstacle in the way of his orders, burst into the pope\u2019s room,\nflung down the bed\u2010clothes, and, seeing with his own eyes the truth of the\nreport, turned on his heel with the remark, \u201cAlive or dead, he must go\non!\u201d\n\nThe cort\u00e8ge started accordingly. All along the road the gentle martyr was\ncheered by the love and pity of the people. Multitudes ran for miles by\nthe side of his carriage, bareheaded, weeping, and invoking the blessing\nof the Most High upon him. Pius was moved to tears at the sight of their\ncourage in thus openly compassionating him, and with his suffering hand,\nalmost disabled as it was, he made an effort to bless them again and again\nfrom the window.\n\nOn the 24th they reached Milan. The escort, in order to hide his presence\nfrom the people, and prevent similar scenes of enthusiasm and indignation,\nconveyed their prisoner into the citadel at three o\u2019clock in the morning.\nOn the 26th they hurried him out of his sleep in the dead of the night,\nand conveyed him secretly to Oulx, and the next morning they started to\ncross the Alps. Who shall describe the sufferings of Pius VI. during that\ntransit? His body was now one wound; his feeble strength was almost spent;\nhe seemed scarcely more than a breathing corpse. They placed him roughly\nin a sort of sedan\u2010chair, while the rest of the escort followed on mules.\nThe road over the mountains was precipitous and stony; every step was\nagony to the suffering pontiff. The cold was intense. Some Piedmontese\nofficers, touched with compassion, took off their warm pelisses, and\nbegged him to use them; the Holy Father thanked them with emotion, but\nrefused. \u201cI do not suffer,\u201d said he gently, \u201cand I have nothing to fear;\nthe hand of God is upholding me. Courage, my friends! Let us put our\nconfidence in God, and all will be well with us.\u201d\n\nOn the 30th the wayfarers reached Brian\u00e7on. Pius was visibly moved on\nbeholding the soil of France, that unhappy land where such fearful crimes\nwere being perpetrated, but where God was already preparing miracles of\nrepentance. He was taken to the hospital for a lodging. The people,\nhorrified at the wretched, attenuated aspect of the Vicar of Christ, a\nprisoner in the hands of the men who had deluged their country in blood,\nwere loud in expressing their pity and respect; they flocked in crowds\nround the hospital, calling out for the Holy Father to appear at the\nwindow and bless them. But the jailers forbade him to show himself, and\nforced the people to disperse. The few companions of his exile who had\naccompanied him so far were now taken from him, his confessor and valet\nbeing alone permitted to remain. This cruel isolation lasted for nearly a\nmonth, and would no doubt have been continued still longer if the progress\nof Soovorof\u2019s army in Italy had not frightened the Directory, and decided\nthem to send their prisoner further on to Grenoble, where he was rejoined\nby his faithful attendants. Watched and humiliated as he was, his journey\nhither was one long ovation in every village and town through which he\npassed. The people would not be beaten off, but flocked in thousands to\ngreet him, falling on their knees round the carriage, rending the air with\ntheir cries, and calling down vengeance on those who persecuted Jesus\nChrist in the person of his vicar. The women everywhere were foremost in\ntestifying their devotion to the Holy Father. They disguised themselves as\npeasants, as servants, or venders, and bribed the guards to admit them to\nhis presence, where ladies of the highest rank were proud to perform any\nmenial service for him.\n\nAt Grenoble a hundred young girls dressed in white came forth to meet him,\nsinging canticles and strewing flowers in his path. Pius VI. smiled\nlovingly on them, and blessed them with tears in his eyes. Precautions\nwere useless; no threats could restrain the hearts of the pastor\u2019s\nchildren, and this sorrowful journey, in spite of its cruelties, resembled\nthe triumphal march of a king amidst his people. They reached Valence on\nthe 14th of July. The pope was lodged in the citadel. Close by, imprisoned\nin a Benedictine convent, were thirty\u2010two priests who had shared his\nhospitality in Rome, and been compelled to leave it when he had been taken\naway. They entreated on their knees to be allowed to go and ask his\nblessing; but the prayer was denied, and the Holy Father was strictly\nforbidden to go beyond the garden\u2010gate, which was guarded day and night,\nlest by showing himself he should excite disturbance amongst the people.\nAll prohibitions were alike to Pius now, for he felt that the goal was at\nhand, and the journey would soon be ended. He was suffering terribly, and\nknew that the hand of death was upon him. Sweet came the summons to the\npilgrim pontiff. \u201cAll journeys end in welcomes to the weary.\u201d Pius had\ntrod the stony path, cross\u2010laden like his Master, crowned, like him, with\nthe thorny diadem of sacrifice and love, and now the promised land was in\nsight, and angel songs were breaking on the pilgrim\u2019s ear: \u201cCome, thou who\nhast suffered persecution for my sake; come and reign with me in my\nkingdom.\u201d\n\nFor some days the Holy Father remained altogether absorbed in prayer, as\nif unconscious of everything around him. Often in the midst of his prayer\nhe would break out into expressions of pardon towards his enemies, or pity\nfor the sufferings of his children. \u201cWhat are the sufferings of my body\ncompared to what my heart endures for them?\u201d he once exclaimed. \u201cMy\ncardinals, my bishops, scattered and persecuted, ... Rome, ... my people,\n... the church, ... O my Saviour! in what a state am I forced to leave\nthem all.\u201d\n\nThe symptoms of final dissolution now rapidly increased, and the pains he\nendured were so terrible as to bring on long fainting fits.\n\nOn the 28th of August Pius asked for the last rites of the church. He\ninsisted, in spite of the agonies he was suffering, on being dressed in\nfull pontificals, and placed in a chair, so as to receive the Holy\nViaticum with the greatest possible reverence. His supreme devotion all\nthrough life had been to the Blessed Sacrament. His desire was complied\nwith, and then, placing one hand upon his breast, and the other on the\nHoly Gospels, he made with great solemnity his dying confession of faith\naccording to the pontifical formula. He then repeated several times, in\nthe most impressive tones, his free forgiveness of his enemies, invoking\nthe mercy and pardon of God upon them; he prayed earnestly also for the\nconversion of France; this done, he received the Bread of Angels.\n\nOn the 29th, the following day, Extreme Unction was administered by the\nArchbishop of Corinth. The Holy Father seemed to rally slightly after\nthis, and was able to turn his attention a little to temporal affairs. At\nmidnight the palpitations of his heart and other symptoms gave warning\nthat the end had come. The faithful little band of friends and fellow\u2010\ncaptives gathered round their dying pastor, and kissed the hand that could\nno longer lift itself to bless them. The Archbishop of Corinth gave the\npapal absolution, which the Holy Father received with deep humility and\nfervor, and, after a faint effort to give a last blessing to those who\nwere kneeling in tears at his feet, he breathed his last with the words of\nthe benediction half finished on his lips. It was an hour after midnight\non the 29th of August, 1799. Pius VI. was in his eighty\u2010second year, and\nhad governed the church for twenty\u2010four years, six months, and fourteen\ndays.\n\nA cry of anguish and of exultation rang through Christendom when the news\nof his death went forth. The faithful mourned their shepherd, the brave\npastor who had loved them and defended them even to death; the wicked\nrejoiced and clapped hands, exclaiming, \u201cNow we have done with him! This\nold man is the last of the popes! He has died in a foreign land, hunted\nlike a dog, without honors or followers. His court and his hierarchy are\ndispersed; we have done with Rome and Roman popes!\u201d Short\u2010sighted fools,\nthat knew not how to distinguish between defeat and victory, because they\ncould not read the mystic scroll which the hand of God has traced above\nthe cross: \u201cIn this sign thou shalt conquer!\u201d\n\nThe remains of the venerable old man were exposed for several days; the\ncrowds were so great, both day and night, that it was found impossible to\nremove them at once, as had been intended. The people proclaimed the\nmartyr\u2010pope a saint, and flocked round the bier to gaze upon those worn\nand emaciated features where the majestic peace of death now sat like a\ngolden shadow. For miles around Valence multitudes flowed in to see him,\nto touch the bier, to throw flowers upon it, and bear them away again as\nsacred relics. The authorities of the place did not even try to prevent\nthese public demonstrations of respect and enthusiasm. The Directory\nthought fit to be silent regarding them, and even issued orders that the\npope should be laid out with the state becoming a sovereign. Thus the\nvictim who had been denied the commonest mercies of humanity when he was\non his death\u2010bed was surrounded in his coffin with the pomp and\nparaphernalia of royalty.\n\nThe body was finally placed in the citadel of Valence, where it remained\nuntil Bonaparte, on being raised to the consulate, had it removed under a\nbombastic decree setting forth \u201cthe magnanimity of the _grande nation_ to\na good but weak old man who had for a while been the enemy of France,\nowing to perfidious advisers, etc.\u201d This grandiloquent proclamation ended\nin the remains of the first sovereign in Christendom being transported to\nthe common burial\u2010ground, where the charity of a Protestant courageously\nraised a small stone chapel over his grave. A few years later (1801) the\nbody was brought back to Rome, and placed in the fitting shrine of a\nmartyred pope\u2014the Basilica of S. Peter. So does the King of Heaven\noverturn the designs of earthly kings, making sport of their power, and\nconfounding their vain rebellion.\n\n\n\n\u201cElias smote the waters of Jordan with his mantle, and with Eliseus passed\nover on dry ground.... And Eliseus said unto him: I pray thee let a double\nportion of thy spirit be upon me.\u201d\n\nAnd as the friends went on, behold a chariot of fire and horses of fire\ncame and parted them both asunder, and Elias went up to heaven, and\nEliseus saw him no more; but he took up the mantle of the prophet that had\nfallen from him, and went back and stood by the banks of the Jordan, and\nsmote the waters with the mantle, and they parted, and he went over as\nbefore.\n\n\n\nAnd who are these that we behold like a cloud travelling towards us from\nthe West? Lo! they come, a grand procession, cleaving the waters, singing\nglad songs, and bearing in their hands gifts of gold and frankincense.\nWelcome, ye goodly company of pilgrims, who \u201chave feared neither distance\nnor danger\u201d to come from the furthest ends of the earth to lay the tribute\nof your love at the feet of Peter. Thrice welcome! ye sons and daughters\nof America, who have come to clasp hands with your brethren of the Old\nWorld, and to receive the loving embrace of our common father. May ye be\nblessed ten thousand\u2010fold for the joy your love has brought to his\nsuffering heart!\n\nOne venerable figure shines forth amidst the band; the wisdom of nigh\nfourscore years is on her brow, the peace of a long life spent in the\nservice of her Lord. She gazes on the wonders of the Holy City, on its\nglorious shrines, its stately temples, its monasteries and convents, its\nbrave army of priests and monks and nuns, and, filled with holy envy at\nthe sight, her fervent spirit exclaims: \u201cOh! if we could but carry this\naway with us. If we had these riches in America!\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, lady, grudge us not our treasure! Pray rather that this likewise may\nnot be taken from us, and give thanks to God for the great things that are\nbeing accomplished in your own wonderful land. There the faith is like the\nsun at daybreak, scarcely yet above the horizon, but already powerful and\nsplendid. What has become of that sun amongst us? Oh! I will not utter\nit.... Verily, there is One who will blow with his breath, and the cloud\nshall be scattered. Let us pray only that the day be hastened.\u201d(166)\n\nThe mystic mantle which Christ first laid upon his apostle has descended\nthrough the ages, through evil times and persecutions, to the prophet of\nour own days, untorn, unstained, a garment of immortality and strength.\nNow, as then, it bears him in safety through the flood; now, as then, does\nhe \u201cthrow salt upon the waters,\u201d and cure them, so that all those who come\nand drink thereof have life and salvation. For God changes not, nor can\nthose who love him and love one another in his love perish, nor their hope\nbe confounded.\n\n\n\n\nAssunta Howard.\n\n\n\nI. Juxta Crucem.\n\n\nThe full moon was pouring a flood of light upon the marble pavement of S.\nPeter\u2019s, and, by its weird influence, increased to an almost startling\nimmensity the vastness of that mighty work of art, worthy offspring and\nexpression of the faith which has subdued the world. The soft radiance in\nthe nave seemed to throw into deeper gloom and an almost immeasurable\nspace the ever\u2010burning lamps which, like fixed stars, surround the central\npoint of Christendom\u2014the tomb of the great apostle, to whom was first\ngiven the power of the keys. No one could remain unmoved in such an awe\u2010\ninspiring scene; certainly not two, at least, of the three persons who\nalone stood within the church, silently receiving impressions which come\nbut seldom in a life\u2010time. And yet, as the same sunbeam, falling upon\ndifferent objects, will produce different colors, so on these three minds\nthe impressions were stamped according to their preparation to receive\nthem. To the man, in whom the moonlight, bathing him in brightness,\nrevealed the appearance of gentle birth and refined culture, it was merely\nthe human, the miracle of art, the power of man to design and execute;\nwhile the pure soul of the fair young girl at his side was struggling\nthrough the human up to the divine. The patient old sacristan standing\napart, keys in hand, had dwelt for years in the midst of material and\nspiritual greatness with a faith so simple that he never dreamed it was\nsublime.\n\n\u201cHow grand!\u201d at length exclaimed Mr. Carlisle. \u201cWhat a power there is in\narchitecture; and how well those master\u2010minds understood and used this\npower for the elevation of man!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied his young companion; \u201cand it seems to me that in church\narchitecture every detail should be symbolic, and the whole should convey\nto the soul the impression of some one of God\u2019s attributes. S. Peter\u2019s is\nso truly the home of the Christian world, and draws the heart so lovingly\nto itself, that it always seems to express the paternity of God. But to\u2010\nnight there is more than this. It speaks to my very soul of the Father,\nbut \u2018the Father of an Infinite Majesty.\u2019 \u201d\n\nMr. Carlisle smiled. \u201cAnother of your pretty fancies, Assunta. One would\nhardly expect to find such grave thoughts beneath this shining hair, which\nthe alchemy of the moonlight is fast turning into gold.\u201d\n\nThe usual ready answer did not come; for any light conversation was out of\nharmony with the emotion inspired by such surroundings. Besides, the young\ngirl was struggling with herself and against herself in a contest little\nsuspected by her companion. The wonderful influence of the time and place\nhad brought near the moment of defeat or victory. It is sometimes the way\nof God with the soul to prepare it gradually for some struggle, and then\nsuddenly and unexpectedly to bring it face to face with the trial, and to\npermit its whole future to hang upon the decision of a moment. Thank God!\nto the faithful soul the strength is never wanting. It was such a crisis\nas this which clouded the bright face and darkened with doubt the mind of\none in whom youth and innocence would seem to preclude the possibility of\nmental conflict.\n\nIt was but a few days since she had become convinced that the guardian who\nhad been to her both friend and father had come to feel for her a love\nwhich indeed might include that of father and friend, as the greater\nincludes the less, but which was something more than either. And with the\nconsciousness there came a strange yearning of her heart to go forth and\nmeet his heart with an equal love, to trust herself to the protecting care\nshe knew so well, to yield to the happiness which promised to gild her\nlife with a radiance too dazzling to be all of earth. But there arose a\nbarrier between them, and hence the struggle.\n\nStrange how we play the devil\u2019s advocate against our conscience! Must she\nrespect that barrier? What if he were almost an infidel; would it not be\nher sweet mission to take heaven by violence, if need be, and by her\nimportunate prayers obtain for him the light of faith? Dangerous\nsophistry! And yet on this quicksand how many women wreck themselves,\ninstead of steering the bark freighted with the loved soul into the calm\nwaters of truth!\n\nThey two, the guardian and his ward, had entered the church while yet the\nsetting sun was irradiating column and statue with a glowing splendor; and\nthey had continued to walk slowly and almost in silence up and down the\nlong nave until the light had faded and darkness had succeeded the short\ntwilight.\n\nThey were about to leave the calm influence and the majesty of repose\nwhich this vast temple of God ever inspires, when suddenly the moon,\nrising to a level with the window above the porch, poured its magic\u2010\nworking beams upon the pavement. They paused, and, turning to the\nsacristan, who was about to close the doors for the night, begged a few\nmoments\u2019 delay, which he, with unusual cordiality, granted.\n\nAnd what were the busy thoughts which induced so prolonged a silence\nduring that hour\u2019s walk, until the gathering darkness and then the rising\nmoon warned them how the time was passing, of which they had taken so\nlittle note? Suffice it to say that the mind of each was filled with the\nother. With Assunta Howard, the new sentiments kindled in her heart had\nconjured up the memory of a scene which, associated with her first sorrow,\nwas a living picture to her imagination. Again, as if it were but\nyesterday, she, a little child, entered the room of her dying mother, and\nsaw her lying pale and beautiful upon her bed, her crucifix in her hand,\nand beside her the little table covered with white linen, upon which were\nthe exquisite flowers and the still burning candles placed there in honor\nof her divine Lord, whom she had just received as the Viaticum of her\njourney home. The little Assunta thought how much her mamma looked like\nthe beautiful S. Catherine, borne in the arms of the lovely angels, which\nhung above her own bed; and she wondered if the angels would come before\nshe had time to kiss her mother once again. It was almost with a feeling\nof awe that she whispered in the ear of the good priest who raised her in\nhis arms, \u201cIs mamma a saint now?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy precious child,\u201d said the mother, strengthened for this bitter parting\nby the divine Guest who was reposing in her heart, \u201cmamma must leave her\nlittle Assunta, her good little girl. But before long I hope that I shall\nbe with the dear Jesus and his sweet Mother, whom you love so much. So you\nwill be glad for mamma, and always remember how much she loves you. I am\nnot very strong, my darling, but put your arms around my neck, and your\ncurly head close to mine, while I say something to you. You will not\nunderstand me now, my poor child, but I know that you will try and\nremember all, and one of these days you will know what I mean. My darling,\nwhen you are grown up to be as tall as mamma, some one will perhaps find a\nway into that loving little heart. My little daughter, if divine love\nclaims it, and our dear Lord wishes you to be all his own, do not\nhesitate, but gladly give your life as a sweet offering to him who has\nchosen you. Give him your whole heart without a fear. But if it is a human\nlove which seeks to make my treasure all its own, think long and well and\nprayerfully, my child, before you give your heart into its keeping. And, O\nAssunta! remember, never marry one who does not cherish your faith as you\ndo; who cannot kneel with you before the altar, and love you _in God_,\neven as you do him. I do not ask you to promise me this, for I feel that\nit would not be right to bind you by a promise which you cannot\nunderstand. Yet it is your dying mother\u2019s wish. But I must kiss the\nwondering expression away from those dear eyes. One of these days dear F.\nJoseph will remind you of my request when you are old enough to\nunderstand\u2014will you not, father? But my little girl can remember that she\nis to be poor papa\u2019s dear comfort, and never forget the little prayer for\nhim every day, that God will give to him\u2014tell me what you ask for papa, my\ndarling?\u201d\n\nThe little Assunta answered through her sobs: \u201cI want papa to love my\nblessed Mother Mary, and I ask God to make him. And, mamma, you said I\nmust say faith; but I don\u2019t know what that means, except when I say it in\nthe catechism, and so I ask God to make him as good as mamma is, and a\nsaint just like S. Joseph in my picture; and I think he will, mamma,\nbecause you know he heard me once when I asked him to let me go to school\nto Sister Rose.\u201d\n\nThe mother smiled, as she replied:\n\n\u201cHow earnestly I hope so, my daughter! And papa has promised me to leave\nyou with the good Sisters for a long time; so you must please him by being\nhis good, obedient child. And now, my dear, precious little girl, kiss\nme\u2014once again, my darling. I am very tired, and must rest. Perhaps, when I\nwake up, I shall see, instead of my darling\u2019s golden curls, the golden\ngates of the celestial city. When I am gone, Assunta, child of Mary, say\nevery day: \u2018Dear Jesus, take mamma home soon.\u2019 Now call papa.\u201d\n\nThe priest, who had stood by in silence, came forward and lifted the poor\nbewildered child down from the bed. He saw that the strength which had\nuntil now supported the mother in this time of trial was quite exhausted.\nShe uttered aloud the words, \u201cThy will, not mine\u201d\u2014words which, since that\nnight beneath the olives in Gethsemane, express both the bitterness of the\nchalice and the ministry of the angel\u2014then her eyes closed; and though for\na short time consciousness remained, they never opened until the\nresplendent majesty of the glorious humanity of her divine Lord burst upon\nher soul\u2019s vision.\n\nAs the child turned away to obey her mother\u2019s request, the priest began to\nrepeat the _Proficiscere, anima Christiana_, with which the church so\nlovingly speeds her children on their last journey; and for the first time\nshe realized that her mother was indeed going from her. She crept softly\nfrom the room, only to rush away to her own little chamber, where,\nkneeling before the picture of S. Catherine, evermore associated with that\ngreat, first sorrow, she poured out the grief of her loving, childish\nheart in sobs and tears.\n\nAnd it was this scene which was again before the mental eye of the young\ngirl as she stood there in the moonlight, herself so fair a picture. Her\nsainted mother, with her look of heavenly repose, and the angel\u2010borne S.\nCatherine, blended themselves into one image in her mind, while the Holy\nSpirit was guiding her innocent soul. Suddenly an impulse seized her;\nperhaps it was what mystic writers call an inspiration. Turning to her\nguardian, whose eyes had for some time been wonderingly fixed upon her,\nshe hastily exclaimed: \u201cOne moment, my friend,\u201d and then walked quickly\ntowards the chapel, where hung the lamp which told of the divine Presence\nupon the altar.\n\nMr. Carlisle was quite accustomed to what he was pleased to call her\n\u201cpretty, graceful piety,\u201d and so, without surprise, he turned to exchange\na few words with the patient sacristan, while, on her knees before her\nLord, Assunta fought and conquered in the first real battle of her life.\nShe realized fully now the love which seemed to offer her such human\nhappiness, and she knew what it would cost her to refuse it. But then came\nthe remembrance of her mother\u2019s dying words\u2014\u201cUnless he can love you _in\nGod_\u201d\u2014and her heroic soul gathered up its strength for the consummation of\nthe act of sacrifice. With one appealing, heart\u2010breaking prayer for help,\nshe bowed her head, and made to God the promise which her mother had not\nrequired from the child. And those alone who know what it is to offer up\nthe crown and joy of life in sacrifice can understand the peace and rest\nwhich came to her troubled heart, even through the vision of a life robbed\nof its brightness.\n\nAbsorbed as she was, she had forgotten the world outside and its\ndistracting claims until her guardian stood beside her.\n\n\u201c_Petite_,\u201d he whispered, \u201cin thy orisons be all my sins remembered. But\nsince the list is somewhat long, I think you must not wait to recall them\nnow. Your one moment has lengthened into fifteen by my watch, and I have\nexhausted my powers of eloquence in my endeavors to charm that good old\nman into forgetfulness of the flight of time. Can you not leave heaven for\nearth and us poor mortals? There are so many angels up in heaven, they can\nafford to spare us our only one.\u201d\n\nRising hastily, Assunta exclaimed: \u201cI have been very thoughtless, and you,\nas always, kind and patient. We will go at once.\u201d\n\nHer gentle apologies to the old sacristan added value to the gift she\nslipped into his hand; and as he closed and locked the door behind them,\nhe muttered to himself:\n\n\u201cShe is a saint anyhow, if she is an American.\u201d\n\nAs they passed down the steps towards the carriage, Mr. Carlisle suddenly\nstopped, exclaiming: \u201cWhy, child, what is the matter? You have the real\nmartyr\u2010look on your face. I read there, as in a book, that combination of\nsuffering and triumph which we see in pictures, representing those times\nwhen men were not so chivalrous as now, and inflicted persecutions on\naccount of a devotion which is so natural to your sex, and which,\u201d he\nadded, laughing, \u201cis so particularly becoming where the woman is young and\npretty. But,\u201d he said uneasily, \u201cI cannot see that expression in the face\nof my _petite_. Sunshine is her element; and the cloud which should cast a\nshadow upon her life would burst forth in thunder over mine. But what is\nit? Has the moonlight enchanted you?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, dear friend,\u201d replied Assunta, endeavoring to speak gayly. \u201cEnough\nthat you grant me the triumph. The laurel wreath is a woman\u2019s ambition.\nYou need not bestow the martyr\u2019s palm until it is deserved. And now let us\ngo home.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, that is the one thing in this world which I do not intend to do,\nat least at present. Thanks to my good sister\u2019s well\u2010timed headache, we\nhave a rare opportunity to follow out our own sweet will in the most\nunconventional manner. There is no respect for the world and the propriety\nClara preaches left in me to\u2010night. I, for one, shall take advantage of\nthe absence of that inconvenient third party and her friend Mrs. Grundy to\ndrive to the Colosseum. If you decline to accompany me, I will just remind\nyou that the walk home is somewhat long and the hour somewhat late.\u201d\nSaying which, he gave his order to the coachman, and took his seat beside\nAssunta in the barouche. After a short silence, he continued:\n\n\u201cThe cat\u2010is\u2010away sensation takes me back to my school\u2010boy days. Though I\nconfess dear Clara to be the very best of the tabby race, still she does\nshow her claws sometimes when I propose an escapade that shocks her sense\nof what is becoming at the advanced age of thirty\u2010five. To see the\nColosseum to\u2010night is not to be resisted. There is no dampness whatever in\nthe air, and the moon has risen just high enough to make the shadows\nperfect.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think,\u201d said Assunta, \u201cthat it must be a very guilty conscience that\nneeds so many words in its justification. I, for my part, am so strong in\ninnocence that I will meet Clara on my return with an unblushing brow\u2014to\nspeak poetically\u2014as far as the Colosseum is concerned. The evening is\ncertainly lovely enough to reduce even your friend Mrs. Grundy to a spirit\nof meek acquiescence. \u2018How beautiful is night!\u2019 Do you remember the first\nlines of _Thalaba_? It must have been just such a moon as this that\nsuggested the opening of that remarkable poem.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you not read it to me? How can you ask, then, if I remember? However,\nI did not hear it then for the first time. The dogs, with their human\neyes, made a great impression even upon my boyish mind. But here we are.\u201d\nAnd jumping down from the carriage, he held out his hand to her.\n\nOne moment she hesitated; for, by that instinct which is the shadow of a\ncoming event, she felt that her trial was not yet at an end. But if it\nmust come, why not then? She might never again be so prepared to meet it.\nThere is a fervor of heroism which immediately succeeds a sacrifice that\nmakes us strong to endure. If there is a step to be taken, it is better\nnot to wait until the inevitable reaction is upon us with its enervating\ninfluence.\n\nThe hesitation was too instantaneous to be remarked, and Assunta allowed\nher guardian to assist her to alight; and placing her arm within his, they\npassed the sentinel, and entered the vast amphitheatre. It was indeed a\nperfect Roman night; and, to an artistic eye, nothing could be more\nimposing than the strong contrast between the deep gloom beneath those\nbewildering arches, which threw their dark shadows across the open arena,\nand the brightness of a winter\u2019s moon. The two walked towards the centre,\nand seated themselves upon the steps of the large cross which rises in the\nmidst of this mighty relic of heathen Rome. Assunta almost shuddered, as\nif at an evil omen, when she observed that she had unconsciously placed\nherself so that the shadow of the cross fell directly upon her, and\nstretched out its unnatural length at her feet. But even had she been\nsuperstitiously inclined, she might well have felt that no place could be\nso safe and sure as beneath the shadow of the cross; it rested so\nprotectingly on her young head, seeming to stand between her and evil.\nSoon she realized this, and checked the impulse which, alas! too many of\nus follow when suddenly we find ourselves close under Calvary\u2014the mount\nwhose crown is a cross, and whose cross is salvation\u2014the impulse to move\n\u201cout of the shadow into the sun,\u201d out of the cloud which wraps us about in\nlove into the sunlight with which the world seeks to dazzle us into\nforgetfulness.\n\nGradually they fell into a quiet conversation, the beauty of the scene,\nthe many associations of the past which cling to these ancient walls,\nfurnishing ample topics. At last Mr. Carlisle, turning suddenly to\nAssunta, said:\n\n\u201cAnd how many years is it since your poor father summoned me to his\nbedside, and told me of the troublesome charge I should find in the\nconvent, to be transferred into my hands when the patience of the nuns had\nreached the limit of endurance, and my young lady the age of eighteen?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is five years since, my most ungracious and ungrateful guardian. But\nyou will soon be released from duty. The fifteenth of next August will be\nmy twenty\u2010first birthday. It was because I came into the world on the\nFeast of the Assumption that my dear mother gave me the name, at which all\nher good, practical American friends wondered and held up their hands.\nWell, on that morning I shall offer you freedom, and I shall expect to\nhear you exclaim, quoting your favorite Shakespeare, \u2018For this relief much\nthanks!\u2019 \u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I suppose you will think,\u201d said Mr. Carlisle, somewhat bitterly,\n\u201cthat it will be enough, after all these years, to say, \u2018You have been\nkind to me, my guardian, quite like a father; I am very grateful, and hope\nthat we may meet again\u2019; and with a good\u2010by and a pretty courtesy shake\noff the shackles, and take yourself, with all your sunshine, out into the\nworld to make bright the life of others, forgetting him whose life you\nalone have the power to darken by absence. Ah! child,\u201d he said, his tone\nchanging to tender earnestness, \u201cdo you not know with what tie I would\nbind you to me so that no age could have the right to separate us? Do you\nthink that it is as a father that I love you? That might have been once;\nbut now it is the love of a man of thirty\u2010five, who for the first time has\nfound his ideal of woman realized. Assunta, do I ask too much? When that\nday comes of which you speak, will you not give me the right to devote my\nlife to you? You were looking forward to the day which was to give you\nfreedom; and you hesitate to put yourself under bondage? If you knew my\nlove for you, you would believe that I ask but the right to love and\nprotect you always. Have I been so severe a guardian that you dare not\ntrust me as a husband? Assunta, you do not speak. If you cannot love me\nnow, will you not at least let me try to win your love?\u201d And as he looked\ninto the face which she now turned towards him, he exclaimed with a\nmingling of doubt and triumph, \u201cChild, you do love me!\u201d\n\nIt was well for Assunta that she had fought her battle beforehand, else\nshe could hardly have hoped to conquer now. \u201cMy dear, kind friend,\u201d she\nsaid sadly, \u201cI would have given much to spare you this. It seems indeed a\npoor return for all you have been to me to reject the love for which I am\nvery grateful. But it must be so. I cannot marry you, Mr. Carlisle.\u201d\n\nThe triumph in his face faded; but, fortunately for his diminishing hope,\ndoubt remained.\n\n\u201c_Petite_,\u201d he said, \u201cI have taken you by surprise. Do not give me your\nanswer now. Let me take home to\u2010night but a hope and your promise to\nreconsider your hasty decision, and I will try to be content. But you are\nso cold, so calm, Assunta. Can it be that I have entirely deceived myself,\nthat perhaps some other\u201d\u2014He paused.\n\n\u201cI am calm, my friend,\u201d she answered, \u201cbecause there is no struggle of\nindecision in my mind. There is very great regret that I must give you\npain, and it costs me more than you know to do so. I entreat you to be\ngenerous\u2014more generous than I have been to you\u2014and end this trying\nconversation.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot end it without one question more; pardon me if I am wrong in\nasking it. Assunta, there is something that I do not understand. You do\nnot say that you could not love me, but that you cannot marry me. Who or\nwhat is it, then, that comes between us?\u201d\n\n\u201cGod!\u201d And she spoke the word so reverently that for one moment Mr.\nCarlisle was subdued and silent. Then the bitterness which was always\nlatent in his nature gained the ascendency, as he replied:\n\n\u201cSome interference of your church, I suppose.\u201d\n\nAssunta was not a saint, and her previous emotion had weakened her powers\nof self\u2010control, for she spoke with unusual spirit.\n\n\u201cYes, the church does interfere, thank God, to save her children, else\nwere she no true mother.\u201d Then, a little ashamed of her warmth of defence,\nshe continued, without seeming to notice Mr. Carlisle\u2019s ironical\nrepetition of her words \u201c_save_ her children\u201d:\n\n\u201cYou will no doubt consider me fanatical, but you have a right to know why\nI refuse the love which I value so much, and which, at the same time, I\nmust beg you to forget. I can never marry one who is not of my faith. I\nbelieve that, in a true marriage, there must be more than the tie of human\nlove\u2014there must be the union of soul and the blessing of the church. And\nmore than this, there is the insuperable barrier of a solemn promise made\nto God in consequence of my dying mother\u2019s last request. Need I say more?\nAnd must I lose my best friend because I can only respect and love him \u2018as\nfriends love\u2019? I had not looked for so great a sacrifice.\u201d And for the\nfirst time the tears stood in her eyes and her voice trembled.\n\nShe waited for a few minutes, but no reply came. Then, noticing that the\nmoon had risen above arch and wall, and, pouring its light full upon the\nopen arena, had sent the shadows back to their hiding\u2010places, she said\ngently:\n\n\u201cMr. Carlisle, it is getting late. Shall we go home?\u201d\n\nHe started from his moody silence, and, taking in his the hand that rested\non the cross, he said:\n\n\u201cAssunta, you are a noble girl; but,\u201d he added with a faint smile, \u201cthis\nconclusion does not make your words easier to bear. But you are shivering.\nIs it so cold? Come, we will go at once.\u201d And as he led the way towards\nthe carriage, he wrapped her shawl closer about her, saying, \u201cMy poor\nchild, how thoughtless I have been!\u201d\n\nOnce seated, there was again silence until they reached the entrance of\nthe villa. As they ascended the long stair\u2010case, Mr. Carlisle paused. His\nold tenderness of manner had all returned, and he was her guardian, and\nnothing more, as he said:\n\n\u201cAssunta, I have not been generous. I have taken an unfair advantage of my\nposition, and have told you what I had not intended you should know until\nyou were released from all obligation to me. My child, will you trust your\nfriend and guardian to be only that until next August shall make you free?\nI cannot promise to give up all hope, but I will not repeat what I have\nsaid to\u2010night. Can you forgive me so far as to go back to our old\nrelations? Will you trust me?\u201d\n\n\u201cMost gladly,\u201d said Assunta. \u201cI feel as if my friend, whom I had mourned\nas lost, has been restored to me. And, Mr. Carlisle, the day will come\nwhen we will both look back without regret upon the decision which was\nmade to\u2010night under the shadow of the cross.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope so, even while I doubt, fair prophetess.\u201d\n\nBut his thought was of the time when he might even yet win that stern\nconscience to his views, and then indeed he could afford to think without\nregret of a past disappointment; while she was thinking of that sweet\nprovidence of God which, in compensation for sacrifice, always lets us see\nin the end that all things are for the best to those who can wait and\ntrust.\n\nMr. Carlisle opened the drawing\u2010room door, and entered an apartment which\nhad the rare combination of elegance and comfort, of art and home. Mrs.\nGrey, his pretty, widowed sister, was fond of what she called the \u201cdim\nreligious,\u201d and therefore the candles were not lighted; but a blazing\nwood\u2010fire contributed light as well as warmth, while the silver urn upon\nthe side table hissed out an impatient welcome.\n\nMrs. Grey herself was lying upon the sofa in the most charmingly artistic\ncostume and attitude; and the injured manner she assumed rather added to\nher fascination. She idolized her only brother; and when, after a short\nwedded happiness of two years, he had offered the childless widow a home\nwith him, she had gladly accepted; and after a few months of becoming\nweeds and retirement, she was so far consoled as to mitigate her crape,\nand allow her brother\u2019s visitors to gaze from a distance upon her charms.\nThe mitigating process had gone on until she was now the gayest of the\ngay, except when an occasional headache reminded her that she was mortal,\nand others that amiability is not to be found in perfection in this world\nany more than any other virtue. She was too frivolous to satisfy her\nbrother\u2019s deeper nature, but he was as fond of her as her affection for\nhim deserved. She had taken the orphan Assunta into her heart as if she\nhad been a sister; though she insisted that the position of matron to a\nbeautiful young girl was no sinecure.\n\n\u201cReally, Severn,\u201d she exclaimed, as he seated himself beside the sofa,\n\u201cyou must have thought it very entertaining for me to stay alone five\nmortal hours with only my poor head for company.\u201d\n\n\u201cDear Clara, if I had dreamed you would be doomed to such a dearth of\ncompanionship, I should not have gone at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cHush! No impertinence,\u201d she said. \u201cWhere have you left Assunta?\u201d\n\n\u201cHere I am,\u201d said the young girl, entering the room at the same moment,\nand answering for herself. \u201cAnd how is your head, Clara? I hope you have\nnot been suffering all this time.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour sympathy is very pretty and pleasing, Assunta; but, indeed, it is of\ntoo mushroom a growth to be very consoling. Confess that this is the first\ntime I have been in your thoughts since you left the house. But,\u201d she\nexclaimed, suddenly recollecting herself, \u201cyou have been out alone all\nthis time. Dear me! I hope you did not meet any one you knew, for what\nwould they think? Where have you been?\u201d And as she spoke, she rose from\nthe couch, and went about the womanly occupation of making tea.\n\n\u201cWe went to the Colosseum,\u201d replied her brother; \u201cand truly the night was\nso lovely that if it had not been for you and your head, who knows but we\nmight have wandered about until the Roman police lighted upon us, and\ncommitted us to the care of the Holy Office as vagabonds?\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense! I would risk you with Assunta anywhere, as far as that is\nconcerned. She is Papal protection in herself. She is wrapped about in the\nyellow and white, metaphorically speaking. Besides, I believe it is not\nexactly the province of the Holy Office to deal with vagabonds, but with\nheretics.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what am I?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I don\u2019t know anything about religion. Has Assunta been calling you a\nheretic?\u201d\n\n\u201cAssunta never calls me hard names,\u201d he answered, and he could not forbear\nadding under his breath: \u201cBut she has made me count the cost of unbelief.\u201d\n\n\u201cHas she been trying to convert you?\u201d asked his persistent sister.\n\n\u201cShe has offered me every inducement,\u201d was his reply.\n\n\u201cAssunta, here is your tea,\u201d called Mrs. Grey; for the young girl had been\narranging her music in another part of the large drawing\u2010room during the\nconversation.\n\n\u201cYes; and she needs it very much, poor child,\u201d said Mr. Carlisle, placing\na chair for her. \u201cI was so selfish that I did not even notice it was cold\nuntil she was quite chilled through. You find your own head such poor\ncompany that you must go with us next time, Clara, and take better care of\nus.\u201d\n\nAnd then they relapsed into a quiet tea\u2010drinking; after which, and the\nremoval of the various articles which constitute the tea service, Mrs.\nGrey returned to her sofa, while Assunta went to the piano, and played\nsome of Mendelssohn\u2019s \u201cSongs without Words,\u201d and Mr. Carlisle sat in deep\nthought before the fire.\n\nIt was a state of things which Clara could not endure long. Anything like\nconstraint gave her the sensation of a caged bird, and she began at once\nto beat her wings against imaginary bars.\n\n\u201cI never knew such stupid people. Severn, do please light my candle. I am\nsure I trust my dreams will be more agreeable, or I shall die of _ennui_.\nGood\u2010night, dear Assunta. Do not fatigue me by your efforts to rival the\nlarks in early rising, if you have any mercy.\u201d And looking the very\npicture of lovely discontent\u2014if so paradoxical an expression may be\nallowed\u2014she retired to her own room.\n\nAssunta extended her hand as usual to her guardian. He held it a moment,\nand then said: \u201cGood\u2010night, _petite_; we will begin anew to\u2010morrow\u201d; and\nthen he returned to his arm\u2010chair, which he did not leave for many hours.\nAssunta was very tired; but it was rather with the weight of the cross she\nhad lifted upon her shoulders than from any physical fatigue. She soon\ndismissed her maid, and, like a victorious soldier wearied with the\nconflict, she fell into a dreamless sleep, not, however, until she had\nreturned thanks for the victory to the God of battles.\n\n\n\nII. Cor Cordium.\n\n\nIt was an established custom of the household of Villa Moroni to be quite\nindependent of each other until the twelve o\u2019clock breakfast afforded\noccasion for an agreeable reunion. However pleasant an early family\ngathering may be in many home circles, where the habits and pursuits of\nall are entirely dissimilar and incongruous we escape much of the\nroughness of life by not attempting too early an interchange of forced\ncourtesy. Indeed, in Mr. Carlisle\u2019s family it would have been difficult to\neffect an earlier meeting than the one which suited all parties so well.