{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_56955/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_56955","id":"gutenberg_56955","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56955","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - Other","Category: Journals","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Catholic Church -- Periodicals"],"text":"Produced by David Edwards, Carol Brown, and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n THE\n\n CATHOLIC WORLD.\n\n A\n\n MONTHLY MAGAZINE\n\n OF\n\n GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.\n\n VOL. XXIV.\n OCTOBER, 1876, TO MARCH, 1877.\n\n NEW YORK:\n THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,\n 9 Warren Street.\n\n 1877.\n\n\n\n\n Copyrighted by\n THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY,\n 1877.\n\n\n THE NATION PRESS, 27 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK.\n\n\n\n\n CONTENTS.\n\n PAGE\n A Bird\u2019s-Eye View of Toledo, 786\n A Glimpse of the Adirondacks, 261\n Amid Irish Scenes, 384, 591\n Aphasia, 411\n Archbishop of Halifax, The Late, 136\n Avila, 155\n\n Catacombs, Testimony of the, 371, 523\n Chaldean Account of the Creation, 490\n Christina Rossetti\u2019s Poems, 122\n Christmas Gift, The Devil\u2019s, 322\n Cities, Some Quaint Old, 829\n Creation, Chaldean Account of, 490\n\n Devil\u2019s Christmas Gift, The, 322\n De Vere\u2019s \u201cMary Tudor,\u201d 777\n Dr. Knox on the Unity of the Church, 657\n\n English Rule in Ireland, 799\n Egypt and Israel, The Pontifical Vestments of, 213\n Errickdale, The Great Strike at, 843\n \u201cEvolution, Contemporary,\u201d Mivart\u2019s, 312\n\n Flywheel Bob, 198\n Frederic Ozanam, 577\n\n Great Strike at Errickdale, The, 843\n Guilds and Apprentices, London, 49\n\n Halifax, The Late Archbishop of, 136\n Highland Exile, The, 131\n Home-Life of some Eighteenth-Century Poets, The, 677\n How Rome Stands To-day, 245\n\n Ireland, English Rule in, 799\n Irish Scenes, Amid, 384, 591\n\n Jean Ingelow\u2019s Poems, 419\n John Greenleaf Whittier, 433\n\n Knowledge, Physical and Religious, Similarities of, 746\n\n \u201cLessons from Nature,\u201d Mivart\u2019s, 1\n Letters of a Young Irishwoman to\n her Sister, 108, 226, 395, 512, 690, 760\n London Guilds and Apprentices, 49\n\n \u201cMary Tudor,\u201d De Vere\u2019s, 777\n Mivart\u2019s \u201cContemporary Evolution,\u201d 312\n Mivart\u2019s \u201cLessons from Nature,\u201d 1\n Modern Melodists, 703, 853\n Modern Thought in Science, 533\n Monsieur Gombard\u2019s Mistake, 445, 667\n Mystical Theology, Thoughts on, 145\n\n Nile, Up the, 633, 735\n\n Poems, Christina Rossetti\u2019s, 122\n Poems, Jean Ingelow\u2019s, 419\n Poets, The Home Life of, 677\n Pontifical Vestments of Egypt and Israel, The, 213\n\n Quaint Old Cities, Some, 829\n\n Rome Stands To-Day, How 245\n Russian Chancellor, The, 721\n\n Sainte Chapelle of Paris, The, 59\n Sancta Sophia, 96\n Seville, 13\n Siena, 337\n Similarities of Physical and Religious Knowledge, 746\n Sir Thomas More, 75, 270, 353, 547\n Six Sunny Months, 28, 175, 300, 469, 643, 817\n Some Quaint Old Cities, 829\n Some Eighteenth-Century Poets, The Home-Life of, 677\n Story of the Far West, A, 602\n\n Testimony of the Catacombs, 371, 523\n Text-Books in Catholic Colleges, 190\n The Devil\u2019s Christmas Gift, 322\n Thoughts on Mystical Theology, 145\n Three Lectures on Evolution, 616\n Toledo, A Bird\u2019s-Eye View of, 786\n\n Unitarian Conference at Saratoga, The, 289\n Unity of the Church, Dr. Knox on, 657\n Up the Nile, 633, 735\n\n What is Dr. Nevin\u2019s Position? 459\n Whittier, John Greenleaf, 433\n\n Year of Our Lord 1876, The, 562\n\n\n POETRY.\n\n Advent, 560\n A Christmas Legend, 541\n A March Pilgrimage, 814\n\n Echo to Mary, 129\n Evening on the Sea-shore, 107\n\n Light and Shadow, 418\n Longings, 744\n\n On Our Lady\u2019s Death, 382\n\n Roma\u2015\u2015Amor, 486\n\n St. Teresa, 173\n\n\n NEW PUBLICATIONS.\n\n Alice Leighton, 287\n Almanac, Catholic Family, 427\n\n Barat, Life of Mother, 432\n Brown House at Duffield, The, 860\n Brut\u00e9, Memoirs of Rt. Rev. S. W. G., 142\n\n Catholic Family Almanac, 427\n Catholic\u2019s Latin Instructor, The, 424\n Constitutional and Political History of the United States, 287\n Creation, The Voice of, 143\n\n Deirdr\u00e9, 715\n Devotion of the Holy Rosary, The, 432\n\n Ecclesiastical Discourses, 425\n Essay Contributing to a Philosophy of Literature, 431\n Every-day Topics, 426\n Excerpta ex Rituali Romano, 576\n\n Faith of our Fathers, The, 714\n First Christmas for our Dear Little Ones, The, 431\n Frank Blake, 860\n\n Githa of the Forest, 720\n\n Jesus Suffering, The Voice of, 431\n\n Latin Instructor, The Catholic\u2019s, 424\n Lectures on Scholastic Philosophy, 431\n Life of Mother Barat, The, 432\n Life of Mother Maria Teresa, 720\n Life and Letters of Sir Thomas More, The, 428\n Linked Lives, 426\n Little Book of the Martyrs, The, 576\n\n Margaret Roper, 429\n Maria Teresa, Life of Mother, 720\n Memoirs of the Right Rev. Simon Wm. Gabriel Brut\u00e9, 142\n Missale Romanum, 429\n More, Life and Letters of Sir Thomas, 428\n My Own Child, 288\n\n Normal Higher Arithmetic, The, 576\n\n Poems: Devotional and Occasional, 718\n Preparation for Death, A, 430\n\n Real Life, 344\n Religion and Education, 716\n\n Sacraments, Sermons on the, 286\n Science of the Spiritual Life, The, 429\n Sermon on the Mount, The, 431\n Sermons on the Sacraments, 286\n Short Sermons, 432\n Silver Pitchers, 144\n Songs in the Night, 430\n\n Terra Incognita, 424\n Theologia Moralis, 713\n\n Union with Our Lord, 143\n United States, Constitutional and Political History of the, 287\n\n Voice of Creation, The, 143\n Voice of Jesus Suffering, The, 431\n\n Wise Nun of Eastonmere, 860\n Wit, Humor, and Shakspeare, 717\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLIC WORLD.\n\nVOL. XXIV., No. 139.\u2015\u2015OCTOBER, 1876.\n\nCopyright: Rev. I. T. HECKER. 1877.\n\n\n\n\nMIVART\u2019S \u201cLESSONS FROM NATURE.\u201d[1]\n\n\nThe condition of what is called the scientific mind in England to-day\nmay be described as chaotic. Its researches begin nowhere and end\nnowhere. Its representative men deny the facts of consciousness, or\nmisinterpret them, which is equivalent to negation, and thus ignore\nthe subjective starting point of all knowledge, while they relegate\nGod to the domain of the unknowable, thereby removing from sight the\ntrue end and goal of all inquiry. Nothing, then, is the Alpha and\nOmega of their systems, and it is small matter of surprise that theirs\nhas been called the philosophy of nihilism. Yet it is sadly true that\nthe votaries of scientism (_salv\u00e2 dignitate, O scientia!_) are on the\nincrease, and that Huxley, Spencer, Darwin, and Tyndall usurp among\nthe fashionable leaders of thought, or rather the leaders of\nfashionable scientific thought, to-day, the place lately held by Mill,\nRenan, Strauss, and Hegel. It is not quite the _ton_ now to content\none\u2019s self with denying the divine inspiration of Holy Writ or with\nquestioning the Divinity of Christ. We must iterate our belief that in\nmatter are to be found the \u201cpromise and potency of every form and\nquality of life,\u201d or that all living things sprang from a primordial\nhomogeneous cell developed in a primitive plastic fluid eruditely\ndenominated \u201cprotoplasm\u201d; nay, we must join hands with Herbert\nSpencer, and affirm of the First Cause that it is unknowable and\nentirely divested of personal attributes. It is evident that scientism\nis more rigorously sceptical than rationalism or the materialism of\nthe eighteenth century\u2015\u2015in a word, that it is supremely nihilistic.\nBeing such, it is worth while to inquire through what influence it has\nsucceeded in dominating over so many vigorous minds, and winning to\nits standard the rank and file of non-Catholic scholars. It presents\nto the expectant lover of truth a set of interesting facts which\nfascinate as well by their novelty and truth as by the hope that the\n\u201copen sesame\u201d which unearthed them cannot but swell the list, and that\nwhatever it pronounces upon is irrevocably fixed. No one can gainsay\nthe value to science of the brilliant experiments and interesting\ndiscoveries of Prof. Tyndall, nor underrate the painstaking solicitude\nof Darwin. Indeed, we are all more or less under the thraldom of the\nsenses, and the truths which reach our minds through that channel come\nhome with irresistible force. Hence the allurements of science for the\nmajority of men, and their complete subjection to the authority of\nscientific discoverers. No wonder, therefore, that when a slur is cast\nupon the supersensible order\u2015\u2015that order with which they have neither\nsympathy nor acquaintance\u2015\u2015that same majority are ready to deride the\nsublimest truths of Christianity, and to devour the veriest inanities\nas the utterances of sound philosophy. No wonder that, captivated by\nthe fast-increasing array of fresh discoveries in the field of\nphysical science, they pay to the dreamy speculations of Spencer and\nDarwin the homage which is due to their solid contributions to\nscience. These men forget that science is but a grand plexus of facts\nwhich afford to many a convenient peg on which to hang a bit of\nshallow philosophism. The truths of science are so cogent and obvious\nthat most men, failing to discriminate between those truths and\nunwarranted inferences drawn from them, regard both with equal\nrespect, and so deem those who question the latter to be the sworn\nfoes of the former. It is this confusion of truth with error, natural\nenough under the circumstances, that has imparted so much popularity\nto the unphilosophic portion of the teachings of Spencer, Huxley,\nTyndall, Proctor, _et id genus omne_, and given to the guinea stamp\nthe value which belongs to the gold. Moreover, our modern men of\nscience have not only introduced us to the field of their legitimate\nlabors with a large knowledge of its varied and interesting features,\nbut have invested the presentment of their subject with a glamour\nwhich the splendid rhetorical training of the schools and universities\nof England has enabled them to throw around it.\n\nSuch being the anomalous and insidious blending of truth with error\nwhich characterizes modern scientific thought in England, we should\nwelcome the appearance of any work aiming at the disentanglement of\nthis intricate web, especially if the ability and scientific culture\nof its author give earnest of its success. Such a work do we find in\nthat whose title heads this article, and whose author, Dr. Mivart, has\nalready fully attested, in many a well-written page, his competency\nfor the task. In his _Lessons from Nature_ Dr. Mivart has undertaken\nthe consideration of the more salient errors of Herbert Spencer\u2019s\nphilosophy and Mr. Darwin\u2019s theory of descent and evolution. He has\nwisely addressed himself in his opening chapter to a refutation of the\nerrors which vitiate the substructure of Spencerianism; for the basis\nhaving been proved to be rotten, we are not surprised at beholding the\nentire edifice topple to the ground. This chapter he has entitled \u201cThe\nStarting Point,\u201d and sets out with this theorem for demonstration:\n\n\u201cOur own continued existence is a primary truth naturally made known\nto us with supreme certainty, and this certainty cannot be denied\nwithout involving the destruction of all knowledge whatever.\u201d\n\nIt will be seen from this statement that Dr. Mivart regards his\nopponents as having laid the basis of their systems on the quicksands\nof the most radical scepticism; for certainly, if the fact of a \u03c4\u03bf \u1f10\u03b3\u03c9\nbe called in question, all knowledge must go by the board, its\ncontaining subject being no better than a myth. Those casting a doubt\nupon the truth of this proposition are by themselves happily styled\nAgnostics, or know-nothings, and Dr. Mivart includes in the category\nsuch distinguished names as Hamilton, Mansel, Mill, Lewes, Spencer,\nHuxley, and Bain. These writers, one and all, have repeatedly asserted\nthe relativity of our knowledge\u2015\u2015_i.e._, its merely phenomenal\ncharacter. They do not deny that we possess knowledge, but that we can\npredicate nothing as to its absolute truth. They claim, indeed,\nthemselves to have sounded the whole diapason of human knowledge, but\nthey regard it only as a mirage which appears real to the eye whilst\nbeholding it, but is none the less a mirage in itself. Dr. Mivart\ntersely points out the absurdity of this principle of the agnostic\nphilosophy by stating that either this knowledge is absolute\u2015\u2015_i.e._,\nobjectively valid\u2015\u2015or has no corresponding reality outside of the\nmind, in which case it represents nothing\u2015\u2015_i.e._, is no knowledge at\nall. Those, then, who insist upon the relativity of all knowledge are\n\u201cin the position of a man who saws across the branch of a tree on\nwhich he actually sits, at a point between himself and the trunk.\u201d For\nif our knowledge be purely relative, we know it but relatively, and\nthat relative knowledge of it is in turn relative, and so on _ad\ninfinitum_. In other words, if we assert of our knowledge that it is\nrelative\u2015\u2015_i.e._, purely subjective\u2015\u2015we affirm an objective fact; for\nhowever much the facts of the mind be subjective in relation to the\nobjects represented, they become objective in regard to the mind\nviewing them as the term point of knowledge; so that to affirm of\n_all_ knowledge that it is purely relative is equal to affirming that\nthe knowledge we have of that knowledge is not the knowledge thereof,\nbut a similar modification of the mind having no business to look for\nanything beyond itself. This surely is a _reductio ad absurdum_; yet\nsuch threads and thrums are made the warp and woof of so-called\nscientific philosophy.\n\nProfessor Huxley is the most conspicuous champion of this universal\nnescience, and Dr. Mivart devotes himself at greater length to a\nreview of his principles. Huxley says: \u201cNow, is our knowledge of\nanything we know or feel more or less than a knowledge of states of\nconsciousness? And our whole life is made up of such states. Some of\nthese states we refer to a cause we call \u2018self,\u2019 others to a cause or\ncauses which may be comprehended under the title of \u2018not-self.\u2019 But\nneither of the existence of \u2018self\u2019 nor of that of \u2018not-self\u2019 have we,\nor can we by any possibility have, any such unquestionable and\nimmediate certainty as we have of the states of consciousness which we\nconsider to be their effects.\u201d This utterance is remarkable for the\ninaccuracies with which it abounds and for the crudeness of its\nauthor\u2019s philosophy. The fact that we immediately apprehend\nconsciousness in the light of passing states is proof that, mediately\nor by reflection, we view it altogether differently, and this latter\nmode certainly affords a more certain and satisfactory knowledge. By\nreflection, then, or mediately, we regard those passing states as the\nproduct of something enduring and continuous of which we are in\nreality conscious, while experiencing those modifications described by\nHuxley as \u201cpassing states of consciousness.\u201d When conscious of a state\nwe are certainly conscious of that by which consciousness is had, or\nwe would be forced to admit that nothing can be conscious, than which\nthere could be no greater absurdity. The direct consciousness,\ntherefore, which Huxley\u2019s \u201cpassing states of consciousness\u201d would\ndescribe, presupposes the consciousness of the organ of those \u201cpassing\nstates\u201d\u2015\u2015a consciousness which stands in an _\u00e0 priori_ relation to\nthese latter. The chief flaw in Huxley\u2019s reasoning is that, as he\nconfines consciousness to a mere modification, and admits no modified\nsubstance as an abiding essence, he must regard mind, so far as he\nknows it, as a modification of nothing modified.\n\nWe have not here followed out the exact line of argument pursued by\nDr. Mivart, whose strictures on Huxley in regard to his absurd\nposition must be attentively read in order to be appreciated; but we\nhope to have indicated enough to enable the reader to judge of the\nfitness of our neoterists to become the leaders of thought. Having\nestablished, then, the implied existence of self in consciousness, Dr.\nMivart proceeds, in a chain of the most solid reasoning, to marshal\naround this central truth those having a direct dependence upon it,\nand from the admission of which Huxley had fondly hoped to escape by\nperverting the true data of consciousness. Memory is the corner-stone\nof all knowledge outside of direct consciousness, and Dr. Mivart\nclearly shows that its testimony is constantly invoked by the most\noutspoken nescients, so that, in regard to its echoings, the choice is\nabsurd between what it attests generally and the circumscribed field\nof operation to which Herbert Spencer seems anxious to confine it. But\nDr. Mivart is satisfied in this chapter with having demonstrated the\nsufficiency of rightly understood consciousness to be the \u201cstarting\npoint\u201d of our knowledge of the objective, and properly dismisses the\nargument in these words:\n\n \u201cBut it is hoped that the cavils of the Agnostics have been\n here met by arguments sufficient to enable even the most\n timid and deferential readers and hearers of our modern\n sophists to hold their own rational convictions, and to\n maintain they know what they are convinced they do know, and\n not to give up a certain and absolute truth (their\n intellectual birthright) at the bidding of those who would\n illogically make use of such negation as a ground for\n affirming the relativity of all our knowledge, and\n consequently for denying all such truths as, for whatever\n reason, they may desire to deny.\u201d\n\nTo the casual thinker it may appear that the arguments of Dr. Mivart\nare somewhat antiquated as against the strongholds of modern error;\nbut the fact additionally illustrates the slenderness of the resources\nwith which error comes equipped to the fray, since, whenever there is\nquestion of first principles, truth can with the same weapons always\nassail the vulnerable point in the enemy\u2019s armor. It is true that in\npoint of detail the ground of conflict has shifted, and that those who\nonce successfully opposed the errors of Voltaire, Diderot, or Volney,\nshould they suddenly appear on the scene now, would have to count\nthemselves out of the fight; but with respect to principles and\nultimate expressions, we find the Agnostics of to-day ranging\nthemselves side by side with the Gnostics and Manicheans of old. So we\nbelieve that Dr. Mivart has done well, before approaching the details\nof the controversy, to knock the underpinning from the whole\nsuperstructure of modern error by exposing the falsity of its\nprinciples. At least the procedure is more philosophical and more\nsatisfactory to the logical mind.\n\nIn his second chapter, entitled \u201cFirst Truths,\u201d Dr. Mivart lays down\nthe following proposition:\n\n\u201cKnowledge must be based on the study of mental facts and on\nundemonstrable truths which declare their own absolute certainty and\nare seen by the mind to be positively and necessarily true.\u201d This\nproposition finds its counterpart in every text-book of scholastic\nphilosophy from Bouvier to Liberatore and Ton Giorgi, so that there is\nno need to follow the learned author through his very excellent series\nof proofs in support of it. The main points of interest in the chapter\nare his arraignment of Herbert Spencer\u2019s faulty basis of certainty,\nand the disproof of Mr. Lewes\u2019 theory of reasoning.