\nMrs. Grey declared that the morning hours with Morpheus were absolutely\nnecessary to her peace of mind. And certainly the drowsy god must have\nbeen lavish of bright visions during those hours when the sun was so\ncarefully excluded from the apartment of the fair sleeper; for when at\nlast he permitted the pretty lady to awake from her dreams, she came from\nthe hands of her maid into the outer world the very quintessence of\namiability and freshness. Who would feel assured of such a result had she\nseen the sun rise? True, it might occur to some persons who take severe\nviews of life to wonder what her soul was doing all that time; but it\nnever did to her. The supernatural was to her a _terra incognita_. She had\nskimmed over her sorrow as sea\u2010birds over the waves of the ocean, scarcely\nbearing away a drop on their spread wings. The waters had never gone over\nher soul and forced her to cry from out of the depths to the God whom she\nacknowledged in theory, but persistently ignored in practice. Yet she was\nso lovely and affectionate, and besides, when she chose to exert herself,\nshe had so much good sense withal, by all means let her enjoy life\u2019s\nsunshine, and pluck its sweetest roses, carefully guarding her dainty\nfingers from contact with the hidden thorns. But why waste our time in\nmoralizing over one who would smile in unconsciousness of our meaning if\nwe uttered our thoughts aloud, and charm the frown from our brow by some\npretty petulance?\n\nMr. Carlisle understood as little of the supernatural as his frivolous\nsister. But he had a deep, earnest nature, which could not be satisfied\nwith the mere outside of life. Mental food he must have, though it may be\na question whether the mind is ever fully nourished when the soul is\nstarving. He therefore, after taking his coffee and smoking his cigar,\ndevoted his morning hours to reading or writing in the cosey little room\nhe used as a library.\n\nThe carriage was thus left at Assunta\u2019s disposal; and she usually availed\nherself of it to assist at Mass, accompanied by her maid; and often an\nerrand of mercy or charitable visit was accomplished before her return. It\nwas her guardian\u2019s wish that she should never walk about the city, unless\naccompanied by himself, else she would many times have preferred to show\nher American independence by taking a morning stroll with her faithful\nMarie.\n\nThe morning after the eventful visit to the Colosseum was Friday, and on\nthat day Assunta was accustomed to make her confession and receive Holy\nCommunion. She awoke with a stunned feeling, as if recovering from a blow.\nIt was still very early, but, remembering the duties before her, she arose\nquickly. She was so glad that it was Friday; for good F. Joseph would\ncertainly be in the confessional; as he always expected her, and she felt\nthe need of his counsel. It was the same F. Joseph du Pont who had placed\nher beside her dying mother, but who had shortly afterwards returned to\nRome. When, a few weeks since, she had arrived in the Eternal City, he had\nwelcomed her as a dear child, and she loved and respected him as a true\nspiritual father. The sun was just rising when she entered the carriage\nand drove to the Ges\u00f9. Her confession was soon made, and after the\nPrecious Blood had poured its healing drops upon her soul through the\nwords of the absolution, she said: \u201cFather, can you spare me a few minutes\nmore this morning? I want your advice.\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly, my child,\u201d answered the good priest. \u201cIt is nearly an hour\nbefore my Mass. How can I help you?\u201d\n\n\u201cLast evening,\u201d said Assunta in a low voice, \u201cI did what I believed to be\nright; but the morning light has only confused my mind, and I see nothing\nclearly. Father, Mr. Carlisle, my guardian, asked me to marry him.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you, my child?\u201d questioned the priest somewhat anxiously.\n\n\u201cI had been prepared somewhat to expect it. I had thought of my mother\u2019s\nrequest, and remembered that it was in accordance with the teaching of the\nchurch, and I was impelled to fortify myself by a promise to Almighty God\nto fulfil to the letter my dear mother\u2019s wish. Therefore, when the\nquestion came, I could only refuse.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt cost you something to do this, I can see, my poor child, and this\nmorning you are suffering from the revenge our human nature takes upon us\nwhen we have done it violence. Let us look at the matter calmly before\nGod. I believe that you are right, but it will help you to look at both\nsides of the question. It is a reasonable service that God requires of us;\nand, be very sure, he never leads us to the altar of sacrifice without\nbestowing upon us the strength and generosity we need to place our\noffering upon it. Perhaps you were a little too impulsive in binding\nyourself by anything like a vow. We must always be very careful not to\nmistake impulse for inspiration. However, as I understand you, your mind\nwas already decided, and the promise to God was to act as a protection to\nyourself against your own human weakness. Am I right?\u201d\n\n\u201cPartly, father,\u201d replied Assunta, \u201cand yet, as I knelt before the Blessed\nSacrament, I felt that the sacrifice was required of me in a way I thought\nI could not mistake.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, my child, doubtless the Holy Spirit has inspired it for some end\nthat we do not now see. But, aside from that, without that additional and\nconclusive obstacle in the way of such a marriage, I think you acted\nrightly. Our holy mother, the church, is very wise, as well as very\nlenient; and it is with great reluctance that she risks the soul of one of\nher precious children by placing it under the constant influence of one\nwithout faith. It is very true that while there is wisdom in knowing how\nto keep a rule, there is still greater wisdom in knowing when judiciously\nto make the exception. And I confess that, from a human point of view,\nyours would seem to be an exceptional case. You are quite alone in the\nworld; and your guardian has been, and no doubt would always be, a\nfaithful friend. As a man, I esteem him highly for his many noble\nqualities. The world will unquestionably look upon such a marriage as\neminently fitting; and so it would be, but for the one thing which is so\nimportant. We, however, cannot act upon human principles, as if this world\nwere all. It was not without reason, my child, that your poor mother said\nthose last words to you. When she was married, her faith was as strong,\nher life as true and pure, as yours. But your father\u2019s intellect was\npowerful, and her love for him so great that she yielded to him until she\nnearly lost her soul. God be blessed for his mercy, she had the grace to\ndie as a saint, and is now, as I hope, in heaven. But I have seen her in\nan agony of remorse such as I should grieve indeed to witness in this dear\nchild of hers. The last two years of her life after her return to her\nfaith were truly years of martyrdom, passed in the struggle to reconcile\nthose duties which never should conflict\u2014her love of God and duty to her\nhusband. It was from the very depths of her own sad experience that she\npleaded with her little girl. My child, that mother is praying for you\nnow.\u201d\n\n\u201cI believe it, father,\u201d said Assunta, deeply moved by this story of her\nbeloved mother, which she heard for the first time.\n\n\u201cSo, my child, the past is all as it should be; and now for the future.\nMay God grant you the grace to be always as good and brave as you were\nlast night! I would not discourage you, and yet I must remind you that the\nsacrifice is only begun. It is not likely that your guardian, with only\nhuman motives to urge him, will give up so easily where his heart is\nengaged. He will, of course, do all he can to turn you from your purpose,\nand no doubt your own heart will sometimes plead on his side. Here lies\nyour further trial. And yet I cannot, as under other circumstances I\nshould do, advise you to shun the temptation. You cannot leave your\nguardian\u2019s care until you are of age; therefore you must face the trial.\nBut I trust you entirely, my child\u2014that is, I trust to the purity of your\nheart and the power of grace that is in you to guide your actions, even\nyour very thoughts. You must try to be as you have been before; try to\nforget the lover in the guardian. Avoid coldness of manner as a safeguard;\nfor it would only place you in an unnatural position, and would inevitably\nstrengthen in the end the feelings you would conquer. It is not easy to\ngive an exact rule of conduct. Your own good sense will teach you, and God\nwill be with you. And, my child, you must pray for your guardian, and at\nthe same time it must be without any future reference to yourself in\nconnection with him. Is this too hard for you? Do your best, and grace\nwill do the rest. By remembering him before God you will learn lo purify\nyour feelings towards him\u2014to supernaturalize them; and by committing your\nfuture unreservedly to the loving providence of God, your prayer will be a\nconstant renewal of the act of sacrifice you have made. Make it heroic by\nperseverance. Do I explain myself clearly, my child?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, father, perfectly so; and I feel so much comforted and\nstrengthened.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, these are but the words of your father, spoken out of his love for\nyou. Go now, child, and prepare to receive your divine Lord, and listen\nfor the words of peace and comfort he will speak to your soul. To him I\ncommend you with all confidence. One thing more\u2014remember that there is\nnothing which helps us so much in such a trial as acts of charity towards\nthe poor and the suffering. I know that you never fail in this respect;\nbut now especially I would urge you to forget yourself in sympathy for\nothers as occasion offers, though you must always recognize those claims\nwhich your position in society entails upon you. Come to me freely\nwhenever you feel that I can help you. God bless you! I shall remember you\nin the Holy Sacrifice.\u201d\n\nThe good priest went to vest himself for Mass, while the young girl\nreturned to the place before the altar where Marie was patiently awaiting\nher. She was herself a pious woman, and time spent in church never seemed\nlong to her.\n\nWhen the Mass was over and her thanksgiving ended, Assunta returned home\nwith her heart lightened of its burden. She dressed herself for breakfast\nwith her usual care and taste, and, finding that it still wanted half an\nhour or more before the great gun of Sant\u2019 Angelo would boom out the mid\u2010\nday signal, she seated herself at the piano, and song and ballad followed\neach other in quick succession. Her voice and manner were in harmony with\nherself. Her music soothed, but never excited. It had not the dangerous\npower to quicken the pulse and thrill the heart with passionate emotion,\nbut it roused the better feelings, while it conveyed to the listener a\nrestful, satisfied impression which ambitious, brilliant performers rarely\nimpart. She was just beginning Cherubini\u2019s beautiful Ave Maria when Mr.\nCarlisle entered the room.\n\n\u201cHere is our early bird welcoming us in true songster fashion. Do not stop\nyet, _petite_,\n\n\n    \u201cMy soul in an enchanted boat,\n      Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float\n    Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing.\u201d\n\n\nBut as Assunta had already left the piano to greet her guardian and his\nsister, he continued:\n\n\u201cBy the way, Clara, my quotation has suggested to me an answer to your\nquestion. Assunta, my fickle sister, who a week ago was ready to live and\ndie in a picture\u2010gallery, has just now assured me that the very mention of\na picture or statue is a fatigue to her; and she has mercilessly compelled\nme to find some new and original bit of sight\u2010seeing for to\u2010day. We\ncannot, of course, visit any church, since the Holy Father is,\nunfortunately for her, not an iconoclast. But, Clara, what do you say to\nmaking a Shelley day of it? We will take _Prometheus Unbound_ with us to\nthe Baths of Caracalla, and there, on the very spot which inspired the\npoem, we can read parts of it. And when we are tired, we can prolong our\ndrive to the cemetery, and visit Shelley\u2019s grave, as a proper conclusion.\nHow do you like the plan?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d said Mrs. Grey, \u201cit will be deliciously sentimental; only breakfast\nis announced, and I am in a famished condition. I was up so early this\nmorning. It must have been before eleven when that stupid girl called me,\nand it is an hour since I took my coffee.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor Clara!\u201d said Mr. Carlisle, \u201cyour condition is truly pitiable. I\nshould think you might find the almshouse a pleasant change.\u201d Mrs. Grey\nseemed only amused at her brother\u2019s sarcasm, when suddenly she checked her\nsilvery laugh, and, springing from the table, at which she had just seated\nherself, she went towards Assunta with such a pretty, penitential air that\nshe was quite irresistible.\n\n\u201cMy dear child,\u201d she exclaimed, \u201cspeaking of almshouses reminds me of\nsomething you will never forgive. Promise me not to scold, and I will\ndevote myself henceforth to the cultivation of my memory.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is it?\u201d asked Assunta, smiling at her earnestness. \u201cI am sure such a\npleading look would force forgiveness from a stone.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, for my confession, since you absolve me beforehand. While you\nwere out yesterday morning that miserable woman of yours sent word that\nshe was sick, and something about not having a mouthful of bread in the\nhouse. I forget the whole message. My maid saw the girl who came, and I\npromised to tell you. But you remember my wretched headache. You forgave\nme, you know.\u201d\n\nAssunta looked both grieved and vexed for a moment, and then she\ncontrolled herself enough to say:\n\n\u201cI must attach a condition to my forgiveness, Clara. Will you let me drive\nto the house on our way to the baths? I will only detain you a few\nminutes.\u201d\n\n\u201cHeavens! Assunta, you will not go there yourself?\u201d exclaimed the\nastonished Clara. \u201cI dare say it is some filthy hole, and perhaps the\nwoman may have fever. Send a messenger with some money. I\u2019ll give her five\ndollars.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you. I will take the five dollars to her willingly,\u201d replied the\nyoung girl; \u201cbut I will take myself too. I can easily walk,\u201d she added,\nlooking for permission to her guardian, as the occasion was exceptional.\n\nDispleasure at his sister\u2019s thoughtlessness was evident in Mr. Carlisle\u2019s\ntone, as he said:\n\n\u201cYou will go in the carriage, Assunta, and I will accompany you. We will\nreturn for Clara after the visit. Giovanni, order a basket of provisions\nto be put up before one o\u2019clock, and be ready yourself to go with us and\ntake charge of it; and now that the matter is settled, we will have some\nbreakfast.\u201d\n\nPoor Mrs. Grey looked disconcerted; but she thought it her duty to make a\nfurther protest.\n\n\u201cYou surely will not wear that dress, Assunta? It will never be fit to put\non again.\u201d\n\nMr. Carlisle laughed outright at this new objection, while Assunta said\nwith a smile:\n\n\u201cWhy, Clara, have you so soon forgotten your admiration of Mrs. Browning\u2019s\n_Court Lady_, who put on her silks and jewels, and went to the hospital as\nto the court of the king? On the same principle I should be arrayed in\npurple and fine linen, for I am going to the court of the King of kings;\nand if I am not very much mistaken, this same poor woman, whose contact\nyou fear so much, will find her place very near to the throne in the ranks\nof the celestial nobility. However, I should be sorry to ruin my new\ndress, as you predict, and I will be very careful.\u201d\n\nThe breakfast was soon despatched, the carriage came punctually to the\ndoor, and Mr. Carlisle and his ward drove rapidly towards the miserable\nhome of the poor woman, who, in the midst of her poverty, possessed a\nfaith at which Assunta often wondered.\n\n\u201cYou are very kind, Mr. Carlisle,\u201d she said. \u201cI am sorry I have given you\nso much trouble.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn this case,\u201d he replied, \u201cthe trouble is not altogether disinterested.\nI must myself find out what the sickness is before I can allow you to\nenter the house. I cannot let you run the risk of fever or any other\nmalignant disease. You see I came as a sort of police.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d said Assunta, touched by his thoughtful care of her, at the same\ntime anxious not to be prevented making what amends she could, \u201cI am so\naccustomed to visiting the sick, I do not think there can be any danger.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy child,\u201d he said, \u201cas long as your life can be guarded by me, it shall\nbe done. You are under obedience still, you know.\u201d She dared not insist;\nand, indeed, at the same moment they reached the wretched dwelling. After\nexacting from her the promise to remain in the carriage, Mr. Carlisle\nascended the broken stair\u2010case. In a few moments he returned, and, without\nsaying a word, he took the basket from Giovanni, and again went up the\nstairs. As he reappeared, he said to the coachman:\n\n\u201cDrive on slowly. I will walk a little. You must not go in, Assunta.\u201d\n\nHe continued to follow the carriage at a quick pace for a quarter of a\nmile; then he hailed the driver, and took his seat beside the wondering\ngirl, saying:\n\n\u201cI thought it would be best to give myself an airing after leaving that\nroom. _Petite_, the poor woman died two hours since of a terrible fever.\nYou could have done nothing, and, as usual, Clara was mistaken in the\nmessage. They sent word to their \u2018guardian angel,\u2019 as they are pleased to\ncall a certain little friend of mine, of their suffering and need, but\nwith the particular warning that she should on no account direct her\nflight that way, lest she should expose the unangelic part of her nature\nto contagion. I left the basket, and money enough to supply all the\ntemporary wants of the children; but it was a dreadful scene,\u201d he added\nwith a shudder.\n\nHe had striven to speak lightly at first, because he saw the distress in\nAssunta\u2019s anxious face and tearful eyes. But his own feelings were\nstrangely stirred, and he forgot his self\u2010control, as he continued, in a\nvoice low and husky from the very intensity of emotion:\n\n\u201cChild, I am in an agony of terror at the bare thought of what might have\nbeen the result had you been exposed to that atmosphere, whose every\nbreath was poison. My God! when I think of the danger you have so narrowly\nescaped. Oh! if I might always shield this dear life at any risk to mine.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy life is in God\u2019s hands,\u201d said Assunta coldly, as she gently disengaged\nthe hand which her guardian had clasped in his, as if he would show, by\nthe action, the power of his love to avert any and every evil which might\nthreaten her.\n\nPoor child! she longed to ask more about the woman\u2019s death, and especially\nto express her gratitude to Mr. Carlisle for his kindness; but she dared\nnot face his present mood. However, as they again reached the villa, she\nsaid hurriedly and in a tone full of anxiety:\n\n\u201cMr. Carlisle, you have exposed yourself to great danger, and I do not\nforget that it was for my sake. I shall not be satisfied unless you\npromise me that you will take every possible precaution to avoid any\nfuture evil consequences. I should never forgive myself if any harm came\nto you.\u201d\n\nHer eyes lowered beneath the look he for one moment fixed upon her\nappealing face; then, with the exclamation, \u201cAn unblessed life is of\nlittle consequence,\u201d he sprang from the carriage, and, saying to Giovanni,\n\u201cI will summon Mrs. Grey,\u201d he dashed up the stone staircase.\n\nAssunta sank back with a feeling almost of despair at the task before her.\nEven if she had not to struggle with her own heart, it would have been\nhard enough to steer the right, straight course between these\ncontradictory moods in her guardian; one moment so tender and thoughtful,\nthe next so full of bitterness. How could she reconcile them? How should\nshe ever be able to bear her burden, if this weight were added to it day\nby day?\n\nAssunta possessed the gift\u2014which, advanced to a higher degree, might be\ntermed the natural science of the saints\u2014of receiving religious\nimpressions and suggestions from the natural objects about her. Now, as in\na listless manner she looked around, her eyes fell upon the snow\u2010crowned\nhills which bound the Roman horizon, and rested there. She had no thought\nof the classic associations which throng those mountain\u2010sides and nestle\nin the valleys. She needed strength, and instantly the words were present\nto her mind: \u201cI have lifted up my eyes to the mountains, from whence help\nshall come to me.\u201d And following out the consoling train of thought, she\npassed from those peaceful Roman hills to Jerusalem and the mountains\nwhich surround it, even \u201cas the Lord is round about his people.\u201d Then, by\na natural transition, she turned her thoughts to the poor woman who had\njust left behind her poverty, privation, and suffering, and, accompanied\nonly by that hope and love which had endured and survived them all, had\nentered, so she confidently hoped, into the possession of God\u2014the Beatific\nVision. What a contrast between the temporal and eternal!\n\nHer silent requiem for the departed soul was interrupted by Mrs. Grey\u2019s\nbright presence and merry voice.\n\n\u201cI cannot imagine what you have been doing to Severn,\u201d she said; \u201cbut he\nis in one of his unaccountable conditions of mind, and declares that he\nwill not go to drive\u2014pressing business, etc. I am sure we can do without\nhim very well, all but the reading part, which had been assigned to him.\nIt is so late, at any rate, that perhaps we had better give up the baths,\nand drive at once to the cemetery. You see I have secured an excellent\nsubstitute for our recreant cavalier,\u201d she added, as a gentleman emerged\nfrom the massive doorway. \u201cCome, Mr. Sinclair, we are waiting for you.\u201d\n\nThere was just a shade of stateliness in Assunta\u2019s manner as she greeted\nthe somewhat elegant man of the world, who seated himself opposite to her.\nShe would gladly have been dispensed from the drive altogether, feeling as\nshe did then; nevertheless, she submitted to the necessity which could\nhardly be avoided.\n\n\u201cTruly, Miss Howard,\u201d said Mr. Sinclair, as they drove away, \u201cI begin to\nbelieve the ancient goddesses no myths. Flora herself would find in you a\nworthy rival. It is not often that I have the happiness to be placed\nopposite two such lovely ladies.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery good for a _finale_, Mr. Sinclair,\u201d replied Mrs. Grey; \u201cbut if you\nwere to speak your mind, you would be calling me Ceres, or something else\nsuggestive of the \u2018sere and yellow leaf.\u2019 \u201d\n\n\u201cThat is a gross injustice, not only to me, but to yourself,\u201d answered Mr.\nSinclair in his most gallant tone. \u201cHave not the poets ever vied with each\nother in disputes as to the respective merits of spring, with its\nfreshness, and the rich bloom of early summer? And permit me to add that\nneither has yet been able to claim a victory. In such a presence it would\nbe rash indeed for me to constitute myself a judge.\u201d\n\n\u201cUnwise, certainly,\u201d rejoined Mrs. Grey, \u201cto take into your hand such an\napple of discord. Women and goddesses are pretty much alike, and the fate\nof Paris might be yours. Remember the ten years\u2019 siege.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d said Mr. Sinclair, \u201cthere you do not frighten me. Welcome the ten\nyears\u2019 siege, if during that time the fair Helen were safe within the\nwalls. After ten years one might perhaps be reconciled to a surrender and\na change of scene, since even the lovely Trojan\u2019s beauty must have lost\nthe freshness of its charms by that time.\u201d\n\n\u201cO faithless men!\u201d said Mrs. Grey, very much as if she were pronouncing an\neulogy.\n\n\u201cMiss Howard,\u201d said Mr. Sinclair, \u201cyou are silent. Does our classic lore\nfail to enlist your interest, or are you studying antiquities?\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon me,\u201d replied Assunta; \u201cit was rude in me to be so abstracted. I\nmust excuse myself on the ground of sympathy for suffering which I have\nbeen unable to alleviate.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy the way, Assunta,\u201d exclaimed Mrs. Grey, \u201chow did you find your\n_prot\u00e9g\u00e9e_?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe is dead,\u201d replied the young girl, softly.\n\n\u201cOh! I am so sorry. How very sudden! Mr. Sinclair, you were telling me\nabout the Braschi ball when Severn interrupted us. When did you say it is\nto be?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn about three weeks,\u201d replied the gentleman. \u201cI hope that you ladies\nwill be there. Our American blondes are greatly in demand among so many\nblack eyes. You are going, are you not?\u201d\n\n\u201cMost certainly we shall,\u201d answered Mrs. Grey with ready confidence, the\nfuture being to her but a continuation of to\u2010day. The cloud that might\nappear on her horizon must be much larger than a man\u2019s hand to turn her\nattention to it from the sunshine immediately about her.\n\nAnd so, between pleasantry and gossip, the time passed until the carriage\nstopped at the gate of the cemetery.\n\n\u201cYou have chosen a very serious termination to your afternoon\u2019s drive,\nMrs. Grey,\u201d said Mr. Sinclair, as he assisted the ladies to alight. \u201cI\nalways carefully avoid whatever reminds me of my latter end.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet me play Egyptian coffin, then, for once,\u201d replied Mrs. Grey, but with\na merry laugh that belied her words. \u201cI will lead you to a contemplation\nof the fate of genius. I dote on Shelley, and so we have made a pilgrimage\nto his grave.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have every appearance of a pilgrim about to visit some sacred\nshrine,\u201d said Mr. Sinclair with an echo of her bright laugh. \u201cLead on,\nfair pilgrim princess; we humble votaries will follow wherever your\nillustrious steps may guide.\u201d\n\nA small, horizontal slab, almost hidden beneath the pyramid of Caius\nCestus\u2014itself a tomb\u2014is all that marks the resting\u2010place of the gifted,\nill\u2010fated Shelley.\n\n\u201cHere is your shrine, my lady pilgrim,\u201d said Mr. Sinclair, as he removed\nsome of the green overgrowth from off the inscription.\n\n\u201cSomebody make a suitable quotation,\u201d said Mrs. Grey. \u201cYou know we ought\nto be sentimental now.\u201d\n\nAssunta at once rejoined:\n\n\n    \u201c \u2018How wonderful is Death\u2014\n    Death and his brother, Sleep!\u2019\n\n\nPoor Shelley! But I do not like the inscription, Clara; or rather, I do\nnot like such an expression on such a grave.\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean, dear Assunta?\u201d said Mrs. Grey, looking at her as if she\nwere talking Sanscrit. \u201cI think it is lovely. _Cor cordium_\u2014the heart of\nhearts, is it not? I am sure nothing could be more appropriate.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt does not seem to me appropriate,\u201d answered Assunta; \u201cbut then you know\nI always do have strange ideas\u2014so you say. Why should _Cor cordium_ be\nwritten over the ashes of one who was burned in true pagan fashion, and\nwho, as I think, should rather be pitied for what he did not do, with his\nmarvellous gifts, than loved for anything he has done?\u201d\n\nAs she paused, a voice beside her exclaimed, \u201cI am sure I cannot be\nmistaken. Is not this Miss Howard?\u201d\n\nAssunta turned and welcomed with a pleased surprise the young man who\nappeared so unexpectedly, then she presented him to her companions as Mr.\nPercival, of Baltimore, the brother of her only intimate school friend. He\nwas tall and slender, not handsome, but with a manly and at the same time\nspiritual face. His eyes were his finest feature, but their beauty was\nrather that of the soul speaking through them. Assunta had not seen him\nsince her school days at the convent, and then she had known him but\nslightly; so she was herself surprised at her ready recognition of him.\n\n\u201cAnd what has brought you so far away from my dear Mary?\u201d she asked after\nthe first greetings were over.\n\n\u201cI am on that most unenviable of expeditions\u2014health\u2010seeking,\u201d was his\nreply. \u201cAfter graduating at college, the physician doomed me to a year of\ntravel; and so we meet again at Shelley\u2019s grave!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said Mrs. Grey, \u201cand Assunta and I were in the midst of an amiable\nquarrel when you found us out. I engage you on my side, Mr. Percival. It\nis about the inscription, which I like and Assunta does not, for reasons\nwhich are Greek to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI was just going to say,\u201d said Assunta, \u201cthat _Cor cordium_ seemed to me\na sacred phrase wholly misapplied, though I have no doubt the irreverence\nwas unintentional.\u201d And turning to Mr. Percival with that sort of\nspiritual instinct which teaches us where to look for sympathy even in a\ncrowd, she continued:\n\n\u201cI hope that I am not guilty of the same want of reverence in thinking\nthat if those words are to be inscribed on any grave, they should be\nwritten upon that stone which was rolled against the opening of the new\nsepulchre in the garden, and sealed with the Roman seal; for there the\ntrue _Cor cordium_ was enclosed.\u201d\n\n\u201cMr. Percival, I see that you have gone over to the ranks of the enemy,\u201d\nsaid Mrs. Grey; \u201cand if Mr. Sinclair deserts me, I shall never be able to\nstand my ground against two such devotees.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am yours to command, Mrs. Grey,\u201d replied Mr. Sinclair with an\nexpression of contempt in his tone. \u201cBut perhaps it might be well to\ntransfer our operations to another battle\u2010field. Allow me to offer you a\nsouvenir of the occasion.\u201d And he handed to each of the ladies a sprig of\ngreen from beside the marble tablet.\n\nAssunta quite simply shared hers with Mr. Percival at his request, and\nthen they retraced their steps. As they approached the carriage, Mrs. Grey\nvery cordially begged Mr. Percival to occupy the fourth seat, which he\nreluctantly declined, as also the invitation to visit them.\n\n\u201cFor,\u201d said he, \u201cto\u2010morrow I start for Jerusalem; and, Miss Howard, when I\nam kneeling, as I hope to do, in the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre, I shall\nremember you and those suggestive words of yours.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou could not do me a greater kindness,\u201d replied Assunta, \u201cthan to\nremember me there. And when you return, what do you intend to do in the\nway of a profession? You see I am interested for Mary\u2019s sake. I know what\nher desire is.\u201d\n\nAn hour before, if this question had been proposed to him, Augustine\nPercival would have been able to give a probable answer. Though he had not\nyet decided, his few days\u2019 sojourn in Rome had stirred up within him a\nfeeling which had been latent even in his boyhood, and from the depths of\nthe Catacombs and beneath the lofty domes he had thought he heard an\ninterior voice which whispered to him, \u201cFollow me.\u201d And now a fair young\nface had made him hesitate, though, in justice to him, it must be added\nthat no mere charm of beauty would have touched him for a moment. It was\nthe purity and beauty of mind and soul, which he read and appreciated,\nthat caused him to reply to Assunta\u2019s question:\n\n\u201cThe matter of my future vocation will be left, I think, until my return.\u201d\n\nThen, with many pleasant farewell words, they parted; and, except to\nmention the meeting to her friend in her next letter, Assunta thought no\nmore of the thread of another life which had for a moment crossed hers.\n\nThat evening there were guests at the villa; and, as usual, Assunta\u2019s\namiability was taxed by the repeated demands for music. As she sat\nabsently turning over the leaves before her in one of the intervals, Mr.\nCarlisle came and stood beside her.\n\n\u201c_Petite_,\u201d he said, \u201cI have been to see the authorities about the family\nof that poor woman who died to\u2010day, and everything will be arranged\ncomfortably for them; so you need feel no further anxiety!\u201d\n\n\u201cHow good you are, dear friend!\u201d she replied. \u201cGod bless you for it!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is your blessing that I want,\u201d said he. \u201cIt was for you that I took\nthe little trouble you are pleased to magnify into something deserving of\ngratitude.\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease do not say so, Mr. Carlisle,\u201d said Assunta earnestly. \u201cYou do such\nnoble acts, and then you spoil them by your want of faith.\u201d\n\nThe word was unfortunately chosen.\n\n\u201cIf by faith,\u201d Mr. Carlisle replied, \u201cyou mean your Catholic faith, I\ncannot force myself to accept what does not appeal to my reason. I can\nrespect an honest conviction in others when I am in turn treated with\nequal liberality; but,\u201d he added in a low tone, \u201cI could hate the faith,\nso called, which comes between me and the fulfilment of my dearest wish.\u201d\n\nThere was a call for more music, and so there was no opportunity, even had\nthere been inclination, for a reply. But as Assunta was passing wearily to\nher room after the last guest had departed, Mr. Carlisle stopped her, and,\nafter his usual good\u2010night, he said: \u201cForgive me, child. I have not been\nmyself to\u2010day.\u201d\n\nTwo weeks afterwards, when her guardian lay prostrate on his bed in the\ndelirium of fever, Assunta remembered those few words, which at the time\nhad given her pain, with that agony of sorrow which can only be aroused by\nthe knowledge that the soul of one beloved may at any moment be launched\nupon the immeasurable ocean of eternity, rudderless and anchorless.\n\nTo Be Continued.\n\n\n\n\nChurch Music. Concluded.(167)\n\n\n\nII. (Continued.)\n\n\nHaving settled that plain chant should have a part, and indeed a large\npart, in our choral service, but that figured music should not be\nexcluded, it remains for us to say what figured music is to be used in\nalternation with plain chant, or substituted when plain chant is\ncompletely set aside.\n\nSome seem to imagine that no figured music is suitable for the church but\nthat which is termed _alla Palestrina_. They urge the great fitness of\nthis species of music for church purposes; for, like the plain chant, it\nis ancient, can boast a long and exclusive connection with the Catholic\nceremonial, admits of no personal display, is dissimilar from the music of\nthe world, never alters the words or does violence to them, is not only\ndistinctly ecclesiastical but papal, and quite as solemn and grave as\nplain chant, while it is of wider range and of far more pleasing effect.\nThough written in strict measure, it follows the tonality of plain chant.\nIts origin is holy, since S. Charles and S. Philip were intimately\nassociated with Palestrina. Then, again, it has the best possible\nauthorization\u2014that of having been used for the last three hundred years by\nthe popes, to the edification of the whole world, non\u2010Catholic as well as\nCatholic.\n\nWe admit all these claims. But against the use of this species of music\namongst us there is a fatal objection.\n\nIt was written to be sung without instrumental accompaniment, which, when\nused in conjunction with it, always mars its effect; and hence, though\nnothing more suitable can be imagined for Lent and Advent, when, according\nto the rubrics (too often slighted), the sound of the organ should not be\nheard, we cannot be expected to sing it at other times; for we absolutely\nneed the organ to make amends for our scanty numbers, our lack of\nproficiency in execution, to support the voices, and to give variety to\nthe service.\n\nThe organ is regarded by us as essentially a church instrument by its\nnature and the associations we connect with it; indeed it never fails to\narouse in us deeper feelings of reverence and devotion, and we cannot do\nwithout it.\n\nAn attempt was made in several of the German cathedrals some years ago to\nrevive music of the Palestrina style, to the exclusion of the more modern;\nbut circumstances, we think, have already led to some modifications of the\nstrict rules first proposed.\n\n\n\nIII.\n\n\nPractically, we can hardly hope ever to exclude from our churches modern\nfigured music\u2014as Benedict XIV. says, that would be an extreme measure; but\nwe can exclude, and are bound, he says, to exclude, such compositions of\nit as are unsuitable for church purposes.\n\nBut how shall we determine what is suitable and what is not?\n\nMusic, it will be said, is a mere matter of taste, and the adage has it,\n_De gustibus non est disputandum_.\n\nBut there is bad taste as well as good taste. Moreover, church music is a\nmatter of principle as well as of taste, and good taste in this case is\nclosely allied to principle.\n\nTaste is the instinct or habit, or rather the instinct following habit,\nand perfected by it, whereby we are enabled to discern and detect what is\nmost proper and congruous in each province of art.\n\nNow, the reason for employing music in the service of the church is\nreligious or it is none. Unless the musical sounds, therefore, subserve\nthe meaning of the text, they are better away. \u201cWhere the religious song\nis accompanied by musical instruments,\u201d says Benedict XIV., \u201cthese must\nserve solely for adding to its force, so that the sense of the words\npenetrate deeper into the hearts of the faithful, and their spirit, being\nroused to the contemplation of spiritual things, be elevated towards God\nand the love of divine objects.\u201d That style of music, then, will be the\nmost religious which deals most reverently with its subject, and gives the\nleast scope to the play of irreligious dispositions. Being the most\nsuitable to its subject, it will also be in the truest taste.\n\nHence that music will be the most suitable and the best which in its\nconstruction will correspond most perfectly with the peculiar spirit of\neach festival and with the special character of each service; which will\nmost naturally and reverently render the sense of the words without\nchanging, inverting, or abridging them, or marring their sense by useless\nand tiresome repetitions,\u2014which, in other words, will speak as distinctly\nand as religiously to the ear as the altar, the vestments of the priest,\nand the ceremonies speak to the eye. Music and ceremonies, and everything\nconnected with them, should be in the most perfect harmony, reminding all\nthat they are in the house of God, and assembled in his presence to pay\nhim homage on earth like that rendered him by the members of the church\ntriumphant in heaven.\n\nHence, 1, church music should not in any way recall the world, its\ntemptations or its pleasures; and the prohibition made by popes and\ncouncils against the introduction into the church of compositions written\noriginally for the theatre or the concert\u2010room, but with other words, or\nof compositions written for the church, but in a style suggestive of the\nstage, is so evidently just and proper that any one who objects to it must\nbe wanting in common sense.\n\n\u201cHumana nefas miscere divinis\u201d finds its application here. To carry the\nminds of worshippers in the church back to the theatre by the music is a\ncrime, for it is a desecration.(168)\n\nHence, 2, not even the feelings of the congregation should ever tempt the\ndirector of the music of the church to admit what is not in every respect\nmost suitable to the place, the time, and the occasion. Fortunately, we\nhave no difficulty here in the United States with our own people. The only\ntrouble is when we go out of our way to satisfy the expectations of non\u2010\nCatholics who occasionally are present at our services, or of a few\nmusicians not otherwise interested in the services.\n\nHence, 3, undue prominence should never be given to individual singers. It\nis, to say the least, very distracting.\n\nHence, 4, the director of the music should never be willing to sacrifice\nthe liturgy, even the least part of it, to the exigencies of the music,\nwhatever they may happen to be; but, on the contrary, he should be ever\nready, if need be, to sacrifice even the most admirable musical numbers to\nthe exigencies of the ceremonial.\n\nIn other words, he should never forget that music is one of the many\naccessories to our public worship\u2014never the essential\u2014and is never to be\nheard merely for its own sake.\n\nThis is brought out clearly and distinctly in two decrees that have for us\nin this section of country the full force of law\u2014a decree of the Second\nPlenary Council of Baltimore, and another decree of the Third Provincial\nCouncil of New York:\n\n\u201cThat all may be done according to prescribed order, and that the solemn\nrites of the church may be preserved in their integrity, we admonish\npastors of churches to labor earnestly to remove those abuses which in our\ncountry have crept into the church chant. Let them therefore provide _that\nthe music be subservient to the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass and the other\noffices_, and not _the divine offices to the music_. Let them also bear in\nmind that, according to the ritual of the church, it is not lawful to sing\nhymns in the vernacular languages at High Mass and at solemn\nVespers.\u201d(169)\n\n\u201cAt solemn Masses singers are prohibited from so protracting the\nOffertory, the _Sanctus_, and the _Benedictus_ that the celebrant is\nobliged to delay till they have made an end of singing.\u201d(170)\n\nThe general principles we have laid down will be still better understood\nif we examine the declarations made by the church through several of the\npopes.\n\nThe most notable and the most precious of these are the brief of Benedict\nXIV. already mentioned, and the rules for composers given by Pius IX.\n\nPope Benedict XIV., in his Constitution _Annus_ 19, February, 1749, begins\nby laying down the general principle that the music of the church must be\nso ordered that nothing profane, nothing worldly, and especially nothing\ntheatrical, be heard in it. He repeats this principle again and again, and\nsays that there is no one who does not detest operatic music in the\nchurch, and who does not look for and desire a difference between the\nmusic of the church and the music of the stage.\n\nHe then reminds us of the Constitution of Pope Innocent XII., by which it\nis forbidden to sing at solemn Mass and Vespers motets or hymns that are\nnot a part of the Mass or the Vespers of the day; that is, at solemn Mass,\nthe only pieces allowed to be sung besides the _Kyrie_, _Gloria_, _Credo_,\n_Sanctus_, _Benedictus_, and _Agnus Dei_ are the Introit, Gradual,\nOffertory, and Communion of the Mass of the day (a single exception being\nmade for Corpus Christi, when the _O Salutaris!_ or other hymn of the\noffice of the Blessed Sacrament may be sung at the Offertory), and at\nsolemn Vespers only the Antiphons and the proper hymn with the Psalms.\n\nHe then proceeds to condemn frequent repetitions of the same words, and\nplaces the chief distinction between theatrical music and church music in\nthis: that in the former the words are made quite subservient to the\nsinging and the accompaniment; whereas in the latter the words are\nrendered intelligibly, and the music is made subservient to them.\n\nHe next instructs bishops to banish from the church absolutely all\ninstruments except the organ; but with the organ he allows the use of\nviolins, violas, violoncellos, contrabassos, and bassoons, because these\nadd, he says, to the force of its tones; but he prohibits cymbals, horns,\ntrombones, oboes, flutes\u2014in general, all wind\u2010instruments, as also harps\nand guitars, because all these, he says, recall the theatre.\n\nHe directs that while the singing is going on the instruments must merely\naccompany, never take the place of, the voices.\n\nHe allows suitable symphonies when these are dissociated from the office\nproper\u2014probably meaning the pieces played at the beginning and the end of\nservice, and to fill up pauses when the choir is silent.\n\nHe closes by urging the Italian bishops to comply with these instructions\nfaithfully, that foreign bishops coming to Rome may see in Italian, and\nespecially in Roman, churches the public offices properly carried out, and\nthus be induced to imitate them.\n\nThe present vicar\u2010general of Pius IX., Cardinal Patrizzi, by order of the\nPope, wrote two letters to composers of church music in Rome, on the 18th\nand 20th of November, 1856, and in them he so far supplements the\ndirections of Benedict XIV. that we have wherewith to determine without\nmuch difficulty what music is, and what music is not, admissible in\nCatholic choirs.\n\nIn his first letter he says:\n\n\u201cThe most sustained gravity is to be observed, and nothing introduced\nsuggestive of theatrical pieces, either by the arrangement or by the\nmelody; too many repetitions, and all changes and arbitrary inversions of\nthe words are to be avoided.