\n\nMr. Spencer says (_Psychology_, vol. ii. p. 450):\n\n \u201cA discussion in consciousness proves to be simply a trial\n of strength between different connections in\n consciousness\u2015\u2015a systematized struggle serving to determine\n which are the least coherent states of consciousness. And\n the result of the struggle is that the least coherent states\n of consciousness separate, while the most coherent remain\n together; forming a proposition of which the predicate\n persists in the mind along with its subject.\u2026 If there are\n any indissoluble connections, he is compelled to accept\n them. If certain states of consciousness absolutely cohere\n in certain ways, he is obliged to think them in those ways.\u2026\n Here, then, the inquirer comes down to an ultimate\n uniformity\u2015\u2015a universal law of thinking.\u201d\n\nWe have quoted this passage of Mr. Spencer\u2019s at some length, both for\nthe purpose of exhibiting the misty, Germanic manner of his\nexpression, and of calling attention to Dr. Mivart\u2019s neat and\neffectual unfolding of the fallacy which it contains. We presume that\nMr. Spencer means by \u201cleast coherent states of consciousness\u201d those\npropositions in which the subject and predicate mutually repel each\nother, or, in other words, those which involve a physical or a\nmetaphysical impossibility. Had he, indeed, stated his conception in\nthose terms, he might have avoided Dr. Mivart\u2019s well-aimed shafts, to\nwhich his cloudiness of expression alone exposed him. A cannon-ball\nfired from England to America is the typical proposition which he\noffers of \u201cleast cohering states of consciousness.\u201d But every one\nperceives that the terms of this proposition involve a mere repugnance\nto actual and not to imagined facts, causing it to differ in an\nessential manner, accordingly, from such a proposition as 2\u00d72 = 5,\nagainst the truth of which there exists a metaphysical impossibility.\nThe importance of the distinction may be realized when we reflect that\nthere can be no absolute truth so long as we make the test thereof a\nmere non-cohering state of consciousness; for if the terms of a\nphysically non-possible proposition do not cohere in consciousness,\nand if such non-coherence be the absolute test of non-truth, that same\nnon-truth must end with such non-coherence. This makes truth purely\nrelative, and is the legitimate goal of such philosophic speculations\nas those of Mr. Spencer, which would make all knowledge purely\nrelative.\n\nDr. Mivart distinguishes four sorts of propositions: \u201c1. Those which\ncan be both imagined and believed. 2. Those which can be imagined, but\ncannot be believed. 3. Those which cannot be imagined, but can be\nbelieved. 4. Those which cannot be imagined and are not believed,\nbecause they are positively known to be absolutely impossible.\u201d\n\nThe third of these propositions finds no place in Mr. Spencer\u2019s\nenumeration, since, according to him, it involves \u201ca non-cohering\nstate of consciousness,\u201d or, as he elsewhere expresses it, is\n\u201cinconceivable.\u201d That there are numberless propositions of the third\nclass described by Dr. Mivart the intelligent reader may perceive at a\nglance, and so infer the absurdity of Herbert Spencer\u2019s \u201cnon-cohering\nstates of consciousness\u201d viewed as a \u201cuniversal law of thinking.\u201d\n\nThus there is no absolute impossibility in accepting the doctrine of\nthe multilocation of bodies or of their compenetrability, though no\neffort of the imagination can enable us to picture such a thing to the\nmind. The common belief that the soul is whole and entire in every\npart of the body is \u201cunimaginable,\u201d but certainly not \u201cinconceivable,\u201d\nsince many vigorous and enlightened minds hold the doctrine with\nimplicit confidence.\n\nIn connection with this subject Dr. Mivart takes occasion to allude to\nProfessor Helmholtz\u2019s method of disproving the absoluteness of truth.\nHe supposes\n\n \u201cbeings living and moving along the surface of a solid body,\n who are able to perceive nothing but what exists on this\n surface, and insensible to all beyond it. \u2026 If such beings\n lived on the surface of a sphere, their space would be\n without a limit, but it would not be infinitely extended;\n and the axioms of geometry would turn out very different\n from ours, and from those of the inhabitants of a plane. The\n shortest lines which the inhabitants of a spherical surface\n could draw would be arcs of greater circles,\u201d etc.\n\nWe have quoted enough from the professor to indicate the drift of his\nobjection. He concludes: \u201cWe may r\u00e9sum\u00e9 the results of these\ninvestigations by saying that the axioms on which our geometrical\nsystem is based are no necessary truths.\u201d Such is the sorry mode of\nreasoning adopted by an eminent man of science in establishing a\nconclusion so subversive of the principles of science. Is it not\nevident that, no matter what name the inhabitants of the sphere\ndescribed by Helmholtz might bestow on the \u201carcs of great circles,\u201d\nthese still would be \u201carcs,\u201d and as such those beings would perceive\nthem? As showing the lack of uniformity of views which prevail among\nmen of science when it is question of super-sensible cognitions, Mr.\nMill rushes to the opposite extreme from Herbert Spencer, and holds\nthat there is nothing to prevent us from conceiving 2\u00d72 = 5. In this\narraignment of Spencer\u2019s faulty view of the basis of certainty, Dr.\nMivart proceeds with care and acumen, and adroitly pits his\nantagonists against each other, or invokes their testimony in support\nof his own views as against themselves.\n\nThe other point of interest in this chapter is the author\u2019s refutation\nof Mr. Lewes\u2019 conception of reasoning. In his _Problems of Life and\nMind_ Mr. Lewes reduces the process of reasoning to mere sensible\nassociations, and entirely overlooks the force and significance of the\n_ergo_. He says: \u201cCould we realize all the links in the chain\u201d (of\nreasoning) \u201cby reducing conceptions to perceptions, and perceptions to\nsensibles, our most abstract reasonings would be a series of\nsensations.\u201d This certainly is strange language for a psychologist,\nand forcibly demonstrates the hold Locke\u2019s sensism still holds over\nthe English mind. If we can conceive of a series of sensations in\nwhich the form of a syllogism does not enter\u2015\u2015and we experience such\nmany times daily\u2015\u2015then surely there is something more in a train of\nreasoning than a mere series of sensations, and that is the\nintellectual act of illation denoted by _ergo_. Throughout this\nstrange philosophism there runs an endeavor to debase man\u2019s intellect\nand reduce it to the level of mere brutish faculties. The dignity of\nour common manhood is made the target of Spencer\u2019s speculation and\nMill\u2019s subtle reveries, while the grand work of the church which\nlifted us out from the slough of barbarism is being gradually undone.\nWe must indeed congratulate Dr. Mivart upon having led the way in\ngrappling with the difficulties with which scientific transcendentalism\nbristles, and on having rent the net in which error strives to hold\ntruth in silken dalliance.\n\nWe come now to the most difficult and important chapter in the\nbook\u2015\u2015viz., that pertaining to the existence of the external world. We\nwould premise, before entering upon an analysis of this chapter, that\nnothing short of a slow and careful perusal of it in the author\u2019s\nlanguage can convey to the reader a full impression of the difficulty\nand subtlety which attend the terms of the controversy as waged\ntripartitely between Herbert Spencer, Mr. Sidgwick, and the author.\nThe statement of the proposition is simple enough, viz.:\n\n \u201cThe real existence of an external world made up of objects\n possessing qualities such as our faculties declare they\n possess, cannot be logically denied, and may be rationally\n affirmed.\u201d\n\nThe terms of this proposition differ but little from those in which\nargument is usually made in support of the reality of external\nobjects, but with Dr. Mivart it serves as the text of a refutation of\nMr. Spencer\u2019s theory of \u201ctransfigured realism.\u201d Mr. Spencer stoutly\nprofesses his belief in the realism of the external world, but\ndistinguishes his conception of it from the common crude realism of\nthe majority as having been by him filtered through the intellect, and\nbased, not on the direct data of the senses, but on these as\ninterpreted by the mind. According to him, \u201cwhat we are conscious of\nas properties of matter, even down to its weight and resistance, are\nbut subjective affections produced by objective agencies which are\nunknown and unknowable.\u201d Divested of an involved and trying\nterminology, Mr. Spencer\u2019s theory amounts to this: The mind under the\nexperience of a sensation is irresistibly borne to admit that it is\nnot itself the active agent concerned in its production; for sensation\nas a \u201cpassing state of consciousness\u201d is not accompanied by that other\n\u201cpassing state of consciousness\u201d which exhibits the mind to itself as\nspontaneously generating the sensation in question. Therefore that\nsensation is derived _ab extra_; therefore its cause, unknown or\nunknowable, is something outside of the mind\u2015\u2015_i.e._, has an objective\nreality. It is a sort of game of blind man\u2019s buff between the mind and\nthe world, according to Mr. Spencer\u2015\u2015we know something has impressed\nus, but how or what we cannot find out.\n\n \u201cThus the universe, as we know it,\u201d says Dr. Mivart,\n \u201cdisappears not only from our gaze, but from our very\n thought. Not only the song of the nightingale, the\n brilliancy of the diamond, the perfume of the rose, and the\n savor of the peach lose for us all objective reality\u2015\u2015these\n we might spare and live\u2015\u2015but the solidity of the very ground\n we tread on, nay, even the coherence and integrity of our\n own material frame, dissolve from us, and leave us vaguely\n floating in an insensible ocean of unknown potentiality.\u201d\n\nThis is \u201ctransfigured realism\u201d with a vengeance, and leaves us\nsomewhat at a loss to know what can be meant by idealism. It\npractically differs not from the doctrine of Berkeley and Hume; for it\nmatters little to us whether external objects exist or not, if they\nare in and by themselves something \u201cunknown and unknowable,\u201d\naltogether different from what we consider them to be. The radical\nfault of Mr. Spencer\u2019s \u201ctransfigured realism\u201d is that he mistakes\nsensations themselves for the act of the mind which is concerned about\nthem; and when in reality he speaks merely of the sensations as such,\nhe imagines he has in view purely speculative intellectual acts. Such\nconfusion is quite natural in a philosopher who recognizes no form of\nidea but transformed sensation, no purely unimaginable conceivability.\nThis is evident when he says:\n\n \u201cWe can think of matter only in terms of mind. We can think\n of mind only in terms of matter. When we have pushed our\n explorations of the first to the uttermost limit, we are\n referred to the second for final answer; and when we have\n got the final answer of the second, we are referred back to\n the first for an interpretation of it.\u201d\n\nThus is he compelled to revolve in a circular process which makes the\nknowledge of mind depend on the knowledge of matter, and _vice vers\u00e2_.\nHow admirably does the scholastic theory of the origin of thought\ndissipate the clouds which befog Mr. Spencer throughout this\ndiscussion, and prevent him from seeing to what consequences he\nblindly drifts! The unseen, the unfelt, the unheard are each and all\nabsolutely nothing, so that sense alone can determine reality. Such is\nthe philosophy of Mr. Spencer; and there can be no wonder that upon an\nanalysis of premises he finds that, having set out from nothing, he\nlands upon the same unreal shore. Scholasticism\u2015\u2015the philosophy which\nat the present time is returning into unexpected though much deserved\nvogue, superseding in the highest intellectual circles the tenuity of\nKant\u2019s unrealism and the sensism of Locke and Condillac\u2015\u2015proposes an\nexplanation of the relation of the external world to the intellect\nthrough the medium of the senses, which cannot but elicit the\nendorsement of every logical mind. Just at the point where Spencer\nmodifies his subjective sensible impression received from the external\nworld, in such a manner that he can find nothing corresponding to it\noutside of himself, the scholastic supposes the active intellect to\nseize this phantasm or sensible image, and, having so far divested it\nof its sensible qualities as to fit it to become the object of pure\ncognition, offers it to the mind cognitive for such cognition, which,\nas the true cognitive faculty, pronounces it to be the type or\nexemplar of the object, and this he calls the _verbum mentis_, or idea\nof the thing. The created light of our intellect, which is itself a\nparticipation in the uncreated divine light, enables us to see and\njudge of what is exhibited to it through the organs of sense,\nsurveying it, measuring it, and penetrating its general essence so far\nas to be able to perceive that it is the spiritualized resemblance of\nthe object which primarily produced the sensation.\n\nWe do not here propose to offer any of the usual arguments in support\nof this system, apart from the palpable fact that it appears to offer\nto each faculty, sensitive and intellective, appropriate material for\noperation, but to contrast its adequacy with the confessed impotency\nof Spencer\u2019s \u201ctransfigured realism.\u201d And, indeed, not only is this\nlatter impotent but eminently fallacious. In endeavoring to prove that\nthe mind transfigures its sensations in such a manner that there can\nexist no correspondence between the sensation and the object, Mr.\nSpencer allows the decision to rest on his test-case of sound. With\nrespect to the sensation produced on the auditory nerve by a\u00ebrial\nundulations, he says that \u201cthe subjective state no more resembles its\nobjective cause than the pressure which moves the trigger of a gun\nresembles the explosion which follows.\u201d And again, summarizing the\nargument, he says: \u201cAll the sensations produced in us by environing\nthings are but symbols of actions out of ourselves, the natures of\nwhich we cannot even conceive.\u201d The fallacy of this statement it is\nnot difficult to perceive; for Mr. Spencer rules out the action of the\nintellect, which can alone determine the value and significance of a\nsensation, and takes account only of the sensation itself, deeming it\nable to pronounce upon its own correspondence with its exciting\nobject. Indeed, there can be no more correspondence between a visual\nobject and the sense of vision than there can be between sound and a\nvibration of the air, except in so far as the mind pronounces this to\nbe the case after a due investigation of the respective conditions\npertaining to both sensations. It is the mind alone which can\ndetermine that the sensation we call sound is the result of air\nundulations, just as it is the mind which determines that the color\nand outline of visual objects are as represented in vision. The fault,\ntherefore, of Mr. Spencer\u2019s view is that, having constituted sensation\nthe sole and sufficient judge of its own objective validity and\ncorrespondence with external objects, he is compelled at once to fly\nto his chosen refuge and cherished haven of the \u201cunknown and the\nunknowable.\u201d Again is he guilty of another transparent fallacy when he\nasserts that a series of successive independent sensations are\nmistaken for a whole individual one, which we accordingly speak of as\nsuch. The instance he adduces is that of musical sound, \u201cwhich is,\u201d he\nsays, \u201ca seemingly simple feeling clearly resolvable into simpler\nfeelings.\u201d The implied inference is that, since experience proves this\nnot to be a simple feeling, but resolvable into simpler ones, there\ncan be no reciprocity between our sensations and their exciting\ncauses. This reasoning might be accredited with ingenuity, were it not\nso extremely shallow. For what is a sensation but that which we feel?\nAnd if we feel it as one, it must be one. It matters not if each\nseparate beat, contributing to produce musical sound, should, when\nheard alone, produce a feeling different from that caused by the\ncombination of beats, since it is none the less true that the rapid\ncombination produces a sensation which is felt as one, and necessarily\nis one in consequence. Mr. Spencer seems to forget that causes in\ncombination can produce results entirely different from those to which\neach cause separately taken can give rise; or, as Dr. Mivart says,\n\u201cAll that Mr. Spencer really shows and proves is that diverse\nconditions result in the evocation of diverse simple perceptions, of\nwhich perceptions such conditions are the occasions.\u201d Mr. Spencer\u2019s\nposition, bolstered up as it is by the minutest analysis of mental\nconsciousness and by a wealth of marvellously subtle reasoning, is\nafter all but a prejudice. He is indisposed to admit aught but\nsensation, and hence plies his batteries against every other element\nwhich dares obtrude itself into the domain of thought. How suggestive\nof this fact are the following words:\n\n \u201cIt needs but to think of a brain as a seat of nervous\n discharges, intermediate between actions in the outer world\n and actions in the world of thought, to be impressed with\n the absurdity of supposing that the connections among outer\n actions, after being transferred through the medium of\n nervous discharges, can reappear in the world of thought in\n the forms they originally had.\u201d\n\nWith Dr. Mivart we ask, \u201cWhere is the absurdity?\u201d For surely He who\nmade the brain might, if he saw fit, and as the facts prove, have so\nmade it that it would perform its functions in this very identical\nmanner. The steps of the process by which the results of nervous\naction are appropriated by the mind in the shape of knowledge will\nnecessarily remain an inscrutable mystery for ever, but that is no\nreason why they should not be accomplished in any manner short of that\ninvolving a contradiction. This ends what we wish to say concerning\nDr. Mivart\u2019s chapter on the \u201cExternal World.\u201d He has not endeavored to\nshirk a single phase of the discussion with his formidable opponents,\nand we feel that if he has worsted them in the encounter, his triumph\nis as much the inevitable outcome of the truth of the cause which he\nhas espoused as it is of the undoubted abilities he has exhibited\nthroughout the course of the hard-fought contest.\n\nSo pregnant with material for thought are the different chapters of\nDr. Mivart\u2019s book that we have thus far been unable to get beyond the\nopening ones, nor do their diversified character allow of a kindred\ncriticism. Thus, from the consideration of the \u201cExternal World\u201d the\nauthor at once proceeds to a few reflections on language in opposition\nto the Darwinian theory of its progressive formation and development.\nWe wish we could bestow on the whole of this chapter the same\nunqualified praise which his previous chapters merit; for, though\npartaking of the same general character of carefulness and research\nwhich belongs to all Dr. Mivart\u2019s writings, in it he rather petulantly\nwaves aside one of the strongest arguments and most valuable\nauxiliaries which could be found in support of his position. The\nproposition is to this effect: \u201cRational language is a bond of\nconnection between the mental and material world which is absolutely\npeculiar to man.\u201d He first considers language under its twofold aspect\nof emotional and rational, the latter alone being the division alluded\nto in the proposition. With the view, however, of facilitating his\nencounter with Darwin, he makes six subdistinctions which, though\ntrue, seem to overlap at times, or at least are gratuitous, since they\nare not needed for the purpose of their introduction. Mr. Darwin has\nexhibited, in his effort to make language a mere improvement on the\ngutturals and inarticulate sounds of animals, less of his accustomed\ningenuity than elsewhere, so that any amount of concession might have\nbeen made to him, and yet the orthodox view on the subject have been\nleft intact. And this we deem the wiser procedure in such cases; for\nless expenditure of force is required if the outer entrenchments can\nbe passed by without a struggle, and siege laid at once to the inner\nfortress itself. In one point of the argument Dr. Mivart gets the\nbetter of Darwin so neatly as to remind us of a _carte blanche_ thrust\nin fencing. Mr. Darwin remarks that man, in common with the lower\nanimals, uses, in order to express emotion, cries and gestures which\nare at times more expressive than any words, thus asserting an innate\nequality between both, if not even the superiority of the emotional\nover the rational language, and thereby insinuating that, in point of\norigin, there could not have been any difference between them. Dr.\nMivart replies that certainly emotional language is more expressive\nwhen it is question of expressing emotion. \u201cBut what,\u201d he asks, \u201chas\nthat to do with the question of definite signs intelligently given and\nunderstood?\u201d The fact that man uses emotional language in common with\nother animals proves nothing beyond the additional fact that he too is\nan animal, which is not the question; the question being whether in\naddition he possesses exclusively another faculty\u2015\u2015viz., that of\nrational language, _sui generis_\u2015\u2015radically different from the\nemotional. Mr. Darwin\u2019s argument is thus representable: _a_ and _a_\n(animality) + _x_ (rational language) = _a_ and _a_.\n\nThe passage in this chapter to which we reluctantly take exception is\nthe following: \u201cI actually heard Professor Vogt at Norwich (at the\nBritish Association meeting of 1868), in discussing certain cases of\naphasia, declare before the whole physiological section: \u2018_Je ne\ncomprends pas la parole dans un homme qui ne parle pas_\u2019\u2015\u2015a\ndeclaration which manifestly showed that he was not qualified to form,\nstill less to express, any opinion whatever on the subject.\u201d Now, we\nare of opinion that, rightly understood and interpreted in the light\nof the most recent researches, these words convey a deep and\nsignificant truth. Dr. Mivart is anxious, in the interest of truth, to\nmaintain intact and entire the essential difference between emotional\nand rational language, and this we believe he might best do by\ninvestigating and adapting the facts of aphasia. Aphasia declares that\nlanguage-function is confined to some portion of the anterior\nconvolution of the brain\u2015\u2015a source or centre of nerve-power altogether\ndistinct from the vesicular or gray portion of the cerebral substance\nwhich is concerned in the production of thought and all purely\nintellectual processes. This being the case, whenever we discover a\nlesion of the anterior convolution, and find it accompanied with\nimpaired ability of speech, we also find inability to conceive such\nthoughts as those of which words are the sole symbol and sensible\nsigns. The researches made by Trousseau, Hammond, and Ferrier prove\nthat the faculty of language is thus localized, the anatomical region\nbeing somewhere in the neighborhood of the island of Reil; and though\nBrown-S\u00e9quard, a physiologist whose opinion is entitled to great\nconsideration, differs from this view, the fact that more than five\nhundred cases as against thirteen favor the opinion is sufficient\nguarantee of its probable truth.\n\nThe distinction here is not sufficiently kept in sight between objects\nof thought which are denoted by some symbol besides the articulate\nword, and those which can be represented in words alone. All material\nobjects, or such as are found amid material environments, belong to\nthe former class, and of course need no words to become known. Their\nmaterial outlines and specific sensible qualities sufficiently reveal\nthem to the mind without any spoken language; for these individualize,\ndifferentiate, and circumscribe the object, and that is the whole\nfunction of language. When, however, it is question of purely\nintellectual conceptions, such as obtain throughout the range of\nmetaphysics, these are so bound up with their expression that, this\nbeing lost, the thought disappears with it. This theory, long since\nbroached by De Bonald, finds unexpected support in the facts of\naphasia. There are two forms of aphasia, the one amnesic, involving\nthe loss of the memory of words, the other ataxic, or inability to\ncoordinate words in coherent speech. The latter form is met with often\nseparately, and under those conditions the study of this phenomenon\nbecomes more interesting. We then see that all idea of relation has\ndisappeared, because it being a purely intellectual idea, having no\nsensible sign to represent it, its expression being lost to the mind,\nthe thought perishes at the same time. Hence words are confusedly\njumbled by the patient without the slightest reference to their\nmeaning. The researches of Bouillaud, Dax, Hughlings, Jackson,\nHammond, Flint, and S\u00e9guin all tend to establish the close dependence\nof thought and language, and to justify the utterance of Prof. Vogt\nwhich Dr. Mivart quotes with so much disapprobation, or to lend force\nto the dictum of Max M\u00fcller, that \u201cwithout language there can be no\nthought.\u201d We have merely touched upon this interesting subject of\naphasia, as a lengthened consideration of it would carry us beyond our\nlimits; but we hope to have stated enough to show that Dr. Mivart was,\nto say the least, rash in dismissing its teachings so summarily. We\nwill, however, do him the justice of saying that he conclusively\nproves the essential difference between emotional and rational\nlanguage, and the absurdity of regarding the latter as a mere\ndevelopment of the former. He has done this, too, by citing\nauthorities from the opposing school, and the labors of Mr. Taylor and\nSir John Lubbock are made to do yeoman\u2019s service against Mr. Darwin.\n\nWe have thus far followed Dr. Mivart step by step through the opening\nchapters of his book, and have found at each point of our progress\nabundant materials for reflection. The field he has surveyed with\nclose-gazing eye is varied and extensive; and though many gleaners\nwill come after him laden with fresh sheaves of toilsome gathering, to\nhim belongs the credit of having garnered the first crop of Catholic\ntruth from the seeds which modern science planted. He has done this\nservice, too, for philosophy: that he has enabled us to view modern\nspeculations in the light of the grand old principles of scholastic\nphilosophy, and dispelled the clouds of sophistry which filled up and\ngilded over the cranks and crannies of modern error. He has\nappreciated _au juste_ the drift and meaning of that false science\nwhich strives to make the beautiful facts of nature the basis of a\npernicious philosophy. Not a few of our orthodox friends have hitherto\nfailed to discern the real germ of falsity in the speculations of such\nmen as Tyndall and Huxley and Spencer. They felt that the conclusions\narrived at by those writers are false, subversive of reason and\nmorality, but, not being sufficiently versed in the premises wherewith\nthose conclusions were sought to be connected, they were obliged\neither to hold themselves to a silent protest or to carp and snarl\nwithout proof or argument to offer. We should remember that, though\nprinciples rest the same, consequences assume Protean shapes,\naccording as a sound or a perverse logic deduces them; and such is the\ninvariable necessity imposed upon the champions of truth that they\nmust, from time to time, cast aside weapons which have done good\nservice against a vanquished foe, and fashion others to deal a fresh\nthrust wherever they find a flaw in the newly-fashioned armor of\nerror. Catholic thinkers must keep abreast of the times, and we hope\nthat henceforth the opponents of scientism will abandon sarcasm and\ninvective, and, approaching their subject with a fulness of knowledge\nwhich will compel the respect of their adversaries, proceed in their\nwork, even as Dr. Mivart has done, with dignity and moderation.\n\n\n [1] _Lessons from Nature as manifested in Mind and Matter._\n By St. George Mivart, Ph.D., F.R.S., etc. 8vo, pp. 461. New\n York: D. Appleton & Co. 1876.\n\n\n\n\nSEVILLE.\n\n Quien no visto a Sevilla\n No ha visto a maravilla.\n\n\nOur first glimpse of the soft-flowing Guadalquivir was a\ndisappointment\u2015\u2015a turbid stream between two flat, uninteresting banks,\non which grew low bushes that had neither grace nor dignity. It needed\nits musical name and poetic associations to give it any claim on the\nattention. But it assumed a better aspect as we went on. Immense\norchards of olive-trees, soft and silvery, spread wide their boughs as\nfar as the eye could see. The low hills were sun-bathed; the valleys\nwere fertile; mountains appeared in the distance, severe and jagged as\nonly Spanish mountains know how to be, to give character to the\nlandscape. Now and then some old town came in sight on a swell of\nground, with an imposing gray church or Moorish-looking tower. At\nlength we came to fair Seville, standing amid orange and citron\ngroves, on the very banks of the Guadalquivir, with numerous towers\nthat were once minarets, and, chief among them, the beautiful,\nrose-flushed Giralda, warm in the sunset light, rising like a stately\npalm-tree among gleaming white houses. The city looked worthy of its\nfame as Seville the enchantress\u2015\u2015_Encantadora Sevilla_!\n\nWe went to the _Fonda Europa_, a Spanish-looking hotel with a _patio_\nin the centre, where played a fountain amid odorous trees and shrubs,\nand lamps, already lighted, hung along the arcades, in which were\nnumerous guests sauntering about, and picturesque beggars, grouped\naround a pillar, singing some old ditty in a recitative way to the\nsound of their instruments. Our room was just above, where we were\nspeedily lulled to sleep by their melancholy airs, in a fashion not\nunworthy of one\u2019s first night in poetic Andalusia. What more, indeed,\ncould one ask for than an orange-perfumed court with a splashing\nfountain, lamps gleaming among the trailing vines, Spanish\n_caballeros_ pacing the shadowy arcades, and wild-looking beggars\nmaking sad music on the harp and guitar?\n\nOf course our first visit in the morning was to the famed cathedral.\nEverything was charmingly novel in the streets to our new-world\neyes\u2015\u2015the gay shops of the _Calle de las Sierpes_, the Broadway of\nSeville, which no carriage is allowed to enter; the _Plaza_, with its\norange-trees and graceful arcades; and the dazzling white houses, with\ntheir Moorish balconies and pretty courts, of which we caught glimpses\nthrough the iron gratings, fresh and clean, with plants set around the\ncooling fountain, where the family assembled in the evening for music\nand conversation.\n\nWe soon found ourselves at the foot of the Giralda, which still calls\nto prayer, not, as in the time of the Moors, by means of its muezzin,\nbut by twenty-four bells all duly consecrated and named\u2015\u2015Santa Maria,\nSan Miguel, San Cristobal, San Fernando, Santa Barbara, etc.\u2015\u2015which,\nfrom time to time, send a whole wave of prayer over the city. It is\ncertainly one of the finest towers in Spain, and the people of Seville\nare so proud of it that they call it the eighth wonder of the world,\nwhich surpasses the seven others:\n\n Tu, maravilla octava, maravillas\n A las pasadas siete maravillas.\n\nThe Moors regarded it as so sacred that they would have destroyed it\nrather than have it fall into the hands of the Christians, had not\nAlfonso the Wise threatened them with his vengeance should they do so.\nIts strong foundations were partly built out of the statues of the\nsaints, as if they wished to raise a triumphant structure on the ruins\nof what was sacred to Christians. The remainder is of brick, of a soft\nrose-tint, very pleasing to the eye. The tower rises to the height of\nthree hundred and fifty feet, square, imposing, and so solid as to\nhave resisted the shock of several earthquakes. Around the belfry is\nthe inscription:\n\n NOMEN DOMINI FORTISSIMA TURRIS\n\n\u2015\u2015the name of the Lord is a strong tower. It is lighted by graceful\narches and ascended by means of a ramp in the centre, which is so\ngradual that a horse could go to the very top. We found on the summit\nno wise old Egyptian raven, as in Prince Ahmed\u2019s time, with one foot\nin the grave, but still poring, with his knowing one eye, over the\ncabalistic diagrams before him. No; all magic lore vanished from the\nland with the dark-browed Moors, and now there were only gentle doves,\nsoftly cooing in less heathenish notes, but perhaps not without their\nspell.\n\nOn the top of the tower is a bronze statue of Santa F\u00e9, fourteen feet\nhigh, weighing twenty-five hundred pounds, but, instead of being\nsteadfast and immovable, as well-grounded faith should be, it turns\nlike a weather-cock, veering with every wind like a very straw, whence\nthe name of Giralda. Don Quixote makes his Knight of the Wood,\nspeaking of his exploits in honor of the beautiful Casilda, say: \u201cOnce\nshe ordered me to defy the famous giantess of Seville, called Giralda,\nas valiant and strong as if she were of bronze, and who, without ever\nmoving from her place, is the most changeable and inconstant woman in\nthe world. I went. I saw her. I conquered her. I forced her to remain\nmotionless, as if tied, for more than a week. No wind blew but from\nthe north.\u201d\n\nAt the foot of this magic tower is the _Patio de las Naranjas_\u2015\u2015an\nimmense court filled with orange-trees of great age, in the midst of\nwhich is the fountain where the Moors used to perform their ablutions.\nIt is surrounded by a high battlemented wall, which makes the\ncathedral look as if fortified. You enter it by a Moorish archway, now\nguarded by Christian apostles and surmounted by the victorious cross.\nJust within you are startled by a thorn-crowned statue of the _Ecce\nHomo_, in a deep niche, with a lamp burning before it. The court is\nthoroughly Oriental in aspect, with its fountain, its secluded groves,\nthe horseshoe arches with their arabesques, the crocodile suspended\nover the _Puerta del Lagarto_, sent by the Sultan of Egypt to Alfonso\nthe Wise, asking the hand of his daughter in marriage (an ominous\nlove-token from which the princess naturally shrank); and over the\nchurch door, with a lamp burning before it, is a statue of the\nOriental Virgin whom all Christians unite in calling Blessed\u2015\u2015here\nspecially invoked as _Nuestra Se\u00f1ora de los Remedios_. The Oriental\naspect of the court makes the cathedral within all the more\nimpressive, with its Gothic gloom and marvels of western art. It is\none of the grandest Gothic churches in the world. It is said the\ncanons, when the question of building it was discussed in 1401,\nexclaimed in full chapter: \u201cLet us build a church of such dimensions\nthat every one who beholds it will consider us mad!\u201d Everything about\nit is on a grand scale. It is an oblong square four hundred and\nthirty-one feet long by three hundred and fifteen wide. The nave is of\nprodigious height, and of the six aisles the two next the walls are\ndivided into a series of chapels. The church is lighted by\nninety-three immense windows of stained glass, the finest in Spain,\nbut of the time of the decadence. The rites of the church are\nperformed here with a splendor only second to Rome, and the objects\nused in the service are on a corresponding scale of magnificence. The\nsilver monstrance, for the exposition of the Host, is one of the\nlargest pieces of silversmith\u2019s work in the kingdom, with niches and\nsaints elaborately wrought, surmounted by a statuette of the\nImmaculate Conception. The bronze _tenebrario_ for Holy Week is twelve\nfeet high, with sixteen saints arrayed on the triangle. The Pascal\ncandle, given every year by the chapter of Toledo in exchange for the\npalm branches used on Palm Sunday, is twenty-five feet high, and\nweighs nearly a ton. It looks like a column of white marble, and might\nbe called the \u201c_Grand Duc des chandelles_,\u201d as the sun was termed by\nDu Bartas, a French poet of the time of Henry of Navarre. On the right\nwall, just within one of the doors, is a St. Christopher, painted in\nthe sixteenth century, thirty-two feet high, with a green tree for a\nstaff, crossing a mighty current with the child Jesus on his shoulder,\nlooking like an infant Hercules. These gigantic St. Christophers are\nto be seen in most of the Spanish cathedrals, from a belief that he\nwho looks prayerfully upon an image of this saint will that day come\nto no evil end: _Christophorum videas; postea tutus eas_\u2015\u2015Christopher\nbehold; then mayest thou safely go; or, according to the old adage:\n\n Christophori sancti, speciem quicumque tuetur,\n Ist\u00e2 nemp\u00e8 die non morte mala morietur.\n\nThese colossal images are at first startling, but one soon learns to\nlike the huge, kindly saint who walked with giant steps in the paths\nof holiness; bore a knowledge of Christ to infidel lands of suffering\nand trial, upheld amid the current by his lofty courage and strength\nof will, which raised him above ordinary mortals, and carrying his\nstaff, ever green and vigorous, emblem of his constancy. No legend is\nmore beautifully significant, and no saint was more popular in ancient\ntimes. His image was often placed in elevated situations, to catch the\neye and express his power over the elements, and he was especially\ninvoked against lightning, hail, and impetuous winds. His name of\nhappy augury\u2015\u2015the Christ-bearer\u2015\u2015was given to Columbus, destined to\ncarry a knowledge of the faith across an unknown deep.\n\nThis reminds us that in the pavement near the end of the church is the\ntombstone of Fernando, the son of Christopher Columbus, on which are\ngraven the arms given by Ferdinand and Isabella, with the motto: _A\nCastilla y a Leon, mundo nuevo dio Colon._ Over this stone is erected\nthe immense _monumento_ for the Host on Maundy Thursday, shaped like a\nGreek temple, which is adorned by large statues, and lit up by nearly\na thousand candles.\n\nThis church, though full of solemn religious gloom, is by no means\ngloomy. It is too lofty and spacious, and the windows, especially in\nthe morning, light it up with resplendent hues. The choir, which is as\nlarge as an ordinary church, stands detached in the body of the house.\nIt is divided into two parts transversely, with a space between them\nfor the laity, as in all the Spanish cathedrals. The part towards the\neast contains the high altar, and is called the _Capilla mayor_. The\nother is the _Coro_, strictly speaking, and contains the richly-carved\nstalls of the canons and splendid choral books. They are both\nsurrounded by a high wall finely sculptured, except the ends that face\neach other, across which extend _rejas_, or open-work screens of iron\nartistically wrought, that do not obstruct the view.