\n\n\u201cAt Mass, Exposition, and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, and other\nsacred ceremonies, organists are forbidden to execute the whole or parts\nof theatrical pieces, or to play in a too florid or distracting style; and\ntheir music ought to be such as to promote the recollection and devotion\nof the faithful.\n\n\u201cAs we consider an interruption between the various parts of the words of\nthe liturgy very unbecoming, even when any verse is finished, as being an\noccasion of distraction and noise among the musicians and hearers, we\norder that every part of the offices, especially at Mass, shall be sung\nthrough continuously, so that the _Kyrie_, _Gloria_, and other parts may\neach have a unity of structure.\u201d\n\nIn his second letter he teaches composers the necessity of their having\nfor their object the praise of God and the devotion of the faithful, and\nshows how church music in its whole construction ought to differ from that\nof the stage.\n\n\u201cIf all composers,\u201d he says, \u201cdrew their inspirations from piety and\nreligion, as some of them have the good spirit to do; if they always kept\nbefore their minds that their music ought to tend to praise God in his\nholy temple, and to excite the devotion of the faithful, there would have\nbeen but little need to make rules for musical composition. But it is only\ntoo true that, in some instances, to the great surprise of the truly\nreligious among the faithful, there has been heard in the churches certain\nmusic unworthy of the house of God, and showing that the composer, far\nfrom having in view the service of the divine Majesty and the edification\nof his hearers, has only aimed at displaying his own imagination, and that\nhe has forgotten the church and written for the theatre, not only by\nborrowing its style of melody, but also by introducing portions of\ntheatrical music, to which he has sometimes violently adapted the words of\nthe sacred liturgy. In order that so great a scandal may not be renewed,\nand that those who write music for the church may have a rule to keep them\nwithin due bounds, we prescribe as follows:\n\n\u201c1. Music destined for execution in the churches ought to be\ndistinguishable from profane and theatrical music, not only in its\n_melodies_, but also in its whole character; hence\n\n\u201c2. Those movements are forbidden which would not be naturally inspired by\nthe sacred character of the words, and which would be suggestive of the\ntheatre.\n\n\u201c3. We forbid too lively or exciting movements; if the words require\ncheerfulness and joy, let it be expressed by the sweetness of religious\nmirth, and not by the unbridled liveliness of the dance.\n\n\u201c4. In all movements, whether slow or quick, the words of the sacred text\nmust be pronounced clearly, and never more quickly than in ordinary\ndiscourse.\n\n\u201c5. The words must be put to music in the order which they occupy in the\nsacred text. When the sense has been entirely expressed, it will be\nallowable to repeat some word of it, or some phrase of it, as may be\nnecessary, without inversion, without confusion of the sense, and with the\nrequired moderation.\n\n\u201c6. All the words must be sung, and none added nor any omitted. It is not\nallowed for one syllable of them to be changed.\n\n\u201c7. We forbid ariettas, duets, and trios in imitation of theatrical\npieces. Recitative and everything approaching to it is forbidden; as also\noperatic finales, such as are known by the term _cabaletta_.\n\n\u201c8. As regards instruments, long introductions and long preludes are to be\navoided, whether with full orchestra or with solos.\n\n\u201c9. Without depriving instrumental music of the grace and coloring which\nart and good taste suggest, an effeminate softness is to be avoided, as\nwell as immoderate noise, which is always tiring and unbecoming in the\nhouse of God.\n\n\u201c10. The composer must not forget that _the use of instrumental music in\nthe churches is in a state of simple toleration_; the object of it must be\nto sustain and enrich the singing, to be far from overpowering it, or from\nenfeebling and deadening it, or reducing it to a mere accessory.\u201d\n\nThese rules, if adhered to, would give us music which would meet the\nrequirements both of devotion and of art; nor do they exclude such variety\nas the diversity of our feelings calls for. It could, by its placid,\nquiet, and smooth\u2010flowing measures, soothe and subdue us into that mood\nwhich best fits us to offer to God reverential homage, and to make acts of\nresignation when we feel the hand of affliction bearing heavily upon us;\nbut also, by more joyous and inspiriting strains, dispose us to praise God\naccording to the immensity of his greatness, in joy and gladness, on loud\u2010\nsounding cymbals (_in cymbalis jubilationis_), and send us back to the\nbattle of life with renewed courage and strength.\n\n\n\nIV.\n\n\nBut, it will be asked, can this style of music which we have just sketched\nbe had? Most certainly.\n\nIt is true our organists do not know it; for they are lamentably ill\u2010read\nin musical lore. They seem to imagine that whatever is published as music\nfor the service of the Catholic Church is to be regarded as \u201cCatholic\nmusic,\u201d and perfectly proper, and they scarcely dream of looking further\nthan to the publications or importations of Ditson, Peters, and Novello,\nor of critically examining these to test their fitness for the purposes of\ndivine worship. To take the two best composers of their class, how few\norganists have taken the trouble to study critically the Masses of Haydn\nand Mozart. Of the sixteen Masses composed by Haydn, there are only four\nin which the words are all correct. These are Nos. 4, 5, 6, and 9. All the\nothers are consequently defective.\n\nIn Nos. 7, 8, and 11, although all the words are to be found in one or\nother of the voice parts, yet each voice is often singing different words\nat the same time.\n\nIn Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 16 the words _Qui ex patre filioque procedit_ are\naltogether omitted. In Nos. 3 and 16 the words _et in unum Dominum Jesum\nChristum, filium Dei unigenitum_, are wanting. In No. 2 the words _Qui cum\nPatre et Filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur_ are omitted. In No. 10\nthe words _Domine Deus, Agnus Dei, Filius Patris, qui tollis peccata mundi\nmiserere nobis_, are omitted. In the _Credo_ all the words from _et in\nunum Dominum_ as far as _per quem omnia facta sunt_ (inclusive), and again\nall the last part of the _Credo_ from _et in Spiritum_ to the end, are\naltogether omitted.\n\nIn No. 12 the words _Qui tollis peccata mundi_ (_secundo_) are omitted.\n\nIn No. 13 the words _Jesu Christe, Domine Deus_, are omitted. The words\n_Filius Patris_ are immediately followed by _miserere nobis, quoniam tu\nsolus_, etc.\n\nAgain, in the _Credo_ of this same Mass, after the words _et invisibilium_\nwe find the text read thus: _credo per quem omnia_, etc., with all the\nintermediate part left out. No. 14 consists of a _Kyrie_ and _Gloria_\nonly. In the _Gloria_ the words _Qui tollis peccata mundi, suscipe_, etc.,\n_qui sedes_, etc., are omitted. In No. 15 the words _Qui tollis peccata\nmundi_ (_secundo_) are omitted. In the _Credo_ of this Mass, beginning\nwith _Et resurrexit_, different words are sung simultaneously by each\npart, as remarked above of Nos. 7, 8, and 11.\n\nWhile it cannot be denied that much of the Mass music of Haydn is the most\nbeautiful in the world, some of it is trivial and undevotional, and it\nwould seem as if, by some of his movements, he wished to\n\n\n    \u201cMake the soul dance a jig to heaven.\u201d\n\n\nConcerning the sacred compositions of Mozart, a recent French author, M.\nFelix Clement,(171) makes the following startling assertion:\n\n\u201cThe religious musical compositions of Mozart are much less numerous than\nis generally believed, and the catalogues of music publishers and the\nrepertories of _ma\u00eetres de chapelle_ are not to be trusted. Many of these\nmusicians frequently take the liberty of stealing from Mozart\u2019s operas,\nand even from his compositions for instruments, and of adapting them to a\nLatin text, let the adaptations be worth what they may.... The only\nauthentic religious compositions of Mozart are the following:\n\n\u201cA _Stabat mater_ for four voices, without instruments, and very short.\n\n\u201cA _Veni Sancte Spiritus_ for four voices, two violins, two hautboys, two\nhorns, a clarinet, tympanum, alto, and violoncello.\n\n\u201cA solemn Mass for four voices, two violins, two hautboys, two altos, four\nclarinets, and tympanum, 1768.\n\n\u201cA short Mass for four voices and the same accompaniment, 1768.\n\n\u201cA Grand Offertory for four voices and similar accompaniment, 1768.\n\n\u201cAn _Ave Verum Corpus_, 1791.\n\n\u201cThe Mass of Requiem.\n\n\u201cTwo solemn Masses in C major.\u201d\n\nThere are adaptations in many of Peters\u2019 publications that are simply\nshocking, and even our most worthy Anthony Werner forgot himself while he\nwas compiling the _Memorare_ and the _Cantate_, and inserted a few\ncompositions that are out of rule, and therefore out of taste.\n\nAgain, few organists amongst us have a sufficient knowledge of Latin, of\nthe structure of the ritual, and of the traditions of the church to judge\nof the appropriateness of compositions; and the evil is aggravated to the\nlast degree by the custom of making the organist the director of the music\nas well. Hardly any of them know either the theory or the practice of\nplain chant.\n\nMusic of the kind we have described as fit for church use abounds in\nItaly, but mostly in the condition of MS. The works of the Augustan age of\nItalian music, from the time of Carissimi to that of Jommelli, including\nthose of Durante, Leo, Clari, Steffani, Martini, and Pergolesi, and even\nof later masters, like Terziani, afford inexhaustible treasures almost\nentirely neglected.\n\nThe new order of things in Italy has wrought and is working mischief there\nin more ways than one. Thus it has already been the occasion of the loss\nof a great number of valuable musical manuscripts, and unfortunately the\nend is not yet. The revolution of 1848 caused a great deal of wanton\ndestruction, the result of that spirit of vandalism which seems to possess\nall revolutionists; and the recent suppression of so many churches by the\nItalian government has brought about the dispersion and consequent loss of\nthe manuscripts of as many musical libraries\u2014a loss that can never be\nrepaired.\n\nIf we do not resume the execution of the compositions of the older\nmasters, we must at least recur to them for the purposes of study. In no\nother way can we shake off the influence of the drama.\n\nWe have learned from the instructions of Benedict XIV. and the cardinal\nvicar of Pius IX. that there is a distinction between the music of the\nstage and that of the church, and that this distinction is based on the\nfact that in the latter the music must be written to suit the words of the\nsacred text, and that the music, whilst having that serious and chastened\nexpression which befits the language of devotion, should be distinctively\nvocal and choral; whereas in the former the tendency is to make the words\nsuit the modulations of the music, to subordinate the voices to the rich\nand powerful instrumental symphony which accompanies them, to flatter the\npopular ear by light and taking airs, and to display to the best advantage\nthe voices of individual singers and their wonderful execution.\n\nThese characteristics of secular music, due to the influence first of\nMozart and afterwards of Rossini more than to that of any other composers,\nhave been too long felt in the music of the church, and to be rid of them\nwe must lean more towards the past, and return to the study of those grave\nand solemn forms which existed prior to their day, and in which the\ninstrumental accompaniment contained no suggestion of levity, and was used\nto support and enrich the vocal harmony without drawing attention from it.\n\nThe celebrated Robert Franz is now editing some of the works of Durante,\nwho flourished not long after the departure from Palestrina was made, and\nwhose piety and exclusive devotedness to church music have given a more\necclesiastical character to his compositions than to those of any other\ncomposer of his day.\n\nIn France the war between those who advocate the exclusive use of plain\nchant and those who plead that music may have some share in the divine\nservice is waged fiercely, and the consequence is that both parties go to\nextremes, and both assert principles with regard to the respective merits\nof the two styles that are utterly untenable. There is no country in the\nworld where plain chant is so much sung, and none where so much wretched\nstuff is palmed off as sacred music. Nevertheless, France has composers of\nmerit, who might achieve great results if they had a public of broader\nviews to write for, chief among whom is Gounod, who, in his _Messe\nSolennelle_ and his _Ave Verum_, has struck the right chord, and proved\nhimself able to write sacred music for great occasions, in which all the\nresources of modern art may be combined with a solemnity and an expression\nof piety not less remarkable than that which we find in the compositions\nof Palestrina.\n\nIn England the advocates of what we may call the canonical style of church\nmusic are not inactive.\n\nThe late Cardinal Wiseman had an excellent collection of Palestrina music,\npublished in the most elegant style by Burns.\n\nYears ago Monsignor Newsham, at the cardinal\u2019s suggestion, composed for\nsmaller choirs four chorus Masses, to be sung in unison or in parts _ad\nlibitum_. They are easy, flowing, and very devotional, and strictly in\nrule. They are published by Novello.\n\nMr. Richardson, an excellent musician, has revised some of the Masses of\nHaydn and Mozart, and, without altering substantially the music of these\ntwo great composers, reset the words with rare skill; so that we have all\nthe beauty of the music, while the text of the Mass does not suffer. They\nare published by Burns & Oates.\n\nOf late years Archbishop Manning has had a series of six Masses composed\nby excellent musicians, chiefly for unison singing, but they may also be\nsung alternately in parts. They have a full and artistic organ\naccompaniment, and are so arranged that the effect produced by them is\nscarcely inferior to that of vocal part music, while they are not hard to\nlearn, and do not overtax the voices.\n\nHe has also had other Masses published _for four voices_ in the highest\nstyle of art. These are by eminent composers, and have organ _obbligato_\naccompaniment. They are full without being of inconvenient length.\n\nIn these, as in the preceding Masses, the _Sanctus_ and _Benedictus_ in no\ncase exceed the proper limits.\n\nThey are published by Burns & Oates.\n\nOther compositions of the same class are promised.\n\nOf what is being done in Belgium we cannot speak so confidently; but at\nthe last Catholic Congress of Mechlin the subject of church music received\ndue attention; prizes were offered for compositions that would meet the\nrequirements of devotion as well as art, and a _concursus_ actually took\nplace, and the works of the contestants published.\n\nIt is in Germany that the movement in favor of the reform of church music\nhas been the most active and has made the most progress.\n\nWe have already mentioned the introduction of the Palestrina style of\nmusic into some of the German cathedrals, and four immense volumes of\nmusic of that class have been published by Pustet, of Munich; and, as we\nhave just said, Franz is publishing and drawing attention to the works of\nDurante, who represents the style that came into vogue when Palestrina was\nfirst departed from.\n\nBut they have a large and able society, called the Cecilia, extending all\nover Germany, which last year numbered 7,000, and is ever increasing. They\nhave at their head F. Francis Witt, an exemplary priest of Spire, whom the\nGermans call \u201cthe modern Palestrina.\u201d He is trying to achieve in our day\nthe success that Palestrina met in his.\n\nThe number of compositions for the church published by this society or\nunder its own influence is immense.\n\nA writer in the London _Tablet_ stated recently that by means of S.\nCecilia\u2019s Society a thorough reform had been effected in the church music\nof Germany, and that frivolous compositions in the secular style have at\nlast been banished from the churches.\n\nThe writer of this paper remembers hearing in the autumn of 1869, in the\nCathedral of Munich, two Masses of this school, which contained no\npassages for _soli_, and in which the words were treated as respectfully\nas in the compositions of Palestrina and his school, none being repeated\nor inverted. The accompaniment of the organ and the orchestra, in which no\nwind instruments were heard\u2014except, perhaps, the bassoon\u2014was so fully\nsubordinated to the voices and so perfect otherwise that his ear has been\nspoiled, as it were, and every similar performance heard since in other\nplaces has been a grievous disappointment. He never heard any music more\npleasing artistically, and at the same time more devotional and proper. It\nshowed that composers can give us the best music which modern art can\nfurnish, and yet keep strictly within the limits marked by ecclesiastical\nauthority.\n\nThe Cecilia Society of Germany has a branch in this country, which has\nrecently begun to publish select music, and to issue a musical journal\ncalled the _Cecilia_. The editor is F. Singinberger, and the publishers\nFisher & Brother, Dayton, Ohio.\n\nThe publications of sacred music amongst us have not been very numerous or\nvery remarkable for excellence. Among the very best we feel bound to\nnotice the publications,(172) and especially the elegant compositions(173)\nof Mr. Falkestein, who has shown that he knows how to unite in his\nskilfully\u2010constructed and charming yet devout compositions the depth and\nseverity of the old ecclesiastical masters with the graceful and flowing\nmelody and orchestral effects of the modern school.\n\nThere is no lack of good\u2010will and talent amongst our musicians, but the\ntrouble is that they have not the models by the study of which they may\nform a true ecclesiastical style. A library is as necessary to the student\nof music who hopes to be a composer as it is to the student of literature\nwho has the ambition of becoming an author. Our directors of church choirs\nneed a larger acquaintance with the great masters, especially the older\nones. Above all, they need to have a better knowledge of Gregorian chant.\nFor this chant should not only form a part of our service, as was already\nstated in the first part of this paper, but it should also be the source\nof inspiration to those who wish to compose for the church, as it was to\nPalestrina and his followers, as it is to\u2010day to Gounod. The language of\nMr. Ritter may be exaggerated, but it conveys a truth to be\nremembered:(174) \u201cThe Gregorian chant,\u201d he says, \u201cruns like a red thread\nthrough the musical part of the service of the Catholic Church; this\nreally sacred song creates in Catholic countries the first impressions\nwhich touch the soul of the young Christian on his entrance into the\nchurch, and is, as such, the indestructible echo of his first sacred\nassociations. As Holy Writ forms the invariable foundation of the\nreligious and moral principles of the true Christian, so the Gregorian\nchant ought to form the ground and invariable theme of the true church\ncomposer; and as long as composers understood and valued this inestimable,\nnoble, and really sacred practice their works composed for the church\ntruthfully and appropriately fulfilled their solemn office; these works\nwere thus imbued with the sacred character derived from the themes of the\nsacred songs; then necessarily a distinct line of demarcation was drawn\nbetween secular and sacred music.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nA Week In Wordsworth\u2019s Haunts.\n\n\nWe had only a week to spare, but we were not long in choosing where to\nspend our holiday. At that time the Lake Country was accessible, but not\nyet crossed through and through, by railroads. The cars took us from\nLondon almost through to Windermere, but, that being the gate of the\nsanctuary, they went no further. We had to cross the \u201cBlack Country,\u201d a\nweird region of coal\u2010mines and furnaces, where scarcely a blade of grass\nmeets the eye; interminable plains, strewn with gaunt machinery and\nbristling with tall brick chimneys or low, wide, oven\u2010like buildings,\nstretch from the track of the railroad as far as the horizon; a muffled\nnoise, rumbling and crackling, is the only sound besides the shrill\nwhistle of the engine; the sky is black as with the promise of ten\nthousand thunder\u2010storms, the murky air hangs like a pall over the earth,\nand tongues of flame shoot up now and then from the mouths of the\nfurnaces. At night the scene is gloomily splendid; everywhere lurid\nflashes leap up from these openings, for the work is incessant here; half\u2010\nnaked forms stalk from chimney to pit, wheeling giant barrows or pushing\nforward heavy trucks on tramways; no sound but the never\u2010ceasing rumble of\nwheels and crackle of flames\u2014apparently a silent Pandemonium or Dantesque\ncity of Dis; at any rate, a sight that one does not easily forget.\n\nWindermere is the largest, the most fashionable, and the best known of the\nEnglish lakes. It was Saturday night when we reached it and went to an inn\noverlooking the calm sheet of water. The moon was up, and streaked the\nshadows of the great mountains that lay across the lake with her\nshimmering silver pathway; the little boats moored by the various landings\nrocked to and fro in the gentle breeze, and the wavelets came with a\n\u201cswish\u201d against the pebbly shore. Next morning, on inquiring for the\nCatholic church, we were told that there was a private chapel in the house\nof a Catholic gentleman who lived on an island in the lake, and allowed\nany respectable tourist to come on Sunday. We rowed over to the island,\nand found it all a garden: smooth lawns to the water\u2019s edge, broad gravel\u2010\npaths through groves of elm and chestnut, a glowing parterre, rustic\nseats, fountains and marble balustrades, and by the boat\u2010house a little\ngroup of gay skiffs dancing up and down on the blue water. The chapel was\nup\u2010stairs, and there was an outside stair\u2010case leading to it, down which\nwe saw a familiar figure coming slowly towards us. It was that of a London\npriest whom we knew, and who, like us, was spending a brief holiday among\nthe lakes. He had come over to say an early Mass; the master of the house\nwas not at home, he said, but the chaplain would be glad to welcome all\nCatholics, many of whom came during the touring season. After Mass we\nstrolled for an hour about the garden, admiring the vistas contrived\nbetween the trees, at the end of which glimpses of the blue sky and\nsparkling water, with some gray or purple peak cleaving the line of the\nhorizon, could be seen. From every point of the lake itself these\nmountains strike the eye; for the most part bare of trees, their lower\nledges covered with green pasture\u2010land, and seamed here and there with the\nfoamy streak of a beck or stream; their summits sheer rock. Their names\nall have a grand, free sound that suits their craggy, majestic beauty\u2014Helm\nCrag, Hammar Scar, Silver How, Skiddaw. This one is the monarch of the\nlake country. Great How is a single, conspicuous peak rising at the foot\nof Lake Thirlmere, to the west of the lovely vale of Legberthwaite, near\nthe high\u2010road between Ambleside and Keswick. Ambleside is a favorite\nresort of students; young men from the two universities often come to\nspend the long vacation here, where reading, walking, and boating can be\ncombined. The scenery is very beautiful; the valleys are broken up into a\nthousand nooks where fern and heather grow, and some tiny rivulet trickles\nbeneath the broad\u2010arched fronds of the bracken; every old wall wears a\ngolden crown of celandine, or, in native dialect, pilewort; the\n\u201cghyll\u201d\u2014_i.e._, a short, steep, narrow gorge, a miniature ca\u00f1on\u2014is\ntraversed by the foamy brook, leaping to the waterfall called in\nCumberland a \u201cforce\u201d; the birch, the rowan, the oak, cling to the rocky\nledges that jut out over the little cataract, and everywhere above the\ngreenery lies the shadow of the great lonely hills. Black Comb in\nCumberland Wordsworth calls a spot fit for a \u201cministering angel\u201d to\nchoose, for from its summit, on a tolerably clear day, England, Scotland,\nand Ireland are all three visible. Many of the mountains, both in\nCumberland and Westmoreland, have traces of inscriptions on the native\nrock which have by some learned men been supposed to be Runic, but which\nit is now generally agreed to call Roman. They are very rude, and much\neffaced by time and the action of the weather; hence the uncertainty.\n\nIt was by the shores of Windermere that a party of young men, all\nenthusiastic Tractarians, spent a vacation in one of the first years of\nthat movement now called Puseyite and ritualistic, but then known as the\nYoung England movement. In those days ladies washed and ironed the church\nlinen, and wore their dainty fingers to the bone sewing surplices and\nembroidering altar\u2010cloths; while others would take it by turn to sweep the\nchurches and dust the pews; and others again, intent on doing penance,\nwould kneel for hours on stone floors, and even use the _discipline_\nunsparingly, until the doctor\u2019s verdict put an end to their misguided\nzeal. Blindly they were beating about for the truth, and thought they had\nfound it in practices of self\u2010denial. It was a touching blindness\u2014one that\nGod often and often enlightened during those fruitful years. Young men\nmade a point of exercising bodily mortification, even in vacation time,\nand, when thrown by circumstances amid unsympathizing companions, would\ncarry their zeal into the commonest actions, and make a silent boast of\ntheir new\u2010found faith. One Friday, for instance, a few young members of\nParliament, assembled in the lobby of the House of Commons, called for\n\u201ctea and toast\u201d instead of the unfailing mutton\u2010chop of tradition, and the\nmild protest created quite a sensation. On going home they were received\nby their several households as champions of a holy cause who, from humble\nbeginnings, were going to bring about a mighty revolution, a national\nawakening. It was very beautiful, this child\u2010like faith in their own\nideal\u2014so beautiful that God rewarded many of those who held it by leading\nthem into the everlasting reality of the great universal, apostolic\nchurch. The athletic young hermits of Ambleside were not left out of the\nreckoning. One day one of them strayed out alone over the hills, with some\nold volume of the fathers under his arm, and his questioning young soul\neager for the knowledge which the wonderful serenity of this mountain\nregion seemed at the time to typify so well. He was out a long time, and,\nwhen he came home to his companions, he seemed to them transfigured. A new\npeace and yet a more ardent enthusiasm had come to him, and he spoke in\nwords almost incomprehensible to them:\n\n\u201cI have found the man who has the idea!\u201d\n\nWhat had happened to him was this: In his walk he had met a young\nstranger, and spoken to him. Kindred thoughts and aspirations had led them\ninto a long and eager conversation, wherein it soon appeared that the\nstranger, with his fair, girlish face and dreamy blue eyes, was the\nmaster, and his new friend only the humble disciple. They had talked on\ninto the twilight, and the latter, entranced, at last asked the name of\nhim who in a few short hours had taught him to see things in a clearer,\ndiviner light than all the patristic reading had been able to do during\nhis college course. The young man opened the book he had with him, and\nshowed him his name written on the fly\u2010leaf. It was Frederick William\nFaber.\n\nFrom Windermere we started on our real tour. The native conveyances are\ncalled \u201ccars,\u201d and hold four people sitting opposite each other, but\nsideways and parallel with the horses. From a rough, square box, painted\ndark blue or green, up to a real town\u2010made carriage in the same shape,\nthis conveyance is universally in use over the north. Everywhere the same\nbeautiful scenery\u2014moist nooks, a natural fernery, tumbling waterfalls,\nwalls covered with wild flowers; here and there an old\u2010fashioned inn with\nan old\u2010fashioned landlord, waiting himself on his customers, and sitting\ndown to tell them at his ease all the gossip and the guide\u2010book lore of\nthe neighborhood, the best time to go up the mountain, when it was safe to\ntake a boat out on the mere, the accident in the lead\u2010mine last year,\netc., etc. At such an inn, \u201cThe Swan,\u201d we passed one night, and had an\nexcellent and abundant rustic supper, not a hundred yards from the brand\u2010\nnew tourist hotel, \u201cThe Prince of Wales,\u201d gas\u2010lighted and high\u2010priced,\nwith saucy waiters and London upholstery, and each floor exactly the\ncounterpart of the other, like a penitentiary.\n\nUllswater is a stormy lake, a sort of caldron enclosed in steep,\nforbidding rocks rising perpendicularly from the water. Above them is a\nwooded table\u2010land, with old houses hidden up the slopes beyond, one a\nruined monastery, with a modern home fashioned out of a few available\nfragments of strong medi\u00e6val masonry, and a sort of museum or armory\ncontrived among the standing arches of a less useful portion of the\nbuilding. It was a steep climb to get to it, and for miles on either side\nof the pathway, that was half a natural staircase, there was no other road\nto it. The view over the dark lake was impressive; the waters, calm enough\nnow, lay beneath us like a floor of black marble, with a fringe of heavy\nshadows along the edge where the cliffs overhung it.\n\nNow and then we would pass detached hamlets with their sturdy, grave\npopulation all astir, the women fine specimens of their sex, with that\nfrank expression and grand physical development which are bred of mountain\ntraining and open\u2010air life. Together with all the people of the north,\nthey have many peculiar customs, and altogether form a race apart from the\ninhabitants of other English counties. The accents of their nervous,\nexpressive dialect, the names of their mountains and lakes, the flavor of\nquaintness and individuality that hangs about their life, somehow suggest\nthe old times of early Christianity when S. Wilfrid ruled in York, or\nstruggled inch by inch for his invaded territory and ignored rights.\nStopping to water your horses in one of these hamlets, you may see a knot\nof men standing silently and expectantly round the door of a clean, home\u2010\nlike cottage, and just outside, laid on the porch seat, a basin filled\nwith sprigs of box\u2010wood. The men are waiting for a coffin to be borne out,\nand, when it comes, they will all fall into line behind it, and each,\ntaking a sprig from the basin, will throw it into the grave after the\nprayers have been said. Of course this is a Catholic reminiscence of the\ndays when the box sprigs were used to sprinkle the coffin with holy water,\nas they are now in most countries on the Continent; but, besides this,\nbox\u2010wood is an evergreen, and therefore a symbol of the immortality of the\nsoul.\n\nSometimes we would come to a little mountain tarn, across which we were\nferried, car, horses, and all. The regular travelling in these regions is\ndone by stage\u2010coaches, of which we availed ourselves for sending forward\nour slender baggage, so as to be quite independent and unencumbered in our\nmovements. The mountain lakelets, that are never mentioned in guide\u2010books,\nare very beautiful with their fringe of rushes and boggy earth starred\nwith white and golden flowers, and their flocks of teal and wild duck\ndwelling in peace in these undisturbed wildernesses.\n\nGrasmere, a village on one of the larger lakes bearing the same name, was\nWordsworth\u2019s home for eight years, the first eight of this century. He was\nborn in Cumberland, and the home\u2010passion that has gained him his title of\nLake Poet never left him. Fortunate in his worldly circumstances, he went\nto Cambridge, and, though a desultory reader, took a fairly creditable\ndegree after four years\u2019 study. He made tours on foot through Wales and\nGermany, and published his poetical reminiscences, though with little\nsuccess; but through their medium he gained the friendship of Coleridge,\nhis fellow\u2010poet and life\u2010long companion. He settled at Grasmere in 1799\nwith his sister, who was throughout his life, even after his marriage, his\nguiding star\u2014the kindred spirit whose approval and sympathy were the\nsecret sources of his intellectual life. Of her he says, speaking of a\npeak which they could see from their \u201corchard\u2010seat\u201d:\n\n\n    \u201cThere is an eminence, of these our hills,\n    The last that parleys with the setting sun.\n\n    The meteors make of it a favorite haunt;\n    The star of Jove, so beautiful and large\n    In the mid\u2010heavens, is never half so fair\n    As when he shines above it. \u2019Tis, in truth,\n    The loneliest place we have among the clouds.\n    _And she who dwells with me, whom I have loved_\n    _With such communion that no place on earth_\n    _Can ever be a solitude to me_,\n    Hath to this lonely summit given my name.\u201d\n\n\nOf his wife he wrote, after three years of marriage, words contrasting his\nfirst impressions as a lover with the sweet, solemn experience of a\nhusband. Then \u201ca phantom of delight, ... a lovely apparition, ... a\ndancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay,\u201d but now\n\n\n    \u201cA being breathing thoughtful breath,\n    A traveller betwixt life and death;\n    The reason firm, the temperate will,\n    Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;\n    A perfect woman, nobly plann\u2019d,\n    To warn, to comfort and command;\n    And yet a spirit still, and bright\n    With something of angelic light.\u201d\n\n\nSong seemed to gush from Wordsworth\u2019s soul as naturally and copiously as\nwater from a mountain spring. Some of his verses were written with a\nslate\u2010pencil on stones in lonely places; for instance, in a deserted\nquarry on one of the islands at Rydal, on a stone half way up the grim\nmountain of Black Comb, in Cumberland, or with a common pencil on a stone\nin an outhouse on the island at Grasmere. He _lived_ poetry. Everything\nwith him was a pretext for verse; neither the commonest household\noccurrence nor the sublimest spectacle of nature up there among those\nrocky fells and green valleys lying under awful shadows of coming storms,\nwas a stranger to his ready pen. He says of himself that\n\n\n    \u201cThe sounding cataract\n    _Haunted me like a passion_; the tall rock,\n    The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,\n    Their colors and their forms were then to me\n    _An appetite, a feeling, and a love_.\u201d\n\n\nThere are few places so thoroughly fitted for a poet\u2019s home as the lake\ncountry of Cumberland and Westmoreland, yet more so then than now, when it\nhas become the fashion to make a tour among the lakes, even as one does\ndown the Rhine. England has wakened to the consciousness of her own beauty\nwithin the last forty years, and a home\u2010tour often takes the place of a\nforeign one; yet to those who first visited these Eden\u2010spots the rare\ncharm is gone, for sight\u2010seers have taken the place of the \u201cwanderer,\u201d and\nregular guides usurp the simple escort of a stray shepherd whom in old\ntimes you might have happened to meet by some _force_, on the cool banks\nof which he would have told you, in his racy dialect, the old traditions\nand legends of the neighborhood\u2014the legend of the horn of Egremont Castle,\nfor instance, a Cumberland tale, telling how Sir Eustace Lucie and his\nbrother Hubert rode away to the Holy Land, and the former, pointing to the\n\u201chorn of the inheritance\u201d that hung by the gate\u2010way, and which none could\nsound,\n\n\n    \u201cSave he who came as rightful heir\n    To Egremont\u2019s domains and castle fair,\u201d\n\n\nsaid to his brother: \u201cIf I fall, and Christ our Saviour demand my sinful\nsoul, do thou come back straight\u2010way, and sound the horn, that we may have\na living house in thee.\u201d And Hubert promised. But out in Palestine Sir\nEustace disappeared, and, when the news was brought to Hubert that his\nelder brother lay \u201cdeep in Jordan flood,\u201d he said darkly to the\nmessengers: \u201cTake your _earnings_. Oh! that I could have _seen_ my brother\ndie.\u201d He went home, and whether he sounded the horn or not none knew; it\nwas never heard, but Sir Hubert lived in glee for years, with wife and\nsons and daughters, until one day\n\n\n    \u201cA blast was uttered from the horn\n    Where by the castle gate it hung forlorn,\u201d\n\n\nand Sir Eustace came back safe and unsuspecting. Hubert rose up and fled\nin silence, and it was years before he was again heard of; then he came\nand asked forgiveness, and obtained it, and ended his penitent life in the\ncloister; so that Eustace\u2019s \u201cheirs of heirs, through a long posterity,\nsounded the horn which they alone could sound.\u201d The same legend is told of\nthe Hall of Hutton John, an old house of the Huddlestones in a lonely\nvalley on the river Dacor, also in these parts.\n\nOr it might be the tradition of Henry, Lord Clifford, the shepherd\u2010boy,\nwhose father lost his title and estates during the wars of the Roses.\nHenry was restored, after twenty\u2010four years of shepherd life, in the first\nyear of the reign of Henry VII., and it is recorded that, when called to\nParliament, he behaved nobly and wisely, but otherwise came seldom to\nLondon or the court, and rather delighted to live in the country, where he\nrepaired several of his castles, which had gone to decay during the late\ntroubles. \u201cThere is a tradition,\u201d says Wordsworth himself, \u201ccurrent in the\nvillage of Threlkeld (in Cumberland, where lay the estate of his father\u2010\nin\u2010law, Sir Lancelot Threlkeld), that in the course of his shepherd life\nhe had acquired great astronomical knowledge.\u201d The poet clothed this\nincident (as he did every other that struck his fancy in that poetic land\nof the north) in verse, singing a lay of the Red Rose, revived at last,\nthe flower of Lancaster, and weaving in the tale of the boy\u2019s wanderings\non \u201cCarrock\u2019s side,\u201d in \u201cRosedale\u2019s groves,\u201d and \u201cBlencathara\u2019s rugged\ncoves.\u201d The common name of this last\u2010mentioned mountain is Saddle\u2010Back.\nNear Threlkeld, hidden in the gorges of the purple hills, lies Bowscale\nTarn, where the people of the country still believe two immortal fish to\ndwell. Tarn signifies, in north\u2010country dialect, a small mountain mere, or\nlake. Wordsworth\u2019s descriptions of scenery are exquisite; everywhere you\nfind the traces of that personal love of the places he paints, that\npatient, detailed minuteness of touch which only comes of long gazing on a\nfavorite scene, and of familiarity with its every aspect, in winter and\nsummer, in storm and sunshine, in mist and rainbow. Every place has some\ntender associations in his memory; the stately fir\u2010grove whither he was\nwont\n\n\n    \u201cTo hasten, for I found beneath the roof\n    Of that perennial shade a cloistral place\n    Of refuge, with an unencumbered floor,\u201d\n\n\nreminds him of a dear friend, \u201ca silent poet\u201d but a sailor by profession,\nafter whom he called the pathway to the grove, whence\n\n\n              \u201cThe steep\n    Of Silver How, and Grasmere\u2019s placid lake\n    And one green island\u201d\n\n\ncould be distinctly seen. That friend never returned, but perished by\nshipwreck in the discharge of his duty. Here, too, in this beautiful lake\ncountry, both at Grasmere and at his later and more celebrated home, Rydal\nMount, in Westmoreland, Wordsworth lost others dearer yet\u2014two of his\nchildren, who died young, and Dora, his favorite daughter, who died six\nyears after her marriage. When on his own death\u2010bed, three years later,\nhis wife, brave and self\u2010forgetting to the last, comforted him by\nwhispering: \u201cWilliam, you are going to Dora.\u201d His poems are so complete a\nguide\u2010book to the lake country, as well as a series of living sketches of\nthe people of the north, that it is almost unavoidable to treat them as\ntourists in Scotland do _The Lady of the Lake_, or tourists at Rome\n_Childe Harold_. In his day, however, many popular traits were in full\nvigor which now have almost disappeared. For instance, he says himself\nthat \u201cthe class of beggars to which the old man here described belongs\nwill probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor and mostly old and\ninfirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their\nneighborhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses,\nthey regularly received alms, sometimes in money, but mostly in\nprovisions.\u201d In his verse he describes the \u201cOld Cumberland Beggar\u201d thus:\n\n\n    \u201cHim from my childhood have I known; and then\n    He was so old, he seems not older now.\n\n    He travels on, a solitary man\u2014\n    His age has no companion.\u201d\n\n\nThe passing horseman does not throw him a careless alms, but stops,\nlingers, and drops a coin safely into the old man\u2019s hat; the toll\u2010bar\nkeeper sees him from a distance, and leaves her work to lift the latch for\nhim; the post\u2010boy slackens his horse\u2019s speed, and turns with less noisy\nwheels out of his path; the very dogs do not bark at him.\n\n\n    \u201cBut deem not this man useless. Statesmen! ye\n    Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye\n    Who have a broom still ready in your hands\n    To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud\n    Heart\u2010swoln, while in your heart ye contemplate\n    Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not\n    A burden of the earth.\u201d\n\n\nNo; he is \u201ca record binding together past deeds and offices of charity\u201d;\n\u201ca silent monitor\u201d to those who sit sheltered \u201cin a little grove of their\nown kindred\u201d; an object to call forth that blessed feeling that you have,\nthough \u201cpoorest poor,\u201d been \u201cthe fathers and dealers\u2010out of some small\nblessings\u201d; a prompter to \u201ctender offices and pensive thoughts.\u201d See this\npicture:\n\n\n    \u201cSuch pleasure is to one kind being known,\n    My neighbor, when with punctual care, each week,\n    Duly as Friday comes, though press\u2019d herself\n    By her own wants, she from her chest of meal\n    Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip\n    Of this old mendicant, and from her door,\n    _Returning with exhilarated heart,_\n    _Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven_.\u201d\n\n\nAnd the poet, the lover of nature, the child of the mountain, ends by a\nwarning and a prayer:\n\n\n    \u201cReverence the hope whose vital anxiousness\n    Gives the last human interest to his heart.\n    May never House, misnamed b\u2018of Industry,\u2019\n    Make him a captive! For that pent\u2010up din,\n    Those life\u2010consuming sounds that clog the air,\n    Be his the natural silence of old age!\u201d\n\n\nThough we have quoted Wordsworth\u2019s poetry, it is not as a poet but as a\nman that we speak of him here, not desiring to criticise his verse or to\nenter into discussions concerning the judgment given of it by critics of\nhis own time. In the Lake Country his personality strikes you with the\nsame sense of reality and continued presence as do the everlasting hills\nand the changeless lakes themselves. He died only a quarter of a century\nago, though his principal poems all belonged to the first and second\ndecades of this century. In 1814 _The Excursion_ was published, and the\npoem which has made his chief fame was so severely criticised at the time\nthat one of the reviewers boasted that he had _crushed_ it. A brother\npoet, Southey, exclaimed: \u201cHe crush _The Excursion_! He might as well\nfancy he could crush Skiddaw!\u201d If his verse was coldly received at first,\nit was chiefly because emotional, passionate poetry, such as Byron\u2019s,\nMoore\u2019s, Scott\u2019s, and Campbell\u2019s, was the fashion then. Wordsworth\u2019s was\ncalm as nature herself, and concerned itself little with man\u2019s history,\npast or present. When he _did_ mingle the deeds of men with the loving\ntouches of his scenery descriptions, he would choose pure, white lives,\nsuch as would not jar with the calmness of lake and fell, of opal sky and\nshimmering water. Here is what the legend of the ruined hermitage on S.\nHerbert\u2019s Island, on Lake Derwentwater, suggested to him. The story of the\nholy friends is told also in Montalembert\u2019s _Monks of the West_.\n\n\n    \u201cThis island, guarded from profane approach\n    By mountains high and waters widely spread,\n    Is that recess to which S. Herbert came\n    In life\u2019s decline, a self\u2010secluded man,\n    After long exercise in social cares\n    And offices humane, intent t\u2019 adore\n    The Deity with undistracted mind,\n    And meditate on everlasting things.\n\n              But he had left\n    A fellow\u2010laborer whom the good man loved\n    As his own soul; and when within his cave\n    Alone he knelt before the crucifix,\n    While o\u2019er the lake the cataract of Lodore\n    Peal\u2019d to his orisons, and when he paced\n    Along the beach of this small isle, and thought\n    Of his companion, he would pray that both\n    (Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled)\n    Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain\n    So prayed he; as our chronicles report,\n    Though here the hermit number\u2019d his last day,\n    Far from S. Cuthbert, his beloved friend:\n    Those holy men both died in the same hour.