\n\nThe canons were chanting the Office when we entered, and looked like\nbishops in their flowing purple robes. The service ended with a\nprocession around the church, the clergy in magnificent copes, heavy\nwith ancient embroidery in gold. The people were all devout. No\ncareless ways, as in many places where religion sits lightly on the\npeople, but an earnestness and devotion that were impressive. The\nattitudes of the clergy were fine, without being studied; the grouping\nof the people picturesque. The ladies all wore the Spanish mantilla,\nand, when not kneeling, sat, in true Oriental style, on the matting\nthat covered portions of the marble pavement. Lights were burning on\nnearly all the altars like constellations of stars all along the dim\naisles. The grandeur of the edifice, the numerous works of Christian\nart, the august rites of the Catholic Church, and the devotion of the\npeople all seemed in harmony. Few churches leave such an impression on\nthe mind.\n\nIn the first chapel at the left, where stands the baptismal font, is\nMurillo\u2019s celebrated \u201cVision of St. Anthony,\u201d a portion of which was\ncut out by an adroit thief a few years ago, and carried to the United\nStates, but is now replaced. It is so large that, with a \u201cBaptism of\nour Saviour\u201d above it by the same master, it fills the whole side of\nthe chapel up to the very arch. It seemed to be the object of general\nattraction. Group after group came to look at it before leaving the\nchurch, and it is worthy of its popularity and fame, though Mr. Ford\nsays it has always been overrated. Th\u00e9ophile Gautier is more\nenthusiastic. He says:\n\n \u201cNever was the magic of painting carried so far. The rapt\n saint is kneeling in the middle of his cell, all the poor\n details of which are rendered with the vigorous realism\n characteristic of the Spanish school. Through the half-open\n door is seen one of those long, spacious cloisters so\n favorable to reverie. The upper part of the picture, bathed\n in a soft, transparent, vaporous light, is filled with a\n circle of angels of truly ideal beauty, playing on musical\n instruments. Amid them, drawn by the power of prayer, the\n Infant Jesus descends from cloud to cloud to place himself\n in the arms of the saintly man, whose head is bathed in the\n streaming radiance, and who seems ready to fall into an\n ecstasy of holy rapture. We place this divine picture above\n the St. Elizabeth of Hungary cleansing the _teigneux_, to be\n seen at the Royal Academy of Madrid; above the \u2018Moses\u2019;\n above all the Virgins and all the paintings of the Infant\n Jesus by this master, however beautiful, however pure they\n be. He who has not seen the \u2018St. Anthony of Padua\u2019 does not\n know the highest excellence of the painter of Seville. It is\n like those who imagine they know Rubens and have never seen\n the \u2018Magdalen\u2019 at Antwerp.\u201d\n\nWe passed chapel after chapel with paintings, statues, and tombs, till\nwe came to the _Capilla Real_, where lies the body of St. Ferdinand in\na silver urn, with an inscription in four languages by his son,\nAlfonso the Wise, who seems to have had a taste for writing epitaphs.\nHe composed that of the Cid.\n\nSt. Ferdinand was the contemporary and cousin-german of St. Louis of\nFrance, who gave him the _Virgen de los Reyes_ that hangs in this\nchapel, and, like him, added the virtues of a saint to the glories of\na warrior. He had such a tender love for his subjects that he was\nunwilling to tax them, and feared the curse of one poor old woman more\nthan a whole army of Moors. He took Cordova, and dedicated the mosque\nof the foul Prophet to the purest of Virgins. He conquered Murcia in\n1245; Jaen in 1246; Seville in 1248; but he remained humble amid all\nhis glory, and exclaimed with tears on his death-bed: \u201cO my Lord! thou\nhast suffered so much for the love of me; but I, wretched man that I\nam! what have I done out of love for thee?\u201d He died like a criminal,\nwith a cord around his neck and a crucifix in his hands, and so\nvenerated by foes as well as friends that, when he was buried,\nMohammed Ebn Alahmar, the founder of the Alhambra, sent a hundred\nMoorish knights to bear lighted tapers around his bier\u2015\u2015a tribute of\nrespect he continued to pay him on every anniversary of his death. And\nto this day, when the body of St. Ferdinand, which is in a remarkable\nstate of preservation, is exposed to veneration, the troops present\narms as they pass, and the flag is lowered before the conqueror of\nSeville.\n\nThe arms of the city represent St. Ferdinand on his throne, with St.\nLeander and Isidore, the patrons of Seville, at his side. Below is the\ncurious device\u2015\u2015No 8 Do\u2015\u2015a rebus of royal invention, to be seen on the\npavement of the beautiful chapter-house. When Don Sancho rebelled\nagainst his father, Alfonso the Wise, most of the cities joined in the\nrevolt. But Seville remained loyal, and the king gave it this device\nas the emblem of its fidelity. The figure 8, which represents a knot\nor skein\u2015\u2015_madeja_ in Spanish\u2015\u2015between the words No and Do, reads: _No\nmadeja do_, or _No m\u2019ha dejado_, which, being interpreted, is: _She\nhas not abandoned me_.\n\nSt. Ferdinand\u2019s effigy is rightfully graven on the city arms; for it\nwas he who wrested Seville from Mahound and restored it to Christ, to\nuse the expression on the _Puerta de la Carne_:\n\n Condidit Alcides; renovavit Julius urbem,\n Restituit Christo Fernandus tertius Heros.\n\n\u2015\u2015Alcides founded the city, Julius C\u00e6sar rebuilt it, and Ferdinand\nIII., the Hero, restored it to Christ; a proud inscription, showing\nthe antiquity of Seville. Hercules himself, who played so great a\n_r\u00f4le_ in Spain, founded it, as you see; its historians say just two\nthousand two hundred and twenty-eight years after the creation of the\nworld. On the _Puerta de Jerez_ it is written: \u201cHercules built me,\nJulius C\u00e6sar surrounded me with walls, and the Holy King conquered me\nwith the aid of Garcia Perez de Vargas.\u201d Hercules\u2019 name has been given\nto one of the principal promenades of the city, where his statue is to\nbe seen on a column, opposite to another of Julius C\u00e6sar.\n\nThe above-mentioned Garcia Perez and Alfonso el Sabio are both buried\nin the Royal Chapel. Close beside it is the chapel of the Immaculate\nConception, with some old paintings of that mystery, which Seville was\none of the foremost cities in the world to maintain. Andalusia is the\ntrue land of the Immaculate Conception, and Seville was the first to\nraise a cry of remonstrance against those who dared attack the most\nprecious prerogative of the Virgin. Its clergy and people sent\ndeputies to Rome, and had silence imposed on all who were audacious\nenough to dispute it. And when Pope Paul V. published his bull\nauthorizing the festival of the Immaculate Conception, and forbidding\nany one\u2019s preaching or teaching to the contrary, Seville could not\ncontain itself for joy, but broke out into tournaments and banquets,\nbull-fights and the roaring of cannon. When the festival came round,\nthis joy took another form, and expressed itself in true Oriental\nfashion by dances before the Virgin, as the Royal Harper danced before\nthe ark. Nor was this a novelty. Religious dances had been practised\nfrom remote times in Spain. They formed part of the Mozarabic rite,\nwhich Cardinal Ximenes reestablished at Toledo, authorizing dances in\nthe choir and nave. St. Basil, among other fathers, approved of\nimitating the _tripudium angelorum_\u2015\u2015the dance of the angelic choirs\nthat\n\n \u201cSing, and, singing in their glory, move.\u201d\n\nAt the Cathedral of Seville the choir-boys, called _Los Seises_\u2015\u2015the\nSixes\u2015\u2015used to dance to the sound of ivory castanets before the Host\non Corpus Christi, and in the chapel of the Virgin on the 8th of\nDecember, when they were dressed in blue and white. Sometimes they\nsang as they danced. One of their hymns began: \u201cHail, O Virgin, purer\nand fairer than the dawn or star of day! Daughter, Mother, Spouse,\nMaria! and the Eastern Gate of God!\u201d with the chorus: \u201cSing, brothers,\nsing, to the praise of the Mother of God; of Spain the royal\npatroness, conceived without sin!\u201d There was nothing profane in this\ndance. It was a kind of cadence, decorous, and not without religious\neffect. Several of the archbishops of Seville, however, endeavored to\nsuppress it, but the lower clergy long clung to the custom. Pope\nEugenius IV., in 1439, authorized the dance of the _Seises_. St.\nThomas of Villanueva speaks approvingly of the religious dances of\nSeville in his day. They were also practised in Portugal, where we\nread of their being celebrated at the canonization of St. Charles\nBorromeo, as in Spain for that of St. Ignatius de Loyola. These,\nhowever, were of a less austere character, and were not performed in\nchurch. In honor of the latter, quadrilles were formed of children,\npersonifying the four quarters of the globe, with costumes in\naccordance. America had the greatest success, executed by children\neight or ten years old, dressed as monkeys, parrots, etc.\u2015\u2015tropical\nAmerica, evidently. These were varied in one place by the\nrepresentation of the taking of Troy, the wooden horse included.\n\nThe Immaculate Conception is still the favorite dogma of this region.\n_Ave Maria Purissima!_ is still a common exclamation. There are few\nchurches without a Virgin dressed in blue and white; few houses\nwithout a picture, at least, of Mary Most Pure. There are numerous\nconfraternities of the Virgin, some of whom come together at dawn to\nrecite the _Rosario de la Aurora_. Among the hymns they sing is a\nverse in which Mary is compared to a vessel of grace, of which St.\nJoseph is the sail, the child Jesus the helm, and the oars are the\npious members, who devoutly pray:\n\n \u201cEs Maria la nave de gracia,\n San Jose la vela, el Ni\u00f1o el timon;\n Y los remos son las buenas almas\n Que van al Rosario con gran devocion.\u201d\n\nThere is another chapel of Our Lady in the cathedral of Seville, in\nwhich is a richly-sculptured retable with pillars, and niches, and\nstatues, all of marble, and a balustrade of silver, along the rails of\nwhich you read, in great silver letters, the angelic salutation: AVE\nMARIA!\n\nAt the further end of one of the art-adorned sacristies hangs Pedro de\nCampa\u00f1a\u2019s famous \u201cDescent from the Cross,\u201d before which Murillo loved\nto meditate, especially in his last days. Joseph of Arimathea and\nNicodemus, in deep-red mantles, let down the dead Christ. St. John\nstands at the foot ready to receive him. The Virgin is half fainting.\nMagdalen is there with her vase. The figures are a little stiff, but\ntheir attitudes are expressive of profound grief, and the picture is\nadmirable in coloring and religious in effect, as well as interesting\nfrom its associations. It was once considered so awful that Pacheco\nwas afraid to remain before it after dark. But those were days of\nprofound religious feeling; now men are afraid of nothing. And it was\nso full of reality to Murillo that, one evening, lingering longer than\nusual before it, the sacristan came to warn him it was time to close\nthe church. \u201cI am waiting,\u201d said the pious artist, rousing from his\ncontemplation, \u201ctill those holy men shall have finished taking down\nthe body of the Lord.\u201d The painting then hung in the church of Santa\nCruz, and Murillo was buried beneath it. This was destroyed by Marshal\nSoult, and the bones of the artist scattered.\n\nIn the same sacristy hang, on opposite walls, St. Leander and his\nbrother Isidore, by Murillo, both with noble heads. The latter is the\nmost popular saint in Spain after St. James, and is numbered among the\nfathers of the church. Among the twelve burning suns, circling in the\nfourth heaven of Dante\u2019s Paradiso, is \u201cthe arduous spirit of Isidore,\u201d\nwhom the great Alcuin long before called \u201cHesperus, the star of the\nchurch\u2015\u2015_Jubar Ecclesi\u00e6, sidus Hesperi\u00e6_.\u201d The Venerable Bede classes\nhim with Jerome, Athanasius, Augustine, and Cyprian; and it was after\ndictating some passages from St. Isidore that he died.\n\nSt. Isidore is said to have been descended from the old Gothic kings.\nAt any rate, he belonged to a family of saints, which is better; his\nsister and two brothers being in the calendar. His saintly mother,\nwhen the family was exiled from Carthagena on account of their\nreligion, chose to live in Seville, saying with tears: \u201cLet me die in\nthis foreign land, and have my sepulchre here where I was brought to\nthe knowledge of God!\u201d It is said a swarm of bees came to rest on the\nmouth of St. Isidore when a child; as is related of several other men\ncelebrated for their mellifluence\u2015\u2015Plato and St. Ambrose, for example.\nOld legends tell how he went to Rome and back in one night. However\nthat may be, his mind was of remarkable activity and compass, and took\nin all the knowledge of the day. He knew Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, and\nwrote such a vast number of works as to merit the title of _Doctor\nEgregius_. There are two hundred MSS. of his in the _Biblioth\u00e8que\nRoyale_ at Paris, and still more at the Vatican, to say nothing of\nthose in Spain. His great work, the _Etymologies_, in twenty books, is\nan encyclop\u00e6dia of all the learning of the seventh century. Joseph\nScaliger says it rendered great service to science by saving from\ndestruction what would otherwise have been irretrievably lost.\n\nThe account of St. Isidore\u2019s death, celebrated by art, is very\naffecting. When he felt his end was drawing near, he summoned two of\nhis suffragans, and had himself transported to the church of San\nVicente amid a crowd of clergy, monks, and the entire population of\nSeville, who rent the air with their cries. When he arrived before the\nhigh altar, he ordered all the women to retire. Then one of the\nbishops clothed him in sackcloth, and the other sprinkled him with\nashes. In this penitential state he publicly confessed his sins,\nimploring pardon of God, and begging all present to pray for him. \u201cAnd\nif I have offended any one,\u201d added he, \u201clet him pardon me in view of\nmy sincere repentance.\u201d He then received the holy Body of the Lord,\nand gave all around him the kiss of peace, desiring that it might be a\npledge of eternal reunion, after which he distributed all the money he\nhad left to the poor. He was then taken home, and died four days\nafter.[2]\n\nOn the church in which this touching scene occurred is represented San\nVicente, the titular, with the legendary crow which piloted the ship\nthat bore his body to Lisbon, with a pitchfork in its mouth. Mr. Ford,\nwhose knowledge of saintly lore is not commensurate with his desire to\nbe funny, thinks \u201ca rudder would be more appropriate,\u201d not knowing\nthat a fork was one of the instruments used to torture the \u201cInvincible\nMartyr.\u201d Prudentius says: \u201cWhen his body was lacerated by iron forks,\nhe only smiled on his tormentors; the pangs they inflicted were a\ndelight; thorns were his roses; the flames a refreshing bath; death\nitself was but the entrance to life.\u201d\n\nNear the cathedral is the Alcazar, with battlemented walls, and an\nouter pillared court where pace the guards to defend the shades of\npast royalty. As we had not then seen the Alhambra, we were the more\nstruck by the richness and beauty of this next best specimen of\nMoorish architecture. The fretwork of gold on a green ground, or white\non red; the mysterious sentences from the Koran; the curious ceilings\ninlaid with cedar; the brilliant _azulejos_; the Moorish arches and\ndecorations; and the secluded courts, were all novel, and like a page\nfrom some Eastern romance. The windows looked out on enchanting\ngardens, worthy of being sung by Ariosto, with orange hedges,\npalm-trees, groves of citrons and pomegranates, roses in full bloom,\nthough in January; kiosks lined with bright _azulejos_, and a fountain\nin the centre; fish playing in immense marble tanks, tiny jets of\nwater springing up along the paths to cool the air, a bright sun, and\na delicious temperature. All this was the creation of Don Pedro the\nCruel, aided by some of the best Moorish workmen from Granada. Here\nreigned triumphant Maria de Padilla, called the queen of sorcerers by\nthe people, who looked upon Don Pedro as bewitched. When she died, the\nking had her buried with royal honors\u2015\u2015shocking to say, in the\n_Capilla Real_, where lies Fernando the Saint! Her apartments are\npointed out, now silent and deserted where once reigned love and\nfeasting\u2015\u2015yes, and crime. In one of the halls it is said Don Pedro\ntreacherously slew Abou Said, King of the Moors, who had come to visit\nhim in sumptuous garments of silk and gold, covered with jewels\u2015\u2015slew\nhim for the sake of the booty. Among the spoils were three rubies of\nextraordinary brilliancy, as large as pigeons\u2019 eggs, one of which Don\nPedro afterwards gave the Black Prince; it is now said to adorn the\nroyal crown of England.\n\nThere is a little oratory in the Alcazar, only nine or ten feet\nsquare, called the _Capilla de los Azulejos_, because the altar,\nretable, and the walls to a certain height, are composed of enamelled\ntiles, some of which bear the F and Y, with the arrows and yoke,\nshowing they were made in the time of Isabella the Catholic. The\naltar-piece represents the Visitation. In this chapel Charles V. was\nmarried to Isabella of Portugal.\n\nNo one omits to visit the hospital of _La Caridad_, which stands on a\nsquare by the Guadalquivir, with five large pictures on the front, of\nblue and white _azulejos_, painted after the designs of Murillo. One\nof them represents St. George and the dragon, to which saint the\nbuilding is dedicated. This hospital was rebuilt in 1664 by Miguel de\nMa\u00f1ara in expiation of his sins; for he had been, before his\nconversion, a very Don Juan for profligacy. In his latter days he\nacquired quite a reputation for sanctity, and some years since there\nwas a question of canonizing him. However, he had inscribed on his\ntomb the unique epitaph: \u201cHere lie the ashes of the worst man that\never lived in the world.\u201d He was a friend of Murillo\u2019s, and, being a\nman of immense wealth, employed him to adorn the chapel of his\nhospital. Marshal Soult carried off most of these paintings, among\nwhich was the beautiful \u201cSt. Elizabeth of Hungary,\u201d now at Madrid; but\nsix still remain. \u201cMoses smiting the Rock\u201d and the \u201cMultiplication of\nthe Loaves and Fishes\u201d are justly noted, but the most beautiful is the\npicture of San Juan de Dios staggering home through the dark street on\na stormy night, with a dying man on his shoulder. An angel, whose\nheavenly radiance lights up the gloom with truly Rembrandt coloring,\nis aiding him to bear his burden.\n\nThere is a frightful picture among these soft Murillos, by Juan Vald\u00e9s\nLeal, of a half-open coffin, in which lies a bishop in magnificent\npontifical robes, who is partially eaten up by the worms. Murillo\ncould never look at it without compressing his nose, as if it gave out\na stench. The \u201cDescent from the Cross\u201d over the altar is exquisitely\ncarved and colored. Few chapels contain so many gems of art, but the\nlight is ill-adapted for displaying them.\n\nThis hospital was in part founded for night wanderers. It is now an\nalmshouse for old men, and served by Sisters of Charity.\n\nAmong other places of attraction are the palace of the Duke de\nMontpensier and the beautiful grounds with orange orchards and groves\nof palm-trees. Then there is the house of Murillo, bright and sunny,\nwith its pleasant court and marble pillars, still the home of art,\nowned by a dignitary of the church.