\u201d\n\n\nDerwentwater is the most picturesque of all the lakes in point of smiling\nlandscape. It has several little wooded islands dotting its surface; its\nwaters are clear and more blue than those of the other lakes, and the\nmountains round the shore are less abrupt and naked. Lodore _Force_\ntumbles almost perpendicularly into it from the steep, shelving rocks that\njut out from the dense forest growth, like the backbone of a huge black\nsnake wriggling through the underbrush. These are the same waters whose\nsound swept over the lake and smote the ears of the hermit\u2010saint twelve\ncenturies ago. It is, except one, the most romantic waterfall in the Lake\nCountry. Below this wooded hill, and on the very margin of Derwentwater,\nstands a little old\u2010time inn, as clean as a Dutch house, with a rustic\nporch and a little lawn before it, ringed in with chains hung in festoons\nfrom four or five low posts. In the middle is a miniature gun, which is\nfired off every now and then for the amusement of the tourists. The echoes\nthus awakened among the surrounding hills are almost endless.\n\nThis beautiful North Country has another interest not so romantic\u2014that of\nits mines, which are mostly of lead. Just across Derwentwater there is a\nfine mine, which, from its convenient position, is often visited. We rowed\nacross the lake to see it; but if you have seen one mine, you will\nscarcely care to see a second\u2014at least if you have no better motive than\ncuriosity. To us on that first expedition it was simply _fun_. Luckily,\nthere was no proposition made to don male attire for the only woman of the\nparty; a huge oilskin coat with an ample hood quite wrapped her up and\nprotected her for the downward journey. We got into a rough box or\n\u201cbasket,\u201d preferring this quicker and more adventurous mode of descent to\nthe species of chair contrived for the visitors to the mine, and were shot\ndown in an incredibly short space of time to the second \u201clevel\u201d of what we\nsaw there is really very little to tell. The lodes or veins of metal\nlooked like irregular lines of shining moisture drawn on the rocky walls;\nthere was a tramway occupying the whole of the narrow gallery that formed\nthe level, and up and down this tramway, at a tremendous rate, and with a\nnoise like thunder, came the trucks loaded with ore. We had to squeeze up\nagainst the wall as they passed. The path was more than half submerged; we\nsplashed into pools and puddles at every third or fourth step, and the\nmoisture dropped persistently from the glistening roof. We should have\ngone to the third and lowest \u201clevel\u201d had it not been so thoroughly under\nwater that the miners had to wear long waterproof boots mid\u2010way up their\nthighs when they worked there. On going up again we stopped at the first\nlevel, which looked exactly like the other. We did not gain much\ninformation by our excursion, but it was a rare frolic, and we were\ngreatly excited. Our clothes came out of the \u201cbasket\u201d in a soaked and\nstreaky condition; but nobody cared, the achievement was enough to make up\nfor anything. Some years later we tried the same sort of experiment, and\ndid not find it nearly so exciting. It was at an iron\u2010mine in\nMonmouthshire, near the river Wye, famed in the legends of the Round\nTable; we were let down the shaft in a kind of iron cage (the miners\u2019\nregular conveyance), which swung unpleasantly to and fro, grinding against\nthe sides of the narrow opening, and bumping us roughly down at the\nbottom, where, as their time was nearly out, the men were gathering, ready\nto go up. Here there was literally nothing to see. The work was done a\nlong way off, and there was no time to go there; besides, the place was\nseveral inches under water. The interest of this expedition consisted\nsimply in going down and coming up again, and in the feeling that we could\n\u201csay we had done it.\u201d What was really interesting on this same occasion\nwas the sight of the iron\u2010works and furnaces at nightfall. The metal was\nput into the furnaces at one end, and came out at the other in a\ncontinuous stream of intensest light; blindingly white it poured out,\nrunning slowly and spreading itself into a network of grooves all parallel\nwith each other, ready fitted for its reception, where it was left to\ncool. Few things so truly realize one\u2019s idea of _light_ as molten metal.\nThere seemed no color in this beautiful stream, and one could fancy just\nsuch an intense glow as that to be the very radiance round the throne of\nGod. It was impossible to stand near it for more than a second, the heat\nwas so fierce, and we had to watch the calm, uninterrupted lustre from a\nrespectful distance. This work was going on in a kind of open shed,\nsheltered above to protect the furnaces and machinery, but open at the\nsides, where in the darkness all kinds of strange groups and forms\nsucceeded one another. The commonest circumstances took on solemnity and\nmystery in this half\u2010light, the red flashes from inside darting like\ntongues into the fading light, and making of it all a wonderful, living\nRembrandt.\n\nTo return to our lakes. We had seen all the great ones, and driven across\nthe country in all directions\u2014through mountain passes where the bare crags\nand bowlders lay heaped together, as if the Titans had flung them there to\nbar the passage to their fastnesses; through smiling pastoral valleys\nwhere the summer stream bubbled peacefully enough, hiding its secrets of\nroads washed away and trees uprooted by its anger in early spring; by\nEsthwaite Lake with its solitary yew\u2010tree celebrated by Wordsworth; out\ninto a bleak region of gray stone walls and hungry\u2010looking pastures to\nWestdale (valley) and Wastwater. Lonely and silent lies the black mere\nunder its frowning cliffs; no house, no inn, near it; tourists seldom pass\nit, and tradition says that its depths have never been plumbed. We got a\nboat at a fisherman\u2019s hut; it was not often he used it for anything but\nthe necessities of his craft. And yet, in spite\u2014or rather because\u2014of this\ndesolation, Wastwater has made a more lasting impression on us than the\nshow\u2010lakes with their pretty activity and cheerful bustle of tourist\u2010life.\nWestdale would be just the place to live in if the mind needed bracing and\nrestoring; few places within the pale of civilization can so truly boast\nof being absolute solitudes. We trust it is not changed even yet. Quite\nclose, but you would not suspect it from the grim, rocky aspect of the\nscenery, is a little waterfall. It is in a narrow gully, a mere cleft in\nthe rock, but alive with a thousand varying shades of green\u2014ferns in\nabundance and in every stage of development, broad, dark, glossy leaves of\nwater\u2010plants, and waxy spikes of rockwort. The incline of the waterfall is\nso gentle, and so many bowlders jut out from the stream, that you could\nalmost climb up this natural staircase; the snow\u2010white spray dashes all\nover the banks, turning to diamonds in the hearts of the tiny flowers, and\nto rainbows on the broad surface of leaves; and the noise of the\nwaters\u2014their plash, their gurgle, or their trickle, as they strike moss,\npebble, or little hollows round the big bowlders\u2014seems like a living\nvoice.\n\nOur week was nearly up, and we were to meet the noonday train at a station\nseveral miles beyond Wastwater. The road lay through rocky passes, and was\nreckoned a bad one. Our car\u2010driver was doubtful as to whether we could\nmake the distance in the time that remained; for we had been tempted, by\nthe rugged beauty of the lovely vale, to overstay our appointed time for\nexploration and natural\u2010history collections. The drive was sufficiently\nexciting, a last bit of \u201cfun\u201d to end our holiday, and we jolted over the\nrough road, crossing the worn channels of mountain streams, and noticing\non the steep sides of the hills what looked like moving bowlders, but what\nwere in reality small, sure\u2010footed sheep, white, brown, and black. The\ncountry grew bleaker as we went on, till at last we reached the primitive\nrailway station just in time. We were very sorry to part with our North\u2010\nCountry driver and his car, and return to the civilized mode of rapid\nlocomotion; the more so as the scenery through which we flew for two or\nthree hours was as barren and as desolate as the shores of the Dead Sea.\nGray stone walls made a sort of magnified chess\u2010board of the level\ncountry, enclosing small fields of forlorn\u2010looking stubble or bits of\ndark\u2010red ploughed land. It was inexpressibly dreary, and a marvellous\ncontrast to the beautiful region, bold and rocky, or wooded and smiling,\nwhich we had left behind us.\n\nAt last we reached Furness, our last halting\u2010place. Here there was a\ncoquettish little station, gay with ornamental wood and wire\u2010work, and\nwith autumn flowers and late climbing roses, while beyond the trim lawn\nstood an inviting hotel\u2014modern, it is true, but decked out in villa style,\nfull of bay\u2010windows and gables, with green Venetian blinds and long French\nwindows opening into a garden. There was no trace of a village near, or of\nany human dwelling but these two buildings. The reason was that both of\nthese were subservient to the ruins of S. Mary\u2019s Abbey, which stood, as it\nwere, within the hotel\u2010garden. S. Mary\u2019s, Furness, is one of the three\nmost stately and most perfect ruined abbeys in England; the others are\nFountain\u2019s Abbey in Yorkshire, and Tintern on the Wye, Monmouthshire. It\nis built of red sandstone, the warm hue contrasting beautifully with the\nluxurious growth of evergreens all round and inside its arches and\ncloisters. The tracery of the great pointed windows is almost intact, but\nhere and there the tracery of delicate climbing plants is so interwoven\nwith it that the marvel of carving is lost in the wealth of each summer\u2019s\nrenewed growth. The church is built in the shape of a cross. The walls and\nwindows of the nave are untouched, and down the centre are the two rows of\ncolumns that divided it from the aisles\u2014round Saxon pillars, alternating\nwith clustered Gothic shafts, a sheaf of _colonnettes_ forming one\nsupport. The bases of all of them remain, though every one is broken more\nor less near the base, none being more than two or three feet high. Of\ncourse the roof is gone, and everywhere around shaft and pillar grow tall\nflowering grasses, shrubs with bright berries and spear\u2010like leaves, while\na carpet of grass as green as an emerald covers the stone floor. There\nwere seven altars in the church, and the steps to the smaller ones are\neven now marked by the gradual ascent of the turf. Poking into the earth\nwith a walking\u2010stick, we soon came to the stone steps, not more than three\ninches under ground. The chancel and _sedilia_ are very perfect, and\neverywhere the _piscin\u00e6_ are visible in the walls. The chapter\u2010room\npreserved its stone groined roof up to twenty or thirty years ago, when it\nfell in. On the walls are the remains of lovely, intricate diaper\u2010work.\nThe refectory is a long hall with a row of columns (only the bases exist\nnow) down the centre, and the principal dormitory is said to have been\nexactly above this. The whole is now open to the sky. The quiet cloister,\nwith some of the old graves of dead and gone Cistercian monks, is still\ntraceable, and beyond is a little enclosed and railed\u2010in stone chamber,\ncontrived out of the ruined walls, but carefully roofed in, and used to\nstow away such fragments of sculpture as have been found within the\nprecincts of the abbey. They are thus preserved from the rapacity of\ntourists. There are bones and skulls among them, too. The North of England\nwas once called the garden\u2010land of the Cistercians; their abbeys abounded\nin that region, and their power, temporal and spiritual, was paramount.\nThe abbots at the head of those religious corporations of early days had\nepiscopal jurisdiction and claimed episcopal privileges, and were far more\npowerful than the wandering bishops who had no abbey to back their\nauthority. They had tracts of land and many serfs. In many respects the\n\u201cvilleins\u201d of the church were a happy and a privileged set of people. They\nwere not obliged to serve in the king\u2019s armies, as were the serfs of\nsecular lords, and they could not be sued for debt or trespass, or any\nother local offence. They were immediately and solely under the\njurisdiction of the abbot, which superseded, in their case, that of the\ncommon law. In return for their service, agricultural and otherwise, the\nabbot gave them shelter, food, clothing, and protection\u2014not an unequal\nbargain, even for our days; but when we transport ourselves into the\nconditions of life in the middle ages, it will be easily seen how\ndesirable a fate it was to be \u201cmade over to the church.\u201d In those days\nprotection was a greater boon than even food, lodging, or clothing; it was\nthen what \u201chabeas corpus\u201d and the right of inviolability of domicile are\nnow; and so long as the substance existed, it is idle to quarrel with the\ngarb in which it was clothed.\n\nThe ruins were thronged all day; that was the only drawback to our\nenjoyment, but we remedied that at night. Every train came laden with\ntourists to see Furness Abbey; they walked about with guide\u2010books and\nluncheon\u2010baskets, and popped champagne\u2010corks in the cloisters, and strewed\nchicken\u2010bones among the bases of the great Saxon pillars, chatting,\nlaughing, and joking, and evidently enjoying themselves as they would at a\ncountry fair or a cattle\u2010show. This went on all day long; but towards\nnight, after a late dinner at the hotel, they subsided, and scarcely a\nsoul was to be seen in the garden. The men were in the billiard\u2010room, and\nthe women probably packing their things for the morrow\u2019s journey; so we\nslipped out, two of us, and went over to the deserted ruins. The moon was\nup, not quite at her full, but bright enough to make the scene very\nbeautiful, and there were many stars as well. It is not easy to describe\nthe impression this night\u2010view of the old Catholic abbey made on us; one\nmight as well try to catch a moonbeam, and examine it and find out what it\nis made of. Every one can sketch the picture for himself; every one with a\nlove of the beautiful, the spiritualized, will understand what was its\nsolemn charm. We roamed about in silence from nave to cloisters, from\nrefectory to chapel\u2010room, and then, hand\u2010in\u2010hand, went with something of\nawe in our hearts into the old chancel, where in the days of the monks\nnone ever went but the cowled, white\u2010robed Cistercians themselves\u2014an angel\nand virgin choir meet to sing the praises of the Lamb. By the _sedilia_,\nin the beautiful carved recesses of which scarcely a stone is out of place\nor an ornament broken off, we knelt down and said the rosary together for\nthe conversion of England.\n\nPresently a strange green light flashed before our eyes, right above the\nplace where the high altar had stood of old; it was gone in a minute, and\nthe calm radiance of the moon was still undisturbed. Seen, as it was, in\nthis dim, silent place of song and worship, it was very impressive; and\nhad it been nothing but what we first took it for\u2014_i.e._, a railway\nsignal\u2014even then it would have remained in our imagination, idealized into\nsomething symbolic. Green is the color of hope, and where is there more\nroom for hope than under the arches of a ruined abbey, once the pride of a\nCatholic country, the home of learning and charity, the representative of\na nation\u2019s civilization? We stayed a long while yet, lingering about the\ndusky arches, catching sight of the starry sky through the Gothic tracery\nof the windows, repeopling the place in fancy with its silent, prayerful\ndenizens in their white robes and hoods, and wondering what that fitful\nflash might have been. Next morning we saw in the newspaper that just at\nthat very hour a meteor of greenish hue had appeared and been observed in\nmany places all over England. You may imagine how glad we were to find\nthat it had been no railway signal that had cleft the white moonlight\nwhile we were praying in the chancel. It was a beautiful remembrance to\ncarry away from the Abbey of S. Mary at Furness. God does not forget the\nplaces where his feet have rested, and there are heavenly, undying flowers\nyet in the gardens of Paradise which the angels fling down on those\nconsecrated spots which princes once endowed, because they humbly\nacknowledged that \u201cthe roses and flowers of kings, emperors, and dukes,\nand the crowns and palms of all the great, wither and decay, and that all\nthings, with an uninterrupted course, tend to dissolution and death.\u201d(175)\n\nSo we took leave of the beautiful North Country, its lakes, its solemn\nmountains, its abbeys, and its hardy, independent people, whose character\nhas in it yet all the elements out of which God, infusing into them his\ngrace, moulded the great Northumbrian saint, Wilfrid of York, the Thomas \u00e0\nBecket of the VIth century.\n\n\n\n\nOn The Wing. A Southern Flight. VI.\n\n\n\u201cAn evil spirit swept the land,\n    Of ruin and unrest.\u201d\n\nNot far from the villa we occupied there stood an uninviting house, as it\nappeared to me, the _loggia_ of which was surrounded on three sides with\ngreen trellis\u2010work, and commanded a fine view of Naples and the bay.\nOutside the door I had noticed barrels of oysters, as indicative of what\nwe might find inside. This was the Caffe Frisio, renowned in Naples, spite\nof its unattractive appearance. I was somewhat surprised when, a few days\nafter our engagement, Don Emidio suggested to Mary that we should all dine\nthere, including, of course, the Vernons. I remonstrated. I did not see\nthe fun of leaving our own quiet, cool house, with a modest but\nsufficiently well\u2010cooked dinner prepared by Monica and served with the\nhonest awkwardness of our unpretending Paolino, for the hurry of noisy\nwaiters and the click\u2010clack of other people\u2019s plates and glasses. I stood\nup for my point with my usual undiscerning obstinacy until I thought I saw\na puzzled and half\u2010pained expression come over the usually serene brow of\nmy future master. Of course I yielded instantly, and, before I had\nstammered out a dozen words, found I had gone the length of declaring that\nmy appetite for that day would fail me unless I dined at the Caffe Frisio.\nThat point gained, Don Emidio hurried off (no! I am wrong there; I never\nas yet have seen him hurry about anything) to press the Vernons to be of\nour party. From thence he went, no doubt in his usually leisurely style,\nto order dinner for us. He was no sooner gone out of the room than I\nturned to Mary a bewildered face of inquiry, and asked her if she could at\nall understand Emidio\u2019s being so anxious we should dine at a _caffe_.\nMary\u2019s reply was an indirect one. She look my hand in hers, and said with\na smile:\n\n\u201cI sometimes wonder, my dear girl, whether you will quite easily take to\nthe foreign ways of your intended husband.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you doubt it, Mary? I think, on the contrary, there is something so\ncharming in that strange mixture of childlike simplicity and manly\ngenerosity which is so remarkable in the really good and noble Italians.\nEmidio always reminds me of a high\u2010bred school\u2010boy.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is even more the characteristic, perhaps, of a thoroughly consistent\nCatholic life from childhood upwards than of any particular nation; though\nI agree with you that it is generally evident amongst Italians. Joy is the\nattribute of childhood, as distinct from any other period of life; and a\njoyful spirit is one of the marks of hidden sanctity. But I was not\nthinking of anything so serious as this. I mean that I wonder whether you\nwill take easily to the out\u2010of\u2010door, unprivate life which is engendered\namongst Italians by their beautiful climate, and which makes it not only a\nsimple, but almost a necessary, thing that Don Emidio should immediately\nthink of celebrating your engagement by dining at the celebrated Caffe\nFrisio.\u201d\n\n\u201cI certainly wondered why he wished it, but I suppose it is the custom,\nand I am quite content.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will doubtless, as you go on, find many customs which you will have\nto comply with. At Capo di Monte you will sit in the open _loggia_ of your\nhusband\u2019s house, instead of in your drawing\u2010room with closed doors, as you\nwould do in England. When you want your man\u2010servant, you will call for him\nat the top of the stairs at least quite as often as you will ring a rare\nand occasional bell. You will order your dinner, from the balcony, of the\ncook below, just starting for his marketing. And I am afraid you may very\npossibly see your maid surreptitiously laying out your fine linen to dry\non the trim\u2010cut box hedge which surrounds the geometrical divisions of\nyour garden. Of course in your _palazzo_ in Rome you may succeed in\nkeeping up a little more state. But even there, and certainly in\nVillegiatura(176) at Naples, you may have to make up your mind to your\n_chef_ calling your attention to an unusually fine piece of beef in its\nuncooked state which he designs for your dinner that day.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you remember, Mary,\u201d I replied, laughing, \u201cthe man\u2010servant one day in\nRome bringing you in a beautiful pigeon with an ever\u2010varying purple breast\nthat reminded me of the shot silks or stuffs in Raphael\u2019s pictures? You\nasked the man if he supposed you could by any possibility eat it an hour\nafter you had fondled it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI had to go without meat for luncheon that day, and the pigeon\u2019s life was\nspared. I fed it with rice, and it used to sit on my chest and pick the\ngrains from between my lips.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt last it got too bold, and, mistaking your teeth for grains of rice,\npecked at your lips till they bled.\u201d\n\nWhat a mischievous bird it was! When we came home, after leaving it at\nliberty in the house, we found all the heads of a bouquet of violets that\nstood in water picked off and strewed on the table, and all the pens taken\nfrom the pen\u2010tray and laid on the floor. Finally one day the pins had been\nextracted out of the pin\u2010cushion and put on the table, and the long, black\nhair\u2010pins taken out of Mary\u2019s silver toilet\u2010box and laid on the bed. At\nlast we noticed a black pigeon that used to come often and sit on the\nwater\u2010pipe of the house opposite. We never closed the windows on account\nof our purple pigeon, as it had shown no disposition to leave its human\nfriends for others of its own kind. But blood is stronger than water; and\nno doubt the black pigeon had wonderful tales to tell of the many roofs of\nRome as presenting eligible habitations, and of the daily markets in the\nPiazza Navona and beneath the shadow of the Pantheon as affording an\neasily\u2010obtained repast among the refuse. So one day, when we came home,\nthe window was open, and the pigeon nowhere to be found. Nor did we ever\nagain see the black seducer sitting on the neighboring water\u2010spouts.\n\nAfter all we were very much amused at our dinner at Frisio. We ate _frutti\ndi mare_,(177) and macaroni dressed with _pomi d\u2019oro_.(178) Of the meat\nthe less said the better. I rarely thought any of it good at Naples;\nthough no further off than Sorrento the beef is excellent. All provisions\nare, in fact, better there than at Naples. Our supply of butter came from\nSorrento, and was obtained for us by Pascarillo, our coachman\u2019s master; so\nthat frequently, as we passed his door returning home from our drive, his\nwife would hail us, and hand into the carriage the fresh butter wrapt up\nin green vine\u2010leaves.\n\nWhen dinner was over, and we sat looking out on the sea, I remembered that\nEmidio had promised to tell us the story of Padre Cataldo\u2019s escape at the\ntime of the Italian revolution in 1860, and I asked him to give us the\nparticulars.\n\n\u201cThis will be a very good time to do so, Miss Jane,\u201d was his reply,\n\u201cbecause we are quite safe at Frisio from the father\u2019s presence. He does\nnot like talking of it. You very probably have heard of the earthquake in\nItaly that took place in 1857; though I dare say the devastation it caused\nwas hardly noticed in the English papers. The Jesuit Fathers had a college\nat Potenza which was partly thrown down at the time, and consequently the\nboys had been sent home to their parents and most of the fathers\ndispersed. Padre Cataldo and one other alone remained. You are aware that\nPotenza is the principal town of the Basilicata, and is the see of a\nbishop. There were forty villages in the same province destroyed at the\nsame time. The king (of course I mean Francis II.) had obtained that Padre\nCataldo should be sent on a mission to the inhabitants of these\nunfortunate villages, not only to preach in the different places, but to\ncarry relief to the inhabitants, and to organize the proper burial of the\ndead, who lay neglected among the ruins at the imminent risk of breeding a\npestilence. He was also to encourage the poor people to rebuild their\nhabitations, and to aid them once again to gain their livelihood and\nresume the cultivation of the land. He was engaged in this arduous labor\nfor a period of about fifteen months, during which he lived amongst the\npeople with the affection of a father and almost the authority of a ruler;\nfor there was nothing they would not do at his bidding.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe work accomplished, he returned to the half\u2010ruined college at Potenza.\nThere was but one other priest in residence with him there, and Padre\nCataldo had hardly joined him when the revolution broke out. The Jesuits\nwere far from apprehending any violence at first from the inhabitants of\nPotenza, a great many of whom were much attached to them. But at that time\nthey had not had personal experience of the insidious ways by means of\nwhich the revolutionists instil their doctrines into the minds of the\nunsuspecting. They soon, however, began to notice that the _caffes_ were\nthronged with noisier guests than usual, and who remained till late into\nthe night discussing and disputing over their wine or coffee. The few\nshops where books or newspapers could be found in the not highly\u2010educated\nor literary town of Potenza began to display pamphlets with brilliant\u2010\ncolored covers and dubious titles. The men frequenting the churches were\nfewer, and those that came were less respectful in their demeanor. At\nnight the young men wandered about in file, arm\u2010in\u2010arm, walking rapidly\nwith what no doubt they thought a military step, a flower stuck behind the\near, the hat on one side, and singing revolutionary songs in a loud and\noften inebriated voice. The symptoms were all bad. And the fathers were\nnot surprised when one morning, having noticed an unusual agitation in the\nstreets and the piazza, they received a secret message to the effect that\nthey would do well to leave the town as quickly and as quietly as\npossible, for the one simple reason that where there is a Jesuit the\nrevolutionist is his enemy. The persons sending this message to the\nfathers added that if their advice were not forthwith taken, acts of\nviolence might follow.\n\n\u201cNot very far from the Jesuit college there lived a priest who had known\nPadre Cataldo for many years, and who, though himself corrupted by\nrevolutionary principles, and not in any way an honor to his sacred\ncalling, maintained a great friendship and regard for the father. He had\ngone on from one thing to another in his own downward course until at this\ntime he was actually one of the leaders of revolutionary principles in the\nBasilicata. He had nevertheless always told Padre Cataldo that in case of\nneed he would befriend him. And he kept his word; for one night, when\nPotenza was getting too hot for a Jesuit to remain in safety, and the only\nquestion seemed to be what kind of violence against the college would be\nattempted, the apostate priest arrived in his own carriage, to fulfil his\nold promise, and safely conveyed Padre Cataldo to a house at some distance\nwhere he could lie hidden for the night. The flight had been so sudden\nthat Padre Cataldo, who was not likely at any time to be cumbered with\nwealth, had come away without a franc in his possession. The next morning\nhe despatched three messengers to various friends in the neighborhood to\nsay where and in what condition he was; and they, in return, sent him the\nmoney he needed. With this he procured for himself the disguise of lay\nclothes, and set out to join the Jesuits residing at Bari. When he\narrived, he found the Jesuits had already left; and the condition of the\ncountry was such that he was unable to proceed with any hope of safety to\nNoci, his native place, where his parents lived.\n\n\u201cFor many days he had to fly from place to place disguised as a layman,\nand with a false beard. But even so there was something in his whole\nappearance which betrayed him. One day he was walking along the street,\nswinging a walking\u2010stick, when he heard one man say to another, as they\npassed him, \u2018There goes a Jesuit in disguise.\u2019\n\n\u201cA lady residing at Bitonto concealed him in her house for one night. He\nleft the house before dawn; but already the rumor had spread that a Jesuit\nwas in hiding there, and early in the morning the brother of the lady, who\nwas a liberal and the syndic of the town, came to tell her the people were\nin such a state of excitement that if she did not give up the father, they\nwould burn the house to the ground. And it was not till she had taken him\ninto every hole and corner of the place that she could persuade him there\nwas no one concealed there, and that his assertions to that effect calmed\nthe mob. \u2018The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air nests,\u2019 but, like\ntheir Master, the priests of the Son of man had not where to lay their\nheads. Thus driven from place to place, and hunted down like a wild beast,\nPadre Cataldo at length reached Venosa, where, as he had once preached a\nvery successful mission, he was well known and much respected. He took up\nhis abode at the house of some friends, and the next morning, which was\nthe Feast of S. Ignatius, the founder of his order, he went to the church\nto say Mass. While he was vesting in the sacristy he received a message\nthat the _intendente_ or governor of the place wanted to speak with him.\nIt so happened that the _intendente_ was the brother\u2010in\u2010law of a man who\nhad been condemned to death for murder a short time previous. Padre\nCataldo had been acquainted with the case; and as he considered it had\nbeen attended with extenuating circumstances, and that the crime was not\npremeditated, he had used his influence with success to get the sentence\ncommuted to a term of years\u2019 imprisonment at the galleys. He also obtained\npermission for the man, who was a jeweller, to work at his trade during\nhis incarceration. Padre Cataldo had not happened to see any members of\nthe family since that event, in which he had saved them from so great a\ncalamity. Very naturally, therefore, on hearing that the brother\u2010in\u2010law of\nthe criminal wanted to see him, he thought he had come to thank him for\nsaving his relative from the guillotine. But on going to the door to\nreceive him he found the governor surrounded by soldiers, who, at a word\nfrom him, seized the father as their prisoner. He was at that time\nsuffering from fever brought on by exposure to all weathers in his\nendeavor to elude his enemies; creeping into some sheltering house late at\nnight, when the evening damp, so fatal in Italy, was falling; making his\nway over fields and mountains in the noon\u2010tide heat, and getting from\nplace to place through by\u2010ways, as he dared not take the frequented road;\nand of course often without sufficient food. He was put upon a horse, and\nconducted by a guard of soldiers to a small place called Rionero. It was a\nlong day\u2019s journey, and his sufferings were intense. Having been seized\nbefore he had begun his Mass, he had not tasted food. When they reached\nRionero in the evening, they found a terrible scene. The revolutionists\nhad entire possession of the town. It is said that the piazza\u2014the large\nopen place in the centre of every Italian town\u2014literally ran with blood.\nStrange to say, many persons connected by family ties with the\n_intendente_ who had so cruelly betrayed Padre Cataldo perished in the\nmassacres of that night. I know a man who saw the father brought into the\ntown in the midst of the guard. The insane fury of the mob at the sight of\na Jesuit knew no bounds. It was the _Ecce Homo_ over again in the person\nof one of his servants. He was taken through the piazza on horseback, and\nthe soldiers did nothing to restrain the people. They flung at him every\nmissile they could lay their hands on; and as it was evening, a band of\nmasons were returning from their work, and, transported with rage,\nactually threw their tools at him, and beat him with them as he passed. To\nall this ill\u2010usage he made no other reply than by blessing them. Some of\nthe most violent cried out, \u2018Here is the King of the Basilicata.\u2019 Did they\nknow they were parodying the cry of \u2018the King of the Jews\u2019? At length the\nprison\u2010doors shut him in from his persecutors; and as he lay there,\nbruised all over, and severely cut about the head and face, he could hear\nthem crying out that they would yet get at him to burn him alive, while\nactually they began building up a pile in the centre of the piazza for\nthat purpose.\n\n\u201cThe liberal priest who had been his friend in the first instance, and had\nbrought him away from Potenza, had by this time heard of his arrest, and\nimmediately came to the rescue. This, however, was no easy matter. He was\nhimself one of their leaders; and, lest they should accuse him of\ninfidelity to their cause, he was obliged to begin by pretending that he\nshared their views with respect to Padre Cataldo. It was only in this way\nthat he could succeed in getting himself heard. By degrees he induced them\nto consider whether, on the whole, the burning alive of a well\u2010known\nJesuit priest in their piazza would be altogether a wise proceeding. It\nmight get them into trouble at some future day. It might be considered an\nextreme measure. At length he gained sufficient influence for them to\npropose that the question should be decided by an appeal to the people.\nThe general inhabitants of the town were not a bad set of people. They\nwere probably not very courageous in a good cause, and they were\noverwhelmed by the noisy and daring wickedness of the revolutionists. But\nwhen thus appealed to, their real sentiments found expression; and Padre\nCataldo, whose prison\u2010cell overlooked the piazza, could hear the shouts of\n_Noi lo vogliamo salvo_.(179) Soon after his prison\u2010door was unlocked, and\nin the dead of the night he was conducted by two guards to a distance from\nthe town, where they left him. Faint with loss of blood, bruised, and\nweary, he managed to reach the house of some friends. He lay there for a\nfortnight, ill from fever and the cruel treatment he had received. And it\nwas not till some time after, when the troubles had calmed down, that he\nwas able to return to Naples in safety.\u201d\n\nWe sat silent for a few seconds at the end of Don Emidio\u2019s account. It\nseemed to bring the nature and qualities of revolution keenly before us\nwhen we thus heard of what it had done to one so well known and so beloved\nby us all. Ida was the first to speak; and she told us that not long after\nthey had settled at Posilippo with Padre Cataldo, a gentleman had called\nto see him on some business, accompanied by a young man. Ida remarked that\nwhen the latter came into the room, as soon as his eyes fell on Padre\nCataldo, he turned deadly pale. As he was only in attendance on the other\ngentleman, he sat a little back, and no one paid much attention to him,\nwhile she watched him. She saw he was greatly overcome and trembled very\nmuch. She tried to enter into conversation with him, but he seemed too\nabsent to talk. When at length the gentleman had concluded what he came to\ntell Padre Cataldo, the latter turned towards the younger man, who got up\nand approached him, exclaiming, \u201cO father! how is it I find you here? I\nthought you had died at Rionero. I witnessed the treatment you received\nthere, and I and many others believed you were dead. By what miracle did\nyou escape?\u201d When the conversation became more general, the young man, who\ncould hardly recover from his emotion, told Ida that he should never\nforget the father\u2019s countenance, as he sat silent and calm on his horse,\nwith stones, sticks, and missives of all sorts flung at him. The blood\npoured from his head; but there seemed to be a celestial light beaming\nfrom his face which reminded him of the pictures he had seen of the\nmartyred saints.\n\nWe finished our evening on our own _loggia_. It was a lovely night, and we\nfelt we could never weary of watching the moonbeams on the sea, and, when\nthe moon had gone down, the fishermen\u2019s little boats, noiselessly sailing\none by one from the dense, dark shadow of the caves where they are moored,\nand then, each with a burning torch at the prow, casting anchor and\nwaiting for the fish to rise to the light. From time to time the fishermen\nutter a soft, monotonous cry to each other in a minor key, which comes\nfloating through the darkness on the still night\u2010air like an echo from\nanother world. There must be a strange fascination in this life of the\nfisherman, whose occupation begins as other men are laying aside theirs,\nand is continued through the silence of the night on the vast solitude of\nthe ocean.\n\nDon Emidio drew his chair near to where I was sitting, leaning on the low\nwall of the _loggia_ and looking down upon the plain of waters, which so\nmysteriously appear to flash an unreal light from their dark bosom, as if\nthe sea itself gave out sparks. Presently I heard a voice asking me if I\nthought I could learn to love the world\u2010famous beauty of the Bay of\nNaples.\n\n\u201cI have learnt to love it from the first moment I saw it; for I love all\nthat is beautiful. And when the beauty of this glorious land comes to be\nwound up with the duties of my life, I shall love it doubly.\u201d\n\n\u201cSay with life\u2019s affections too, dear Jane.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy should I not say it? Of course I mean it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you never tire of this unmitigated beauty? Will you never, _cara\nmia_, have a pining for a soft, gray day, with the perfumed damp that\ncomes up from the velvet moss and dense greenery of an English copse? Will\nyou heave no sigh for the pale but varied and most abundant wild flowers\nof your chilly springs, a lapful of primroses, a wealth of cowslips? Shall\nI have you longing after a narrow lane of yellow sand, the trees meeting\noverhead, the meadow\u2010sweet growing lavishly in the moist hedge, and the\nripe nuts hanging just within reach, crisp and sweet in their slippery\nbrown shells? Shall I hear you reproaching me that the mushrooms are\ndotting the Sussex downs all round the fairy rings, and that you long to\ntread the close, fine grass where the sheep are browsing, with the little\nhillocks of purple thyme scenting the breeze with its aromatic breath?\nWhen your nerves are overstrung by the continuous dry heat and the brisk\nair of our joyous land, will not your Saxon nature long for one of the\nshort autumn days of old England, when you might walk through the fields\nto the edge of the western hill, and watch the sun sink amidst yellow and\nred clouds painted on a pale blue sky, and then, returning in the soft\nwind of evening redolent with nameless perfumes, feel the damp like a\ncreamy balm uncurl your locks and bathe your cheek as if with moist\nkisses? It will be almost dark when you reach home; there is a low wood\u2010\nfire flickering on the hearth, and the steam of the urn curling up with a\nscent of new\u2010made tea. Papers, pamphlets, magazines, and new volumes by\nthe dozen from the London library are there to greet you. And day by day,\nhour by hour, in that land of rapid thought and universal intelligence,\nthe latest news from pole to pole finds its way with every post into the\nremotest depths of the I country. _Cara mia_, it will not be so here.\u201d\n\nThere had been a choking sensation in my throat as Emidio described the\ndear old land of my birth, and brought so vividly before me exactly those\nlittle touches of home and country life which I should most certainly not\nfind in my future Roman _palazzo_ or in the villa at Capo di Monte, beyond\nthe garden of which I could not stray into any wild woods and barren but\never\u2010beautiful heaths, as in England. But there was something in the close\nof the vision he called up before me which turned the current of feeling\nand made me smile. Strange as it may seem, I felt it was the newspapers\nand the I rapid intelligence that I could spare the more easily.\n\n\u201cThere are good old books I have never read, Emidio, and which you have in\nyour library. From time to time we will get a few new ones from the\nteeming British press. I am none the happier in England for tracing day by\nday the progress of modern ideas. I will turn my thoughts upon the past. I\nmay sometimes sigh for the shady lanes and breezy downs of England; but I\nthink the imperious beauty of Italy will hold quite as much sway over my\nheart in time. Are you satisfied?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am satisfied as much as my jealous Italian nature will allow me to be.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre all Italians jealous?\u201d\n\n\u201cNearly all, especially husbands.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I shall never give you cause.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am quite sure of that. But it will not prevent my being jealous. Do not\nlook frightened, _carissima_.(180) I am not going to prove a regular\nBluebeard, like some of my countrymen. But it would sound strange to your\nEnglish ears to know the intense sense of appropriation which an Italian\nhas with regard to his wife. It is true he adores her; but it is an\nadoration which would exclude the remotest homage of the merest stranger.\nHe waits upon her, watches her, serves her. But it is possible to have too\nmuch of that, particularly when it is done with an evident intention to\nprevent the approach of any other human being. I had an acquaintance\u2014for I\ncannot exactly call him a friend; he was too great a fool for that\u2014who\nwould not allow his wife to set her foot outside the door unless he\naccompanied her. She was not permitted to look out of the window, if he\ncould prevent it; and he actually one day consulted me on the possibility\nof running a railing in front of his windows inside the rooms to prevent\nher getting near enough to look out.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd they did not shut him up as a madman?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot at all; though I think the generality allowed he was eccentric. The\npoor woman had a melancholy time of it; for of course, if he would not\nallow her to look out, neither would he allow any one else to look in.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell! and how did it end?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe only way any man of sense could expect it to end. She got out of the\nwindow and over the wall one fine night, and left him. The poor thing went\nno further and to no other place than her father\u2019s house. But nothing\nwould ever persuade her to return to her husband, who grew yellower and\ngreener every day until he finally died\u2014of jealousy.\u201d\n\n\u201cServe him right,\u201d was all I deigned to reply, being too indignant to be\ngrammatical.\n\n\u201cI knew a young girl,\u201d continued Don Emidio, \u201cwho had made up her mind she\nwould marry a certain Neapolitan duke of immense wealth. Her parents did\nnot object (which they ought to have done). But her confessor, that Padre\nCristoforo whom you heard preaching through the month of May at Santa\nCatarina, did everything he could to dissuade her. The only answer she\nwould ever make to his remonstrances was that she should have a carriage.\nAll life seemed to r\u00e9sum\u00e9 itself in her mind in the possession of that one\nluxury, with just the addition of gowns from Paris. She was married to the\nold duke, and very soon after came to Padre Cristoforo to complain of her\nhard lot. He could only repeat that he had warned her how it would be, and\nrecommend her to take a drive in her carriage, and ever more and more to\ndrive in her carriage, reminding her that it was for that she had married.\nAlas! she had to confess that even that consolation was denied her, as her\nhusband was too jealous of the passers\u2010by to allow of her being seen\ndriving out, and that for the most part she was kept to the house. It is\ntrue he was constantly making her magnificent presents of that other great\nobject of her ambition\u2014dresses from Paris; but, as she represented to him,\nthey were quite useless to her, as she could not wear them shut up alone\nwith him in the house. Now, are you not frightened by this peculiarity in\nus Italians, _carina_, or are you prepared for it?\u201d\n\nEmidio was laughing, and so was I, when he more gravely added:\n\n\u201cThe other day we were talking of the reverse of the medal, as regards the\ngood or bad qualities of different people and nations. And I think I can\npromise you, _cara mia_, that as my respect for you, and I hope my own\ngood sense, will always preserve me from this ludicrous excess of a\nnational characteristic, so the only form which it will take will be in\nmaking me more observant that you should receive from my hands alone those\nlittle attentions, and what the French call _petits soins_,(181) which are\nso necessary to a woman, and which make up so large a share in the lesser\nenjoyments of her life. I hope never to bore you. But I hope always to\nwait upon you.\u201d\n\nI looked over my shoulder as we came to this point in our discourse. Frank\nand Elizabeth were discussing their future also in another part of the\n_loggia_. And I thought to myself, if we could have compared notes, we\nshould no doubt have traced many differences characteristic of English and\nItalian future husbands. But I am convinced that both English maidens were\nequally content with their prospects.\n\nWe paid more than one visit to the great museum of Naples, now called the\nMuseo Nazionale, but which Mary and Frank remembered as the Museo\nBorbonico. Since they were last here, the dynasty being changed, the name\nof the collection and the arrangement of the objects have also changed.\nMary, who is very decided in her artistic preferences, had her favorites\nhere, as I have always found she had in every collection of pictures or\nstatues she had once visited; and faithful to her old loves, she never\ncould rest or look at other objects till she had revisited those that had\nalready struck her imagination. I do not know whether it may arise from\nthe fact that in Rome the attention is naturally more turned, in the\ncollections at the Vatican, to those which have reference to the life and\ncustoms of the early Christians, in preference to the indications of pagan\nlife; but certainly the objects in the museum at Naples brought before me,\nwith a vividness I had never felt elsewhere, the very minutest details of\nold Roman existence. And I believe, in point of fact, no collection equals\nthat at Naples, enriched as it is by the treasure\u2010trove of Pompeii and\nHerculaneum. It would be quite easy to furnish a house with every\nrequirement of life from roof to kitchen out of the abundance of these\ninteresting relics of the long ago past. And as I wandered about the large\nchambers filled with kitchen utensils, lamps, vases, and female ornaments,\nand then passed into the halls where are the frescos that decorated the\nwalls of their dwellings, I felt I could realize to myself the many\ndifferences in the external forms of their life and our own.\n\nThe first conclusion I arrive at is that there was more sameness and less\nmultiplicity. For instance, there was a certain received form for lamps.\nYou had your choice, in the ornamental parts, of the heads of lions or of\ngriffins, but the shape was the same. In the kitchen the like shape\nreigned as in the _triclinium_ or the _\u0153ci_\u2014the dining\u2010room and drawing\u2010\nrooms of the ancients\u2014minus the ornaments.(182) The same absence of\ndiversity is observable among the jewels. There could be very little\ndifference, except in size and weight, between one lady\u2019s necklace and\nanother\u2019s. The houses, judging from the discoveries at Pompeii, and borne\nout by the classic writers, were all built on the same model, some large\nand magnificent, others small and mean, but alike in structure. I pause,\nand ask myself how life went on without modern china in the houses of the\ngreat. Though much of their glass was beautiful, yet what a difference\nbetween their earthenware pots and our S\u00e8vres and Dresden, Worcester and\nMinton! Everywhere the tables and seats and chairs were alike. The\ndifference lay in the draperies and the cushions, never in the shape. It\nsounds bald and trite to register these remarks; but if we carry out the\nthought, and try and place ourselves where the men and women of Rome and\nits subject provinces stood, and in imagination sleep in a\n_cubiculum_(183) six feet long and four wide, sit on a marble\nrepresentation of a camp\u2010stool, and lay our work or our book\u2014which latter\nwill be in the inconvenient shape of a long roll of papyrus\u2014on a round\nmarble table with three lion\u2019s paws for legs; if we fancy our rooms\ndivided one from the other by _porti\u00e8res_, or hangings, instead of doors,\nartistically draped in longitudinal folds, and fastened with cords by the\nfashionable upholsterer of the day; if to this we add an almost entire\nabsence of washing\u2010basins, and, instead, a lavishness in the article of\nmarble baths, all more or less taken in public; if from vestibule and\n_atrium_,(184) from _hospitium_(185) and _exedra_,(186) we dismiss all\nnotion of knicknacks, all glass\u2010fronted cabinets, all buhl and\n_marqueterie_, all enamelled snuff\u2010boxes, china pug\u2010dogs, and filigree;\nwith no Berlin\u2010wool work and no miniatures; a few severely beautiful\nbronze figures, some busts, some heathen goddesses in tinted marble,\nstanding cold and naked in a niche; an ever\u2010plashing fountain like the\npattering of incessant rain\u2014if we bring all this vividly before us, we\nshall soon feel that the minute yet all but infinite circumstances of\nexternal life having been so different from our own, the whole flow of\nthought and fancy must have been different.\n\nWe owe more than we are aware, both for good and evil, to the way we\nfurnish our houses. And if we decorate them according to our own ideas, we\nmust remember that those decorations are for ever throwing back our ideas\nupon ourselves in a perpetual reflection until a sort of moral identity is\nestablished.\n\nMy impression is that the greater simplicity of form, combined, as was the\ncase with the ancients, with a very high though but slightly varied style\nof decorative art, may have left a greater solidity, unity, and intensity\nin the old\u2010world characters, as compared with what we find in modern\nminds, distributed amongst such an endless variety of objects.\n\nIt is a great thing to be elevated by noble desires and high Christian\naims above the trivialities of modern life. But if those high aspirations\nare absent, it is perhaps a safeguard to take to old china, old lace, and\nLouis Quinze furniture. It breaks up the thoughts into a kaleidoscope of\nfancies; and that, on the whole, is decidedly preferable to the\nrestlessness of youth, health, and idleness, leading to a craving for\ngladiatorial fights and scenes of bloodshed and cruelty. In those days the\nvirtuous were nobly virtuous, and were very rare. The vicious were\nhorribly vicious, and formed the generality. It always struck me that an\nold Roman house must have been a dull home. And _ennui_ is the mother of\nnaughtiness quite as surely as the devil is the father of lies. There are\nminds which cannot be great, as there are lives which never are much more\nthan harmless. Surely for these the multiplicities of modern times, the\ntoys of fashion, the novelties of the day, in dress, furniture, and\nornament, are safety\u2010valves and almost godsends! At least they are better\nthan the arena, with its brutalizing scenes of blood and horror, where a\nvestal had but to turn her thumb to take the life of the victim bleeding\nbefore her eyes!\n\nThese results of modern civilization are not Christianity; and I am taking\na very low standard in all I am now saying. But they are the dross of a\ncivilization leavened by Christianity, and they are very different from\nthe poison that found its way into the daily life of Roman men and women\nfrom the seething wickedness of the great heathen empire.\n\nNothing can exceed the interest of the paintings taken from Pompeii. Of\ncourse I was intimately acquainted with them from engravings, and had been\nall my life. One of the early impressions of my childhood was the delight\nof finding that the grave old Romans (and therefore the Greeks before\nthem), for whom I had a very pagan admiration, were capable of\nappreciating humor as expressed in the movements and attitudes of animals.\nI was overjoyed at this touch of sympathy with a dead past; and I\nrecommend all visitors to Naples to look out for certain cocks and hens\nand other creatures among the lesser mural decorations taken from Pompeii.\nThe well\u2010known dancing girls I had never properly admired until I saw them\nbeing copied by a Neapolitan artist in the Museum. He had not deviated one\nhair\u2019s breadth from the original outline; but the mere restoration of\nvivid coloring had imparted to them an airy, floating grace which I had\nfailed fully to detect in the scratched and faded originals, but which I\nat once felt must have belonged to them when they decorated some rich\nPompeian\u2019s house.\n\nWhile I was wandering about, trying to live for an hour the inner homespun\nlife of a Roman maiden by gazing long on the walls she must have looked\non, Mary had gone in search of the Farnese Bull and the exquisite half\u2010\nhead and figure of the Psyche, that wonderful embodiment of virginal grace\nand feminine delicacy which makes one long to have seen the statue in its\nunmutilated condition. She had stood for a good quarter of an hour before\nthe Aristides (for we insist on believing it is Aristides), and was, as\nshe told me afterwards, growing more and more in the consoling belief that\nmany of the old pagans will have found a place among the thrones of the\nblest through the mercy of Him who never asks for more than he has given,\nand who since the creation has never left the world without a witness of\nhimself. Then she visited the Farnese Flora, that wonderful triumph of art\nover matter, where in a statue of above twelve feet such floating grace is\nexpressed that she seems to be skimming along the ground, while the light\nwind plays in the drapery.\n\nI found Mary lost in thought before a beautiful bronze statue of Mercury\nin repose. The lithe figure has just sat down to rest on the edge of a\nrock. The tension of the muscles is gradually relaxing. One foot as yet\nonly touches the ground with the heel. Wait a moment, and the foot will\nyield and rest. Never was fatigue gradually giving way to repose more\nexquisitely depicted. Then Mary turned to the dead Amazon with the death\u2010\nwound beneath her breast, and finally declared that having satisfied\nherself by revisiting these, that for one reason or another had haunted\nher for twenty years, she was ready to admire the others. It is curious\nhow the long lines of statues and busts seem to give out cold. The same\nstone walls covered with pictures could never be so severely cold. The old\ngods and heroes seem to breathe upon you with an icy breath from out of\nthe grave of the old classic world.\n\nThe best pictures in the Naples Museum are not very numerous, but are\nadmirable specimens of the Italian schools. They are collected into one or\ntwo rooms, deserving time and study. A cursory view of the others will be\nsufficient to satisfy most people. There is much more to be seen besides\nthe relics from Pompeii and Herculaneum, the statues and pictures. It is\nall worth visiting, and, to be fully appreciated, requires many hours to\nbe spent on each different class of objects.\n\nI had a very distinct and not altogether a pleasant recollection of the\nmysterious grotto of Pozzuoli, which had haunted my imagination ever since\nI was here as a child. Ida and I had made an engagement to visit Astroni,\nVictor Emanuel\u2019s happy hunting\u2010grounds, one day when we were to have the\ncarriage to ourselves; and accordingly we were to pass through the grotto.\nYou approach it by a deep cutting in the rock, the sides of which are\ndraped with ivy and hanging plants, with bright tufts of wild flowers\nwherever a few grains of earth give them a roothold. There is a small\noratory to the right as you enter, of a most simple and rustic kind, and\nkept by a Capuchin, whom I cannot call a venerable hermit, as he happened\nto be of rather youthful appearance. On _festas_ his little altar was\ncovered with flowers, and a few votive candles burnt before the obscure\npicture of the Madonna within the dark recesses of the cave. When the poor\nCapuchin heard a carriage approaching, he would hurry forth with a little\ntin box, which he held up to us for an alms. We seldom failed to give him\nsome, and from time to time it would be silver instead of the more\nfrequent copper; and then his gratitude became eloquent, and many a\nblessing followed us down the murky gloom of the long, unsavory grotto.\nCertainly, this strange road, which it appears dates from the middle of\nthe first Christian century, is not calculated to leave a pleasant\nimpression, though in many ways it presents picturesque bits which\nreminded me of some of Salvator Rosa\u2019s pictures. It would be quite dark\nbut for the yellow, faint light of gas\u2010lamps, not sufficient in number to\ndispel the gloom, which is greatly increased by the clouds of dust the\nnumerous carts, carriages, and herds of goats are constantly raising, the\nlatter adding thereto their own peculiarly suffocating odor. It is paved\nin the same way as the Neapolitan streets, and the noise reverberates from\nthe roof. It has a curious effect when you lean forward to see the bearded\ngoats just visible through the dusty air, and further on, perhaps, a\ncabriolet laden with people\u2014six inside, four out, and one boy at least,\nafter the Neapolitan fashion, hanging in a net beneath the vehicle\u2014drawn\nby one horse, always equal to his load, no matter how starved and\nmiserable he may be. On it comes, the merry inmates singing, shouting,\npiercing the darkness, but compelled thereby to slacken their pace a\nlittle, lest there should be a collision in this Erebus. We were always\nsilent and a little uncomfortable in the din, the dust, and the darkness.\nYet it had to be passed through again and again, as being the only road\nout into the country, unless we went all round by the Strada Nuova and\nNisida. At the entrance of the grotto from Naples is the supposed tomb of\nVirgil, hidden beneath ivy and acanthus leaves\u2010just as a poet would have\nwished! We came out from the grotto on the busy, picturesque village of\nFiorigrotta, where the whole population seem to live out in the one long\nstreet. Astroni is an extinct volcanic crater, the sides of which are\nclothed with ilex and other trees. It is circular, and a wall runs along\nthe upper rim to prevent the escape of the deer and wild boar that are\nkept there for the king\u2019s pleasure. There are two carriage\u2010roads through\nthe dense forest. At the bottom of the basin there are a few open spaces,\nmarshy land, and water. The solitude and silence are intense; for, as\nusual in Italy, there are not many singing birds, and what there are do\nnot give song during the heat of the day any more than in our northern\nclimes. I never shall forget the silence that reigned, nor the feeling of\nsolitude induced by peering through the trees, looking down on the small\nlakes of intensely blue water below, and knowing that in those dense\nthickets myriads of wild animals were hiding in their lair, while we were\nthe only human beings. The gates are kept locked, and it requires a\nspecial order to penetrate this sylvan scene. It does not seem to me a\nvery satisfactory way of sporting. You are too sure of your game, walled\nin as it is all round. After visiting the extinct crater, we saw the\nemptied lake of Agnano, once notorious for malaria, now drained off and\nleaving a wide plain more or less adapted for agriculture. At present it\nseems in a rather neglected state, of which nature has taken advantage to\ncast her unsolicited gifts of flaunting bright wild flowers broadcast over\nthe whole space.\n\nOne of our most interesting excursions was to the Solfatara, not far from\nthe Lago Agnano. This also is an extinct crater; and yet so barely extinct\nthat we feel, as we tread the sulphur\u2010checkered soil, and hear the hollow\nreverberation if we stamp on the ground, as if at any moment it might\nagain burst forth.\n\nFrom time to time our nostrils were disagreeably met by a puff of steam\nredolent of sulphur; and occasionally these puffs grow stronger and more\nthreatening. The stones you pick up are tinged with yellow. The vegetation\nis sparse and dwarfed. At the further end of the plain is a cave, from\nwhence at regular intervals rush clouds of hot steam, while a roaring,\nboiling sound surges within. The aperture is large enough for a person to\nenter by stooping a little. Most of our party peeped in, but instantly\nretired from the suffocating and horrible stench and great heat.\n\nThe rocks are covered with sulphur and alum; and in my eagerness that we\nshould all equally benefit by the sight, I wanted to persuade Ida just to\ntake one peep. It would, however, have been a risk to do anything which\neven for a second might embarrass the action of her delicate lungs and\nweak heart. She tried to approach, but turned back with the feeling that\none puff more would have suffocated her.\n\nI think we all felt as if we were standing in one of the outer halls of a\nregion never to be mentioned \u201cto ears polite,\u201d and almost too \u201cDantesque\u201d\nto be pleasant. We gladly breathed a purer atmosphere as we passed out of\nthe gate (inside which is a fabric of sulphur\u2010works), and bent our steps\nbetween white walls on which the green lizards basked, and between fields\nof unripe corn and mulberry\u2010trees, till we reached an open space\ncommanding a fine view of the Gulf of Pozzuoli and the hills beyond. From\nthence we turned into the Capuchin church dedicated to S. Januarius, and\nsaid to be built over the spot where he suffered martyrdom in 305. There\nis a stone, on which he is believed to have been beheaded, let into the\nwall, and protected with an iron grating. It is seamed with red marks as\nof blood. It is very probably a stone on which he knelt and on which the\nblood fell. But a block, whether of stone or wood, for the purposes of\nbeheading, is a modern invention. The Romans used a sword\u2014as the Turks use\na scymitar for that ghastly purpose to this day\u2014and the patient knelt\nupright.\n\nIt was pleasant to rest in the cool church, which, humble as it is, is not\nwithout its quota of beautiful marbles, and is kept exquisitely clean,\nwith fresh flowers on the altar, and all care taken of it as if the\ncommunity were still there. We found only a lay brother left in charge. I\nthink he said he had a companion. All the poor fathers were dispersed by\nVictor Emanuel\u2019s government, and Mass is only said on feast\u2010days; though\nit seemed to be the only church in that immediate neighborhood, and the\npoor of the district must greatly miss the presence of the Capuchin\nfathers, those special friends of the poor.\n\nAs we came down the hill, we were met by peasant lads, who wanted us to\nbuy lumps of sulphur and the skeletons of the pretty little fish called\nthe sea\u2010horse, which abound in this part of the Mediterranean, and which\nare just like the knights among chessmen. They may be seen alive in\nquantities in the aquarium at Brighton. They twist the tapering end of\ntheir tails round a fragment of sea\u2010weed, or indeed, as the buoyancy of\nthe water keeps them up, they need but to touch something stationary. And\nthere they stand in groups, motionless, and looking for all the world like\na grave assembly of horses\u2019 heads of the most delicate race, and with\nnoses slightly turned up. Nothing can be more graceful than the way they\nhold themselves. Their heads are not bigger than those of ordinary\u2010sized\nchessmen.\n\nAs the Vernons had been at Posilippo all through the eruption of Mount\nVesuvius in April, 1872, they were naturally anxious we should see\nsomething of the devastation it had occasioned. We determined, therefore,\nto drive to San Sebastiano, a village which was almost entirely destroyed.\nAs we approached the spot, it seemed as if we were driving into the\nkingdom of chaos, where \u201cthe earth was void and empty.\u201d On either side lay\nwide plains of gray\u2010black lava, looking as if a dead, unfertile earth had\nbeen furrowed with the burning shares of some gigantic and infernal\nplough, and had remained calcined and sterile for ever after. We left the\ncarriage and climbed up a large mound of lava. I found myself nearly on a\nlevel with the low roof of the small church, round which the lava had\ncrept, but had spared it. I looked down into the basement of a house below\nme. The lava had poured in and filled what once were rooms, but had left\nthe walls and the roof standing. There was part of a street left, the lava\nhaving, with seeming caprice, turned off to the left, as it poured down\nthe mountain, just in that spot. Our friends told us that as they used to\nsit by the hour and watch the progress of the burning stream through\nglasses, they could see the small white houses, with the fiery flood\napproaching, when suddenly each house seemed to leap into the air like a\nlighted straw, and then was seen no more. A cat ran past me, in haste to\nsave her paws. We could not stand still long, for, though more than a year\nhad elapsed, the land was still too hot to be pleasant; and when we\nreached home, we found our feet were blistered. The poor creatures whose\nhomes have thus perished approach you timidly with bits of lava to sell.\nThey still have a scared look in their faces. But nothing will persuade\nthem to shift their quarters and leave their grand but dangerous neighbor.\nThey are trying to rebuild their village, and are deaf to all the\nremonstrances of the great scientific philosopher(187) who lives a\nhermit\u2019s life in the observatory half\u2010way up the mountain. He has a\nCapuchin priest as a companion; and the latter was able to give the last\nrites of the church to about forty of the unfortunate people, who,\nactuated by curiosity, had attempted to climb the mountain during the\neruption. It seems they had never calculated upon the effect of the\nburning heat from a distance. They thought if there were a certain space\nbetween them and the lava, they should be safe. They forgot that actual\ncontact was not needed; and they were scorched to death long before the\nstream reached the spot where they stood. Not one of those thus licked up\nby the breath of the volcano ever recovered, or even lived long enough to\nquit the place.\n\nSignor Palmier and the Capuchin saw a carriage full of people, coachman\nand two horses, advancing up the mountain. Suddenly the whole was\nsubmerged. They could only tell where it had been arrested by the carrion\nbirds hovering over a certain spot for many days after!\n\n\n\n\nA Discussion With An Infidel.\n\n\n\nVIII. Laws Of Nature And Miracles.\n\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ We differ very widely in many points, sir; but there is one\npoint about which we shall have no difficulty in agreeing\u2014the immutability\nof natural laws. In fact, you have already conceded that the laws of\nnature are unchangeable.\n\n_Reader._ Yes, I admit the unchangeability of the laws of nature; but I\nmost strongly protest against your rash inference that therefore miracles\nare impossible.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Yet my reasoning is very plain. \u201cThe law of nature, observes\nMoleschott, is a stringent expression of necessity. There exists in it\nneither exception nor limitation; and no imaginable power can disregard\nthis necessity. A stone not supported will in all eternity fall towards\nthe centre of the earth; and there never was, and never will be, a command\nfor the sun to stand still\u201d (p. 33).\n\n_Reader._ Is this what you call \u201creasoning\u201d?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Yes. \u201cThe experience of thousands of years has impressed upon\nthe investigator the firmest conviction of the immutability of the laws of\nnature, so that there cannot remain the least doubt in respect to this\ngreat truth\u201d (p. 34).\n\n_Reader._ This I grant.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cScience has gradually taken all the positions of the childish\nbelief of the peoples; it has snatched thunder and lightning from the\nhands of the gods ...\u201d (_ibid._)\n\n_Reader._ It was Christianity, not science, that conquered the gods.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cThe eclipse of the stars and the stupendous powers of the\nTitans of the olden times have been grasped by the fingers of man\u201d\n(_ibid._)\n\n_Reader._ How can the _fingers_ of man grasp the eclipses and the Titans?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cThat which appeared inexplicably miraculous, and the work of a\nsupernatural power, has, by the torch of science, proved to be the effect\nof hitherto unknown natural forces\u201d (_ibid._)\n\n_Reader._ You dream, doctor. Has \u201cthe torch of science\u201d made known those\nhitherto unknown forces? No scientific work has yet explained how, by an\nact of the will, water can be changed into wine, how the deaf and dumb can\nbe instantaneously cured, how the blind can be made to see, the paralytic\nto walk, and the dead to rise, at the sound of a voice, four days after\nburial, and when already in a state of advanced putrefaction. You may of\ncourse deny these facts, as you deny that the sun ever received a command\nto stand still; but to say that \u201cthe torch of science\u201d has shown these\nfacts to be the effect of unknown natural forces is to tell us the most\nstupid lie that can be uttered. Lies, you know, should at least be\ncredible.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cWe have the fullest right, and are scientifically correct, in\nasserting that there is no such thing as a miracle. Everything that\nhappens does so in a natural way\u2014_i.e._, in a mode determined only by\naccidental or necessary coalition of existing materials and their immanent\nnatural forces. No revolution on earth or in heaven, however stupendous,\ncould occur in any other manner\u201d (p. 34).\n\n_Reader._ These are mere words. I deny that science gives you the least\nright to suppress miracles. How can you establish such a right?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cWherever fire and water meet, vapors must arise and exert\ntheir irresistible power. Where the seed falls in the ground, there it\nwill grow; where the thunderbolt is attracted, there it will strike. Can\nthere exist any doubt as to these truths?\u201d (p. 35).\n\n_Reader._ Please, doctor, come to the point.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cHow is it possible that the unalterable order in which things\nmove should ever be disturbed without producing an irremediable gap in the\nworld, without delivering us and everything up to arbitrary power, without\nreducing all science, every earthly endeavor, to a vain and childish\neffort?\u201d (p. 36).\n\n_Reader._ All this rhetoric is most absurd, doctor. \u201cThe order in which\nthings move\u201d is not unalterable; and He whom you call an \u201carbitrary power\u201d\ncan alter it when he pleases without asking your permission, or without\nreducing science to a childish effort.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ What? You contradict yourself, sir. For, if the order in which\nthings move is changeable, the laws of nature cannot be unchangeable.\n\n_Reader._ Not at all. You sophistically confound two things entirely\ndifferent\u2014the _law_ of nature, and the _course_ of nature. The first is\nunchangeable, because it is connected with the essence of things; but the\nsecond is changeable, as a constant and universal experience compels us to\nadmit. However much you may hate \u201carbitrary power,\u201d you cannot deny that,\nbesides necessary causes, there are others which are free in their\nexertions. Can you deny, for instance, that a stone may be thrown upwards\nin spite of gravitation, or that we can catch hold of the stone from the\nwindow, and, in spite of gravitation, we can prevent it from falling back\nto the ground? Now, if we do this, we do not change the _law_ of nature,\nand nevertheless we modify the _course_ of nature by freely producing a\nphenomenon which nature would not produce.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Would you call this a miracle?\n\n_Reader._ The question is impertinent. I call it a change in the course of\nnature. Now, if the course of nature can be modified without the law of\nnature being altered, it is absurd to pretend that there is contradiction\nin holding the unchangeableness of the latter and the changeableness of\nthe former. This being evident, let us go a step further, and draw an\nobvious conclusion. We can, when we please, catch the stone from the\nwindow, and prevent it from falling; and cannot God do the same? We are\nfree to exert our power; but is not God free, or has he less power than we\nhave? If you are honest, you will own that what can be done by us can be\ndone by our Creator and Lord. Now, if he stops the stone in the air, a\nmiracle will be wrought, and no law of nature violated. You cannot deny\nthe possibility of miracles without denying God.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cA spirit independent of nature cannot exist; for never has an\nunprejudiced mind cultivated by science perceived its manifestation\u201d (p.\n36).\n\n_Reader._ Are you not ashamed, doctor, to repeat such a nonsensical\nassertion? You have already failed to prove it, and I have shown its\nabsurdity in a preceding discussion. Must I answer it anew? The only\nanswer you now deserve is that \u201cThe fool has said in his heart, \u2018There is\nno God.\u2019 \u201d Fools, in fact, deny God in their hearts, but cannot deny him\nin their minds, because atheism is not the result of intellectual\nknowledge, but of moral depravity. Our present question, however, is not\ntheism or atheism, but the possibility of miracles without any breach of\nnatural laws. Surely, if there were no God, no miracle would be possible;\nbut your argument was that if the laws of nature are unchangeable, no\nmiracle is possible; and this I have shown to be false. If there is a God,\nas we must now assume, miracles are possible. In the same manner, if a\nsingle true miracle has ever been wrought, there is a God.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cApparent exceptions from the natural order have been called\n_miracles_, of which there have been many at all times\u201d (p. 36).\n\n_Reader._ You should know better, doctor. The church is not satisfied with\n\u201capparent\u201d exceptions from the natural order; the exception must be\nrigorously proved.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cWe should only waste words in our endeavor to prove the\nnatural impossibility of a miracle. No educated, much less a scientific,\nperson who is convinced of the immutable order of things can nowadays\nbelieve in miracles. We find it rather wonderful that so clear and acute a\nthinker as Ludwig Feuerbach should have expended so much logic in refuting\nthe Christian miracles. What founder of religion did not deem it\nnecessary, in order to introduce himself to the world, to perform\nmiracles? And has not his success proved that he was right? What prophet,\nwhat saint, is there who has not performed miracles? The miracle\u2010seeker\nsees them daily and hourly. Do not the table\u2010spirits belong to the order\nof miracles? All such miracles are equal in the eye of science; they are\nthe result of a diseased fancy\u201d (pp. 36, 37).\n\n_Reader._ This is miserable logic, doctor. Why do you speak of the\n_natural_ impossibility of miracles? Have we ever taught that miracles are\n_naturally_ possible? We know that nature works no miracles, and that all\nmiracles are supernatural. It is therefore either a mean trick or a\nlogical blunder on your part to pretend that the _natural_ possibility of\nmiracles is the point in question. That no educated or scientific man can\nnowadays believe in miracles is not only an empty boast, but also a\ndisgraceful calumny. We Christians believe in miracles, and yet, I venture\nto say, we need not resort to you for lessons in science or education. As\na reason for not believing in miracles, you allege \u201cthe immutable order of\nthings\u201d; that is, you assume what is to be proved. The order of things is\nso far from being immutable that we see it modified at every moment. It is\nthe laws of nature, not the order of things, that are immutable. That\nFeuerbach \u201cexpended so much of logic in refuting Christian miracles\u201d I\nwill not deny; I only say that his logic, like your own, is mere sophism\nand cavil. Of course you call him \u201cso clear and acute a thinker\u201d; but we\nknow what this means on the lips of Freemasons. If he was \u201cso clear and\nacute a thinker,\u201d why did he not furnish you with at least one good\nargument against Christian miracles?\n\nBesides, you pretend that all founders of religion deemed it necessary to\nperform miracles. What then? Were it true, the fact would scarcely help\nyour cause; for it would only prove that there have ever been impostors,\nas there have been quacks and coin\u2010forgers. Now, who would think of\nselling counterfeited articles, if there had existed none genuine? Would\nthere be quacks, had there been no doctors? And yet your reasoning leads\nto the conclusion that, because there are so many quacks, there can be no\ndoctors. Are you, then, a mere quack yourself?\n\nYou say with a malicious sneer that all prophets and saints performed\nmiracles. Yes; they performed miracles, or rather, to speak more\ncorrectly, God wrought miracles through them. Yet, in the teeth of sacred\nand ecclesiastical history which testifies to an infinite number of\nunquestionable miracles, you are shameless enough to conclude that no\nmiracle has ever been performed, on the plea that miracle\u2010seekers, table\u2010\nspirits, and diseased fancy must have conspired to deceive the world. Is\nit necessary to refute such a silly assertion? Was Elymas the magician a\nmiracle\u2010seeker when S. Paul, to punish him for his opposition to\nChristianity, struck him blind with a word in the presence of the Roman\ncenturion? Was it a trick of table\u2010spirits that made the blind see, the\nlame walk, or the dumb speak? Was it diseased fancy that impressed on an\nimmense crowd the belief that they had been miraculously fed by Christ in\nthe desert, where no provisions were at hand? No, doctor, you are not\nsilly enough to believe anything of the sort.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ But what do you answer to the following difficulties? First, if\nwe admit miracles, \u201cscience will be reduced to a vain and childish effort\u201d\n(p. 36). Secondly, how can we conceive \u201ca supreme legislator who allows\nhimself to be moved by prayers and sobs to reverse the immutable order\nwhich he himself has created, to violate his own laws, and with his own\nhand to destroy the action of natural forces?\u201d (p. 38). Thirdly, \u201cevery\nmiracle, if it existed, says Cotta, would lead to the conviction that the\ncreation is not deserving the respect which all pay to it, and the mystics\nwould necessarily be obliged to deduce from the imperfection of the\ncreated world the imperfection of the Creator\u201d (p. 38). Fourthly, \u201cis it a\nview worthy of God to represent him as a power which now and then gives a\nnew impulse to the world in its course, and puts on a screw, etc., like\nthe regulator of a watch? If the world has been created by God perfect,\nhow can it require any repairs?\u201d (p. 39). Fifthly, we see that nature\nworks without superior control; \u201cits action is frequently quite\nindependent of the rules of a higher reason, now constructing, now\ndestroying, now full of design, then again perfectly blind and in\ncontradiction with all moral and rational laws. That in the formation of\norganic and inorganic bodies, which are constantly being renewed, there\ncan be no direct governing reason at work is proved by the most striking\nfacts. The _nisus formativus_ inherent in nature is so blind and so\ndependent on external circumstances that the most senseless forms are\nfrequently engendered, that it is often incapable of obviating or\novercoming the slightest obstructions, and that frequently the contrary of\nwhat according to reason should happen is effected\u201d (pp. 41, 42). These\nare serious difficulties, sir.\n\n_Reader._ I hardly think them to be serious, doctor. The first entirely\ndisappears when you reflect that the conclusions of physical science are\n_all hypothetic_, inasmuch as they regard phenomena which must take place\nunder the action of given powers, to the exclusion of any other power\nextraneous to those taken into account. Such conclusions, therefore, imply\nthe condition that no extraneous agent and no disturbing cause interferes\nwith the production of the phenomena. If an extraneous power interferes,\nthe conditions are changed, and with them the phenomena; but science is\nnot upset. A stone not supported must fall. _Not supported_; such is the\ncondition. Now, whether you, or I, or the roof, or God, or an angel\nsupport it, the consequence will be that the stone will not fall. Now, I\nask you, is science \u201creduced to a vain and childish effort\u201d because you or\nI or the roof prevent the stone from falling? I presume, doctor, that if\nsuch were the case, science would long since have disappeared from this\nworld. Why, then, should science become a vain and childish effort as soon\nas God would do himself what we can freely do without destroying science?\nTake another example. Nature builds no stately palaces, no fine steamers,\nno locomotives, no railroads. All such things are our free creations. Yet\nsurely you will not maintain that by building palaces or by boring\nmountains we destroy science, although we may interfere very materially\nwith the works of nature.\n\nNow, if our free action upon nature does not destroy science, why should\nGod\u2019s free action destroy it? Answer me in the name of reason: What theory\nof natural science would be falsified were God to send angels to build you\na palace, or devils to dig you a grave?\n\nAnd now I come to your second difficulty. You assume that the supreme\nlegislator cannot work a miracle without destroying the action of natural\nforces and violating his own laws, thus reversing the immutable order\nwhich he himself has created. But you are mistaken. The order of things is\nnot immutable; this I have already shown. On the other hand, we have just\nseen that no law of nature is ever violated by a miracle. Lastly, God\u2019s\naction does not destroy the action of natural forces, but produces an\neffect superior to and independent of them. Nor is this strange; for we\nourselves can do the like within the range of our limited powers. When we\ngo up\u2010stairs, do we destroy the action of gravity that urges us downwards?\nBy no means. The action of gravity continues its work, but our contrary\nexertion prevails; and thus our body obeys the resultant of the two\nopposite actions, both of which obtain their effect. You see, therefore,\nthat there is no need of destroying the action of natural forces in order\nto produce an effect which natural forces cannot produce. After these\nremarks, nothing remains of your second difficulty but \u201cthe prayers and\nsobs\u201d which you cruelly ridicule as useless and superstitious. But our\nFather who is in heaven listens to such prayers and is moved by those\nsobs. This is abundantly proved by innumerable authentic facts; and this\nsuffices for us.\n\nYour third difficulty is based on Cotta\u2019s notion that the creation\ndeserves respect on account of its perfection. Cotta may be one of your\ngreat men, but surely he does not know what he is speaking about. What\n\u201crespect\u201d do we owe to creation? Benighted barbarians thought, indeed,\nthat the sun, the earth, and the stars deserved respect; but how can a man\nwho pretends to be a philosopher, and who professes himself an enemy of\nsuperstition, adopt such a stale pagan view, unless he blinds himself and\nrenounces reason by bestowing upon matter the worship which he refuses to\nthe living God? To say that the world is \u201cperfect\u201d is a mere equivocation.\nThe world is perfect after its own manner, inasmuch as it serves all the\npurposes for which it has been made; it is perfect in the same sense in\nwhich we say that a thermometer, a telescope, or an engine is perfect; it\nis a perfect instrument in God\u2019s hand for the attainment of a determinate\nend; and therefore its perfection is _relative_ only, and might be greater\nand greater without end. Now, Cotta\u2019s argument overlooks this obvious\nrestriction, and presents the world as _absolutely_ perfect. If the world\nis imperfect, says he, God is imperfect; but miracles would show that the\nworld is imperfect; and therefore miracles would show that God is\nimperfect. Now, is not this, doctor, asinine logic? We might as well argue\nthus: If an engine is imperfect, its maker is imperfect; but the opening\nof a turning\u2010cock for admitting more steam shows that the engine is\nimperfect; and therefore that opening shows that the engine\u2010maker is\nimperfect. And this leads me to your fourth difficulty, which is nothing\nbut a repetition of the third.\n\nYou ask: \u201cIs it a view worthy of God to represent him as a power which now\nand then gives a new impulse to the world in its course?\u201d I answer, _Yes_;\nit is quite worthy of God to exercise his power in the world in the way he\nthinks fit. Shall we say, then, that God, \u201clike the regulator of a watch,\nputs a screw on the world\u201d? Why not? The watchmaker is not degraded by\nregulating his work. But, then, \u201cthe world requires repairs\u201d? I say,\n_Yes_. And if you conclude that the world \u201chas not been created perfect,\u201d\nI reply that although it came out relatively perfect from the hands of the\nCreator, it has gradually and most sadly deteriorated by the malice of\nman. Moreover, the world, whether more or less perfect in itself, without\na constant active intervention of its Creator can neither work nor last\nfor a moment. The world is, therefore, constantly \u201crepaired,\u201d to use your\nexpression, and has \u201cscrews put on it,\u201d as history testifies; and other\n\u201cscrews\u201d are undoubtedly ready for further \u201crepairs\u201d when they will be\nwanted.\n\nYour last difficulty arises from your assumption that nature works without\nbeing controlled by a superior power. But how do you know that nature is\nnot controlled? What are the \u201cstriking facts\u201d which prove that \u201cthere is\nno direct governing reason at work\u201d in the formation of organic and\ninorganic bodies? Your _nisus formativus_ proves nothing. You say that the\n_nisus_ is \u201cblind.\u201d You may well call it blind, inasmuch as it is a work\nof secondary causes; but you cannot deny that it is ruled by a superior\nreason. What does it matter if \u201cmost senseless forms are frequently\nengendered\u201d? You yourself admit that the _nisus formativus_ depends very\nmuch \u201con external circumstances,\u201d which may mar or spoil the work of\norganization, and which nothing obliges the superior reason to alter or\nimprove. On the other hand, such senseless forms are not so \u201cfrequently\u201d\nengendered as you pretend; and if a few such senseless or monstrous forms\ncan move you to doubt whether their formation is controlled by a superior\nreason, I do not see why the immensely greater number of other forms\nperfectly constituted should not constrain you to banish the doubt, and to\nrecognize that matter not controlled and not directed by reason cannot co\u2010\nordinate its efforts towards the formation of an organism of which it\nknows neither the plan nor the object.\n\nI trust, doctor, that these remarks suffice to solve your difficulties,\nand to show that the world is governed by a superior reason.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ It may be; yet \u201cwhat this or that man may understand by a\ngoverning reason, an absolute power, a universal soul, a personal God,\netc., is his own affair. The theologians, with their articles of faith,\nmust be left to themselves; so the naturalists with their science. They\nboth proceed by different routes\u201d (p. 43).\n\n_Reader._ This is no reply, doctor, and your remark is misplaced. The\nexistence of a personal God, the possibility of miracles, and many other\nsuch truths, are proved by natural reason. Had I refuted your objections\nby quoting \u201ctheologians\u201d and \u201carticles of faith,\u201d your reply might have\nsome meaning. But since your allegations have been answered by reason,\nwhat does it avail to say that \u201ctheologians, with their articles of faith,\nmust be left to themselves\u201d? Moreover, you unwittingly condemn your own\ntactics. For if theologians are to be left to themselves, why do you,\nthen, who are no theologian, and not even a philosopher, invade the\nprovince of theology, and fight against faith?\n\nIf you have any desire to know the truth about the reality of miracles, I\nwill tell you what you have to do. M. Artus, a Frenchman, on the 23d of\nJuly, 1871, publicly challenged all the free\u2010thinkers of the world to show\nthe falsity of any two out of the many miracles registered in M.