\n\nThe _Casa de Pilatos_ is an elegant palace, half Moorish, half Gothic,\nbelonging to the Duke of Medina Celi, said to have been built by a\nnobleman of the sixteenth century, in commemoration of a pilgrimage to\nJerusalem, after the plan of Pilate\u2019s house. Perhaps the name was\ngiven it because the public stations of the _Via Crucis_, or Way of\nBitterness, as the Spanish call it, begin here, at the cross in the\ncourt. The Pretorian chapel has a column of the flagellation and\nburning lamps; and on the staircase, as you go up, is the cock in\nmemory of St. Peter. Beautiful as the palace is, it is unoccupied, and\nkept merely for show.\n\nIt would take a volume to describe all the works of art to be seen in\nthe palaces and churches of Seville. We will only mention the _Jesus\nNazareno del Gran Poder_\u2015\u2015of great power\u2015\u2015at San Lorenzo, a statue by\nMonta\u00f1es, which is carried in the processions of Holy Week, dressed in\nblack velvet broidered with silver and gold, and bearing a large cross\nencrusted with ivory, shell, and pearl. Angels, with outspread wings,\nbear lanterns before him. The whole group is carried by men so\nconcealed under draperies that it seems to move of itself. We had not\nthe satisfaction of witnessing one of these processions, perhaps the\nmost striking in the world, with the awful scenes of the Passion, the\nVirgin of Great Grief, and the apostles in their traditional colors;\neven Judas in yellow, still in Spain the color of infamy and\ncriminals.\n\nOf course we went repeatedly to the _Museo_ of Seville; for we had\nspecially come here to see Murillo on his native ground. His statue is\nin the centre of the square before it. The collection of paintings is\nsmall, but it comprises some of the choicest specimens of the Seville\nschool. They are all of a religious nature, and therefore not out of\nplace in the church and sacristy where they are hung\u2015\u2015part of the\nsuppressed convent of _La Merced_, founded by Fernando el Santo in the\nthirteenth century. The custodian who ushered us in waved his hand to\nthe pictures on the opposite wall, breathing rather than saying the\nword _Murillo!_ with an ineffable accent, half triumph, half\nadoration, and then kissed the ends of his fingers to express their\ndelicious quality. He was right. They are adorable. We recognized them\nat a glance, having read of them for long years, and seen them often\nin our dreams. And visions they are of beauty and heavenly rapture,\nsuch as Murillo alone could paint. His refinement of expression, his\nwarm colors and shimmering tints, the purity and tenderness of his\nVirgins, the ecstatic glow of his saints, and the infantine grace and\nbeauty of his child Christs, all combine to make him one of the most\nbeautiful expressions of Christian art, in harmony with all that is\nmystical and fervid. He has twenty-four paintings here, four of which\nare Conceptions, the subject for which he is specially renowned.\nMurillo is emphatically the Painter of the Immaculate Conception. When\nhe established the Academy of Art at Seville, of which he and Herrera\nwere the first presidents, every candidate had to declare his belief\nin the Most Pure Conception of the Virgin. It was only three months\nbefore Murillo\u2019s birth that Philip IV., amid the enthusiastic applause\nof all Spain, solemnly placed his kingdom under the protection of the\n_Virgen concebida sin peccado_. Artists were at once inspired by the\nsubject, and vied with each other in depicting the\n\n \u201cWoman above all women glorified,\n Our tainted nature\u2019s solitary boast.\u201d\n\nBut Murillo alone rose to the full height of this great theme, and he\nwill always be considered as, _par excellence_, the _Pintor de las\nConcepciones_. He painted the Conception twenty-five times, and not\ntwice in the same way. Two are at Paris, several in England, three at\nMadrid, and four in this museum, one of which is called the _Perla_\u2015\u2015a\npearl indeed. Innocence and purity, of course, are the predominant\nexpressions of these Virgins, from the very nature of the subject.\nMary is always represented clothed in flowing white robes, and draped\nwith an azure mantle. She is radiant with youth and grace, and\nmysterious and pure as the heaven she floats in. Her small, delicate\nhands are crossed on her virginal breast or folded in adoration. Her\nlips are half open and tremulous. She is borne up in a flood of\nsilvery light, calmly ecstatic, her whole soul in her eyes, which are\nbathed in a humid languor, and her beautiful hair, caressed by the\nwind, is floating around her like an aureola of gold. The whole is a\nvision as intoxicating as a cloud of Arabian incense. It is a poem of\nmystical love\u2015\u2015the very ecstasy of devotion.\n\nMurillo\u2019s best paintings were done for the Franciscans, the great\ndefenders of the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception. From the\nCapuchins of Seville perhaps he derived his inspiration. They were his\nfirst patrons. He loved to paint the Franciscan saints, as well as\ntheir darling dogma. Such subjects were in harmony with his spiritual\nnature. He almost lived in the cloister. Piety reigned in his\nhousehold. One of his sons took orders, and his daughter, Francisca,\nthe model of some of his virgins, became a nun in the convent of the\n_Madre de Dios_.\n\nAmong his paintings here is one of \u201cSt. Francis at the foot of the\nCross,\u201d trampling the world and its vanities under his feet. Our\nSaviour has detached one bleeding hand from the cross, and bends down\nto lay it on the shoulder of the saint, as if he would draw him closer\nto his wounded side. St. Francis is looking up with a whole world of\nadoring love in his eyes, of self-surrender and _abandon_ in his\nattitude. Though sombre in tone, this is one of the most expressive\nand devotional of pictures, and, once seen, can never be forgotten.\n\nThen there is St. Felix, in his brown Franciscan dress, holding the\nbeautiful child Jesus in his arms. When we first saw it, the afternoon\nsun, streaming through the windows, threw fresh radiance over the\nheavenly Madonna, who comes lightly, so lightly! down through the\nluminous ether, borne by God\u2019s angels, slightly bending forward to the\nsaint, as if with special predilection. A wallet of bread is at his\nfeet, in reference to the legend that St. Felix went out one stormy\nnight to beg for the poor brethren of his convent, and met a child\nradiant with goodness and beauty, who gave him a loaf and then\ndisappeared. This picture is the perfection of what is called\nMurillo\u2019s _vaporous_ style. The Spanish say it was painted _con leche\ny sangre_\u2015\u2015with milk and blood.\n\nThe _Servietta_, so famous, is greatly injured. It is said to have\nbeen dashed off on a napkin, while waiting for his dinner, and given\nto the porter of the convent. If so, the friars\u2019 napkins were of very\ncoarse canvas, as may be seen where the paint has scaled off. The\nVirgin, a half-length, has large, Oriental eyes, full of intensity and\nearnestness.\n\nOpposite is St. Thomas of Villanueva, giving alms to the poor, with a\nlook of compassionate feeling on his pale, emaciated face, the light\ncoming through the archway above him with fine effect. The beggars\naround him stand out as if in relief. One is crawling up to the saint\non his knees, the upper part of his body naked and brown from\nexposure. A child in the corner is showing his coin to his mother with\nglee. Murillo used to call this _his_ picture, as if he preferred it\nto his other works.\n\nSt. Thomas was Archbishop of Valencia in the sixteenth century, and a\npatron of letters and the arts, but specially noted for his excessive\ncharity, for which he is surnamed the Almsgiver. His ever-open purse\nwas popularly believed to have been replenished by the angels. When he\ndied, more than eight thousand poor people followed him to the grave,\nfilling the air with their sighs and groans. Pope Paul V. canonized\nhim, and ordered that he should be represented with a purse instead of\na crosier.\n\nMurillo\u2019s SS. Justa and Rufina are represented with victorious palms\nof martyrdom, holding between them the Giralda, of which they have\nbeen considered the special protectors since a terrible storm in 1504,\nwhich threatened the tower. They are two Spanish-looking maidens, one\nin a violet dress and yellow mantle, the other in blue and red, with\nearthen dishes around their feet. They lived in the third century, and\nwere the daughters of a potter in Triana, a faubourg of Seville, on\nthe other side of the river, which has always been famous for its\npottery. In the time of the Arabs beautiful _azulejos_ were made here,\nof which specimens are to be seen in some of the churches of Seville.\nIn the sixteenth century there were fifty manufactories here, which\nproduced similar ones of very fine lustre, such as we see at the _Casa\nde Pilatos_. Cervantes celebrates Triana in his _Rinconete y\nCortadillo_. It is said to derive its name, originally Trajana, from\nthe Emperor Trajan, who was born not far from Seville. It has come\ndown from its high estate, and is now mostly inhabited by gypsies and\nthe refuse of the city. The potteries are no longer what they once\nwere. But there is an interesting little church, called Santa Ana,\nbuilt in the time of Alfonso the Wise, in which are some excellent\npictures, and a curious tomb of the sixteenth century made of\n_azulejos_. It was in this unpromising quarter the two Christian\nmaidens, Justa and Rufina, lived fifteen hundred years ago or more.\nSome pagan women coming to their shop one day to buy vases for the\nworship of Venus, they refused to sell any for the purpose, and the\nwomen fell upon their stock of dishes and broke them to pieces. The\nsaints threw the images of Venus into the ditch to express their\nabhorrence. Whereupon the people dragged them before the magistrates,\nand, confessing themselves to be Christians, they were martyred.\n\nThere are two St. Anthonies here by Murillo, one of which is specially\nremarkable for beauty and intensity of expression. The child Jesus has\ndescended from the skies, and sits on an open volume, about to clasp\nthe saint around the neck. St. Anthony\u2019s face seems to have caught\nsomething of the glow of heaven. Angels hover over the scene, as well\nthey may.\n\nThere are several paintings here by the genial Pacheco, the\nfather-in-law of Velasquez; among others one of St. Peter Nolasco, the\ntutor of Don Jayme _el Conquistador_, going in a boat to the\nredemption of captives. The man at the prow is Cervantes, who, with\nthe other _beaux esprits_ of the day, used to assemble in the studio\nof Pacheco, a man of erudition and a poet as well as a painter.\nPacheco was a familiar of the Inquisition, and inspector of sacred\npictures. It was in the latter capacity he laid down rules for their\nrepresentation, among which were some relating to paintings of the\nImmaculate Conception (he has two paintings of this subject in the\nmuseum), which were generally adhered to in Spain. The general idea\nwas taken from the woman in the Apocalypse, clothed with the sun,\nhaving the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve\nstars. The Virgin was to be represented in the freshness of\nmaidenhood, with grave, sweet eyes, golden hair, in a robe of spotless\nwhite and a blue mantle. Blue and white are the traditional colors of\nthe Virgin. In the unchanging East Lamartine found the women of\nNazareth clad in a loose white garment that fell around them in long,\ngraceful folds, over which was a blue tunic confined at the waist by a\ngirdle\u2015\u2015a dress he thought might have come down from the time of the\npatriarchs.\n\nBut to return to Pacheco. It was he who, in the seventeenth century,\ntook so active a part in the discussion whether St. Teresa, just\ncanonized, should be chosen as the _Compatrona_ of Spain. Many\nmaintained that St. James should continue to be considered the sole\npatron, and Quevedo espoused his cause so warmly that he ended by\nchallenging his adversaries to a combat _en champ clos_, and was in\ndanger of losing his estates. Pacheco, as seen by existing\nmanuscripts, wrote a learned theological treatise against him, taking\nup the cause of St. Teresa, which proved victorious. She was declared\nthe second patron of Spain by Philip III.\u2015\u2015a decision re-echoed by the\nSpanish Cortes as late as 1812. All the prominent men of the day took\npart in this discussion, even artists and literary men, as well as\npoliticians and the clergy.\n\nThe place of honor in the museum is given to Zurbar\u00e1n\u2019s \u201cSanto Tom\u00e1s,\u201d\na grand picture, painted for the Dominican college of Seville. In the\ncentre is St. Thomas Aquinas, in the Dominican habit, resting on a\ncloud, with the four doctors of the church, in ample flowing robes,\naround him. He holds up his pen, as if for inspiration, to the opening\nheavens, where appear Christ and the Virgin, St. Paul and St. Dominic.\nBelow, at the left, is Diego de Deza, the founder of the college, and\nother dignitaries; while on the right, attended by courtiers, is\nCharles V., in a splendid imperial mantle, kneeling on a crimson\ncushion, with one hand raised invokingly to the saint. The faces are\nall said to be portraits of Zurbar\u00e1n\u2019s time; that of the emperor, the\nartist himself. The coloring is rich, the perspective admirable, the\ncostumes varied and striking, and the composition faultless.\n\nZurbar\u00e1n has another picture here, of a scene from the legend of St.\nHugo, who was Bishop of Grenoble in the time of St. Bruno, and often\nspent weeks together at the Grande Chartreuse. Once he arrived at\ndinner-time, and found the monks at table looking despairingly at the\nmeat set before them, which they could not touch, it being a fast-day.\nThe bishop, stretching forth his staff, changed the fowls into\ntortoises. The white habits and pointed cowls of the monks, and the\nvaried expressions of their faces, contrast agreeably with the\nvenerable bishop in his rich episcopal robes, and the beauty of the\npage who accompanies him.\n\nThe masterpiece of the elder Herrera is also here. Hermenegildo, a\nGothic prince of the sixth century, martyred by order of his Arian\nfather, whose religion he had renounced, is represented ascending to\nheaven in a coat of mail, leaving below him his friends SS. Leandro\nand Isidore, beside whom is his fair young son, richly attired, gazing\nwonderingly up at his sainted father as he ascends among a whole cloud\nof angels. This picture was painted for the high altar of the Jesuits\nof Seville, with whom Herrera took refuge when accused of the crime of\nissuing false money. It attracted the artistic eye of Philip IV. when\nhe came to Seville in 1624. He asked the name of the artist, and,\nlearning the cause of his reclusion sent for him and pardoned him,\nsaying that a man who had so much talent ought not to make a bad use\nof it.\n\nThere is no sculpture in the gallery of Seville, except a few statues\nof the saints\u2015\u2015the spoils of monasteries, like the paintings. The\nfinest thing is a St. Jerome, furrowed and wasted by penance, laying\nhold of a cross before which he bends one knee, with a stone in his\nright hand ready to smite his breast. This was done for the convent of\nBuenavista by Torrigiano, celebrated not only for his works, but for\nbreaking Michael Angelo\u2019s nose. He was sent to Spain by his protector,\nAlexander VI., who was a generous patron of the arts. Goya considered\nthis statue superior to Michael Angelo\u2019s Moses.\n\nOur last hours at Seville were spent before all these works of sacred\nart, each of which has its own special revelation to the soul; and\nthen we went to the cathedral. The day was nearly at an end. The\nchapels were all closed. The vast edifice was as silent as the grave,\nwith only a few people here and there absorbed in their devotions. The\nupper western windows alone caught a few rays of the declining sun,\nempurpling the arches. The long aisles were full of gloom. We lingered\nawhile, like Murillo, before \u201cChrist descending from the Cross,\u201d and\nthen went back to the _Fonda Europa_ with regret in our hearts.\n\n\n [2] Roelas\u2019 masterpiece, the _Transito de San Isidoro_, in\n the church of that name, represents this solemn scene. The\n dying saint is on the steps of the altar, supported by two\n bishops, who look all the more venerable from contrast with\n the fresh bloom of the beautiful choir-boys behind; the\n multitude is swaying with grief through the long, receding\n aisles; and, in the opening heavens above, appear Christ and\n the Virgin, ready to receive him into the glory of which we\n catch a glimpse. It is a picture that can only be compared\n to Domenichino\u2019s \u201cLast Communion of St. Jerome.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nSIX SUNNY MONTHS.\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF \u201cTHE HOUSE OF YORKE,\u201d \u201cGRAPES AND THORNS,\u201d ETC.\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\u2015\u2015CONTINUED.\n\n\nMr. Bailey had finally, after some management, got Bianca quite to\nhimself, and, discovering that they had mutual friends, and that she\nliked those parts of his writings which he considered the best, the\ntwo were quite over the threshold of a ceremonious acquaintance, and\ntalking together very amicably.\n\n\u201cYou may stay to supper, if you will,\u201d the Signora whispered to him.\n\u201cBut don\u2019t say so, because I shall not ask any one else. Get yourself\nout of sight somewhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cFly with me!\u201d he said tragically to Bianca. \u201cMay we go to the\n_loggia_, Signora?\u201d\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\u201cIf you will watch the windows, and come in the instant I call you;\nand if that child will get something on the way to put over her head\nand shoulders.\u201d\n\nThe two stole out of the drawing-rooms with all the merry pleasure of\nchildren playing a prank.\n\n\u201cStop a moment!\u201d the young man said when they reached the _sala_. \u201cSee\nhow this room, almost encircled by brightly-lighted chambers, looks\nlike the old moon in the new moon\u2019s arms. Isn\u2019t it pretty?\u201d\n\nThey passed the dining-room, traversed the long western wing, went up\na little stair, and found themselves on the roof of a building that\nhad been added to the house and used as a studio for sculptors. A\nbalustrade ran across one side, and at the side opposite a door\nentered an upper room of the studio. The two connecting sides, the one\ntoward the west and that next the house, had trellises, over which\nmorning-glory vines were running. A few pots of flowers and a chair or\ntwo completed the furniture of the place. Below, the garden and\nvineyard pressed close against its walls, breathing perfume, and just\nstirring the evening air with a delicate ripple of water and a whisper\nof leaves.\n\nBianca leaned on the balustrade and wished she were alone. The silent\nbeauty was too solemn for talk; and, besides, it was the hour when one\nremembers the absent. Her companion was too sensitive not to perceive\nand respect her mood. \u201cOnly keep the shawl well about you,\u201d he said,\nas if in reply to some spoken word, then left her to herself, and\npaced to and fro at the most distant part of the _loggia_, drinking in\nthe scene, which would some day flow from his pen-point in glowing\nwords. It seemed not ten minutes when the Signora\u2019s voice was heard\nacross the silence, \u201cChildren, come in!\u201d\n\nBoth sighed as they left the charmed spot, and had half a mind to\ndisobey the summons. \u201cBut, after all, it will only be exchanging one\npicture for another,\u201d the author said. \u201cAnd, _ecco_!