\nLasserre\u2019s book entitled _Notre Dame de Lourdes_, and staked 10,000 francs\nupon the issue of the contest. This money was safely deposited by him in\nthe hands of a notary\u2010public in Paris; and fifty judges were appointed,\nsome of whom were members of the French Institute, and others fellows of\nother celebrated institutions and academies, or members of the bar,\nincluding even a Protestant; so that there could be no suspicion of\nfanaticism, ultramontanism, or mysticism about them. Now, incredible as it\nmay appear to you, none of your great braggarts has dared from that day\ntill now to accept the challenge. It is for you, who are so peremptory in\ndenouncing miracles, to come forward, and to blot out by an act of\nphilosophical valor the stain which the cowardice of your enlightened\nfriends has left on the glory of free\u2010thinkerism. It is for you, I repeat;\nfor if a man of your standing and reputation quails before the challenge,\nthe world will most reasonably conclude that you have no faith whatever in\nyour own doctrines.\n\n\n\nIX. The Heavens.\n\n\n_Reader._ The laws of nature are universal. Such is the subject of the\nseventh chapter of your _Force and Matter_. I need hardly say that, while\nadmitting with you the universality of the natural laws, I cannot but\ncondemn the materialistic spirit which disgraces your explanation of that\nobvious truth. But in the chapter which follows you speak of the heavens\nin a most objectionable style.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cEvery school\u2010boy knows that the sky is not a glass shade\ncovering the earth, but that, in contemplating it, we behold an immense\nspace interrupted by infinitely distant and scattered groups of worlds\u201d\n(p. 51).\n\n_Reader._ This I grant; but I am at a loss to understand how the\ncontemplation of the heavens can furnish you an argument against the\nexistence of God. Is it not strange that what has hitherto been considered\nto proclaim most loudly the existence, and magnify the power, of God, has\nbecome, in your hands, an evidence in support of atheism?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ The heavenly masses \u201care in constant motion\u2014a motion singularly\ncombined and complicated, yet in all its modifications merely the result\nof a single universal law of nature\u2014_the law of attraction_.... All these\nmotions may be determined and predicted with mathematical exactness. As\nfar as the telescope of man reaches, the same law, the same mechanical\narrangement, according to the same calculated mechanical formula, is\nfound. Nowhere is there a trace of an arbitrary finger which has ordered\nthe heavens or pointed out the path of comets. \u2018I have searched the\nheavens,\u2019 says Lalande, \u2018but have nowhere found the traces of God.\u2019 And\nwhen the Emperor Napoleon asked the celebrated astronomer Laplace why\nthere was no mention of God in his _M\u00e9canique C\u00e9leste_, he replied,\n\u2018_Sire, je n\u2019avais pas besoin de cette hypoth\u00e8se_.\u2019 The more astronomy\nprogressed in its knowledge of the laws and motions in the heavens, the\nmore it repudiated the idea of a supernatural influence, and the easier it\nbecame to deduce the origin, grouping, and motions of the heavenly bodies\nfrom the properties inherent in matter itself. The attraction of atoms\nrendered the bodies compact, whilst the law of attraction, in combination\nwith their primary motion, produced the mode of their reciprocal rotation\nwhich we now observe\u201d (pp. 51, 52).\n\n_Reader._ Waiving the more than problematic plausibility of your premises,\nand setting aside the blasphemies which you have diligently copied from\nthe books of the French unbelievers, and which are too stolid to need an\nanswer, I reply, doctor, that you are always too hasty in drawing your\nconclusions. Why did you not reflect that the matter of which the\ncelestial bodies are formed must have had an origin, that the revolutions\nof those bodies cannot be ruled by an abstract law, and that their\nenormous distances, as well as the expanse of their orbits through the\nimmensity of space, compel the admission of an infinite being ranging\ninfinitely above matter and necessarily prior to it? You should not have\noverlooked the fact that the heavens proclaim God\u2019s existence by their\nimmensity far more eloquently than by the revolutions of the celestial\nbodies. You speak of movements ruled by a law. I admit the movements and\nthe law which rules our calculation of the movements. But without space\nthere is no movement, and without God there is no space; therefore without\nGod there is no movement. Extricate yourself, if you can. Do you concede\nthat without space there is no movement?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ It is evident.\n\n_Reader._ Do you admit that without God there is no space?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ This I deny.\n\n_Reader._ Then what do you mean by \u201cspace\u201d?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I fancy that space is nothing but the volume of bodies.\n\n_Reader._ How is this possible? A body moves through space. Now, does a\nbody move through its own volume, or does it move through the volume of\nother bodies? On the contrary, the body cannot move without pushing away\nbefore it all other bodies and volumes whatever from the space they\noccupy. It is therefore evident that space, as such, is not the volume of\nbodies.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Then I shall say that space is the capability of bodies and\nmotion.\n\n_Reader._ This definition of space may be admitted if properly understood.\nBut what is such a capability? Is it, in your opinion, a real and positive\nentity?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I should not think so, unless, indeed, it be occupied by\nbodies.\n\n_Reader._ I know that many are of this opinion, that the reality of space\ndepends on the presence of bodies; but I say that, if such were the case,\nthen empty space would be mere nothing. Now, if you admit this, you will\nbe compelled to admit also the absurdity that a mere nothing can be\ngreater or smaller. For between two neighboring atoms there may be a\ngreater or smaller interval of space; and such an interval, by the\nhypothesis, would be nothing. Hence it is evident that space, no matter\nwhether occupied or unoccupied, must be something real.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Then I say that space is a mere relation of material objects.\n\n_Reader._ There are relations of bodies in space; but all such relations\n_presuppose_ the existence of absolute space, and therefore space itself\nis none of those relations. Moreover, since all real relations have their\nreason in something real, which is the foundation of the relativity, it\nfollows that space, as that through which one body is really related to\nanother, is in itself a reality, independently of the relations which may\nresult from the existence of bodies in it. And again, before bodies can be\nconsidered as related through space, they must be each located in space.\nBut, evidently, they cannot be located in space if there is no space. And\ntherefore there must be space before any local relation of bodies can be\nimagined as possible. Hence you cannot maintain that space is a mere\nrelation.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Perhaps I shall be obliged to say with Kant that space is only\na subjective form of the mind.\n\n_Reader._ Then you will entangle yourself still more. The assumption would\nimply the denial of all real distances, of all real volumes, of all real\nmovements, of all real phenomena, and of all natural laws. For if space is\nonly a subjective form of our mind, then there is no space out of the\nmind; and consequently there are no real distances and no real movements\nin the outside world, and science becomes an array of lies.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ What is, then, your notion of space?\n\n_Reader._ Space is the region of all possible ubications and movements. Do\nyou accept this definition?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Why not? It is substantially the same as that which I have\ngiven by saying that space is the capability of bodies and motion.\n\n_Reader._ Very well. Then, since I have shown that this capability of\nbodies and motion is a positive reality, space is a positive reality.\nMoreover, space is neither matter nor any of the forces of matter, nor\ndependent on matter, but prior to it, and is prerequired as a necessary\ncondition for the existence of matter. Lastly, space is independent of\ntime and motion, and therefore is absolutely and strictly eternal and\nunchangeable. Do you object to these conclusions?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ No, sir.\n\n_Reader._ Then you concede that space is an infinite, eternal,\nunchangeable, independent reality, prior to matter and above matter, and\ntherefore, according to your own theory, prior to the world and above it.\nNow, to concede so much, and then to deny God, would be an evident\ncontradiction. For you must admit that absolute space is either a\nsubstance or not. If it is a substance, then it is an infinite, eternal,\nindependent, unchangeable substance, embracing and transcending with its\nimmensity all imaginable worlds; and a substance having such attributes is\nwhat we call GOD. If space is not a substance, it must still have the\nreason of its reality in a substance from which it borrows its infinity,\nits eternity, its immutability, and of which it is the extrinsic\nmanifestation. Hence the contemplation of the heavens and of \u201cthe immense\nspace interrupted by infinitely distant and scattered groups of worlds\u201d\naffords an irresistible proof of God\u2019s existence, and leaves no room for\nyour pretended \u201cscientific\u201d objections. If there is no God, there is no\nspace; and if there is no space, science is a dream and scientists mere\nvisionaries.(188)\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ I cannot fight on this ground, sir. Space is a mystery which\nour reason has no power to explain; and I decline to argue about anything\nthat transcends reason. The strongest argument in favor of the existence\nof a personal God was ever drawn from the necessity of a first mover, in\norder to account for the movement of the celestial bodies. But such a\nnecessity has never been proved; and therefore \u201ceven in this remote\nposition a personal creative power cannot hold its ground\u201d (p. 52).\n\n_Reader._ You cannot cover your retreat by pretending that space is a\nmystery; for if space is a mystery, then science also is a mystery\u2014a\nconclusion which you do not accept. But while you thus implicitly\nacknowledge your defeat, you try to secure a safer position by alleging\nthat the movement of the heavenly bodies may have originated in the powers\nof matter itself without any exterior impulse from a first mover. I wish\nyou to remark that the words \u201cfirst mover\u201d can be understood in two\nmanners; for not he only who directly imparts the first movement, but he\nalso who governs the exertions and establishes the conditions on which the\nfirst movements depend, can be called \u201cfirst mover.\u201d The old philosophers,\nwho did not know the fact of universal gravitation, proved the existence\nof God by affirming the necessity of a first mover\u2014that is, of a first\ncause\u2014giving the first impetus to the heavens, and governing their\nrevolutions. But since gravitation became known philosophers have\nacknowledged that all matter could receive motion through the action of\nother matter, and therefore that the first movements in the material world\ncould arise from matter itself, with no need of a special impulse from\nwithout. This, however, does not mean that we can dispense with a \u201cfirst\nmover.\u201d However great your effort to convince yourself that \u201cmatter is\neternal, and the motion of matter as eternal as matter itself\u201d (p. 53),\nyou will not succeed. Matter is created; and He who created it placed it\nin definite conditions, that it could exert its powers in a definite\nmanner and give rise to definite effects. To him, therefore, as to a first\ncause, are to be traced all the movements arising from his production and\narrangement of all the proximate causes. Now, the first cause of all\nmovements is a \u201cfirst mover.\u201d What can science object against this evident\ntruth?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cWhy matter assumed a definite motion at a definite time is as\nyet unknown to us; but the investigations of science are as yet\nincomplete, nor is it impossible that we may get some clue as to the\nperiod of the first origin of individual worlds. Even at this day\nastronomers give cogent reasons that some of the nebular spots are worlds\nin embryo, which, by gradual condensation and rotation, will become worlds\nand solar systems. We have, therefore, concluding from analogy, a right to\nsay that those processes through which the existing solar systems have\narisen can have formed no exception to the general laws inherent in\nmatter, and that the cause of the first definite motion must have existed\nin matter itself\u201d (p. 53).\n\n_Reader._ This is possible; but is it true?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cWe are the more justified in asserting this, as the many\nirregularities, contingencies, etc., in the economy of the universe and\nindividual bodies, exclude the thought of an external personal activity\u201d\n(_ibid._)\n\n_Reader._ What? Are you serious?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cIf it were the object of a personal creative power to create\nworlds and dwelling\u2010places for men and animals, why, we may ask, these\nenormous, waste, useless spaces, in which but here and there suns and\nplanets swim, floating about as imperceptible points? Why are not all\nplanets of our system so formed as to be inhabited by man? Why is the moon\nwithout water and atmosphere, and consequently adverse to every organic\ndevelopment? Wherefore the irregularities and enormous differences in the\nsize and distances of the planets of our solar system? Why the deficiency\nin order, symmetry, and beauty? Why have all comparisons, analogies,\nspeculations, in regard to the number and forms of the planets, proved\nidle fancies? Why, asks Hudson Tuttle, did the Creator give rings to\nSaturn, which, surrounded by its eight moons, can have little need of\nthem, while Mars is left in total darkness? And again, the moon\u2019s rotation\nround its axis is, in relation to that of the earth, such that it always\npresents to it the same surface. What is the reason of this? If there be\ndesign in this arrangement, it must be admitted that it is very imperfect.\nWhy did the Creator not impart to the celestial bodies that order from\nwhich the intention and the design could irresistibly be inferred?\u201d (pp.\n53, 54).\n\n_Reader._ Unfortunate man that you are! You have already received the just\npunishment of your rebellion against truth; you have been struck with\nblindness. The thing is evident, say what you will. You make a fool of\nyourself, as your preposterous queries prove nothing but your arrogance,\nignorance, and malice. You will never be cured of your blindness till you\nlower your tone and humble your pride before the God whose works you\ndisregard, and whose wisdom you call in question. You are a smoky little\ncandle challenging the sun thus: \u201cWhy these enormous, waste, useless\nspaces?\u201d Is it necessary to inform you that those spaces are not waste and\nuseless? We have just seen that the expanse of the heavens reveals the\ninfinity of the Creator; accordingly, the enormous spaces which you\narrogantly call waste and useless proclaim most eloquently the highest\ntruth, the necessary truth, the source of all truths. \u201cWhy are not all\nplanets of our system so formed as to be inhabited by man?\u201d In return let\nme ask you, Why is not the atmosphere so formed as to be inhabited by\nfishes? Indeed, if God has no need of peopling the air with fishes, it\nwould be hard to say on what principle he can be obliged to people the\nplanets with beings exactly similar to us in their organization. It is\nplain that man, though the best creature on earth, is not the last effort\nof Omnipotence; there can be rational beings made according to other\npatterns, having a different organization and different needs. But whether\nthere are or not, it is not for you to ask why the planets are not so made\nas to be inhabited by man. It is no less preposterous to ask, \u201cWherefore\nthe irregularities and enormous differences in the size and distances of\nthe planets of our solar system?\u201d If the planets were all alike, and their\ndistances equal, would you not pronounce the world monotonous, and the\nplan of creation a limited conception of an unintelligent mind? But now it\nis variety that offends your \u00e6sthetics; and you denounce it as being\n\u201cirregularity.\u201d Did you never hear that variety is a source of beauty? To\nme, the musician who always harps on the same chord is a nuisance; and I\nam sure that you too would prefer a full orchestra, with all the\n\u201cirregularities and enormous differences in the size, etc.,\u201d of the\ninstruments employed. You find in the heavens \u201ca deficiency in order,\nsymmetry, and beauty.\u201d This only shows your bad taste. Do you think that\nsymmetry is indispensable for beauty? An oak is beautiful, though its\nbranches are not symmetrical. The sea\u2010shore, the hill, the valley, the\nmountain, would lose much of their beauty, were they to be reduced to\nsymmetrical forms. Then you speak of a want of \u201corder.\u201d What do you\nimagine order to be? Look on a chess\u2010board when the game is going on. Is\nthere any order? If you are no chess\u2010player, you will not perceive order,\nbut confusion; and yet there is order. Order is a suitable disposition of\nthings in pursuance of an end, and must be different when it has to lead\nto a different end. He who has no knowledge of the end pursued cannot\njudge of the suitableness or deficiency of the arrangements made in view\nof such an end. When you think that the pieces are most disorderly mixed\nup on the chess\u2010board, then perhaps they are in the most perfect order,\nand the intelligent player already knows that he is about to checkmate his\nadversary. So do not speak again of the order of the heavens until you are\ncalled into the secret council of Divinity. I thought, doctor, that you\nhad some ability; yet how dull that man must be who asks \u201cwhy all\ncomparisons, analogies, speculations, in regard to the number and forms of\nthe planets, have proved idle fancies\u201d! The _why_ is evident. It is\nbecause men are ignorant, and yet presumptuous. But does our ignorance\nshow that there is a deficiency of order in the heavens? No; our ignorance\nonly shows that the best thing we can do is to hold our tongue. As to the\nrings of Saturn, what do you know besides their existence? And how could\nyou show that, because Saturn has eight moons, the rings can have no duty\nto perform? But then, you say, \u201cMars is left in total darkness.\u201d I reply\nthat twelve hours of darkness are not a _total_ darkness. Moreover, the\ndense atmosphere and the small diameter of Mars are calculated to afford\nit a long crepuscle, which may shorten very sensibly the length of its\nnight. And, after all, what need is there that Mars should have a moon?\nCould we not do on earth without our moon? But you are scandalized that\nour moon \u201calways presents to us the same surface,\u201d and never deigns to\nshow its other side. What a disorder! What an evidence of a want of\ndesign! This it is that causes you to exclaim that \u201cif there be design in\nthis arrangement, it must be admitted that it is very imperfect.\u201d I remark\nthat you here admit with Tuttle that there may be design in this\narrangement. But if there is a design, there is a designer. Who is he? Is\nhe not the Omnipotent? For how can he fulfil his design if he does not\nhold the heavens in his hand? The design, however, in your judgment, is\nimperfect. Why? Only because your ignorance can put a question to which it\ncannot make an answer. You say: \u201cWhy did the Creator not impart to the\ncelestial bodies that order from which the intention and the design could\nirresistibly be inferred\u201d\" Your curiosity, doctor, lacks modesty. What\nright have you to be instructed in detail of the intentions of the\nCreator? Is he not the Master? Is he obliged to discover his secrets to\nyou, rebel and arrogant being, who disregard the most clear evidence of\nhis very existence? Would you be able to understand his plan if he were\nwilling to reveal it? The heavens proclaim God\u2019s existence and attributes;\nthey glorify him by their beauty, variety, and harmony; they reveal the\ngeneral scope of creation; but they withhold the secrets which God has\nreserved for himself. God\u2019s providence and his government of the world are\ninfinitely wise, but they are inscrutable.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Although you treat me with little regard, and apply to me very\nhard epithets, I wish to make a short remark on what you call\n\u201cprovidence\u201d: \u201cSome perceive in the position and relations of the earth to\nthe sun, moon, and stars a designing providence; but they do not consider\nthat they confound cause and effect, and that we should be differently\norganized if the inclination of the ecliptic were different or not\nexisting\u201d (p. 55).\n\n_Reader._ I think that you would have done better if you had withheld your\nremark. That I treat you with little regard I do not deny; but, in truth,\nI believe that if you deserve respect as a doctor, you deserve only\ncontempt as the author of _Force and Matter_. Freemasons praise your\nperson and extol your book; be satisfied with this. To us you are nothing\nbut a blind and obstinate sophist. If we apply to you some hard epithet,\nyou gave us the fullest right to do so; for remember that you have called\nour great men \u201ccharlatans.\u201d We, at least, when we call you ignorant,\narrogant, presumptuous, take care to prove that such epithets are well\napplied; whilst you make denunciations, and give no proofs.\n\nAnd now as to your remark about Providence. \u201cSome,\u201d you say, \u201cperceive in\nthe position and relations of the earth to the sun, moon, and stars, a\ndesigning providence.\u201d Indeed, all great philosophers, nay, all mankind,\nperceive that designing providence; but, from your words, it would seem\nthat this is only a peculiar bias of a few obscure and eccentric thinkers.\nHence those words, \u201c_some_ perceive,\u201d are calculated to conceal or\ndisguise a great historical truth\u2014the testimony of mankind in favor of\ndivine providence. This may be called a trick. But what follows is a real\nblunder. Those who recognize a providential order \u201cdo not consider,\u201d\naccording to you, \u201cthat they confound cause and effect.\u201d Where is there\nconfusion? Do you mean that what we call \u201cProvidence\u201d is an effect of\nnatural laws?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Exactly so.\n\n_Reader._ Natural laws are abstractions, and abstractions can produce\nnothing. Did you ever imagine that a law of geometry could make a circle,\nor that a law of harmony could write a _quartetto_? Laws do not produce\nfacts, but are gathered from facts of which they exhibit the general\nexpression. Thus the natural laws are not natural causes, but abstract\nformulas, and do not rule the world, as scientists too often assert, but\nonly our calculations and scientific inductions. Your blunder is evident.\nBut is it true, at least, that \u201cwe should be differently organized if the\ninclination of the ecliptic were different or not existing\u201d? No, doctor,\nyou are not happy in your illustration. A change of inclination of the\necliptic would only alter the _distribution_ of heat on the terrestrial\nsurface without altering its _amount_; and as now men can live under\ndifferent latitudes and in different climes without being differently\norganized, so also they would live and thrive under some different\ninclination of the ecliptic without acquiring a different organization.\nAnd if so, it would appear that your physical knowledge is as limited as\nyour philosophical attainments.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Of course I am a doctor in medicine, not in physics or in\nphilosophy; but this I know: \u201cthat empirical philosophy, wherever it may\nsearch for it, is nowhere able to find a trace of a supernatural\ninfluence, either in time or space\u201d (p. 55).\n\n_Reader._ Quite true. Your \u201cempirical philosophy\u201d is unable to find\nanything supernatural, wherever it may search for it. But are you so\nsimple as to believe that, if there is a God, you should be able to reach\nhim with the telescope, or to detect him by the microscope, or to get by\nthe balance an indication of his presence, or to find him in a retort, as\na residue after some chemical manipulation? Shame! shame! Is this your\nmethod of convincing yourself that there is no God? Then, by shutting\nyourself in a dark cellar, you should be able also to convince yourself\nthat the sun does not exist. Is it not a mockery to pretend that there is\nnothing supersensible, _because_ it cannot be reached by experimentation\nupon sensible things? I cannot but repeat that you have received the\npunishment of your rebellion against truth. A man of your ability would\nnever fall into such absurdities from want of light; it is your hatred of\ntruth that distorts your reason and instigates you to heap sophism upon\nsophism, and blasphemy upon blasphemy. You need not search for God; you\nknow him, and try in vain, like Cain, to fly from his face.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ You make a sermon rather than a discussion.\n\n_Reader._ But whose fault is it if your assertions are so openly\nincongruous as not to bear discussion? Even your \u201cempirical philosophy\u201d is\na myth. Are you not ashamed to appeal to a science which has no existence?\nChemistry is empirical, and other parts of physics may be empirical; but\nempirical philosophy is nothing but a bombastic word without meaning, a\nfit conclusion to a chapter wherein you try to make the heavens bear\nwitness against their Maker.\n\n\n\nX. The Earth.\n\n\n_Reader._ After the heavens you try to enlist the earth also among your\nwitnesses against God. But what can the earth say in your favor?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cThe investigations of geology have thrown a highly interesting\nand important light on the history of the origin and gradual development\nof the earth. It was in the rocks and strata of the crust of the earth,\nand in the organic remains, that geologists read, as in an old chronicle,\nthe history of the earth. In this history they found the plainest\nindications of several stupendous successive revolutions, now produced by\nfire, now by water, now by their combined action. These revolutions\nafforded, by the apparent suddenness and violence of their occurrence, a\nwelcome pretext to orthodoxy to appeal to the existence of supernatural\npowers, which were to have caused these revolutions in order to render, by\ngradual transitions, the earth fit for certain purposes. This successive\nperiodical creation is said to have been attended with a successive\ncreation of new organic beings and species. The Bible, then, was right in\nrelating that God had sent a deluge over the world to destroy a sinful\ngeneration. God with his own hands is said to have piled up mountains,\nplaned the sea, created organisms, etc.\u201d (p. 56).\n\n_Reader._ And so he did. But mark that these Biblical expressions are\nmetaphorical.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cAll these notions concerning a direct influence of\nsupernatural or inexplicable forces have melted away before the age of\nmodern science\u201d (p. 57).\n\n_Reader._ Melted away? Indeed? And how?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cLike astronomy, which with mathematical certainty has measured\nthe spaces of the heavens, so does modern geology, by taking a\nretrospective view of the millions of years which have passed, lift the\nveil which has so long concealed the history of the earth, and has given\nrise to all kinds of religious and mysterious dreams\u201d (_ibid._)\n\n_Reader._ To call our views \u201creligious and mysterious dreams\u201d is no\nargument, doctor. We have a history of the earth far more certain than all\nyour modern geology; and that portion of geology which is not fiction and\ncharlatanism not only does not contradict, but rather completes and\nconfirms, the Mosaic history.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ This is what I cannot admit. \u201cIt is now known that there can be\nno discussion about those periodic creations of the earth of which so much\nwas said, and which to this day an erroneous conception of nature tries to\nidentify with the so\u2010called days of creation of the Bible; but that the\nwhole _past_ of the earth is nothing but an unfolded _present_\u201d (_ibid._)\n\n_Reader._ You say, \u201cIt is known.\u201d No, sir, it is not known; it is only\nwished. You infidels pretend to know a great many things of which you are\nignorant. If you _know_ that geology refutes the Bible, how does it happen\nthat you cannot impart to us such a knowledge in a rational manner\u2014that\nis, by proving what you assert?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cGeology, supported by the knowledge of surrounding nature and\nits governing forces, is enabled to trace the history of what has happened\nin infinite periods of time with approximating exactness, frequently with\ncertainty. It has proved that everywhere and at all times only those\nmaterial and natural forces were in activity by which we are at present\nsurrounded\u201d (p. 59).\n\n_Reader._ This cannot be proved by geology.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cNowhere was a point reached when it was necessary to stop\nscientific investigation, and to substitute the influence of unknown\nforces\u201d (_ibid._)\n\n_Reader._ Not even for the origin of life?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cEverywhere it was possible to indicate or to conceive the\npossibility of visible effects from the combination of natural conditions;\neverywhere existed the same law and the same matter\u201d (_ibid._)\n\n_Reader._ Of course. But this does not exclude the intervention of a\nsuperior cause.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cAn enlightened intellect no longer requires the aid of that\npowerful hand which, acting from without, excites the burning spirits of\nthe interior of the earth to a sudden rebellion, which pours the waters as\na deluge over the earth, and shapes for its designs the whole structure\nlike soft clay\u201d (p. 60.)\n\n_Reader._ This is openly false. All enlightened intellects acknowledge\nthat He who declared his intention of desolating Sodom by fire and the\nworld by the Deluge must have had a hand in the fulfilment of his menace.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ This is your Bible history, which we reject.\n\n_Reader._ But can you refute it?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ \u201cHow curious and whimsical is not the conception of a creative\npower, which conducts the earth and its inhabitants through various\ntransitions and immense periods of time to a more developed form, in order\nto make it finally a fit dwelling\u2010place for the most organized animal\u2014man!\nCan an arbitrary and almighty power require such efforts to attain its\nobject? Can it not immediately and without delay do and create what seems\ngood to it? Why these roundabouts? The natural difficulties alone which\nmatter meets with in the gradual combinations and formations of its parts\ncan explain to us the peculiarity of the origin of the organic and\ninorganic world\u201d (p. 60).\n\n_Reader._ It is ridiculous to speak of \u201cefforts\u201d of the Almighty; for no\none but a fool could dream of such an absurdity. Moreover, you confound\n_creation_ with _formation_. By creation matter received existence\nimmediately, without \u201croundabouts\u201d; for creation is not movement, and\ntherefore needs no time. This creation of matter was the work of God\nalone; but the formation of the earth was successively brought about,\naccording to God\u2019s plan, through the exertion of the natural powers, which\nwere not created to remain idle, but to carry on the objects intended by\ntheir Creator. Now, the exertion of natural powers could not give rise to\na perfect order of things \u201cimmediately and without roundabouts.\u201d Hence\nyour argument is worthless; and it is worthless precisely on account of\nthe \u201cdifficulties which matter meets with in the gradual combinations and\nformations\u201d of complex things. But matter meets with a much greater\ndifficulty, which you omit to mention. The difficulty is that matter does\nnot know how to form a molecule of hydrogen; and yet there is hydrogen.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ It chanced to be formed by nature.\n\n_Reader._ Indeed? Chance might form _one_ molecule, or _two_, but could\nnot form millions of millions of them _all perfectly equal_ to one\nanother, for chance excludes uniformity. Nor does it avail to say that\ntheir formation is the work of nature; for nature, according to you, is\nonly matter, and consequently it cannot do more than matter itself is\ncapable of doing.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Science is still imperfect; we cannot as yet explain\neverything. But geologists refute the Bible as to the six days of\ncreation. \u201cThe so\u2010called coal formation alone required, according to\nBischof, 1,004,177; according to Chevandier\u2019s calculation, 672,788 years.\nThe tertiary strata, about 1,000 feet in thickness, required for their\ndevelopment about 350,000 years; and before the originally incandescent\nearth could cool down from a temperature of 2,000 degrees to 200, there\nmust, according to Bischof\u2019s calculation, have elapsed a period of 350\nmillions of years. Volger finally calculates that the time requisite for\nthe deposit of the strata known to us must at least have amounted to 648\nmillions of years! From these numbers we may form some notion as to the\nextent of these periods of time. They give us, moreover, another hint. The\nenormous distances in the universe which stagger our imagination, in\ncombination with these almost unlimited periods of time, lead us to\nacknowledge that both time and space are infinite and eternal\u201d (p. 61).\n\n_Reader._ You are always the same. Your conclusion that time is _infinite_\nis pinned on the statement that the periods of geology are _almost_\nunlimited\u2014that is, not altogether without limit. I need not show that such\na rash conclusion is contradicted by your very calculations. And again, as\nto the geological periods themselves, their length does not clash with the\nsix days of creation as described by the Bible. The word \u201cday\u201d is often\nused in the Bible to express a great interval of time, and may be\ninterpreted as an \u201cepoch,\u201d or, as you say, a \u201cperiod.\u201d This is, in fact,\nthe interpretation of the word now accepted by our writers when explaining\nthe days of creation. Only our writers, more prudent than you, do not\npretend to determine the length of those epochs or periods; for they do\nnot indulge in wild calculations or imaginary data. When we see a\ndifference of 331,389 years between the results of two calculations\nregarding the period of the coal formation, we may well suspend our\njudgment, and not commit ourselves by the premature choice of either\nopinion. But we admit the periods, nor are we afraid of identifying them\nwith the days of creation. The Bible has nothing to fear from geology or\nany other science. We might, on the contrary, prove from geology the truth\nand divine inspiration of the Mosaic narrative. Moses was no geologist,\nand could not know the order of the events which took place before the\ncreation of man, except by supernatural revelation. Now, in his cosmogony\nwe observe not only the description of an order of events like that\ndeduced from modern geology, but \u201ca system in the arrangement, and a far\u2010\nreaching prophecy,\u201d as Prof. Dana well remarks,(189) \u201cto which philosophy\ncould not have attained, however instructed.\u201d You see, doctor, that your\ngeological periods, instead of refuting the Bible, furnish us with a new\nargument in support of its divine origin. Have you anything to reply?\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ Your explanation of the Bible is quite new.\n\n_Reader._ Be it so. Our ancient doctors, however, knew very well that the\nword \u201cday\u201d in the Bible frequently means a great length of time. Had they\nknown geology, they would have unanimously interpreted the six days as six\ngreat geological periods, just as we do.\n\n_B\u00fcchner._ But I have still other arguments deduced from the primeval\ngenerations.\n\n_Reader._ I am ready to meet them. But I really think it is scarcely worth\nthe trouble to continue the discussion, as you have hitherto uniformly\nfailed in every point you have tried to establish.\n\n(To Be Continued).\n\n\n\n\nHymn Of The Flowers.\n\n\nA Memorial of the First Mass of \u2014\u2014, One of Eleven Young Jesuits Who Said\nTheir First Masses at Woodstock on the Feast of S. Aloysius, June 21,\n1874.\n\nI.\n\nChosen from many,\nTenderly nurtured,\nWe budded to sunlight,\nOur fragrance we scattered;\nQueens of the garden,\nLanguishing beauties,\nReserved for high favor\u2014\n      Fair flowers! fair flowers!\n\nII.\n\nEmblems of purity,\nFitting for virgins,\nOur sisters are gathered\nTo grace the blithe maidens\nWho go to their bridals\u2014\nOh! fair be their fortune.\n      Glad flowers! glad flowers!\n\nIII.\n\nEmblems of innocence,\nFondly we\u2019re sought for:\nYoung mothers will scatter\nThe blossoms just budding,\nWill scatter our sisters,\nKept still fresh and dewy,\nWith sad pearls of affection,\nO\u2019er the vanishing image\nOf the lost darling\u2014\nAh! kindred with blossoms.\n      Sad flowers! sad flowers!\n\nIV.\n\nEmblems of triumph,\nEmblems of glory,\nThe nations will cull them,\nWill cull from our sisters\nTo honor their true ones.\n            Mingling with life,\n            Mingling with death,\nThe flowers will crown the hero\u2019s brow,\nOr wreathe the stone that marks his grave.\n              Frail flowers! frail flowers!\n\nV.\n\nBut we\u2014O glad fortune!\nO blest among flowers!\u2014\nWe have been chosen\nHigh o\u2019er our sisters:\n\nCulled for the altar,\nWe gave all our beauty,\nWe spent all our perfumes,\nWhen God\u2019s priest in oblation\nPronounced his first _fiat_.\nHow we trembled with rapture\nWhen the Christ was descending!\nOh! our bloom caught new glory\nFrom the priest\u2019s face all radiant,\nAs he held for adoring\n  His God in his hands,\nAnd our odors were mingled\n  With prayer from his lips.\n\nAnd, oh! the pale mother\nWho guided his lisping,\nWho gave up her peerless,\nThe one jewel left her,\nRobbed her breast for God\u2019s warfare,\nThe gift ne\u2019er recalling\u2014\nHow her heart is now pealing,\nRinging out unto heaven\nGlad chimes that are drowning\nThe dull whispers of sorrow!\n\nAnd the prayer of th\u2019 Anointed,\nThe heart\u2010voice of the mother,\nThe breath of the flowers,\nTriple incense, are wafted\nUp, up to God\u2019s footstool.\n\nAh! such incense is treasured;\nOur odors shall die not.\nThey give fragrance in heaven\nTo that glad first oblation\nOf God\u2019s priest at the altar.\n          Blest flowers! blest flowers!\n\n\n\n\nKathleen Waring.\n\n\nThe loveliest of autumn days shed its warmth and brightness over\nmagnificent Rome, while the bells from many towers announced the hour of\ntwelve, and a still more emphatic reminder of mid\u2010day boomed from Castle\nSant\u2019 Angelo, the firing of whose cannon frequently startles strangers,\nthough even they soon become unconscious of its loud report. Citizens\nmeeting complained of the horrible sirocco day; visitors congratulated one\nanother upon such beautiful weather for the fulfilment of their plans; and\na very perceptible thing was that not even in the Eternal City can every\nindividual be satisfied. In no way could an unbeliever be better convinced\nof this solemn truth than by a peep into the principal parlor of the H\u00f4tel\nd\u2019Angleterre, where a travelling party had just arrived. An elderly\ngentleman stamped up and down the apartment, furiously gesticulating, and\nundoubtedly making use of rather forcible language, consigning hotels in\ngeneral, and the H\u00f4tel d\u2019Angleterre in particular, to pretty uncomfortable\nquarters. At every approach to a small t\u00eate\u2010\u00e0\u2010t\u00eate placed near the window\nhe fiercely glared upon a lady, evidently his wife, whose sweet, smiling\nface served to exasperate her husband beyond endurance. A large fan, plied\nindustriously, stirred not only the black feathers of her own bonnet, but\nthe scarlet ones jauntily stuck in a dark gray hat that persistently\ndrooped, for no reason in the world but to conceal a very amused\ncountenance which might have added fuel to the fire of the gentleman\u2019s\nanger. Though for a time he is denied the gratification of a peep at so\nwinning a face, we will take it ourselves, and see what is under that gray\nhat with the scarlet plumes: A pair of dark eyes sparkling with fun, which\nall those curling black lashes cannot hide, while a few saucy rings of\nhair, lying here and there on the forehead, cause a surmise as to whether\nthey are the result of nature and warm weather or curl\u2010papers nightly\ntwisted up. It would be difficult to form an estimate of a mouth whose\nunder\u2010lip is being held in bondage by two rows of exceedingly white teeth,\nbut we will imagine it a rose\u2010bud, and hasten to make the acquaintance of\nyonder thunder\u2010cloud, who pouts so abominably, and is still so like her of\nthe mischievous aspect. Agathe Waring leaned on the back of her chair,\nand, when her father stamped his feet, she did likewise; when his frown\ndeepened and voice waxed louder, her pout became more decided, and very\nbeautiful hands doubled into fists that shook defiantly at invisible\nlandlords. Mrs. Waring, observing this, remarked: \u201cI think, Agathe, you\nhave chosen a dangerous employment for hands so valued as yours. Do you\nnot fear your vehemence will be the cause of a sprained wrist or finger?\nThen where will be our delightful evening music. A young lady who, at the\nfaintest suspicion of danger ahead, generally clasps her hands behind her,\nis to be wondered at when seen bravely challenging our most dreaded\nenemies.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt may be very amusing to you and Kathleen, mamma; but I confess to not\nperceiving the joke,\u201d replied Agathe, glancing complacently at her\nformidable weapons. \u201cHow you can see papa so worried, and be perfectly\nunconcerned, is more than I understand.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, my dear, would it mend matters in the least were your sister to weep\ntears of vexation, and I to vociferate against the unfortunate people of\nthis hotel, who were never less in fault than now? If your father had\ntaken my advice, and telegraphed for rooms, this occasion for trouble\nwould have been avoided; but, as he considered such a precaution\nunnecessary, we need not regard ourselves as dreadfully\u2010injured\ntravellers.\u201d\n\n\u201cAm I not sufficiently annoyed, madam, by this turn of affairs,\u201d shouted\nthe elderly gentleman, \u201cthat _you_ should consider it essential to remind\nme what your advice was in Florence? I have never yet met the woman who\ndid not delight in being able to say, \u2018I told you so.\u2019 \u201d\n\n\u201cNow, papa,\u201d said Kathleen with a merry glance from her bright eyes, \u201cI\nlook upon that speech as a calumny and an injustice to Agathe. When all\nour luggage was left in Paris, simply because you would not heed her\ninjunction to be very careful in looking after it, she did not gratify\nherself by any such malicious words as \u2018I told you so.\u2019 Indeed, her\nsympathy was far greater than ours, as we only felt indignant at having\nnothing to wear.\u201d\n\nThis boldly\u2010uttered sentence proved quite soothing to Mr. Waring, who\nceased his restless walk to twine an arm about his daughter\u2019s waist, whose\nhead leaned fondly against the dusty sleeve, and desired no sweeter\nresting\u2010place.\n\n\u201cYes, whatever my faults, whatever my grievances, this little daughter is\nready and willing to share them,\u201d said he, gently patting Agathe\u2019s cheek.\n\u201cIt has always been a wonder to me that a brute like myself should possess\nthree treasures such as my wife and daughters. But the more valuable the\ntreasure, the more difficult its keeping. If that atrocious landlord will\nonly give us an apartment for this afternoon, I\u2019ll go in quest of\npermanent quarters, and leave you to rest until my return.\u201d\n\nAn immediate ringing of the bell brought the attendant, who was requested\nto inquire into the possibility of procuring at least a single room for\nthe remainder of the day, during which time other accommodations might be\nsought. An answer, to the effect that there was a small chamber, engaged\nby a party who would arrive that night, which until then was at the\nservice of the American gentleman, caused a gathering together of bags,\nboxes, and baskets, an ascent of several stairs, and a happy entrance into\nthe nicely\u2010furnished and exceedingly pleasant apartment. The waiter,\nbefore his departing bow, made many apologies for the crowded condition of\nthe house having rendered it impossible to receive monsieur, and hoped\ntheir inability to please would be forgiven. Mr. Waring\u2019s wrath, until\nthen on the wane, appeared gradually gaining ascendency, and a convenient\nlunch\u2010basket would certainly have made the acquaintance of the waiter\u2019s\nhead had not the latter prudently withdrawn. \u201cThe impudence of that dog in\npresuming to beg my pardon! What do I care how crowded the house may be or\nhow impossible it is to accommodate us? I don\u2019t suppose this hotel is the\nonly habitable place in Rome; if so, I\u2019ll just take up my abode in the\nColosseum, and be done with it.\u201d\n\nNeither Mrs. Waring nor Agathe could resist smiling at this outburst,\nwhile Kathleen laughed outright.\n\n\u201cI shall consider it my first duty, on entering the Colosseum, to set you\nup as a statue of Perversity, surrounded by imps of contradiction. During\nthe last half\u2010hour you have been in a towering passion because the H\u00f4tel\nd\u2019Angleterre could not contain you. Now the poor waiter humbly laments the\nnumerous visitors and non\u2010elastic material of the house, and you are ready\nto annihilate him for supposing us anxious to remain in it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you not ashamed of yourself, Kathleen Waring?\u201d cried Agathe. \u201cWere I\npapa, you should not speak to me in that rude manner. You surely do not\napprove of it, mamma?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear Agathe,\u201d said her mother, \u201cI cannot disapprove when I so fully\nappreciate the spirit in which your sister thus addresses her father. Do\nnot imagine you are alone in your affection for him, and that the sole\nmode of expressing that affection is by unvarying respectfulness in\nlanguage and constant caressing. We all know you to be more dignified than\nKathleen, and to possess much greater stability of character; then how can\nyou expect her to be otherwise than more thoughtless and much saucier than\nyourself?\u201d\n\nThis last sentence, accompanied by a meaning smile, brought a crimson\nflush to Agathe\u2019s cheek and an angry retort to her lips, the utterance of\nwhich was stayed by a kiss from her sister, who whispered:\n\n\u201cNever mind, Aggie; just be as firm and stable and dignified as you\nchoose. I\u2019ll be your admiration\u2010point for ever, and I am sure mamma is as\nproud of her model of strength and her impersonation of sauciness as she\ncan be; then why need we quarrel?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, it _would_ be a waste of ammunition, mavourneen,\u201d replied Agathe;\n\u201cso, instead of letting loose my tongue, I\u2019ll exercise my arms. Be good\nenough to get me the clothes\u2010brush from your bag, that I may dust papa\u2019s\ncoat.\u201d\n\nBy plentiful application of soap and vigorous use of towels Mr. Waring now\nappeared resplendent, and announced his intention of at once going in\nsearch of rooms. \u201cIn my absence,\u201d said he, pausing at the door, \u201cI desire\nthe three treasures to repose, and hope to find them bright and sparkling\nthis evening.\u201d\n\nThe ladies did retire, and slept soundly several hours, while Mr. Waring\nmade every effort to obtain a suite of rooms, first at the different\nhotels, which were all full, next at two or three _casas_ recommended by\nhis banker. At last in a small house, opening on the Piazza di Spagna, he\nsucceeded in engaging five bright, cheerful apartments, though at quite a\nhigh price, since the number of visitors at Rome increased rents far\nbeyond their usual rate. Leaving orders with his _padrone_ to secure a\nman\u2010servant as soon as possible, he next made arrangements with the\nproprietor of the nearest restaurant to supply him with the necessary\nbreakfast and dinner, which must be daily occurrences to sustain the\nvitality of even the most enthusiastic tourist. With a sigh of relief that\nhis preparations were complete, Mr. Waring returned to the hotel, and\nfound his wife and daughters radiant in their fresh toilets and expectant\neagerness. There is nothing so destructive of beauty as fatigue added to\nthe dust and soot of railway travelling; and an individual emerging from\nthis double ordeal deserves the congratulation of friends. Mr. Waring\nbestowed a gaze of admiration upon each lady in turn, kissed his wife,\npulled one of Agathe\u2019s curls, and whirled Kathleen round and round to the\ntune of a cracked hand\u2010organ stationed beneath the window, which just then\nground out a very fine waltz. Breathless and panting, Kathleen soon sank\non the sofa, while her mother came to the rescue with a fan, and Agathe\nopened the window to throw the musician some coppers.\n\n\u201cThere is little need to inform us of your success,\u201d said Mrs. Waring, \u201cas\nthis emphatic greeting tells its own tale. I am really glad you were able\nto return before dark, as we feared you might be detained later.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, you cannot fail to like the rooms,\u201d said Mr. Waring; \u201cfor they are\nfive in number, quite handsomely furnished, and two overlook the Piazza di\nSpagna. I think, as it is a mere step from here, we had better walk, and\nhave our luggage sent by these people. If you are half as tired riding as\nI am, you will infinitely prefer proceeding to our destination on foot.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe should like nothing better!\u201d cried the three ladies, and immediately\nbegan to collect their scattered property. This being duly disposed of,\nthe black bonnet and gray hats donned, our party set out. The Ave Maria\nwas ringing, and the sweet sound of many bells penetrated the hearts of\neven these Protestants, who understood so imperfectly its beautiful\nsignificance. Dusk was fast changing into darkness, while black clouds\nchased each other over the sky, and the rising wind betokened the sure\napproach of a storm. Our travellers hastened their footsteps, and only\nreached their parlor when a terrific flash of lightning poured through the\nwindows, and the rain fell in torrents. Mr. and Mrs. Waring at once went\non a tour of investigation, in which neither of the girls could be induced\nto join. Agathe approached the window and gazed upon the outdoor fury,\nwith only clasped hands and awe\u2010stricken countenance to betoken her\nfeeling. Kathleen buried a miserably pale face in the cushions of her\narmchair, and sobbed most piteously; for the poor child dreaded nothing so\nmuch as thunder and lightning. After a short lapse of time, Agathe turned\nimpatiently from her post of observation, and exclaimed:\n\n\u201cWithout exception, Katy, you are the greatest goose I ever met, to be\nsitting there crying when you might have the benefit of yonder magnificent\npanorama. It is _too_ absurd that the least sign of a storm must send you\ninto hysterics. Do you not suppose there is quite as much danger for me as\nfor you? Yet let me sob as you are doing, and how foolish you would think\nme! Do control yourself this once, or your eyes will be red and ugly to\u2010\nmorrow, and you not presentable.\u201d\n\nAgathe had intended simple expostulation; but anger got the better of her,\nand her last words were very commanding\u2014so much so as to rouse Kathleen,\nwho cried:\n\n\u201cI am sure I don\u2019t care for eyes, or appearance, or anything else, and I\nwish you would let me alone. Because you have a reputation for courage and\nfirmness, you imagine you are justified in persecuting me; but I tell you\nyou are not. I cannot see any great courage and firmness in facing that\nlightning. If there should ever be a call upon me for such qualities, I\nwill beg the good Lord to give them to me, but not for the purpose of\nstaring at a storm.\u201d With this the dark head again took refuge in the\ncushions, and Agathe returned to her former position. The scene was indeed\nmagnificent, and fully compensated for any uneasy feeling she might have\nexperienced in thus exposing herself. The entire sky within range of\nvision seemed one dense, black cloud, hanging but a few feet above the\nhouse\u2010tops, every moment sending forth flashes of light, at times sharp,\nforked, fearful, again soft, widespread, and of sufficient duration to\nillumine the entire piazza beneath. The pouring rain could not conceal\nsurrounding objects, but rather served to enhance their beauty, since they\nappeared through a mist that served to screen the hard, substantial\nreality. High up, beyond the fine steps which are a prominent feature in\nthis piazza, rose the church and convent of the Trinit\u00e0 di Monte, looking,\nin its elevation and noble strength, a fit emblem of a religion so true\nand sublime. Inclining from its height to the level beneath, the aforesaid\nsteps were lonely and deserted, deprived of their lounging idlers, but\nnevertheless beautifully reflecting from their wet surface the brightness\nabove. One might have imagined the piazza, with its brilliant shops,\n_caffes_, hotels, and booths, to be the noisy, bustling world, having in\nits midst those steps so numerous, so difficult of ascent, but in the end\nleading to rest, peace, heaven! How pitiful, then, to see no foot\nascending! And if this little picture be one of sorrow, how much worse the\ngreat, real world, where so few mount the stairs within reach of all! Some\nwalk round, others glance up and promise a beginning to\u2010morrow; but how\nmany heed the warning? Now, _now_ is the time; to\u2010morrow may never come!\n\nIt is not probable, however, that such thoughts found favor with Agathe,\nwhose Protestant mind was in no way addicted to pious musing, since her\nchurch furnishes such meagre food for heart and brain. Her eyes, roving\nrestlessly about, suddenly became fixed upon the tall, muffled figure of a\nman hurrying through the rain with bent head and quickening speed. Devoid\nof fear, of suspicion, she watched until he neared the piazza\u2019s centre,\nwhen, after one long, blinding streak of lightning, a fearful crash\nfollowed, and she distinguished the object of her curiosity lying\nprostrate on the ground. A sharp cry from her lips brought Mrs. Waring, to\nwhom, with trembling limbs and horror\u2010stricken face, she pointed out the\nprostrate form. Kathleen, who had crept up behind her mother, no sooner\nbeheld it than she ran from the room, and, meeting her father in the hall,\nbreathlessly exclaimed: \u201cO papa! do go quickly.... There is a poor man\nlying in the street who has been struck, ... and nobody seems to know it.\nPlease go to him.... Bring him here. Get some one to help you; for he may\nnot be quite dead.\u201d\n\nBefore she had ceased speaking her father was down\u2010stairs ordering a\nservant to follow him; and from their position Mrs. Waring and Agathe saw\nthe two rush into the driving rain, gently raise the body, and carefully\nbear it towards the entrance. Kathleen had hastily arranged pillows and\nblankets on the sofa; so there was no delay in fixing something on which\nto lay the poor fellow, and very soon the entire family were making a\ndesperate effort to restore animation, as Mr. Waring declared there was\nlife in the body. His assertion was verified when, after a while, the\nyoung man drew a long breath, and opened such bewildered, astonished eyes\nas made every one smile.\n\n\u201cAh! my fine fellow,\u201d cried Mr. Waring, \u201cI\u2019ll wager you you are on the\nroad to life again, and we are spared the trouble of attending your\nfuneral\u2014a thing, I candidly assure you, I had expected to do not very long\nago.\u201d\n\n\u201cO papa!\u201d whispered Kathleen, glancing timidly at the pale face, blue\neyes, and curling brown hair, \u201cdon\u2019t talk to the poor fellow about\nfunerals when he has been so near the grave; it cannot be pleasant.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever mind, Miss Puss, I will set him straight,\u201d replied her father.\n\u201cNow, my friend, I have always heard, and there is an indistinct idea of\nmy having read it, that people struck by lightning never feel it. As you\nare a living witness to the truth or falsehood of this statement, I would\nlike to have your views on the subject.\u201d\n\nThis, delivered with the air of a man thirsting for knowledge, brought a\nsmile to the patient\u2019s mouth, and caused a general laugh.\n\n\u201cI am truly grieved,\u201d replied the lightning\u2010struck, \u201cthat my knowledge is\nof questionable authority, because I cannot tell whether I felt a blow on\nthe head or not, though there is a half\u2010defined recollection of some one\npounding me there, and producing about five hundred simultaneous\nsensations; whether really so or the fruit of my active imagination I am\nunable to avow.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, for our own satisfaction, we will believe you _did_ have five\nhundred feelings jumbled together, and take it as a warning to avoid like\nstrokes.\u201d\n\n\u201cSuch profanity shall not be allowed!\u201d said Mrs. Waring; \u201cand I really\nthink, Mr. Waring, you should conduct our patient to a comfortable room\nwhere he may sleep away his weakness. Kathleen will share Agathe\u2019s\napartment, that he may occupy hers.\u201d\n\nAll protestations to the effect that he could walk to his hotel being\nindignantly denied, the young man was immediately consigned to bed, and\ncommanded to sleep as long as he could. For about half an hour the family\nsat up discussing the accident, and did not separate until its victim was\nunanimously pronounced handsome, elegant, charming!\n\nThe sun was many hours high next morning before our friends thought of\nstirring, and the two girls were yet sound asleep when their mother came\ntapping at the door. Her knock was so slight as to be scarcely\nperceptible, and, receiving no response, she entered. The change from\nbright sunshine to this darkened room at first made it impossible to\ndistinguish clearly; but opening the blind a very little way, Mrs. Waring\nsmiled to herself, as, glancing about the apartment, she murmured: \u201cThose\ncareless, careless girls! What is to be done with them?\u201d Evidently, the\ncareless girls had taken small trouble to arrange their things before\nretiring, and now a somewhat confused picture greeted the despairing\nmother\u2019s eye. The bureau appeared the favorite receptacle for almost all\narticles. A colossal brush, instead of properly supporting the rightful\npartner of its joys and sorrows, made desperate love to an ink\u2010stand, a\nred bow, and a bottle of cologne, whose stopple had stepped over the way\nto consult an oracle of a watch about the probable comfort of the poor,\ndeserted comb that patiently reposed on a prickly pin\u2010cushion. The oracle,\nunwound and unmoved, refused utterance, and sullenly stared at a crowd of\nrings, bracelets, belts, reticules, hair\u2010pins, false curls, and\nhandkerchiefs indiscriminately gathered together. They were not interested\nin the watch, but bemoaned the sad fate of a coquettish gray hat with a\nscarlet plume, one string of which had caught in a tightly\u2010shut drawer,\nand cruelly hung its fair possessor. A grand civil war had transpired in\nother parts of the room; the washstand implements were horribly mutilated\nand dashed about; the four shoes and stockings had taken leave of each\nother, and angrily stationed themselves in different corners; and, last, a\nhuge trunk had brutally emptied itself of its contents, that now lay limp\nand helpless, here, there, everywhere.\n\nHad not Mrs. Waring been well accustomed to such a display, it is possible\nshe might have been dismayed; but as nothing is equal to habit, she\npreserved her equanimity, and, approaching the nearest bed, her attention\nwas at once arrested by a tiny pair of beads which she perceived dangling\nfrom Kathleen\u2019s wrist. With a dark frown she retreated to the door, and\ncried:\n\n\u201cGirls! girls! it is time to get up. You have slept long enough even for\nweary travellers, and your patient has been waiting an hour to see the\nyoung ladies before taking leave. Do hurry and come at once to the\nparlor.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, mamma, we will,\u201d answered two very lazy voices.\n\n\u201cYes, my dears, I do not doubt it,\u201d said Mrs. Waring; \u201cbut let me see you\nwell out of those two comfortable beds, as you cannot be trusted in my\nabsence.\u201d\n\nIn the midst of the commotion which followed Mrs. Waring escaped, and,\nslowly walking along the hall, murmured:\n\n\u201cIs it possible Kathleen still retains those absurd convent notions, and\nam I ever to regret having sent her to Mt. de C\u2014\u2014? Surely, in three years\nshe must have forgotten those ridiculous impressions; yet what does that\nrosary mean, and why should she sleep with it encircling her arm? Well, it\nwill only make matters worse to discuss them, and, until I am certain what\nthe poor child intends, I shall say nothing.\u201d\n\nBy this time the drawing\u2010room was reached, and, entering, Mrs. Waring\nfound her husband and their guest in hot dispute as to the best manner of\nsight\u2010seeing in Rome. Mr. Waring expressed abhorrence of guide\u2010books and\nhis resolution never to use them. The stranger intimated such a resolve\nrash. Mr. Waring inquired why. The young man said guide\u2010books being\nabsolutely essential in a place so filled with objects of interest as\nRome, he was willing to wager Mr. Waring would have three or four in his\npossession by the end of the week. Mr. Waring indignantly repudiated this\nidea, and the argument might have continued indefinitely had not the girls\nmade an opportune appearance. In their wake came a delicious breakfast,\nafter partaking of which the young man rose to depart.\n\n\u201cI cannot,\u201d said he, \u201cpretend to thank you for such kindness to a\nstranger, for words are inadequate to express my gratitude. My obligations\nwill be increased tenfold if you only permit me to continue an\nacquaintance so happily begun.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear fellow,\u201d cried Mr. Waring, \u201cdon\u2019t mention gratitude; and as for\nan acquaintance happily begun, if you choose to consider as such one\nbrought on by lightning, we are at your disposal, and nothing will delight\nus more than receiving you as our friend. But friends should know what to\ncall one another, and, though my name is Alexander Waring, yours is still\na dead secret.\u201d\n\n\u201cA thousand pardons!\u201d exclaimed the stranger. \u201cMy negligence is truly\nshocking; but it is Mr. and Mrs. Waring, with their lovely daughters, who\nhave charmed me into a forgetfulness of Howard Lee, and it is they who\nmust forgive him.\u201d\n\nOf the two lovely daughters, Kathleen pouted bewitchingly at the foregoing\nspeech, while Agathe gracefully inclined her head. The gentlemen shook\nhands most heartily, and Mrs. Waring cordially invited Mr. Lee to return\noften, assuring him of a sincere welcome. Thus, amidst compliments and\nacknowledgments on both sides, Howard Lee took leave of his friends,\npromising to see them very soon again.\n\nIt is scarcely necessary to add that the promise was observed, and during\nthe next month or two he was almost constantly one of the gay little party\nwhich roved among the grand old ruins of Rome, wandered about its art\u2010\ngalleries and into its temples and churches, always consulting guide\u2010books\nwith a faith in, and a dependence on them that undoubtedly made Mr. Lee\nwinner of his wager. It is very remarkable what wonderful things can\ntranspire in a little while, though we are not certain whether you\nconsider it remarkable that Mr. Lee soon manifested extraordinary interest\nin the movements of Miss Kathleen. If that young person chose to stare an\nold statue out of countenance, she would not be long without the\nassistance of another pair of eyes that had suddenly remembered some\nnever\u2010before\u2010known merit about the image, and were instantly intent on it.\nIf Kathleen thought proper to sit among the ruins, he, completely overcome\nby fatigue, would rest by her side. We are much afraid this was not all\nthat happened; for there were certainly some very ardent glances sent from\nhis eyes to her sparkling black ones, that softened and glowed as they\ndrank in the language of the blue ones. And at every new approach of the\ntall, manly figure didn\u2019t the gray hat with the scarlet plume droop lower\nand lower; didn\u2019t the round, dimpled cheeks beneath rival the feather in\ncolor; didn\u2019t the little hands clasp each other tightly, that their\ntrembling might not make too bold a confession of her happy agitation? You\ncannot be surprised that, standing together by the beautiful Trevi\nfountain one moonlight night, to her was told in eloquent tones the old,\nold story which every woman hears once in her life, be she ever so poor,\nso ugly, so disagreeable. But this woman was lovely, bewitching; and the\ntale seemed exquisite harmony when softly, beseechingly it fell upon such\nears. Long after the low voice had ceased telling what was music to her\nsoul Kathleen stood silent. The water dashed from and over rocks in\nplayful sport, defying the peaceful glance of the moon, which bade it be\nquiet. The church\u2010bells rang out the hour of ten, and from the distance\nsounded Agathe\u2019s laugh, with the accompanying expostulation from several\nladies and gentlemen who were begging her to sing. At last clear and full\nto these lovers came the sweet old song, \u201cKathleen Mavourneen.\u201d Howard\nwaited till the music died away, then whispered,\n\n\n    \u201cWhy art thou silent,\n      Thou voice of my heart?\n    Oh! why art thou silent,\n      Kathleen Mavourneen?\u201d\n\n\n\u201cOh! spare me, spare me,\u201d cried Kathleen. \u201cI cannot, cannot answer! If you\nbut knew!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd do I not know you are what I love with all my heart, what I long to\ncall my own? Have you not encouraged me? allowed me to believe you cared\nfor me?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I never meant it. I would not have had you know that I cared for you.\nHave pity on me, Mr. Lee, and do not ask why! I can give no answer to your\nkind words. Believe me that it is best as it is.\u201d\n\n\u201cMiss Waring, your friends are coming\u2014will interrupt us in one minute; can\nyou give me _no_ hope? Is there nothing you will say to comfort my\nyearning heart?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll I can say is, Wait; in a little while you will cease to wish for my\naffection when you have learned what it is essential you should know\nbefore I can give an answer to your question.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing can change my desire,\u201d pleaded Howard, gazing upon the tear\u2010laden\neyelashes and trembling lips. \u201cOnly tell me now what you think I must\nknow, and then see if it makes the slightest difference.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, Mr. Howard,\u201d said Kathleen, regaining composure, \u201cwait a few days;\nthen I will either send for you or write what I have to communicate. With\nyou will rest the decision. Remember always that I have cared for you, and\nthat now it is a sad good\u2010night I wish you, knowing it may be my last.\u201d\n\nHere they were joined by their party, and Kathleen flying to the\nprotection of her mother\u2019s arm, Mr. Lee took his place by Agathe\u2019s side,\nand thus they returned home. Poor Kathleen passed a miserable night, and\nawoke next morning with head aching so badly as to prevent her appearance\nat breakfast. Towards noon she improved, and by three o\u2019clock presented\nherself in the drawing\u2010room, where were her mother and sister. Telling\nthem she was going out for a little fresh air, and to feel no uneasiness\nif she did not immediately return, she left the house, ran across the\npiazza, up the steps, and stood in front of the Trinit\u00e0 di Monte. Pausing\na minute, \u201cThis is the 8th of December, the Feast of the Immaculate\nConception, so certainly there must be Benediction here this afternoon, as\nthey tell me the church belongs to the Ladies of the Sacred Heart. I\u2019ll\ntry, anyhow.\u201d\n\nThe little portress, in her very ugly cap, informed _la signorina_, \u201cYes,\nbenediction would be given in one hour from that time. Would she walk into\nthe chapel now and wait, or would she prefer going away to return?\u201d _La\nsignorina_ would wait; so she was shown into the church, and there left to\nher own reflections, which were one long struggle with feelings so\ncontrary that to make them agree was impossible. The poor child had, ever\nsince leaving the convent of Mt. de C\u2014\u2014, been praying for courage to avow\na faith which she knew would anger her father, distress that darling\nmother, and call forth words of bitter ridicule from Agathe. Now to these\nconsiderations was added the fear of losing Howard Lee\u2019s affection.\n\n\u201cAh! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,\u201d she cried, \u201chelp me in this my agony. Send\ndown upon me your blessing, that I may be strengthened in the path which\nhas become so difficult to my faltering feet! Endow my heart with that\ncourage I once boasted I would ask for when its need should be discovered.\nO my Father in heaven! look upon thy child with pity, and heed her earnest\nsupplication.\u201d\n\nFor an entire hour she wavered between the earthly devotion that awaited\nbut a word to be hers, and the higher Love, that requires many crosses and\nsacrifices before it recompenses the heart. It will never desert, never\nwound. The sun sank lower in the heavens, and the light in the chapel took\na soft, mysterious tone that lent supernatural quiet and stillness to the\nplace, greatly soothing Kathleen\u2019s restless mind. Her head leaning on the\nrailing in front of her, her lips moving in unconscious prayer, she fell\ninto a deep, dreamless sleep that was only disturbed when over her senses\nstole the faint sound of music, gradually, gradually unclosing those\ndelighted eyes shining with blissful wonder, as she supposed it all must\nhave been a dream, from which she waked to find herself safe in the dear\nold convent. Surely, there was the beautiful altar, the Blessed Sacrament\nexposed, many candles burning amid vases of exquisite flowers, the\nvenerable priest kneeling at the altar\u2019s foot; above all, the convent\ngirls, in blue uniforms and white veils, entering two by two, making their\ngenuflections, and standing in their places till all were ready, when tap!\nfrom the Sisters\u2019 bench, and down they sat. From the organ\u2010loft the sweet\nlitany she knew so well came pouring into her ears just as of yore; as of\nyore the priest, the Sisters, and convent girls sang in familiar tones:\n\n\n    \u201cMater Christi,\n    Mater divin\u00e6 grati\u00e6,\n    Mater purissima.\u201d\n\n\nWith happy heart and tearful eyes she sang out the _Ora pro nobis_, while\nmany looked to see from whence came the joyful notes, so splendidly\nswelling their chorus. Through the litany, the _O Salutaris!_ and the\n_Tantum Ergo_ her strong, young voice was clear and sweet, and none\nguessed that in the girl\u2019s heart a fearful struggle had taken place, and\nthat there the good Lord had come and left a gift which would never decay,\nnever be worthless, but ever bright and glorious. A last prayer for\nstrength was uttered during Benediction, and Kathleen felt half her\ndifficulties were overcome when she stood up at the _Laudate Dominum_.\n\nThat night she confessed to her parents her intention of becoming a\nCatholic, and besought their permission to take the step. Mr. Waring was\nfurious at first, and vowed she shouldn\u2019t\u2014not if he knew himself; but\nthree days\u2019 fussing and fuming brought him to the conclusion she might do\nas she chose, \u201cbut, for heaven\u2019s sake, never expect him to love her as\nmuch again,\u201d and enforced his resolution by hugging and kissing her on the\nspot. Mrs. Waring was very sad at the aspect of affairs, but had so long\nanticipated it as to be little surprised. Deeming a refusal of her\nsanction worse than useless, she also said her daughter might do as she\npleased. Only Agathe was inexorable; for, having begun by condemning her\nsister\u2019s course, she considered it incompatible with firmness ever to\nchange.\n\n\u201cHow you can have allowed yourself to be so wound about the little fingers\nof those priests and nuns I can\u2019t divine,\u201d she cried. \u201cIt indicates such\ncontemptible weakness to turn from the religion in which you were born to\nthat of a Papist\u2014above all things, a Papist! Were I to live a hundred\nyears, I could not do it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, my poor sister,\u201d thought Kathleen; \u201cwith all your character, I fear\nyou have not the daring courage required to combat the distress of\nparents, the anger of friends, the loss of a beloved object. No; it is a\nprecious gift of God, and must be prayed for.\u201d\n\nNext Kathleen wrote to Mr. Lee, informing him of all that had taken place,\nof her intention to become a member of the Catholic Church in a few weeks,\nand renewed her request that he would forgive the pain she had caused him\nin remembering the grief she herself endured; with many wishes for his\nfuture prosperity, she remained his true friend. No answer came to this at\nall, and the Warings saw nothing more of Howard Lee. Delicacy prevented\ntheir asking an explanation from Kathleen, and, as she proffered none, his\nname was never mentioned among them.\n\nThe days passed on, and Kathleen, being at last considered sufficiently\ninstructed, had prevailed on the Sisters of Trinit\u00e0 di Monte to allow her\nretreat to be made with them, and her baptism and first communion to take\nplace in their church. Christmas was the time appointed for the\nconsummation of Kathleen\u2019s desire. The chapel had been beautifully\ndecorated by the nuns and girls; and a little Bethlehem, removed some\nslight distance from the altar, was the emblem of the glorious feast. A\nnew Mass had been learned, and, while the organ pealed forth its first\ntones, the white\u2010robed girls filed in, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Waring and\nAgathe, who, by dint of persuasion, had been induced to appear on the\noccasion. Last entered Kathleen, and knelt in front of the altar. She was\nfaint and trembling, but did not lose a syllable of the words that made\nher a Christian, a Catholic, and soldier of heaven. She was baptized, of\ncourse, before the celebration of Mass, and during it received for the\nfirst time the Holy Communion. Mr. Waring seemed much moved, his wife\ncried outright, and Agathe\u2019s flushed face and shining eyes belied the\nunconcern she tried so hard to assume.\n\nNo one noticed the tall, dark figure standing in the furthest corner of\nthe church, nor saw the gaze riveted upon the fair, sweet girl at the\naltar. As everything here must have an end, so did the music, the lights,\nall that had brightened the chapel. The dark figure had hurried away, the\ngirls in white had disappeared, the Warings were gone; only the little\nBabe of Bethlehem still lay in the manger, and one lamp shed its faint\nlustre in honor of that Blessed Sacrament which is for you, for me, for\nall who but seek it.\n\nOn the evening of the same day Kathleen was playing soft chords on the\npiano, and indulging in waking dreams, when she was greatly disturbed by\nthe entrance of a man bearing in his arms a huge package of something very\ndelicate, to judge from the care with which said package was deposited on\nthe table. Before Kathleen could frame a question concerning the matter\nthe man was gone. Approaching the very remarkable bundle, she perceived a\ncard suspended bearing these words:\n\n\u201cA Christmas gift for Miss K. Waring.\u201d\n\nStill wondering, she gently detached the paper cover, and there,\ndelighting her eyes, was a tiny Christmas\u2010tree literally filled with bon\u2010\nbons, colored candles, and children\u2019s toys, while two or three small\npapers concealed some more valuable presents no doubt. In perfect\namazement she ran to the door and called father, mother, and sister, who,\nhastening to the room, uttered exclamations of pleasure at the sight. The\ncandles were instantly lighted, and the tree admired from every point,\nthough a thorough mystification ensued as to the donor. Each surmise only\nseemed to make the matter worse; so they instituted a search among the\nseparate parcels. The first opened displayed a gold locket with the\ninitials A. W. in pinheads of pearls; the next contained a handsome silver\ntobacco\u2010box for Mr. Waring; the next, a musical work\u2010box with Mrs.\nWaring\u2019s name; yet still there was nothing for Kathleen. More astonished\nthan ever, they examined once again; and right on the very top of the\ntree, buried deep in its branches, was a round pasteboard box about the\nsize of a lady\u2019s watch. Being opened, it disclosed a knot of hard\u2010twisted\nnote\u2010paper, which Kathleen unwrapped and unfolded until she came upon an\nold, worn medal of the Immaculate Conception, from which hung a blue\nribbon. As the paper in her hand had something written on it, she made\nhaste to read, and here is the secret:\n\n\u201cWill my dear one take for a Christmas gift the little medal herein\nenclosed, which was put around my neck by my mother when I made my first\ncommunion eighteen years ago? I have kept away from you, that you might\nhave a pleasant surprise for this Christmas day, though I went to\ncommunion for you this morning, and also saw the triumph of your brave\nspirit in the Church of the Trinit\u00e0 di Monte. If, when I come to you this\nevening, my little medal is about your neck, I shall know you accept me as\nyour devoted HOWARD LEE.\u201d\n\nKathleen stood looking at the words through gathering tears, and was not\nconscious of the quiet withdrawal of her parents and sister until the door\nopened gently to admit Howard, who, glancing quickly at the blue ribbon on\nher bosom, advanced eagerly, and, bending low, exultantly murmured:\n\n\n    \u201cWhy art thou silent,\n      Thou voice of my heart?\n    Oh! why art thou silent,\n      Kathleen Mavourneen?\u201d\n\n\n\n\nNew Publications.\n\n\n    THOMAS GRANT, FIRST BISHOP OF SOUTHWARK. By Grace Ramsay. With two\n    portraits. London: Smith, Elder & Co. 1874. (New York: Sold by The\n    Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nThe late Bishop Grant was remarkable for learning, ability, and sanctity.\nThe events of his life, both before and after the period of his\nordination, are interesting. As rector of the English College in Rome, and\nas bishop, his administration was successful and filled with great\nservices to the Catholic Church in England, particularly in respect to the\nre\u2010establishment of the regular hierarchy. The story of his life is told\nin a lively and pleasing manner, and the publisher has issued the volume\nin a style which makes it attractive, though somewhat costly. The author,\nwhose _nom de plume_ is Grace Ramsay, is one of the best of our English\nCatholic writers. We have been indebted to her graceful pen for some of\nthe most agreeable articles in our magazine, and we are pleased to learn\nthat some remarks in THE CATHOLIC WORLD on the character of the late\nillustrious Bishop of Southwark first suggested to her the idea of writing\nhis biography.\n\n\n    BLESSED MARGARET MARY ALACOQUE. A brief account of her life. To\n    which are added a selection from her sayings and the Decree of her\n    Beatification. By the Rev. Charles B. Garside, M.A. London: Burns\n    & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication\n    Society.)\n\n\nThis tiny and pretty little book costs only fifty cents. We make its small\nsize and price thus prominent, in order to encourage those who have not\nmoney or time to bestow on large books to buy this one and to help its\ncirculation. It contains the substance of the larger biographies of a\nsaint who has done one of the most wonderful works of modern times, and\nhas become justly the object of an extraordinary devotion among the\nfaithful.\n\nThe devotion to the Sacred Heart of our Lord has become the great devotion\nof our day, to the incalculable benefit of the church and the promotion of\nthe most solid piety among the faithful. Pius IX. has constituted himself\nthe Superior\u2010General of the Congregation of Missionaries of the Sacred\nHeart, and has expressed to several of its members his desire to\nconsecrate the universal church to the Adorable Heart of our Lord, if he\nis asked to do it. We trust that the petition to the Holy See will not\nlong be delayed, and that it will be made in such a way as to show most\nconclusively how ardent is the sympathy of the members of the church with\ntheir august head in his pious sentiments. It is most natural that all who\nlove this devotion should desire to know something of the favored recluse\nof Paray\u2010le\u2010Monial who was chosen by our Lord as the medium of his\nrevelation, making known his will that it should be universally\npromulgated and cherished. There can be no doubt of the real,\nsupernatural, and divine character of the extraordinary graces conferred\nupon her for this intention. The Sovereign Pontiff, in his Decree of\nBeatification, declares that \u201cwhilst she devoted herself day and night to\ncontinuous prayer, being often rapt in ecstasy, the gifts of divine grace\nwere most plenteously showered upon her\u201d (p. 89). Again, that \u201cit was now,\nas she was praying before the august Sacrament of the Eucharist, that\nChrist our Lord intimated to her that it would be most pleasing to him if\nthe worship of his most Sacred Heart, burning with love for mankind, were\nestablished, and that he wished the charge of this to be consigned to her\u201d\n(p. 90). When the Pope speaks in this manner, and the most learned and\nholy bishops, theologians, and other sound and judicious Catholic writers\neverywhere re\u2010echo, amplify, and confirm by solid reasoning and evidence\nthe calm and cautious statements of the supreme authority, hesitation,\ncriticism, and doubt are out of place. Infidels and heretics may scoff; we\nexpect them to do it. But devout Catholics do not need to wait for a\npositive command under pain of sin in order to believe readily and\njoyously; and to let their hearts take fire with the devotion that burns\neverywhere among the faithful, kindled by a spark from heaven which fell\ninto a virgin bosom, and has been communicated from her, under the fanning\nof the wings of the divine Dove, until it has enkindled the whole world.\nWe trust the time may soon come when the canonization of the Blessed\nMargaret Mary will give to the whole church the privilege of celebrating\nMass in her honor, and make her day a universal feast.\n\nIn the meantime, we welcome and most earnestly recommend the little book\nof F. Garside, and wish for it the widest possible circulation.\n\n\n    THE SPIRITUAL CONFLICT AND CONQUEST. By Dom J. Castaniza, O. S. B.\n    Edited with Preface and Notes by Canon Vaughan, Monk of the\n    English Benedictine Congregation. Reprinted from the Old\u2010English\n    translation of 1652. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold\n    by The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nVast numbers of Catholics have read the treatise which in English has been\nknown by the title of _The Spiritual Combat_, and has been widely\ncirculated in many other languages besides the Italian, from which the\nEnglish translation was made. It has been always attributed to F. Scupoli,\na Theatine, who in reality only translated and adapted it, with\nalterations and additions, from the Spanish of Dom Castaniza, a\nBenedictine who lived at the same time with S. Teresa. In this altered\nform it has been generally esteemed as second only to the _Imitation of\nChrist_, which, by the bye, has lately been conclusively proved not to be\nthe work of Thomas \u00e0 Kempis, Gerson, or any other writer to whom its\nauthorship has been ascribed. The complete work of Dom Castaniza, which\nwas translated into English in 1652, is now once more brought to light,\nand republished in the most perfect manner, with a preface and notes,\nincreasing its value very considerably, by a member of the remarkable\nVaughan family, a brother, we presume, of our illustrious and highly\u2010\nhonored friend, the Bishop of Salford. We are disposed to regard this\ntreatise in its present complete form as decidedly the best spiritual\nguide in the English language for the great majority of devout Catholics.\nThis is very high praise, but it is, in our opinion, not exaggerated. Let\nour readers examine for themselves, and we are inclined to think they will\nfind our judgment correct.\n\nWe ought to say that even now, as it stands, a considerable portion of the\nfirst part of the book is made up of Scupoli\u2019s additions. In the main, we\nhave no fault to find with the translation. We like that old\u2010fashioned,\nterse, strong English which is found in Old English writers. But it is\nsometimes rude and even coarse, and in the present work there are a few\npassages which are revolting to the more correct modern taste, and which\ntherefore become really irreverent.\n\nThe _Month_ has a very severe, though, as is always the case in that\nperiodical, a courteous and polite, _critique_ on the preface and notes of\nCanon Vaughan. It accuses him of boasting too much of his order, and of\n\u201cgirding\u201d at other people. We have looked through the book with this\ncriticism in our hand, and we must say that we find it overstrained. We\ncannot see any evidence that Canon Vaughan is disposed to undervalue other\norders different from his own, or that his remarks upon methods of\ndirection used in other societies are intended to censure anything except\nindiscretion and exclusiveness in their application.\n\n\n    GRAPES AND THORNS. By M. A. T., Author of _The House of Yorke_.\n    New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1874.\n\n\nAnother story from the pen of the author of _The House of Yorke_. Turning\nas the interest of the tale does on the discovery of a criminal in whose\nstead an innocent man is imprisoned and actually condemned, it is yet so\nskilfully conducted that none of the disgusting realistic details of what\nis known as the sensational school are brought in to mar the work. It\nreally is a case of touching pitch, and yet not being, in a literary\nsense, defiled. The circumstantial evidence on which the supposed murderer\nis condemned is very well managed, and, until the facts are thrust upon\nthe reader, there is no chance of his discovering the real criminal. This\nis a very great attainment in novel\u2010writing, and, in this day of hackneyed\n\u201csituations,\u201d one very seldom reached. It is difficult nowadays to take up\nany book, especially one referring to such events as are treated in\n_Grapes and Thorns_, without at once seeing through the conventional\nskeleton of the story, and picking out the main points in it beforehand.\nAs to style, we can only say of this book what all the literary world said\nof _The House of Yorke_\u2014that it alone would recommend even the flimsiest\nweb of story. The author has, in addition to this rare charm of style, a\nfaculty, so far as we know peculiar to herself among current novelists, of\ninvesting with poetical grace the most commonplace things of every\u2010day\nlife, even such hopelessly prosaic subjects as the engine and engine\u2010\ndriver of a night\u2010train, and, worse still, a grocer\u2019s shop and a palette\nfull of syrups! The descriptions of Rome are a feature of the book, but so\nare the delineations of New England scenery, in snow\u2010storm and autumn\nglories as well as in its summer dress of fresh greenery and moistness,\nwhich is so delicately sketched in the picture of the Pond farm, the\nwater\u2010lilies, and the strong, beautiful young boat\u2010woman.\n\nBut to come to the chief point, the characters; for of the story itself we\nsay nothing, hoping that every reader of this notice has either read the\nbook or will immediately do so. Annette is unquestionably the only heroine\nof the tale, although in the beginning one may be induced to consider the\nbeautiful, conscientious, high\u2010principled Honora Pembroke as entitled to\nthat place of honor.\n\nMrs. Gerald is another well\u2010drawn female character in the story. The most\ntouching thought in the whole story is contained in her gentle words after\nshe has found her son\u2019s footsteps on the fresh mould of the violet\u2010bed\nunder her window: \u201cI mean to sow little pink quill daisies in those two\nfoot\u2010prints.... When they come back, the tracks will be green.\u201d Anita, the\nlittle convent\u2010flower, is a very beautiful conception; she is like one of\nthe ethereal angels of Fra Angelico, not a common mortal. Mrs. Ferrier is\nthe very reverse, but her generous championship of Max Sch\u00f6ninger goes far\nto redeem the vulgarity that shocks one in the early part of the book,\nwhere she constitutes herself spy over Lawrence\u2019s actions, and lectures\nhim to the verge of insanity.\n\nWe have now mentioned the name of the hero of the story, Sch\u00f6ninger, the\nJewish musician, on whom falls the false accusation of murder. His\ncharacter is all but faultless, the only exceptions, perhaps, being his\nrather uncontrolled and fierce burst of joy when released from his seven\nmonths\u2019 imprisonment, and his general attitude towards F. Chevreuse. The\nlatter is more excusable than the former; but if the hero of a book were\nfaultless, he would be unnatural as a man. Sch\u00f6ninger is a wonderful\nconception; so self\u2010reliant, self\u2010contained, and yet not harsh, not\nrepulsive even, in his defiance. The opinion of the world is nothing to\nhim; he has his own standard of right and wrong, and he lives up to it; he\nwould think martyrdom a trifle, if endured for the truth; he sees straight\nto the core of things, and will be as uncompromising a Christian after his\nconversion as he was an earnest Jew before it. We think, however, that the\nauthor has made a mistake in making him a Reformed Jew. Doubtless it was\nmeant to enable him to parade the superior spirituality which was the only\nform of religion possible for such a man; but the _Reformed_ Jews are no\nnearer to a high spiritual standard, as contrasted with the orthodox Jews,\nthan the Lutheran or Calvinist sects are as contrasted with the true\nChurch. They are mere secessionists from the old faith, and, like all\nbranches divided from the parent trunk, are more or less withering into\natheism and infidelity. An orthodox Jew is much more likely to be\nconverted to Catholicity than a Reformed Jew.