\u201d\n\nHe pointed to the foot of the little stair that led from the _loggia_\ndown to the passage. Adriano stood there in the shade, like a portrait\nframed in ebony, holding in his hand one of the long-handled brass\nlamps of Italy, the light from whose three wicks struck upwards over\nhis handsome dark face peering out sharply, but not at first seeing\nthem.\n\n\u201cStrong light and shade will make a picture of anything,\u201d Bianca said.\n\u201cAnd there is a companion.\u201d\n\nHe glanced at the dining-room window, and saw through the open half of\na shutter Isabel standing under the chandelier, with face and hand\nuplifted to examine some pendants that had just caught her attention.\nThe light poured over her face, and filled her beautiful, undazzled\neyes, and the hand that held the crystal looked as if carved out of\npink transparent coral.\n\nGoing in, they found the supper-table set, and Mr. Vane entertaining\nthe ladies with a story of two politicians, of opposite parties, who\nwere so candid they were always convincing each other, and,\nconsequently, were never of the same opinion, except when they were\neach half convinced; and even then they were not of the same opinion,\nfor their minds turned different ways, like two persons who meet on\nthe threshold of a house, one going in and one coming out. They went\non year after year in this way, arguing, and trying to arrive at the\ntruth, till at last they both went crazy and were locked up in\nseparate mad-houses. At length both returned to their first opinions,\nand so were restored to reason. But when they were set at liberty,\nthey became as great bigots as they had before been liberals, and each\nwas so determined not only not to yield to the other, whom he regarded\nas the cause of his misfortunes, but even to own that he could be\nsincere in his opinions, that they never met without fighting. Their\nrancor went on increasing, till they finally challenged each other at\nthe same moment; and, in disputing as to which was the challenged and\nwhich the challenger, flew into such a fury that at last they killed\neach other, without ever having had time to fight a duel.\n\n\u201cThe moral of it is,\u201d Mr. Vane concluded, \u201cthat when a man has once\nchosen his opinions, he has no more right to hear them abused than he\nhas to hear his wife abused, no matter what she may be; and the cream\nof the moral is that all arguments are not only useless but\ndangerous.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know now what is meant by espousing an opinion or a cause,\u201d the\nSignora said. \u201cI had supposed the word was used merely for variety of\nphrase. It means, then, \u2018for better or for worse.\u2019 Poor Truth! how\nmany buffets she gets! Not from you!\u201d she added hastily, and blushing\nas she saw that her words had made Mr. Vane suddenly serious, and that\nhe was looking at her with an expression almost reproachful. \u201cNo\nmatter what you may say, I am sure you would never see Truth standing\non your threshold without bidding her welcome.\u201d\n\nHe looked down, and a faint smile rather shone through his face than\nparted his lips. He seemed to thank her so.\n\n\u201cI fancy she comes oftenest in silence and by herself,\u201d he said in a\nvery quiet tone.\n\nSomething in his voice and look made Clive Bailey regard him with a\nmomentary keenness. He felt that they indicated an almost feminine\ndelicacy, and a depth of sensitive sweetness he had not looked to find\nin Mr. Vane.\n\nThe Signora begged to call their attention to the _minestra_ that was\nsteaming on the table. \u201cAnnunciata deserves that we should attend to\nit at once,\u201d she said; \u201cfor she has given her best thoughts to it the\nwhole afternoon. I couldn\u2019t tell how many things have gone to its\ncomposition. I do hope it is good, so that we can consistently praise\nit. I should feel less disappointment in having a book fall dead from\nthe press, than she will if we take no notice of her cooking. Don\u2019t\nlet the vacant chair injure your appetites; it is not for a ghost, but\nfor Signor Leonardo, your Italian teacher. I told him to come to\nsupper, and he is just five minutes too late\u2015\u2015a wonder for him. He is\nthe soul of promptness.\u201d\n\nThe door opened as she spoke, and Signor Leonardo stood bowing on the\nthreshold\u2015\u2015a dark, circumspect little man, who gave an impression of\nsuch stiffness and dryness that one almost expected to hear him\ncrackle and snap in moving. He recovered from his low bow, however,\nwithout any accident, and, with some excess of ceremoniousness, got\nhimself down to the table, where he sat on the very edge of his chair,\nlooking so solemn and polite that Isabel, as she afterward declared,\nlonged to get up and shake him. \u201cHe would have rattled all to pieces,\nif I had,\u201d she said.\n\nThis wooden little body contained, however, a cultivated mind and a\ngood heart, and he was one of the most faithful, modest, and patient\nof men.\n\nHe had been at the Vatican that morning, he said, in answer to the\nSignora\u2019s questions, and had seen the Holy Father in good health and\nspirits, laughing at the cardinals who were with him, all of whom\ncarried canes. \u201c\u2018I am older than any of you,\u2019 he said, \u2018and, see! I\ncan walk without my cane. Oh! I am a young man yet.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw Monsignor M\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015,\u201d the professor added, \u201cand he requested me to\ngive you this,\u201d presenting a little package.\n\nThe Signora opened it in smiling expectation, and held up a small\nhalf-roll of bread out of which a piece had been bitten. \u201cSee how we\nidolaters love the Pope!\u201d she said to Mr. Vane. \u201cI begged Monsignor to\nget me a piece of bread from his breakfast-table. Let me see what he\nhas written about it,\u201d reading a card that accompanied this singular\ngift.\n\n\u201cMy dear Signora,\u201d the prelate wrote, \u201cbehold your keepsake! I stood\nby while the Holy Father breakfasted, like a dog watching for a bone,\nand the moment I saw the one bite taken out of this bread I begged the\nrest for you. \u2018What!\u2019 said the Pope, \u2018my children take the very bread\nfrom my mouth!\u2019 and gave it to me, laughing pleasantly.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe dear father,\u201d the Signora said, kissing her treasure, as she rose\nto put it away in safety.\n\nThis little incident led the talk to the Pope, and to many incidents\nillustrative of his goodness and the affection the people bore him.\n\n\u201cA few years ago, in the old time,\u201d the Signora said, \u201cthe price of\nbread was raised in Rome, for some reason or other, or for no reason.\nSome days after the Holy Father passed by here on his way to his\nfavorite church, and ours, Bianca. He was walking, and his carriage\nfollowing. I can see him now, in his white robe, his hands behind his\nback, holding his hat, and his sweet face ready with a kind glance for\nall. A poor man approached, asked to speak to him, and was allowed.\n\u2018Holy Father,\u2019 he said, kneeling down, \u2018the price of bread is raised,\nand the people are hungry, for they cannot afford to buy it.\u2019 The Pope\ngave him an alms and his benediction, and passed on. The next day the\nprice of bread was reduced to its former rate.\n\n \u201c\u2018Such grace had kings when the world began.\u2019\u201d\n\nOne anecdote led to another; and then there was some music, Isabel\nplaying rather brilliantly on the piano in the _sala_, a group of\ncandles at either hand lighting up her face and person and that part\nof the room. Afterward, when the rest of the company had gone into the\ndrawing-rooms, Bianca, sitting in a half-dark, sang two or three\nballads so sweetly that they almost held their breaths to listen to\nher.\n\nHer singing made them feel quiet, and as if the evening were over; and\nwhen it ended, Mr. Bailey and the _signore_ took leave. The family sat\na while longer in the _sala_, with no light but a lamp that burned\nbefore a Madonna at the end of the long room. Outside, a pine-tree\nlifted its huge umbrella against the pure sky, and a great tower\nshowed in the same lucid deep. The streets in front were still and\ndeserted, the windows all dark and sullen. The moon had long since\nset, and the stars were like large, wide-open eyes that stare with\nsleepiness. Some Campagna people, who had been in the city, and were\ngoing home again, passed by, and stirred the silence with the sound of\nan accordeon, with which they enlivened their midnight walk; then all\nwas still again.\n\n\u201cThe night-sounds of Rome are almost always pleasant,\u201d the Signora\nsaid. \u201cSometimes the country people come in with a tambourine and\nsinging, but it is not noisy, and if it wakes you it is only for a few\nminutes. Sometimes it is a wine-cart, with all its little bells.\u201d\n\nThe clock of _Santa Maria Maggiore_ was heard striking twelve. \u201cMy\nbells!\u201d she exclaimed; then added: \u201cI wish I could tell you all their\nlovely ways. For one, when they have the Forty Hours at the basilica,\nonly the great bell strikes the hours, instead of three smaller ones,\nas now; and for the Angelus the four bells ring steadily together\ntheir little running song, while the great bell strikes now and then,\nbut so softly as to be only a dream of a sound, as if _Maria Assunta_\nwere talking to herself. It is delicious!\u201d\n\n\u201cI hear a bell now\u2015\u2015a little bell,\u201d Mr. Vane said.\n\nThey listened, and found that his keen hearing had not deceived him.\nThere was a sound of a little bell in the street, faint, but coming\nslowly nearer. What could it be? They looked out and saw nothing but\nthe long, white street, stretching its ghostly length from hill to\nhill. The sound, however, was in the street, and at a spot where they\nlooked and saw nothing, and it came constantly nearer. At length, when\nit was almost under their windows, they perceived a motion, slow and\ncolorless, as if the paving-stones were noiselessly turning over and\nrolling off toward the Quirinal, and then the paving-stones became a\ntide of pale water tossing a black stick as it flowed; and, at last,\nit was sheep, and the stick was a man. The whole street was alive with\ntheir little bobbing heads and close pressed, woolly bodies. Soft and\ntimid, they trotted past, as if afraid of waking the terrible lion of\na city in whose sleeping jaws they found themselves. The dogs made no\nsound as they kept the stragglers in bounds, the men spoke not a word\nas they moved here and there among their flocks; there was only the\nsmall trotting of a multitude of little feet, and bell after bell on\nthe leader of flock after flock. It seemed as if the world had turned\nto sheep.\n\n\u201cI didn\u2019t know there were so many in the world!\u201d Isabel whispered.\n\nAnd still they came, stretching a mile, from beyond the Esquiline to\nbeyond the Quirinal\u2015\u2015an artery full of tender and innocent life\nflowing for an hour through the cruel, unconscious town.\n\nThe Signora explained that the flocks were being taken from one\npasture-ground to another, their shortest way being through the city.\n\u201cI once saw a herd of cattle pass,\u201d she said. \u201cIt was another thing,\nas you may imagine. Such a sense of the presence of fierce, strong\nlife, and anger barely suppressed, I never experienced. It was their\nlife that called my attention, as one feels lightning in the air. Then\nI heard their hoofs and the rattling of their horns, and then here\nthey were! They were by no means afraid of Rome, but seemed, rather,\nimpatient and angry that it should be here, drying up the pleasant\nhills where they would have liked to graze, reposing under the trees\nafterward, and looking dreamily off to the soft sea-line. How sleepy\nsheep make one!\u201d\n\nThe soft procession passed at length, and the family bade each other\ngood-night.\n\nThe next morning Isabel resolved not to be outdone by the other two\nladies, and accordingly, when she heard the door shut softly after\nthem as they went out to early Mass, she made haste to dress and\nfollow. They, meanwhile, walked slowly on, unconscious of her\nintention, which would scarcely have given them the pleasure she\nimagined; for they were bound on an errand which would have rendered\nher society particularly uncongenial.\n\nIsabel went scrupulously to Communion three or four times a year, on\ncertain great festivals, and at such times, according to her light,\nstrove to do what she thought was required. She made her confession,\nbut with scarcely more feeling than she would have reckoned up her\nmoney accounts, scrupulous to pay every cent, and, when every cent was\npaid, having a satisfied conviction that the account was square. Of\nthat generous, higher honesty which, when casting up its accounts with\nGod, blushes and abases itself in view of the little it has paid, or\ncan pay, and which would fain cast itself into the balance, and, by an\nutter annihilation of every wish, hope, and pleasure that was not\npenitence, strive to express its gratitude at least for the ever\nunpayable debt\u2015\u2015of this she knew nothing. She acknowledged freely that\nshe was a sinner. \u201cOf course I am a sinner!\u201d she would say. \u201cWe are\nall sinners\u201d; as if she should say, \u201cOf course I am a biped!\u201d but all\nas a matter of course. If anything decidedly offensive to her human\nsense of honor lay on her conscience, she certainly had a feeling of\nshame for it, and resolved not to transgress in that manner again; but\nthere was no tremulous self-searching, no passion of prayer for\nillumination, unless at some odd time when sickness or peril had made\ndeath seem near. The confession over, she went to church quietly, not\ntalking much, and read respectfully the prayers in her prayer-book,\nwhich were, indeed, far warmer on her lips than in her heart. She\ntried not to look about, and, while her face was buried in her hands,\nshut her eyes, lest she should peep in spite of herself. Then, the\nwhole over, she left the church, feeling much relieved that it was\nover, hoping that she had done right, and remaining rather serious for\nseveral hours after. Ordinarily, too, since the merciful Lord accepts\neven the smallest gift, and answers even the most tepid prayer, if\nthey are sincerely offered, she felt some faint sweetness as she\nturned away, a tender touch of peace that brushed her in passing, and,\nmoved by that slight experience of the rapture of the saints, as if a\ndrop of spray from one of their fountains had fallen on her, she was\nconscious of an inexplicable regret that made her renew her good\nresolutions, and say a tiny prayer in her own words far more fervent\nthan any she had breathed through the words of her book. For two days\nafter her prayers were usually longer and more attentive, and she went\nto Mass; then Richard was himself again.\n\nKnowing all this, then, as we know things without thinking of them, or\nallowing ourselves to know that we know them, both the Signora and\nBianca would far rather have been by themselves in going to church,\nespecially when going to Holy Communion.\n\nThey walked through the morning, already hot, though the hour was so\nearly, with a sultry, splendid blue over their heads, and the air too\nsweet as it flowed over the garden-walls. The orange-trees seemed to\nbe oppressed by the weight of their own odors, and to throw them off\nin strong, panting respirations. The sun was blazing directly behind\none of the cupolas of the basilica, as they went up the hill, seeming\nto be set in the lantern; and then a light coolness touched them in\nthe shadow, and they entered the beautiful church, where perpetual\nfreshness reigns, rivalling the climate of St. Peter\u2019s.\n\nThe bells were just dropping off for the last fifteen minutes\u2019\ntolling, and the canons were coming in for choir, one by one, or two\nby two. One or two of the earlier ones, in their snow-white _cottas_\nand ermine capes, were kneeling before a shrine or strolling slowly\nacross the nave toward the choir-chapel. Here and there a Mass was\nbeing said, with a little group of poor people gathered about the\naltar, kneeling on the magnificent pavement of involved mosaic work,\nor sitting on the bases of the great columns. A woman with a white\nhandkerchief on her head received communion at one altar, two little\nchildren playing about her, and clinging to her skirts as she got up\nto go to her place, her hands folded, her face wrapt in devotion, as\nundisturbed by the prattling and pulling of the little ones as St.\nCharles Borromeo over his altar by the winged cherubs that held up and\npeeped through his long scarlet train.\n\nOur American ladies knelt near the door, by the side of the tribune,\nfacing the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament at the other side of the\nchurch. The morning light entering this chapel set all its marbles\nglittering, and made the gilt tabernacle in the centre brighter than\nthe lamps that burned before it, and, shining out into the church, set\nthe great porphyry columns of the canopy in a glow. One might fancy\nthat the blood of the martyrs whose bodies and relics reposed beneath\nwas beginning to rise and circulate through the rich stone, above\nwhich the martyr\u2019s crown and palm stood out in burning gold.\n\nHaving finished their prayer to \u201cHis Majesty,\u201d as the Spaniards\nbeautifully express it, the two knelt at the _prie-dieu_ before the\nentrance to the gorgeous Borghese Chapel, to salute Our Lady in sight\nof St. Luke\u2019s portrait of her. The face was doubly covered by its\ncurtain of gold-embroidered silk and gates of transparent alabaster;\nbut their eyes were fixed on the screen as they prayed, and these\nneeded no more than they saw. Of this picture it has been said that\nsometimes angels have been found chanting litanies about it.\n\nThere was no Mass in this chapel, and our friends went down the\nbasilica to the chapel of the Sacred Heart, where a Mass was just\nbeginning. The celebrant was an old man with hair as white as snow,\nand a face as peaceful and happy as a child\u2019s. The Signora often\nencountered him in the church, and always felt like touching his robe\nin passing.\n\n\u201cI am glad we shall receive communion from his hands,\u201d she whispered\nto Bianca. \u201cI always feel as if he were an angel only half disguised.\u201d\n\nHalf an hour afterward they left the chapel, but still lingered in the\nchurch, loath to go. There was no one in sight, but the strong, manly\nchorus of voices from the canons\u2019 choir came out to them, now faintly\nheard as they moved out of its range, now clear and strong as they\nwent nearer.\n\n\u201cWe really must go. They will be waiting for us at home,\u201d the Signora\nsaid.\n\nTurning back for one more glance at the door, they saw the procession\ncoming from the sacristy for the canons\u2019 Mass, the vestments\nglittering brightly as they passed a streak of sunshine coming into\nthe middle of the nave.\n\n\u201cIt is a constant succession of pictures,\u201d sighed Bianca, who seemed\nhardly able to tear herself away.\n\nThey stopped a few minutes on the steps.\n\n\u201cWhatever else is injured by these new people, this basilica has\ncertainly profited,\u201d the Signora said. \u201cThe tribune front was a little\nlow for the breadth. By digging down the hill, and, consequently,\nadding so many more steps to this superb flight, they have made the\nproportion perfect. Then they have also had to make a deeper pedestal\nto the obelisk, which is an improvement. The new white stone shows now\nin harsh contrast with the soft-toned old, but time will soon mellow\nit. And, moreover, they are doing their work well. They really seem to\ntake pride in it. The _piazza_ was formerly muddy or dusty. Now they\nhave made a solid foundation, and it will be all covered, when done,\nwith that gold-colored gravel you see in patches. Fancy a golden\n_piazza_ leading up to my golden basilica!