\n\nF. Chevreuse is a very beautiful character, especially after the scene in\nLawrence\u2019s room, where the priest and his penitent are alone with their\nsolemn secret, and face to face with God. Some one once said of _The House\nof Yorke_ that there was an undefinable \u201csomething\u201d wanting in the\ncharacter of the priest of that story, and that doubtless it was not given\nto any one to be able to delineate truly a perfect priest. Perhaps it is\nso, for it is most difficult to portray a life in which the supernatural\nmingles with and effaces the natural to such an extent as it does in the\nlife of a true priest; but in F. Chevreuse the author has gone as near to\nthe ideal as any one could well go. Lawrence Gerald is a very difficult\ncharacter to analyze\u2014a peculiar product of American civilization (this\nassertion would be very hard to prove categorically, but every one who has\nread the book will understand what we mean); a man for whom our feelings\nchange, during the progress of the tale, to a degree that almost gives him\nat the last the moral pre\u2010eminence which at the beginning would have been\ndifficult to award even to saintly F. Chevreuse. Truly, in his case, as he\nhimself says, \u201cNothing but utter ruin could have brought him to his\nsenses.\u201d There are souls whose salvation God works in this way, and\nLawrence\u2019s penance certainly reads like some biography of a medi\u00e6val\nsinner gradually turning into the life of a grand saint. The human element\nis not absent, either, in this picture, of a most unusual expiation, and\nno scene in the book will be read with more emotion than that of the\nartist sketching the sleeping Lawrence, and adding, at the eager\nsuggestion of the \u201cwoman under the arch,\u201d the \u201ccluster of yellow flowers\nwhich touched his head in the form of a crown.\u201d We venture to say that\nnothing short of the influence of a sojourn at Rome and the personal\ncontact with a life of exuberant, all\u2010pervading Catholicity, such as that\nof the Italians, could have suggested such a remarkable ending to\nLawrence\u2019s career. Of the subordinate characters of _Grapes and\nThorns_\u2014John, the shrewd, hard, honest footman; Jane, the faithful but\nexasperating housekeeper of F. Chevreuse; Dr. Porson, the Crichton cynic\nand man of the world; F. O\u2019Donovan, the fast friend at need of his\nbrother\u2010priest; Mother Chevreuse, the bright, tender, brave woman, of whom\nwe get but a glimpse; Sister Cecilia, a counterpart of Honora\u2014we can only\nsay that they show the varied acquaintance of the author with many and\nwidely different types of mankind. The pettiness and prejudice of\n\u201cliberal\u201d Crichton are well defined in the hue\u2010and\u2010cry which soon follows\nSch\u00f6ninger\u2019s arrest, and the equally intemperate revulsion in his favor\nwhen he is proved innocent. It is remarkable that no one but F. Chevreuse\nand Mrs. Ferrier believed firmly in his innocence while circumstances all\npointed so suspiciously to him as the murderer, except, of course, those\nwho already knew the miserable secret.\n\nIn spite of the great merits of this story, it has, nevertheless, like\n_The House of Yorke_, one great defect which mars its excellence, not\nperhaps as a work of art, but as a specimen of the Catholic ideal in art.\nAnnette, the heroine, acts foolishly, unreasonably, and against the sense\nof personal dignity and worth which the perfect Christian maiden must\ncherish, as next to her faith and honor, in marrying the unhappy Lawrence\nGerald. This shows that the author\u2019s ideal woman is not the highest type\nof her sex, and that she fails to appreciate the lofty, Christian idea of\nconjugal love and of marriage. Honora Pembroke ought to have been the\nheroine, and although she has not been fortunate enough to win the\nsympathy of critics and readers generally, especially of the fair sex, we\nare glad to see that the author has given us at least one specimen of a\nwoman who is governed by conscience and reason, and not by sentiment.\n\nAnother fault, against which we beg leave here to caution all our writers\nof light articles and stories for the magazine, is the introduction of the\nwriter\u2019s private and personal opinions on matters connected with religion\nand the church. We request, once for all, that such matters may be left to\nthe editor of the magazine and those whom he judges competent to treat of\nthem expressly.\n\n\n    AN ESSAY CONTRIBUTING TO A PHILOSOPHY OF LITERATURE. By B. A.\n    Philadelphia: Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger. 1874.\n\n\nThe aim of this essay is to give such principles as are calculated to\ncounteract the false and baneful ideas proposed in our text\u2010books on\nEnglish literature. The author, one of the Brothers of the Christian\nSchools, who modestly conceals his name, is a worthy _confr\u00e8re_ of Gerald\nGriffin. Evidently, his reading is extensive, his taste fine and accurate,\nand his mind truly philosophical. The unassuming book he has put forth is\none which teachers in the department of English literature and intelligent\nstudents of the same will find to be of great service.\n\n\n    AMELIA; OR, THE TRIUMPH OF PIETY. Translated from the French.\n    Philadelphia: P. F. Cunningham & Son. 1874.\n\n\nThis is a story quite romantic and sensational in its character, but\nwithal very pious, and showing very dramatically high virtue in contrast\nwith great wickedness, and triumphing over it. In one part of it Amelia\nmakes a promise which a Catholic could not make without grievous sin. She\npromises, namely, her supposed parents, who were Protestants, that if they\nwill listen to a discussion between a priest and a minister, she will\nembrace their religion, provided they declare their conviction that the\nminister has the best of it. The use of the word \u201cCatholicism\u201d to express\nthe Catholic religion, though sometimes allowable, is awkward and\nunsuitable as it occurs in the story. Critically speaking, this story is\nnot much, but it may amuse children, who are generally not very critical\nif there are plenty of remarkable incidents to excite their emotions.\nThere are hosts of stories like this in the French language, many of which\nare much better. It is a pity that more care and taste are not sometimes\nshown in selecting among them for translation.\n\n\n    THE CHURCH AND THE EMPIRES, HISTORICAL PERIODS. By Henry William\n    Wilberforce. Preceded by a Memoir of the Author by J. H. Newman,\n    D.D. With a portrait. London: Henry S. King & Co. 1874. (New York:\n    Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\n\nThe essays contained in this volume are reprints of articles from the\n_Dublin Review_. The memoir, by the dear friend of the author, Dr. Newman,\nthough brief, is a complete little biography of a justly distinguished and\nmost estimable man, who honored the illustrious name of Wilberforce by his\nsacrifices, his virtues, and his valuable literary labors.\n\n\n    ALEXANDER THE GREAT. A DRAMATIC POEM. By Aubrey de Vere, Author of\n    \u201cLegends of S. Patrick.\u201d London: Henry S. King & Co. 1874. (New\n    York: For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.).\n\n\nA dramatic poem by Aubrey de Vere could not be other than noble in theme\nand thoughtful and delicate in execution. Almost alone among the poets of\nthe day, not many of whom equal, and not one of whom surpasses, him in the\nhigher qualities of insight and subtle imagination, he seems never to have\nfelt the debasing touch of that materialism which in one department of\nletters seeks to elevate science at the expense of faith, and in another\nto degrade poetry to be the beautiful but shameless minister to all that\nis lowest in man\u2019s nature. Religion, which he has served so faithfully,\nhas rewarded his devotion by lifting him into a clearer atmosphere than\ncan be breathed by men devoid of faith, and has made him worthy to be\nranked with those true poets who sing not alone for the busy, itching ears\nof their contemporaries, but for a wider, because a more enduring,\naudience.\n\nNevertheless, Mr. de Vere\u2019s lyric poetry, subtle and delicate as it is,\ncould hardly, we should say, have prepared his readers for the power shown\nin his conception and delineation of the hero of his drama, Alexander, the\ngreatest of the great conquerors whom the world has seen. His poem is\nabsolutely simple in aim and in detail, and gains interest, if not solely,\nyet almost solely, from the manner in which he has strongly though briefly\nexpressed his idea of what a great conqueror, a man with aims truly\nimperial, swayed by no mean passion, and filled with the idea of welding\ninto one all peoples, and informing them by the highest purely human\nintelligence, should be. What literal truth there is in the picture\u2014how\nnearly the Alexander of the play resembles him who died at thirty\u2010three,\nthe master of half the world\u2014is not a question of any special interest. It\nis enough that Mr. de Vere\u2019s hero is a noble and intrinsically true\nconception, and a fit measure by which to estimate the true proportions of\nthose lesser men whom the world once in an age sees filled with the lust\nof empire, but void of the skill and quick insight which should make them\navoid its perils. In his play, indeed, Mr. de Vere, who follows the\ntradition of Josephus, and makes Alexander visit once the temple at\nJerusalem, and pay to its high\u2010priest such reverence as he had never shown\nto mortal man, makes him listen there to the warning that his power must\nhave its \u201cterm and limit,\u201d and that he who would indeed wear the world\u2019s\ncrown \u201cshould be the Prince of Peace.\u201d And yet the errors and mistakes by\nwhich great men seem blindly to throw away at last the fruits of their\nlong toil seem to the on\u2010looker as if they might have been so easily\navoided that it is always necessary to remind one\u2019s self how little is\ntruly in the power of man, and how surely God controls even the crimes and\nfollies of those who seem to rule the world.\n\nAside, however, from the fine scenes in which Mr. de Vere brings out his\nidea of his hero, the play has many subsidiary beauties of a different\nkind.\n\nWhat poet but himself could have written the two lovely scenes between\nHephestion and Arsino\u00eb, and made his readers see so well the love which\neither felt, but of whose return neither was aware? The minor characters,\nindeed, are drawn throughout with the hand of a master who never wastes a\nstroke, and who has the art of showing his readers what he wills by\nlifting them and not by lowering himself. Who has painted in our day a\nlovelier picture than that in which Hephestion shows us Arsino\u00eb\u2019s mother?\n\n\n          \u201cWho knew your mother\n    Till death shall reverence woman\u2019s race! In her,\n    Though doubly\u2010dower\u2019d, a mother and a queen,\n    There lived a soft, perpetual maidenhood,\n    An inexperienced trust, timid, yet frank,\n    Shy, yet through guilelessness forgetting shyness.\n    She seem\u2019d a flower\u2010like creature come to fruit;\n    She moved among her babes an elder sister;\n    Then, wakened by an infant cry or laugh,\n    Full motherhood returned.\u201d\n\n\nSome qualities of Mr. de Vere\u2019s work, which are more generally known than\nthe virile force displayed in his grasp of the characters of his play, are\nshown at their best in the two or three lyrics which occur in it. Let us\nend an inadequate notice, which may send our readers to the poem itself,\nby quoting his exquisite paraphrase of one of the most beautiful of the\nPsalms:\n\n\n    \u201cWe sate beside the Babylonian river:\n      Within the conqueror\u2019s bound, weeping we sate;\n    We hung our harps upon the trees that quiver\n      Above the rushing waters desolate.\n\n    \u201cA song they claimed\u2014the men our tasks who meted\u2014\n      \u2018A song of Sion sing us, exile band!\u2019\n    For song they sued, in pride around us seated;\n      How can we sing it in the stranger\u2019s land?\n\n    \u201cIf I forget thee, Salem, in thy sadness,\n      May this right hand forget the harper\u2019s art!\n    If I forget thee, Salem, in my gladness,\n      My tongue dry up, and wither, like my heart!\n\n    \u201cDaughter of Babylon, with misery wasted,\n      Blest shall he be, the man who hears thy moans;\n    Who gives thee back the cup that we have tasted;\n      Who lifts thy babes, and hurls them on the stones!\u201d\n\n\n    ADELINE DE CHAZAL; OR, FIRST EXPERIENCE OF THE WORLD AFTER LEAVING\n    SCHOOL. Translated from the French by a Sister of S. Joseph.\n    Philadelphia: P. F. Cunningham. 1874.\n\n\nA great number of young graduates are just now beginning this \u201cfirst\nexperience,\u201d after receiving their medals, crowns, and premiums, and\nlistening to the valedictories with which good\u2010by is said to academic\nhalls and groves. Miss Adeline de Chazal\u2019s experience, and her remarks\nupon the same, will probably come home to this class of young ladies with\nmore interest than to any other set of readers. They will find it edifying\nand instructive, and, if they act upon the advice it contains, they will\ncertainly take a safe course. The list of books for reading is good, so\nfar as it goes, but might receive a considerable increase.\n\n\n    THE HELPERS OF THE HOLY SOULS. By the Rev. C. B. Garside. London:\n    Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication\n    Society.)\n\n\nThe Helpers of the Holy Souls are a religious congregation of women in\nFrance, whose special devotion is to aid the souls of the faithful\ndeparted in purgatory by their prayers, good works, and other suffrages.\nF. Garside gives an account of their foundress and a history of their\ninstitution, with suitable reflections on the great utility of the special\nobject which they have undertaken to promote.\n\n\n    ROSEMARY. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton.\n\n    SHORT STORIES. By the same.\n\n    THE NEPTUNE OUTWARD BOUND. By Winnie. New York: P. O\u2019Shea. 1874.\n\n\nThe first two of these pretty books for children are reprints from the\nEnglish editions already noticed in this magazine; the third is a lively,\nwholesome story imitating Oliver Optic.\n\n\n\n\n\n[Transcriber\u2019s Note: Obvious printer\u2019s errors have been corrected.]\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES\n\n\n    1 \u201cEssentialis ratio substanti\u00e6 ut sic non consistit in _esse per se_,\n      quatenus per h\u00e6c verba describitur ipsum subsistere in actu, sed in\n      hoc quod habeat talem essentiam, cui debeatur subsistentia, seu qu\u00e6\n      ex se sit sufficiens principium illius.\u201d\u2014Suarez, _Metaph. Disp._ 34,\n      sect. 8, n. 11.\n\n    2 \u03a4\u1f78 \u1f10\u03bd \u1f11\u03b1\u03c4\u1ff7 \u1f43\u03bd, \u03ba\u03b1\u1f76 \u03bc\u1f74 \u1f10\u03bd \u1f11\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u1ff3 \u1f14\u03c7\u03bf\u03bd \u03c4\u1f74\u03bd \u1f54\u03c9\u03b1\u03c1\u03be\u03b9\u03bd.\u2014_Dialect._, c. 4.\n\n    3 \u1f18\u03c0\u1f76 \u03c0\u03ac\u03bd\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd \u03c4\u1ff6\u03bd \u1f44\u03bd\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd, \u03c4\u1f78 \u1f10\u03bd \u1f11\u03b1\u03c5\u03c4\u1ff7, \u03ba\u03b1\u1f76 \u03bc\u1f74 \u1f10\u03bd \u1f11\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u1ff3 \u1f14\u03c7\u03bf\u03bd \u03c4\u1f78 \u03b5\u1f36\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9,\n      \u03bf\u1f50\u03c3\u03af\u03b1 \u1f10\u03c3\u03c4\u03af.\u2014_Dialect._, c. 4.\n\n    4 \u1f48\u03c5\u03c3\u03af\u03b1 \u1f10\u03c3\u03c4\u03b9 \u03c0\u1fb6\u03bd \u1f44\u03c4\u03b9\u03c0\u03b5\u03c1 \u03b1\u1f50\u03b8\u03c5\u03c0\u03cc\u03c3\u03c4\u03b1\u03c4\u03cc\u03bd \u1f10\u03c3\u03c4\u1f76, \u03ba\u03b1\u1f76 \u03bc\u1f74 \u1f10\u03bd \u1f11\u03c4\u03ad\u03c1\u1ff3 \u1f14\u03c7\u03b5\u03b9 \u03c4\u1f78\n      \u03b5\u1f36\u03bd\u03b1\u03b9.\u2014_Dialect._, c. 39.\n\n    5 \u201cQuod in suo maneat, nec ope subsistat aliena (Deus), appellatur\n      substantia.\u201d\u2014_De Incarn._, c. 10.\n\n    6 This absence is a real negation\u2014a negation of imperfection, so long\n      as we speak of God, who cannot admit of an inferior nature being\n      inserted in the plenitude of his reality; but a negation of further\n      perfection when we speak of created things, which are potential, and\n      can be raised supernaturally above their natural condition.\n\n    7 _Contra Gent._, lib. 1, c. 25.\n\n    8 \u201cSubstantia non addit supra ens aliquam differentiam, qu\u00e6 significet\n      aliquam naturam superadditam enti: sed nomine substanti\u00e6 exprimitur\n      specialis modus essendi\u201d (_De Verit._, q. 1, a. 1). Hence this\n      special mode does not constitute the nature or essence of the thing\n      itself, and for this reason it is not mentioned in its definition,\n      as S. Thomas says, _Quodlib._ 9, q. 3.\n\n    9 \u201cPrima substantia est qu\u00e6dam natura sensibilis, qu\u00e6 nec de subjecto\n      dicitur, nec in subjecto aliquo est.\u201d\u2014_In Logic. Arist._, c. 5, _De\n      Substantia_.\n\n   10 \u201cNon est de essentia eius subsistentia, sed modus substanti\u00e6.\u201d\u2014In 3\n      part, q. 77, a. 1.\n\n   11 Lib. xi. c. 14.\n\n   12 Vol. 2, q. 1, _de accident_.\n\n   13 \u201cIn substanti\u00e6 rationem redeuntes, tria quoad ipsam considerare\n      possumus: primum, quod existat, et quidem in se; alterum, quod tali\n      potius quam alia realitate constat, seu essentia, ex qua determinat\u00e6\n      vires operandi dimanant; tertium, quod se possideat, sitque sui\n      juris in existendo. Primum proprie et pr\u00e6cise constituit notionem\n      substanti\u00e6; alterum conceptum offert natur\u00e6; postremum denique, ...\n      ideam suppositi pr\u00e6bet.\u201d\u2014_Metaph. Gen._, n. 64.\n\n   14 \u201cEx duobus, nempe ex re pr\u00e6dicamenti, et ratione essendi ejus, qu\u00e6\n      est ratio pr\u00e6dicamenti, constituitur ipsum pr\u00e6dicamentum, et\n      diversificatur unum pr\u00e6dicamentum ab alio.\u201d\n\n   15 _De Verit._, q. 1, a. 1.\n\n   16 \u201cNon propter defectum alicujus quod ad perfectionem human\u00e6 natur\u00e6\n      pertineat, sed propter additionem alicujus quod est supra humanam\n      naturam, quod est unio ad divinam Personam.\u201d\u2014_Summa Theol._, p. 3,\n      q. 4, a. 2.\n\n   17 \u201cPersona divina sua unione impedivit, ne humana natura propriam\n      personalitatem haberet.\u201d\u2014_Ibid._\n\n   18 \u201cExistere ex se solum dicit habere entitatem extra causas, seu in\n      rerum natura; unde de se indifferens est ad modum existendi\n      innitendo alteri ut sustentanti, et ad modum existendi per se sine\n      aliquo sustentante.\u201d\u2014_Metaph. Disp._ 33, sect. 4, n. 24.\n\n   19 It is known that this analogy has been erroneously interpreted by\n      some old and modern heretics, who taught that Christ\u2019s body is in\n      the Holy Eucharist by _impanation_ or by _consubstantiation_, and\n      not by transubstantiation. The heresy of impanation asserts that the\n      Eternal Word in the Holy Eucharist _becomes bread by assuming\n      hypostatically the substance of bread_. The heresy of\n      consubstantiation assumes that in the Holy Eucharist the substance\n      of Christ\u2019s body is _united with the substance of the bread_, and\n      that therefore the Eucharist contains both substances. These\n      heresies are, of course, mere corruptions of the traditional\n      doctrine. The first corrupts it by confounding the substantive\n      sustentation with the personal assumption, and by substituting the\n      latter in the place of the former. The second corrupts it by\n      supposing that a thing substantively supported by an underlying\n      substance continues to exist as a substance; which is against the\n      traditional definition of substance, and against the very analogy of\n      which it pretends to be the interpretation; for, in virtue of such\n      an analogy, it is as impossible for a thing _thus supported_ to be a\n      substance as it is impossible for the human nature _assumed_ to be a\n      human person. Hence what logically follows from the analogy of the\n      two mysteries is neither impanation nor consubstantiation, but real\n      and proper transubstantiation\u2014that is, a real substitution of one\n      substance for another under the remaining sensible species.\n\n   20 \u201cSubsistere dicit determinatum modum existendi per se et sine\n      dependentia a sustentante; unde illi opponitur inesse vel\n      inexistere; dicitque determinatum modum existendi in alio.\u201d\u2014_Disp.\n      Metaph._ 33, sect. 4, n. 24.\n\n   21 At the consecration of a church to the Sacred Heart.\n\n   22 What, sir! you bring us all those pretty ladies! You will\n      revolutionize our poor curate.\n\n   23 According to Gov. Dix\u2019s report for 1874, our \u201cevangelical\u201d state\n      church will have to draw the sum of $8,600,000 (eight million, six\n      hundred thousand dollars!) out of the public treasury to erect two\n      \u201cevangelical\u201d asylums, one \u201cevangelical\u201d hospital, and one\n      \u201cevangelical\u201d non\u2010sectarian state reformatory! From the same report\n      we learn that our \u201cevangelical\u201d system of public education cost the\n      state for the year ending September 30, 1873, the sum of $20,355,341\n      (twenty million, three hundred and fifty\u2010five thousand, three\n      hundred and forty\u2010one dollars!); and that our \u201cevangelical\u201d state\n      church owns twenty\u2010seven millions, seventy thousand, three hundred\n      and ten dollars\u2019 worth of school property! Remember that Catholics\n      pay their proportion of the taxes, and that most of the public\n      schools are not only \u201cevangelical\u201d in their religion, but some even\n      formally Methodist by the \u201chymns\u201d and prayers taught in them!\n\n   24 How little publicity the \u201cEvangelical\u201d press have given to this\n      letter, because it favored the Catholics!\n\n   25 One of our judges\u2014an ex\u2010Methodist minister\u2014lately in open court\n      violated the parental right over offspring by sending a Catholic\n      child to a Protestant establishment in spite of the respectable\n      father\u2019s opposition.\n\n   26 The following are the words of our State constitution in regard to\n      religion:\n\n      \u201cThe free exercise and enjoyment of religious profession and\n      worship, without discrimination or preference, shall for ever be\n      allowed in this State to all mankind.\u201d\u2014Art. 1, sec. 3.\n\n      Now, it is known that the \u201cfree exercise\u201d of the Catholic religion\n      is not \u201cfree\u201d in most of our state institutions; and in most of them\n      there is \u201cpreference and discrimination\u201d in favor of \u201cEvangelical\u201d\n      clergymen and against the Catholic Church. The writer could prove by\n      affidavits that in the very city of New York there is religious\n      persecution in some of the state institutions, if the general scope\n      of his remarks permitted him to go into many details. Where is the\n      Catholic priest living near a state institution but knows that there\n      is \u201cdiscrimination\u201d made against him?\n\n   27 Will Gov. Dix, therefore, tell us by what right of \u201ceminent domain\u201d\n      Victor Emanuel robbed the Pope and confiscated the church property?\n      Does Gov. Dix forget that he was one of those who approved this\n      confiscation at the great \u201cItalian unity\u201d meeting?\n\n   28 S. Leonides was also a bishop. See Euseb., _Hist._ 6, c. 12; also S.\n      Jerome, _Catal._, c. 54.\n\n   29 _Catal. et Ep. ad Magn._\n\n   30 _H\u00e6ret. Fab._, l. 1, c. 8.\n\n   31 _Stromata_, 1, 1.\n\n   32 S. Jerome, _Catal._, c. 54.\n\n   33 _Ibidem._\n\n   34 _Hist. Univ. Douzi\u00e8me Epoque._\n\n   35 _Tertullian._\n\n   36 _General History of the Catholic Church_, Darras. American\n      translation, vol. i. p. 218.\n\n   37 _Monks of the West_, vol. ii. p. 33.\n\n   38 _H\u00e6res._, 64.\n\n   39 _Orig. Defens._, l. 4, note p. 35.\n\n   40 Preface, Bellamy\u2019s Translation of Origen\u2019s _Apology_.\n\n   41 Ps. cxviii.\n\n   42 Preface to Vulgate.\n\n   43 Pref. _ad Ephes._\n\n   44 Pref. _in Pentateuch_.\n\n   45 Pref. _in Job_.\n\n   46 Introd. _in Cantica_, etc., translated by Jerome from Origen.\n\n   47 Lib. 2 _adv. Rufinus et passim_.\n\n   48 In c. 6 _Ep. ad Rom._\n\n   49 Tract. _in Matt._\n\n   50 _Apud Euseb._, l. 6, hist. c. 19.\n\n   51 _Life of S. Cecilia_, pp. 9 and 10.\n\n   52 _Cel._, l. 3.\n\n   53 Butler\u2019s _Saints_, vol. ii. p. 141.\n\n   54 _Leviticus_, hom. 9.\n\n   55 See _Acts of the Council of Nice_ for proof of this line of\n      reasoning\u2014\u201cApostolic Canons.\u201d\n\n   56 _Can. de Hierarchia Ecclesi\u00e6 Con. Nicenem._\n\n   57 _Apud Hieron., adv. Theophilus._\n\n   58 _Apud Hieron._, 2 lib. \u201cadv. Rufinus,\u201d et opera S. Gregory Nyssen.\n\n   59 _De Principiis_, lib. i. 4.\n\n   60 See Life in Butler, note vol. iii.\n\n   61 Lib. 2. _adv. Rufinus_.\n\n   62 _Apud Hier._, lib. 2. _adv. Ruf._ p. 217.\n\n   63 The question of Origen\u2019s orthodoxy turns principally on the\n      _Periarchon_. The violently heretical character of that book, as it\n      now stands, contradicting the most fundamental doctrines of\n      Christianity, is the best defence of Origen. It is altogether\n      contrary to the teaching of his undoubted works, and, if it had been\n      acknowledged and defended by him, there would never have been any\n      controversy at all about his orthodoxy. He would have been at once\n      and universally condemned as the grossest of heretics.\u2014ED. C. W.\n\n   64 _Christine._ Par Louis Enault.\n\n   65 _Following of Christ_, b. i. c. xix. v. 7.\n\n   66 Wisdom xi. 21.\n\n   67 Little girl.\n\n   68 _Attribute_ and _property_ mean the same in reality; but we usually\n      call them _attributes_ with respect to the thing absolutely\n      considered as a being, and _properties_ with respect to the thing\n      considered as a principle of operation.\n\n   69 A paper read before the Xavier Union, of this city.\n\n   70 S. Thomas says (_Summa Contra Gentiles_, l. 4, c. xi.): \u201cNam\n      viventia sunt qu\u00e6 seipsa movent ad agendum; illa vero qu\u00e6 non nisi\n      exteriora movere possunt omnino sunt vita carentia.\u201d This, however,\n      is rather a description of a vital phenomenon than a definition of\n      life itself. Fichte says: \u201cLife is the tendency to individuation;\u201d\n      which, like most of the phrases of the German pantheists, means\n      nothing or anything you please.\n\n      According to Richerand, \u201cLife is a collection of phenomena which\n      succeed each other during a limited time in an organized body\u201d; but\n      this applies equally to the succession of phenomena which takes\n      place in the body after death. Herbert Spencer defines life to be\n      \u201cthe co\u2010ordination of actions\u201d; but what is anything but a co\u2010\n      ordination of acting forces, consequently of actions? This\n      definition is as applicable to sulphuric acid as to life.\n\n   71 Kant defined truth to be the harmony of thought with thought, not of\n      thought with things.\n\n   72 It may be well to quote the testimony of two Englishmen on this\n      subject.\n\n      Buckle, in his _History of Civilization_, vol. i. page 158, says:\n      \u201cThus, for instance, the miserable and impudent falsehoods which a\n      large class of English writers formerly directed against the morals\n      and private character of the French and\u2014to their shame be it\n      said\u2014even against the chastity of Frenchwomen, tended not a little\n      to embitter the angry feelings then existing between the two first\n      countries of Europe: irritating the English against French vices,\n      irritating the French against English calumnies. In the same way,\n      there was a time when every honest Englishman firmly believed that\n      he could beat ten Frenchmen\u2014a class of beings whom he held in\n      sovereign contempt, as a lean and stunted race, who drank claret\n      instead of brandy, who lived entirely off frogs; miserable infidels,\n      who heard Mass every Sunday, who bowed down before idols, and who\n      even worshipped the Pope.\u201d\n\n      \u201cI did not know,\u201d says John Stuart Mill, in his _Autobiography_,\n      \u201cthe way in which, among the ordinary English, the absence of\n      interest in things of an unselfish kind, except occasionally in a\n      special thing here and there, and the habit of not speaking to\n      others, nor much even to themselves, about the things in which they\n      do feel interest, cause both their feelings and their intellectual\n      faculties to remain undeveloped, or to develop themselves only in\n      some single and very limited direction, reducing them, considered as\n      spiritual beings, to a kind of negative existence.\u201d\n\n   73 _The Old Faith and the New_, p. 120.\n\n   74 \u201cMy name is Monaco,\n      A rock my seat:\n      I neither reap nor sow,\n      And yet I eat.\u201d\n\n   75 \u201cO thou, whom chance or will brings to the soil,\n      Where fair Armida doth the sceptre guide,\n      Thou canst not fly; of arms thyself despoil,\n      And let thy hands with iron chains be tied.\u201d\n\n      \u2014_Fairfax\u2019s Translation._\n\n   76 A street\u2010lane.\n\n   77 The above passage is really in the Prayers for the Dead. The\n      Dominican ritual differs in some respects from the ordinary ritual;\n      whether it includes any difference in the Prayers for the Dying I\n      have been unable to ascertain. The above account is taken from some\n      passages in Lacordaire\u2019s life of the saint. Lacordaire was himself a\n      Dominican.\n\n   78 The _Baldacchino_ at S. Peter\u2019s is by Bernini.\n\n   79 \u201cI have found that Rome is the place where one can enjoy the most\n      happiness.\u201d\n\n   80 Ah! poor fellow. Why, he is weeping!\n\n   81 Throughout this poem the lover\u2019s songs are in the longer metre; the\n      lady\u2019s in the shorter. In the 1st and 3d parts, the songs are all\n      his; in the 2d and 4th, all hers; in the 5th and 6th, the two\n      classes are mixed.\n\n   82 _A Course of Philosophy; embracing Logic, Metaphysics, and Ethics._\n      Designed as a text\u2010book for the use of schools. By Rev. A. Louage,\n      C.S.C., Professor in the University of Notre Dame. Baltimore: Kelly,\n      Piet & Co. 1873.\n\n   83 The principal work of this author is in Latin. We believe that some\n      of his treatises are in Italian. There are similar works noticed in\n      the _Civilta Cattolica_.\n\n   84 _Poems._ By Dante Gabriel Rosetti. London. 1871.\n\n   85 These expressions are frequently employed in philosophy, but are not\n      applied in a uniform manner by several writers. It is known that\n      \u201cfirst matter,\u201d or _materia prima_, usually means matter without\n      form, or potency without act; and nevertheless it is not rare to\n      find the denomination of _materia prima_ applied to the matter which\n      is in the bodies, and which is certainly not without a form. We\n      cannot enter here into a discussion about this subject; but it is\n      obvious that, if we wish to be consistent and avoid equivocation, we\n      must carefully guard against applying to anything actual the very\n      epithet we employ to characterize its contrary.\n\n   86 See CATHOLIC WORLD, July, 1873, page 471.\n\n   87 The general definition of relation is, _Id. cuius totum esse est ad\n      aliud se habere_.\n\n   88 There are philosophers who do not admit any real distinction between\n      a thing and its mode. Thus Tongiorgi (_Ontol._, n. 148) says that\n      \u201cthe mode of any being is really nothing else than the being itself\n      considered in a different manner.\u201d This view deserves no discussion,\n      as it is evidently false. If the mode of a thing were the thing\n      itself, then the sphericity of the wax would be the wax, the joy of\n      the soul would be the soul, and every affection would be the subject\n      of the affection. The author seems to have confounded _being_, the\n      participle, with _being_, the substantive.\n\n   89 It is well known that the people of Southern Italy think they can,\n      by this gesture, avert the effects of the _jettatura_, or evil eye,\n      which they attribute to some persons.\n\n   90 See Naples, and then die.\n\n   91 Vine\u2010dressers.\n\n   92 It was a fit of rage.\n\n   93 This chapter is taken from a work published soon after the date of\n      the occurrences narrated, as was the previous one (CATHOLIC WORLD,\n      Dec., 1873), on account of the interest which recent events impart\n      to it.\u2014ED. C. W.\n\n   94 Afterwards Comte de Chambord.\n\n   95 In fact, _Stultorum infinitus est numerus_.\n\n   96 _Force and Matter: Empirico\u2010philosophical studies intelligibly\n      rendered by Dr. Louis B\u00fcchner, President of the Medical Association\n      of Hessen\u2010Darmstadt, etc., etc._ Edited by J. Frederick Collingwood.\n      Second English edition. London: Tr\u00fcbner & Co. 1870.\n\n   97 Of these two unseen spirits, the first voice is that of Cain; the\n      second, that of Aglauros, changed to stone for envy of her sister\n      Herse, as told by Ovid.\n\n   98 The meaning of this _bit_ or _bridle_ is explained in the\n      preliminary note.\n\n   99 Holy Madonna, assist me.\n\n  100 _The Question of Anglican Orders Discussed._ By E. E. Estcourt,\n      Canon of S. Chad\u2019s Cathedral, Birmingham. 1873.\n\n      _On the Decision of the Holy Office on Abyssinian Orders._ By the\n      Rev. J. Jones. Letter to the _Month_, November\u2010December, 1873.\n\n  101 See the pamphlet, _A Few Remarks on the Recent Work of Canon\n      Estcourt_, and the letter, signed \u201cEnglish Catholic,\u201d to the\n      _Tablet_ of May 3, 1873.\n\n  102 This is true of F. Kellison\u2019s _Survey of the New Religion_, 1603, to\n      whom Canon Estcourt attributes the first publication of the Nag\u2019s\n      Head story.\n\n  103 _De Illust. Angli\u00e6 Script._, p. 770. Paris, 1619.\n\n  104 See Kenrick\u2019s _Anglican Ordinations_, p. 81, and Tiernay\u2019s _Dodd_,\n      append. No. xlii.\n\n  105 _De Antiq. Eccles. Rit._, lib. 1, pt. iii. c. viii. art. 10, \u00a7 16.\n\n  106 _Estcourt_, p. 62.\n\n  107 Note to Haddan\u2019s Preface to Bramhall.\n\n  108 Haddan, Pref. to Bramhall.\n\n  109 See Pref. to Bramhall; but in _Apost. Succession_, p. 209, Mr.\n      Haddan says nine out of forty\u2010nine.\n\n  110 _Estcourt_, p. 76.\n\n  111 _Actes de la Captivit\u00e9 et de la Morte des R.R. P. P. P. Olivaint, L.\n      Ducoudray, J. Caubert, A. Clerc, A. de Bengy, de la Compagnie de\n      J\u00e9sus._ Par le P. Armand de Ponlevoy de la m\u00eame Compagnie. Paris: G.\n      Tegui. 1871.\n\n  112 \u201cThey went forth rejoicing.\u201d\n\n  113 P. 46.\n\n  114 \u201cBut in all things let us exhibit ourselves as the ministers of God,\n      in much patience, in tribulation, ... in prisons, in seditions, ...\n      through honor and dishonor, through infamy and good name.\u201d\u20142 Cor.\n      vi. 4\u20108.\n\n  115 \u201cIt is a great, a very great virtue to know how to lack all\n      consolation, human as well as divine, and to endure willingly for\n      the glory of God the exile of the heart.\u201d\u2014_Imit._, i. 2, c. ix.\n\n  116 \u201cIn many more labors, in prisons more frequently.\u201d\u20142 Cor. xi. 23.\n\n  117 \u201cAnd you shall be hated by all men for my name\u2019s sake.\u201d\u2014Matt. x. 22.\n\n  118 From hatred of the faith, hatred of the name of Jesus Christ.\n\n  119 French proverb: From thread to needle.\n\n  120 The pleasure of doing nothing.\n\n  121 Peasants.\n\n  122 Mistress.\n\n  123 The keepers of the vineyards.\n\n  124 Peasantry.\n\n  125 Literal translation of an Italian term meaning without narrow\n      prejudice.\n\n  126 The past is absent, but not dead.\n\n  127 See Zschokke\u2019s _History of Switzerland_, page 45, for all these\n      characters in the uprising against Austria in 1307.\n\n  128 CATHOLIC WORLD for February, 1874, p. 584.\n\n  129 A lecture _On Molecules_, delivered before the British Association\n      at Bradford, by Prof. Clerk\u2010Maxwell, F.R.S. _Nature_, September 25,\n      1873.\n\n  130 It is competent, however, to furnish the philosopher with all the\n      materials of such a reasoning, as this very passage clearly shows.\n\n  131 Book 10, ch. 15.\n\n  132 See CATHOLIC WORLD, March, 1874, p. 827.\n\n  133 CATHOLIC WORLD, March, 1874, page 759.\n\n  134 See _A Speculation touching Electric Conduction and the Nature of\n      Matter_.\n\n  135 _Theoria Philosophi\u00e6 Naturalis_ p. 1, n. 18.\n\n  136 CATHOLIC WORLD, March, 1874, page 766.\n\n  137 \u201cLong live the spouses! Long live the duke! Long live the duchess!\u201d\n\n  138 \u201cBeatrice upward gazed, and I on her.\u201d\n\n  139 The appetite comes with eating.\n\n  140 _Ex Chron. Mauriniac. ap. Harduin Concil._, tom. 6, p. 1214.\n\n  141 Wilberforce, _Holy Euchar._, p. 438.\n\n  142 See M. Le Grand, _Dissert. de Ord. Abyss._, p. 361, translated by S.\n      Johnson.\n\n  143 _Godigno_, 1 c. p. 327.\n\n  144 Assemani, _Controv. Copt._, p. 185.\n\n  145 _Estcourt_, Append. xxxiv.\n\n  146 See Le Brun, _Explic. Miss._ (Venice, 1770 tom. ii. p. 273).\n\n  147 _Act. Sanct. Junii_., tom. v. p. 128.\n\n  148 _Montesquiou._\n\n  149 As unhappy as the stones.\n\n  150 My daughter.\n\n  151 Dear daughter.\n\n  152 Such forms are usually said to be produced \u201cout of the potency of\n      matter\u201d; but this makes no difference. For what is only in potency\n      to exist is still nothing: hence what is to be drawn out of the\n      potency of matter is still nothing. Its production, however, is not\n      a creation, because it implies a real subject.\n\n  153 This has been shown in THE CATHOLIC WORLD for March, 1874, pp. 764,\n      765.\n\n  154 We are not unfrequently imposed upon by the infidel phraseology and\n      the bold assertions of modern scientists. We should remember that\n      bold assertions in science may be as false as they are bold. The\n      theory of the indestructibility of force is one of such assertions;\n      and yet it is trumpeted about as a demonstrated truth. It is time\n      for us to awake. The seed of atheism is sown everywhere under cover\n      of positive science; but the fraud may be easily detected. Infidel\n      theories are usually mere trash; and if we were to look into them a\n      little more sharply, we would find that they bear no examination. It\n      is the duty of our Catholic professors of physics and mechanics to\n      raise their voices in earnest, and expose the fraud instead of\n      gobbling it down. We have only pointed out some of the reasons why\n      the new mechanical theory must be rejected; but its pretensions may\n      be more effectually crushed by thorough scientific and mathematical\n      analysis, as pure philosophical arguments are unfortunately above\n      the comprehension of most modern students.\n\n  155 A paper read before the CATHOLIC UNION of Boston, Mass., June 4,\n      1874.\n\n  156 _A Few Words on Church Choirs and Church Music._\n\n  157 Apud Bellasis, _Memorial of Cherubini_.\n\n  158 Cf. _Bellasis_, loco cit.\n\n  159 The only _efficient_ actions of our soul are those by which the will\n      carries its desires into execution. This is done by the will, not as\n      the faculty of willing, but as a moving power, and consequently by\n      means of a truly efficient action. The immanent operations of the\n      soul are, on the contrary, formal acts, not efficient actions. The\n      intellect and the will are moved by their objects in a manner\n      analogous to that in which a material element is moved by physical\n      agents. If an element could treasure up all the momenta it receives\n      from different agents, and were not under the necessity of following\n      their resultant, but had the faculty of yielding at pleasure now to\n      this and now to that determination, then such an element would give\n      us a true image of what our soul is competent to do by immanent\n      operation. The soul treasures up the _species_ impressed by\n      intelligible objects, that is, its intellectual momenta, and fields\n      or not to the attraction of any of them as it chooses. And the like\n      occurs with regard to the object of the will. To think and to will\n      is therefore nothing more than to let one\u2019s self be carried by an\n      object or in the direction of an object. Accordingly, the soul, when\n      understanding or willing, is indeed actuated by the object, and\n      therefore is in act; but this act is _resultant_, not _efficient_.\n      In other terms, immanent acts are not efficient actions, but formal\n      attitudes formally resulting from either spontaneous or free\n      movements of the appetitive potency.\n\n  160 On this subject see THE CATHOLIC WORLD for March, 1874, p. 768.\n\n  161 Boscovich\u2019s _Theoria Philosophi\u00e6 Naturalis_, part i. n. 108.\n\n  162 Cavendish in 1798 made his celebrated experiments concerning\n      terrestrial attraction, in order to determine the density of the\n      earth; but his calculations were grounded on the assumption that all\n      the material particles of the earth were equally attractive; and\n      therefore the result of such calculation cannot be implicitly relied\n      on. M. Reich in 1837, and M. Bayly in 1842, repeated the same\n      experiments, and calculated the density of the earth according to\n      the same assumption. It did not occur to either of them that the\n      assumption itself might have been subjected to a crucial test by\n      successively substituting spheres of zinc, iron, copper, silver,\n      etc., instead of the leaden ones which they uniformly employed. Had\n      they tried these substances in a proper manner\u2014that is, with a\n      suitable modification of the apparatus\u2014we have little doubt that\n      they would have discovered a difference of action for equal masses\n      of different substances. The experiment may yet be made, and we hope\n      it will, as it is of great scientific importance; but it should be\n      encouraged by the help of some powerful scientific body, as the cost\n      of the new apparatus would probably exceed the ordinary means at the\n      command of unaided individuals.\n\n  163 A Lecture on Mental Education, London, 1855.\n\n  164 In the _O Salutaris Hostia!_\n\n  165 Marie Antonette.\n\n  166 Words of Monsignor Nardi to Mrs. Peter.\n\n  167 A paper read before the Catholic Union of Boston, Mass. June 4,\n      1874.\n\n  168 _Third Prov. Council N. Y._\n\n  169 _Second Plenary Council of Baltimore_, No. 361.\n\n  170 _Third Provincial Council of New York_, decree the third. Since this\n      latter decree has been issued many organists have acted in the most\n      senseless manner. Instead of composing or arranging music to which\n      the words of the _Sanctus_ might easily be sung within the\n      prescribed time, they have retained what they had, and thus are\n      frequently obliged to interrupt the _Sanctus_ in the middle of a\n      movement, and before half the words have been pronounced. Sometimes\n      they continue the movement, and resume the same words after the\n      Elevation, and then they find it impossible to sing the\n      _Benedictus_, which should, as is evident, immediately follow the\n      consecration. It is true that at the High Mass the celebrant is\n      expected to make a longer _memento_ than usual, both for the living\n      before the consecration and for the dead after it, to give the\n      singers time to sing all the words, but not that they may indulge in\n      useless and tiresome repetitions.\n\n  171 _Histoire G\u00e9n\u00e9rale de la Musique Religieuse._\n\n  172 _Musica Sacra._ Boston: Carl Pr\u00fcfer.\n\n  173 _Ave Verum, and other Pieces._ Boston: Oliver Ditson.\n\n  174 _History of Music._ Boston: Oliver Ditson & Co.\n\n  175 From the introduction to the foundation\u2010charter of the Abbey of S.\n      Mary at Furness.\n\n  176 A country\u2010house.\n\n  177 \u201cSea\u2010fruit.\u201d The name given at Naples to star\u2010fish, etc., which they\n      eat fried.\n\n  178 Tomatoes, called apples of gold.\n\n  179 We will have him safe.\n\n  180 Dearest.\n\n  181 Little cares.\n\n  182 There are some exceptions, such as the beautiful candelabra of the\n      Villa Diomed.\n\n  183 Bed\u2010chamber.\n\n  184 Court.\n\n  185 Reception\u2010room.\n\n  186 Room for guests.\n\n  187 Signor Palmier.\n\n  188 The above doctrine concerning the reality of absolute space is taken\n      from Lessius\u2019 magnificent work, _De Perfectionibus Moribusque\n      Divinis_ (lib. ii. c. 2), where he shows that absolute space is the\n      virtuality of God\u2019s immensity. We cannot here develop this doctrine,\n      nor discuss the objections of those who hold a different opinion.\n      This would lead us too far from our present object, and give to our\n      dialogue with Dr. B\u00fcchner a higher metaphysical character than his\n      arguments deserve.\n\n  189 J. D. Dana\u2019s _Manual of Geology_. See also Pianciani\u2019s _Cosmogonia\n      Naturale Comparata col Genesi_, Rev. Gerald Molloy\u2019s _Geology and\n      Revelation_, and Card. Wiseman\u2019s _Twelve Lectures on the Connection\n      between Science and Revealed Religion_.","title":"The Catholic World, Vol. 19, April 1874\u2010September 1874","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":476661}