\u201d\n\nShe led her young friend along to the other end of the steps, and\npointed up to where beautiful spikes of pink flowers were growing in\ninterstices of the carving, and lovely plants made a fine fringe high\nin the air. Flights of birds came and went, brushing the flowers with\ntheir wings, and alighted, singing and twittering, all about the\ncupola over the Blessed Sacrament, going away only to return.\n\n\u201cThe little wild birds come to our Lord\u2019s cupola,\u201d she said, \u201cand\nthere are always flocks of doves about Our Lady\u2019s. I wonder why it\nis?\u201d\n\nGoing home, they found Isabel sitting with her bonnet on, taking\ncoffee, and talking to her father, who seemed amused.\n\n\u201cHere they are at last!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cI have been to _Santa Maria\nMaggiore_, hoping to find you, and you weren\u2019t there.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed we were there!\u201d she was told.\n\n\u201cYou were hiding from me, then,\u201d she went on. \u201cNo matter, I had a very\npleasant morning, though rather a peculiar one. I searched and\nsearched for you, and saw nothing of you; finally, seeing a movement\nof clergy toward a chapel at the right side as you go in, half-way\ndown the church, I thought that must be the proper place to go.\nAccordingly, I went in and took a seat. Some clergymen seated\nthemselves on the same bench, lower down, and I thought it more modest\nto move up. Then more clergy came, and I kept moving up toward the\naltar. I began to wish that some woman would come in, if it were only\na beggar-woman; even the sight of a poor man or of a child would have\nbeen a relief. But there was no one but me besides the clergy. Well, I\nstood my ground, hoping that when the services should begin some\npeople would come, and, on the whole, rather congratulating myself\nthat I had secured so good a post. I kept moving up till at length I\nfound myself close to the altar, and with a great stand before me on\nwhich was a great book. It was one of those turning lecterns, aren\u2019t\nthey?\u2015\u2015set on a post about six feet high, and having five or six sides\nat the top. After a while I began to feel myself getting in a\nperspiration. Not a soul came but priests. I looked in their faces to\nsee if they were astonished at my being there, but not one seemed to\nbe even conscious of my presence. They sat in two rows, facing each\nother, part of them in ermine capes, part in gray squirrel, and with\nthe loveliest little white tunics all crimped and crimped. I didn\u2019t\nenjoy the crimping much, though, for I perceived at last that I was\nthe right person in the wrong place. The bell stopped ringing, a\nprelate took his place before the big stand and opened the big book,\nand there was I in the very highest place in the synagogue,\n\n \u201cCanons to right of me,\n Canons to left of me,\n Canons in front of me,\u201d\n\nand, at length, one of them smiling, I caught sight of a sidelong\nglance from him, and saw that he was shaking with laughter. He was a\nyoung man, and I forgive him.\u201d Isabel paused to wipe the perspiration\nfrom her flushed face, then addressed the Signora solemnly: \u201cMy dear\nSignora, that choir-chapel is a mile long!\u201d\n\n\u201cI dare say you found it so,\u201d was the laughing response. \u201cBut, also, I\ndo not doubt that you made the best of the matter, and came out with\ndeliberate dignity. Don\u2019t cry about it, child. They probably thought\nyou were a Protestant stranger. Protestants are expected to commit\nalmost any enormity in Roman churches, and they do not disappoint the\nexpectation. Last Christmas two women, well dressed and\ngenteel-looking, went into the tribune during the High Mass, one of\nthe assistants having left the gate open, and coolly took possession\nof a vacant seat there, in the face, not only of the assembled chapter\nand officiating prelate, but of a large congregation. I wonder what\nthey would say if a stranger should walk into one of their\nmeeting-houses and take a seat in the pulpit? I will explain to you\nnow what I thought you understood. The canons always sing their office\ntogether in choir, morning and afternoon, while other clergy say it\nprivately, and the public have nothing to do with it. There is no harm\nin assisting, but it is not usual to do so. I like to listen, though,\nand there are certain parts that please me very much. When you hear\nthem again, mark how the _Deo gratias_ comes out; and once in a while\nthey will respond with an _Amen_ that is stirring. However, it is\nmerely the office rapidly chanted by alternate choirs, and is not\nintended as a musical feast. They have a High Mass a little later, and\nthen one can enter, if there should be room. I never go. There is\nalways a Low Mass in the basilica or the Borghese.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoesn\u2019t the Borghese Chapel belong to the basilica?\u201d Mr. Vane\ninquired.\n\n\u201cYes, and no. The Prince Borghese is at the head of it, and, I think,\nsupports it. It has its own clergy, and its separate services\nsometimes; for example, there is always the Litany of Our Lady\nSaturday evening, and they have their own Forty Hours. On some other\n_festas_ the chapter of the basilica go there for service\u2015\u2015as Our Lady\nof Snow, Nativity of Our Lady, and the Immaculate Conception. Now I\nmust leave you for an hour or two, and take my little baroness to see\nMonsignore. And, if you wish, I will at the same time arrange for an\naudience for you at the Vatican. Some time within a week, shall I say?\nIt will have to be after Ascension, I think.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow beautiful life begins to be!\u201d said Bianca softly, after the three\nhad sat awhile alone.\n\nMr. Vane smiled, but made no reply.\n\nIsabel sighed deeply, buried in gloomy reflections. \u201cI wish I knew,\u201d\nshe said, \u201cwhat they call the man who stands at the desk and sings a\npart of the office alone; because that is the name by which the canons\nare calling me at this minute. I feel it in my bones.\u201d\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nCARLIN\u2019S NEST.\n\n\nYes, life was beginning to grow beautiful to them\u2015\u2015beautiful in the\nsweet, natural sense. Here and there a buckle that held the burden of\nit was loosed, here and there a flower was set. That uneasy feeling\nthat one ought to be doing something, which often haunts and wearies\neven those who do nothing and never will do anything, began to give\nplace to a contentment far more favorable to the accomplishment of\nreal good. A generous wish to share their peacefulness with others\nmade them practise every little kindness that occurred to them. Not a\nhand was stretched to them in vain, no courtesy from the humblest\nremained unacknowledged, and thus, accompanied by a constant\nsuccession of little beneficences, like a stream that passes between\nflowery banks its own waters keeping fresh, their lives flowed sweetly\nand brightly on from day to day.\n\nOf course they had the reputation of being angels with the poor about\nthem. It is so easy for the rich and happy to be canonized by the\npoor. A smile, a kind word, and a penny now and then\u2015\u2015that is all that\nis necessary. But the kindness of these three women was something more\nthan a mere good-natured generosity; for no one of them was very rich,\nand all had to deprive themselves of something in order to give.\n\nLife was indeed becoming beautiful to them; for they had not yet\nsettled, perhaps were not of a nature to settle, into the worse sort\nof Roman life, in which idle people collected from every part of the\nworld gradually sink into a round of eating, visiting, gossip, and\nintrigue, which make the society of the grandest city of the world a\nstrange spectacle of shining saintliness and disgusting meanness and\ncorruption moving side by side.\n\nThere is, indeed, no city that tries the character like Rome; for it\nholds a prize for every ambition, except that of business enterprise.\nThe Christian finds here primitive saintliness flowering in its native\nsoil, and can walk barefoot, though he have purple blood in his veins,\nand not be wondered at; the artist, whether he use chisel, brush, or\npen, finds himself in the midst of a lavish beauty which the study of\na life could not exhaust; the lover of nature sees around him the\nfragments of an only half-ruined paradise; the tuft-hunter finds a\nconfusion of ranks where he may approach the great more nearly than\nanywhere else, and, perhaps, chat at ease with a princess who, in her\nown country, would pass him without a nod of recognition; the idle and\nluxurious can live here like Sybarites on an income that, in another\ncountry, would scarcely give them the comforts of life; the lover of\nsolitude can separate himself from his kind in the midst of a crowd,\nand yet fill his hours with delight in the contemplation of that\never-visible past which here lies in the midst of the present like an\nembalmed and beautiful corpse resting uncorrupted in the midst of\nflowers. But one must have an earnest pursuit, active or intellectual;\nfor the _dolce far niente_ of Italy is like one of the soulless masks\nof women formed by Circe, which transformed their lovers into beasts.\n\n\u201cI have heard,\u201d the Signora said, \u201cof a man who, lying under a tree in\nsummer-time and gazing at the slow, soft clouds as they floated past,\nwished that that were work, and he well paid for doing it. My life is\nalmost a realization of that man\u2019s wish. What I should choose to do as\na pleasure, and the greatest pleasure possible to me, I have to do as\na duty. It is my business to see everything that is beautiful, and to\nstudy and dream over it, and turn it into as many shapes as I can. If\nI like to blow soap-bubbles, then it becomes a trade, and I merit in\ndoing it. If a science should catch my fancy, and invite me to follow\nawhile its ordered track, I go in a palace-car, and the wheels make\nmusic of the track for me. And what friends I have, what confidences\nreceive! The ugliest, commonest object in the world, scorned or\ndisregarded by all, will look at me and whisper a sweet word or reveal\na hidden beauty as I pass. You see that log,\u201d pointing to the\nfire-place, where a mossy stick lay wreathed about by a close network\nof vine-twigs clinging still in death where they had clung and grown\nin life. \u201cThe moment my eyes fell on that it sang me a song. In every\nbalcony, every stair, every house they are cutting down to make their\nnew streets, every smallest place where the wind can carry a feathered\nseed, the seed of a story has lodged for me, and, as I look, it\nsprouts, grows, blossoms, and overshadows the whole place. But for the\npain of bringing out and putting into shape what is in my mind, my\nlife would be too exquisite for earth. If I could give immediate birth\nto my imaginings, I should be like some winged creature, living for\never in air. I\u2019m glad I work in words, and not in marble, like Carlin\nhere. And, apropos, suppose we should go in there.\u201d\n\nCarlin was the sculptor whose studio was attached to _Casa\nOttant\u2019-Otto_. He was a great friend of the Signora, who had\npermission to see him work when she liked, and to go and come with her\nfriends as it pleased her.\n\n\u201cWe may as well take our work,\u201d she said. \u201cIt is pleasanter there than\nhere this morning. When Mr. Vane and Isabel come in from their visit,\nwe shall hear them ring the bell.\u201d\n\nThe two went out to the _loggia_, where the morning sun was blazing\nhotly on the pink and purple morning-glories, and, passing an\nante-room where two marble-workers were chipping away, each at his\nsnowy block, tapped at the door of an inner chamber.\n\nA loud \u201c_Avanti!_\u201d answered the knock.\n\n\u201cWelcome!\u201d said a voice when they entered. \u201cMake yourselves at home.\nI\u2019m busy with a model, you see.\u201d\n\nBianca glanced about in search of the source of this salutation, and\nperceived presently a large head looking at them over the top of a\nscreen. The rest of the body was invisible. This head was so colossal\nand of such a height that for a moment she doubted if it might not be\na colored bust on a shelf. But its eyes moved, and in a second it\nnodded itself out of sight, leaving on the gazer an impression of\nhaving seen a large, kind Newfoundland dog. Poor Carlin was very\nshaggy, his hair almost too profuse, and constantly getting itself\ntangled, and his beard growing nearly to his eyes. But the eyes were\nbright, dark, and pleasant, the nose superlatively beautiful, and, by\nsome unexplained means, every one was aware at once that under this\nmass of shadowy beard there were two deep dimples, one in the cheek\nand another in the chin.\n\nBefore they had well shut the door, the screen was swept aside and the\nsculptor\u2019s whole form appeared. It was so large as to reduce the head\nto perfect proportion, and was clad in a suit of dull blue cotton worn\nwith a careless grace that was very picturesque. One hand held a bit\nof clay; the other pulled off his skull-cap in reverence to his\nvisitors. He said nothing, but immediately replaced the cap, and began\nrolling the clay between his hands.\n\nHe was modelling a group, and his model, a beautiful young\n_contadina_, stood before him with her arms up, holding a copper\nwater-vase on her head. Her mother sat near, a dark, bilious, wrinkled\nLady Macbeth, who wore her soiled and faded clothes as if they had\nbeen velvets and embroideries, and reclined in an old leather chair as\nsuperbly as if she sat on a gilded throne with a canopy over her head.\nA pair of huge rings of pure gold hung from her ears, and two heavy\ngold chains surrounded her dark neck, and dropped each its golden\nlocket on her green bodice.\n\n\u201cWe won\u2019t mind them,\u201d the Signora said to her friend. \u201cCome and be\nintroduced to the bird of our country.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s been behaving badly to-day,\u201d the sculptor said, \u201cand I had to\nbeat him. Look and see what he has done to my blouse! The whole front\nis in rags. He flew at me to dig my heart out, I suppose, with his\nclaws, and screamed so in my face that I was nearly deafened. It took\nboth the men to get him off.\u201d\n\nThis contumacious eagle was chained to his perch, and had the stick\nwith which he had been beaten so placed as to be a constant reminder\nof the consequences attending on any exhibition of ill-temper. He was\ngreatly disconcerted when the two ladies approached him, changed\nuneasily from foot to foot, and, half lifting his wide wings, curved\nhis neck, and seemed about to hide his head in shame. Then, as they\nstill regarded him, he suddenly lifted himself to his full height, and\nstared back at them with clear, splendid eyes.\n\n\u201cWhat pride and disdain!\u201d exclaimed Bianca. \u201cI had no idea the\ncreature was so human. Let\u2019s go away. If we stay much longer, he will\nspeak to us. He considers himself insulted.\u201d\n\nThree walls of the room and a great part of the central space were\noccupied by the usual medley of a sculptor\u2019s studio\u2015\u2015busts, groups,\nmasks, marble and plaster, armor, vases, and a hundred other objects;\nbut the fourth side was hung all over with fragments of baby contours.\nSingle legs and crossed legs; arms from the shoulder down, with the\nsoft flattening of flesh above the elbow, and the sustained roundness\nbelow; little clenched fists, and hands with sprawling, dimpled\nfingers; chubby feet in every position of little curled toes, each as\nexpressive of delicious babyhood as if the whole creature were\nthere\u2015\u2015the wall was gemmed with them. In the midst was a square\nwindow, without a sash, and just then crowded as full as it could be.\nA vine, a breeze, and as much of a hemisphere of sunshine as could get\nin were all pressing in together. The breeze got through in little\npuffs that dropped as soon as they entered; the sunshine sank to the\ntiled floor, where it led a troubled existence by reason of the\nleaf-shadows that never would be still; and the vine ran over the\nwall, and in and out among the little hands and feet, kissing them\nwith tender leaf and bud, which seemed to have travelled a long\ndistance for nothing else but that.\n\nBianca put her face to this window, and drew it back again. \u201cThere is\nnothing visible outside,\u201d she said, \u201cbut a fig-tree, half the rim of a\ngreat vase, a bit of wall, and a sky full of leaves.\u201d\n\nShe seated herself by the Signora, and they made believe to work,\ndropping a loop of bright wool or silken floss now and then, and\nglancing from time to time at the artist as he punched and pressed a\nmeaning into the clay before him.\n\n\u201cI never see a sculptor make a human figure in clay without thinking\nof the creation of Adam and Eve,\u201d the Signora said. \u201cThe Mohammedans\nsay that angels first kneaded the clay for I don\u2019t know how many\nyears. How beautiful they must have been! \u2018_In His own image._\u2019 Did\nyou observe in the Barbarini gallery Domenichino\u2019s picture of Adam and\nEve driven out of Paradise? You were too much occupied with the Cenci.\nEverybody is at first. I was thinking, while I looked at that\nrepresentation of the Creator, reclining on his divan of cherubim,\nwhat a pity it is that artists should have tried to do it, or, trying,\nshould not have been able to do more. How that eagle does fret! It\nrequires all my friendship for Carlin to prevent my cutting the\nleather thong that holds the chain to its leg some fine day. Wouldn\u2019t\nit be pleasant to see him shoot like a bomb out through the window,\ntearing the vines away like cobwebs with his strong wings, and\ncarrying off little green tendrils clinging to his feathers! The\nsunlight would be shut out a moment, there would be a rush as of\nwaters, then the room would be light again. But, in such an event, the\nonly gain would be a change of personality in the prisoner, and thirty\n_lire_ out of my pocket. That is what Carlin paid for this unhappy\nwretch, and what I should be bound to pay him to buy another unhappy\nwretch to languish in his place. How do you like Carlin?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d Bianca answered slowly. \u201cIsn\u2019t he a sort of savage?\u2015\u2015a\ngood one, you know.\u201d\n\n\u201cPrecisely! All the polish he has is inside. Fortunately, however, he\nis transparent, and the brightness is bright enough to shine out\nthrough him. He is full of good-nature and enthusiasm. Once liking\nhim, you will like him always, and better and better always. None but\ndishonest people dislike him, though there are some very good people\nwho say he is not to their taste. Dear me! he is making a mistake in\nthat group. O Carlin!\u201d she called out, \u201cdo let me say something. Your\nwater-carrier is going to look like a teapot if you place her so. Let\nher put the other arm out for a spout, and the thing will be perfect.\u201d\n\nIt was a group of a girl and her lover at a fountain.\n\nHe was just knitting his brows over the hand that held the handle of\nthe vase, rolling bits of clay between his palms and arranging them\nfor fingers. He threw the last one away. \u201cI know it\u2019s a stupid thing,\u201d\nhe said discontentedly; \u201cbut what can I do? It struck me as a pretty\nsubject; but now I have begun to work it out, it seems to me I\nremember having seen a hundred like it, each one as stupid as mine. I\nwas this instant thinking my grandmother must have had a cream-pitcher\nof this design.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t you make her stooping a little to lift the vase to her\nhead, and looking up at the fellow?\u201d the Signora suggested. \u201cIt will\nbring out your knowledge of anatomy a little more, and it will wake\nher up. Don\u2019t you see her face is as dull as her sandal?\u201d\n\nThis conversation, being in English, was not understood by the model,\nwho stood stupid, and straight, and tired, trying to look picturesque.\n\nThe artist considered a minute, then said abruptly: \u201cPut down the\nvase, not on the floor, but in a chair.\u201d\n\nShe obeyed.\n\n\u201cNow take it up\u2015\u2015slowly\u2015\u2015and stop the instant I tell you.\u201d\n\nShe bent her strong and supple figure a little, and began lifting the\nvase.\n\n\u201cStop there!\u201d he called out, \u201cand look up at me. Look as pretty as you\ncan. Think that I am some _giovanotto_ who is going, perhaps, to ask\nyou of your mother.\u201d\n\nHalf shy, half saucy, she looked up as commanded, gratified vanity and\nfriendly regard uniting to give her face as much expression as it was\ncapable of.\n\nCarlin seized his pencil and began sketching rapidly.\n\n\u201cHe hasn\u2019t a particle of imagination,\u201d the Signora said in a low tone,\n\u201cbut he has excellent eyes and much humor. I sometimes think that\nhumor and imagination never go together. Indeed, I don\u2019t believe they\never do in any superlative degree.\u201d\n\nA little bell sounded timidly at her side, pulled by a cord that she\nperceived now by its vibration coming in at the window, the bell\nitself being quite hidden by the vine-leaves, where it was held\nbetween two large nails driven into the window-frame.\n\n\u201cWould\u2015\u2015you\u2015\u2015be so very kind\u2015\u2015as to throw\u2015\u2015that\u2015\u2015loaf of bread out of\nthe window, Signora?\u201d the artist asked, abstractedly dropping one word\nat a time between the strokes of his pencil and glances at his model,\nwhose fire was beginning to fade. \u201cI can\u2019t stop.\u201d\n\nThe lady looked at him in wonder.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a beggar,\u201d he explained after a moment, scratching away rapidly.\n\u201cI can\u2019t be bothered with them in here.\u201d\n\nShe looked out of the window as well as she could for the leaves, and\nsaw an arm in a ragged coat-sleeve, and a hand stretching toward the\nwall, and, at the same instant, the bell rang in her very ear with a\nforce that made her start back. The bread was on a little shelf near\nby, an old knife beside it. She prudently cut the loaf in two, and\ndropped half to the unseen mendicant.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s just like Carlin!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cI don\u2019t suppose any one\nelse would think of rigging up a beggars\u2019 bell.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall know where to go when I want bread,\u201d she said aloud, seeing\nhim pause in his work. \u201cIt will be only to come under your window,\npull a string, and hold up my apron.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! by the way, please to pull in the string,\u201d he added. \u201cI never let\nit hang out, except when I have made an appointment. I told him to\ncome if he didn\u2019t get anything for dinner. Said he hadn\u2019t eaten\nanything for twenty-four hours. It\u2019s a disagreeable thing to go\ntwenty-four hours without eating.\u201d\n\nCarlin knew what it was well. He had come to Rome fifteen years before\nwithout a dollar in his pocket, except what had paid his passage, and,\nwithout patronage, almost without friends, had climbed, step by step,\nthrough all the dark, steep ways of poverty, suffering what no one but\nhimself knew, till at length a modest success rewarded his efforts. He\nnever told his experiences, seemed to choose to forget them; but never\na pitiful tale of suffering from poverty was told him without the\nready answer, \u201cYes, yes, I know all about it,\u201d springing as if\ninvoluntarily to his lips.\n\nThere was a knock at the door, which immediately opened without a\npermission, and a young man entered\u2015\u2015one of those odious,\nwell-dressed, rather handsome, and easy-mannered men who repel one\nmore than rags, and ugliness, and stupidity.\n\n\u201cGood-morning!\u201d he said with confident politeness. \u201cDon\u2019t let me\ninterrupt you. I only want to see Mrs. Cranston\u2019s bust. Promised her I\nwould take a look at it.\u201d\n\nHis coming produced the effect of a slight frost in the air. The\nSignora grew dignified, and made a little sign to Bianca to take a\nseat which would turn her back to the new-comer. Carlin frowned\nslightly and bent to his work; the old _contadina_ glared from the man\nto her daughter, and the daughter blushed uneasily.\n\nThe young man seemed to be entirely unconscious of not having received\na welcome, sauntered across the studio, pausing here and there, and at\nlength, stopping under the pretence of examining a bust, fixed his\neyes on the model.\n\n\u201cLook here, sir!\u201d said Carlin, after five minutes of silence, \u201cyou\u2019d\nbetter come in some other time, when I\u2019m not busy.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! don\u2019t mind me,\u201d was the careless reply.\n\nCarlin waited a minute longer, then swung the screen round between his\nmodel and her tormentor.\n\nThe young man smiled slightly, gave his shoulders the least possible\nshrug, and began to saunter about the studio again, pausing finally at\na spot that gave him a still better view of the girl.\n\nThe pencil quivered in Carlin\u2019s hands, but his voice was gentle enough\nwhen he spoke again. \u201cI don\u2019t care to have visitors in the morning,\u201d\nhe said. \u201cCome in in the afternoon, when I am working in marble. I\nwork in clay always in the morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear fellow, I don\u2019t want you to trouble yourself in the least\nabout me. I can amuse myself,\u201d the visitor replied.\n\nCarlin seemed to be galvanized so suddenly he started upright, with\nanger in every nerve of him. \u201cConfound you!\u201d he cried out, \u201cdo you\nwant me to pitch you out of the window? Go about your business.\u201d\n\nHe had no cause to repeat the request. Coolly and disdainfully, but\nwith a paleness that showed both fear and anger, the young exquisite\nwalked out as leisurely as he had come in.\n\nA laugh as sharp and bright as a blade shot across the old woman\u2019s\nface, but she said not a word.\n\n\u201cYou are getting acquainted with him rapidly,\u201d the Signora whispered\nto her friend. \u201cIsn\u2019t he refreshing? It is so beautiful to see a man\nwhose first impulse is to protect a woman from annoyance, even when\nthe woman doesn\u2019t belong to him. Carlin is truly a manly, honorable\nfellow.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hear a faint little song, sweet and low,\u201d said Bianca, listening\nwith her pretty head aside and her eyes lifted.\n\n\u201cIt is Carlin\u2019s bird,\u201d said the Signora.\n\nThe girl glanced about, but saw no cage.\n\n\u201cIt is a soft, cooing sound,\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cIt is Carlin\u2019s dove,\u201d the Signora replied.\n\nBianca looked at her inquiringly, her lips still apart, and her head\nturned to listen to the melody.\n\n\u201cHe doesn\u2019t keep it in a cage, but in a nest,\u201d the Signora went on,\nsmiling. \u201cCome, and I will show you. Step lightly, and do not speak.\nHe is too busy to notice, and this great tapestry will hide us. You\nmust examine this some time, by the way. It is all in rags, but very\nprecious. See that foot on it! Doesn\u2019t it look as if it were just set\non the green ground\u2015\u2015after a bath, too? It is so fresh and perfect.\u201d\n\nShe led the way to an alcove of the studio hidden from the other rooms\nby this tapestry, and pointed to the inner wall, where a small, low\ndoor showed, half hidden by draperies and armor. \u201cSome day we will go\nin; but to-day I will give you a peep only.\u201d\n\nShe went to the door, and noiselessly pushed away a little slide in\nthe panel, then motioned Bianca to look through. The girl obeyed, and\nfound herself looking into a square room whose one great arched window\nhad a snow-white fringed curtain waving slowly in the slight breeze,\nalternately giving glimpses of, and hiding, a _loggia_ full of flowers\nand the green outside curtain of a grape-vine. Only tiny glints of\nsunshine entered through this double drapery, making the white curtain\nlook as if it were embroidered with spots of gold. From the centre of\na vaulted white ceiling hung a brass lamp, swinging slowly on its\nchain, and catching a point of light in place of the extinguished\nflame. On the white wall opposite the door hung high up an ebony\ncrucifix, with a blue niche below, in which stood a marble statue of\nthe Madonna. A tiny lamp burned before the two, and a branch of roses\nwas twisted about the statue\u2019s feet. In the centre of the room a\ngreen-covered table stood on a large green cloth that covered nearly\nthe whole of the stone floor, and two or three cane-seated chairs were\nvisible. The bird still sung her low, cooing song, an improvised\nmelody set to inarticulate murmurs that now and then broke softly into\nwords\u2015\u2015a word of human love and blessing, a word of prayer, or a word\nof happiness. As when a gentle brook flows with only its waters now,\nand now with a flower or leaf, and now a little boat on its tide, and\nnow a break of foam, and then a clear reflection as vivid as a\ntangible object, so the song flowed, with its word here and there.\n\nCarlin\u2019s dove was a young woman with a sweet, motherly face, and, as\nshe sang, she swung to and fro a hammock that was hung directly under\nthe blue niche of the Virgin; and her eyes were raised from time to\ntime to the statue or the crucifix, with an _Ave_ or a _Ges\u00f9 mio_, or\ndropped to the baby she hushed to sleep with a word as tender. All the\nroom seemed to swing with the hammock, as if it were in a tree-top; to\nfloat in an atmosphere of love and happiness with the mother and her\nchild. Slowly the white lids of the little one dropped, like two\nrose-petals that cover two stars, and a dimpled hand clinging to the\nmother\u2019s loosened its hold, as the angel of sleep unclasped it gently,\nfinger by finger. Silence settled over the song, the hammock ceased to\nswing, and the mother, shining with love and happiness, bent over her\nsleeping babe, gazing at it as if her eyes were gifted to see through\nits white and rosy flesh, and behold the resting, folded soul hidden\nthere like a sleeping butterfly in a shut flower.\n\nThe Signora closed the slide as noiselessly as she had opened it, and\nthe two, exchanging a smile of sympathetic pleasure, turned away from\nCarlin\u2019s nest.\n\nThe sculptor had made his sketch, and was just sending his model away.\nHe turned immediately to his visitors, and began to show them his\nlatest works, half a dozen things in clay, some finished, some\nrequiring still a few touches. One group was especially pretty. It\nrepresented a family scene in one of the little Italian towns where\nall the business of life goes on in the street. On the rude stone\nsteps outside a door sat a mother winding a skein of yarn held for her\nby a pretty girl of ten years or thereabouts, whose small arms were\nstretched to their utmost extent in the task. A little chubby boy\nleaned on the mother\u2019s lap, and put up his finger to pull at the\nthread. At the front of the steps sat the father cobbling shoes.\n\n\u201cI found that at Monte Compatri,\u201d he said; \u201cand the figures are all\nportraits. I was afraid I couldn\u2019t do it, for it is better adapted for\ncanvas than marble; but the walls hold them together, you see.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe must go to Monte Compatri, Bianca,\u201d the Signora said. \u201cIt\u2019s one of\nthe most primitive places in the world\u2015\u2015a Ghetto perched on a\nmountain-top, as filthy and as picturesque as can be imagined. The air\nis delicious, the view superb, and the salads beggar description.\u201d\n\nAll Carlin\u2019s best groups and figures were, like this, copies from\nnature. When he attempted anything else, he unconsciously copied the\nworks of others or he failed.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m so glad you made that suggestion about the water-carrier,\u201d he\nsaid, taking up his sketch. \u201cI find it is always better for me to put\nconsiderable action into my figures. If I give them a simple _pose_,\nthey are stupid. Would you have her looking up or down?\u201d\n\n\u201cLet the little minx look up, by all means,\u201d the Signora said. \u201cShe\u2019s\na good girl, enough, as a butterfly or a bird may be good. There isn\u2019t\nenough of her for a down look; but that saucy little coquettish\nup-look is rather piquant. Besides, it is true to her nature. If she\nthought any one were admiring her, she wouldn\u2019t have subtilty enough\nto look down and pretend not to see, and she wouldn\u2019t have\nself-control enough, either. She would wish to know just how much she\nwas admired, and to attitudinize as long as it paid her vanity to do\nso. Bianca, my dear, there is our bell. Your father and Isabel must\nhave come home.\u201d\n\nThey went down again through the complicated passages and stairs,\nwhere arched windows and glimpses into vaulted rooms and into gardens\ncrowded with green made them seem far from home.\n\n\u201cHow beautiful orange-trees are!\u201d Bianca exclaimed, stopping to look\nat one that filled roundly a window seen at the end of a long passage.\n\u201cIt has the colors of Paradise, I fancy. I don\u2019t like yellow to wear,\nnot even gold; but I like it for everything else.\u201d\n\n\u201cWait till you see the snow on an orange-tree, if you would see it at\nits perfection,\u201d was the reply. \u201cPerhaps you might wait many years, to\nbe sure. I saw it once, and shall never forget. A light snow came down\nover the garden a few winters since, and dropped its silvery veil over\nthe orange-trees. Fancy the dark green leaves and the golden fruit\nthrough that glittering lace! I had thought that our northern cedars\nand pines, with their laden boughs, were beautiful; but the oranges\nwere exquisite. Would you believe that our kitchen door was so near?\u201d\n\nIsabel ran to meet the two, all in a breeze.\n\n\u201cHurry on your things in two minutes to go to the Vatican,\u201d she said.\n\u201cHere are the cards. Monsignor forgot to send them, and has only now\ngiven them to us. The carriage is at the door.\u201d\n\nOff came the summer muslins in a trice, and in little more than the\ntime allowed the three ladies tripped, rustling, down the stairs, in\ntheir black silk trains and black veils.\n\n\u201cI am constantly going to the Vatican in this breathless way,\u201d the\nSignora said, as they drove rapidly through the hot sunshine. \u201cWith\nthe usual sublime ignorance of men, and especially of clergymen, of\nthe intricacies of the feminine toilet, my kind friends always give me\nten minutes to prepare. One needs to keep one\u2019s papal court dress laid\nout all ready for use at a moment\u2019s warning. Fortunately, it is very\nsimple. But Bianca has found time to mount the papal colors,\u201d she\nadded, seeing a bunch of yellow jasmine tucked into her friend\u2019s belt.\n\n\u201cIs it allowed?\u201d the girl asked doubtfully. \u201cI can leave it in the\ncarriage. But I always like to have a flower about me.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! keep it,\u201d her friend replied, and smiled, but suppressed the\nwords that would have followed. For while Bianca Vane carried that\nface about with her, she never lacked a flower.\n\nThey were just in time for the audience, and an hour later drove\nslowly homeward through the silent town. Bianca was leaning back in\nthe corner of the carriage with her eyes shut. The audience had been\nespecially pleasant for her; for the Holy Father, seeing her kneel\nwith her hands tightly clasped, and her eyes, full of delight, raised\nto his face, had smiled and laid his hand on her head, instead of\ngiving it to her to kiss. The others said but little. The languor of\nthe hour was upon them.\n\n\u201cDoes any one say, Signora, that the Pope has a shining face?\u201d Mr.\nVane asked.\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d she replied.\n\n\u201cThen I am not original in thinking that I found something luminous\nabout him,\u201d the gentleman went on. \u201cIt is as if I had seen a lamp. And\nwhat a sweet voice he has! He said \u2018_la Chiesa_\u2019 in a tone that made\nme think of David mourning over Absalom.\u201d\n\nMr. Vane had been much impressed by the beautiful presence of the\nreverend Pontiff, and had behaved himself, not only like a gentleman,\nbut like a Catholic. The Signora had seen how he blushed in kissing\nthe Pope\u2019s hand, not as if with shame at paying such an act of homage,\nbut as if some new sentiment of tender reverence and humility had just\nentered his heart. It had been very pleasant to her to see this, both\non account of the love she bore the object of the homage, and the\nrespect she had, and wished to retain, for him who paid it.\n\nThe driver held in his panting horses, and walked them on the side of\nthe streets where a narrow strip of shadow cooled the heat of the\nburning stones; the pines and cypress in the gardens they passed,\nwhich in the morning had been so full of silvery twitterings that the\nfine, sweet sounds seemed almost to change the color of them and make\nthem glisten with brightness, were now sombre and silent. The birds\nwere all hid in their dark green shadows, or perched in cool, sunless\nangles and nooks of vases, balustrades, statues, and cornices of\nchurch or palace. Here and there a workman lay stretched at length on\nthe sidewalk or on steps, sleeping soundly.\n\nAt length they reached home. The porter sat sleeping in his chair at\nthe great door, and a family of beggars, four or five women and\nchildren, lay curled up outside on the curbstone.\n\nInside all was deliciously cool and tranquil. Dinner was on the table;\nfor the servants had been watching for them, and had brought the soup\nin directly, and they sat down with appetites improved by the delay.\nThe Signora poured out some wine for herself.\n\n\u201cThe people here say that you should take a little wine before your\nsoup,\u201d she said. \u201cMy former _padrona_ told me the nuns in the convents\nshe knew always did. I don\u2019t know why it is good for the stomach, but\nbow to their superior wisdom.\u201d\n\n\u201cDoesn\u2019t the hair on the top of my head look unusually bright?\u201d Bianca\nasked after a while. She was still thinking of the sacred hand that\nhad rested there, still feeling its gentle pressure.\n\nThe others looked, not understanding.\n\n\u201cWhy, your veil covers it,\u201d Isabel said. \u201cBut there\u2019s a bright garnet\nand gold pin at the top.\u201d\n\nBianca lifted her arms to loosen the veil, took the gold hairpin out\nand kissed it. \u201cHe must have touched it,\u201d she said, \u201cand so it has\nbeen blessed. Do you know, Signora, what thought came into my mind at\nthe moment? I thought as he touched me, \u2018It is the hand that holds the\nkeys of purgatory and of heaven!\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cMy own thought!\u201d her friend exclaimed. \u201cI had the same benediction\nonce, and it set me rhyming. I do not set up for a poet, you know, but\nthere are feelings that will sing in spite of one. This was one, and I\nmust show you the lines some time soon, to see if they express you. I\ndon\u2019t know where they are.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know where something of yours is,\u201d Bianca said eagerly. \u201cI saw it\nin your blotting-book, and had to call up all my honesty not to read\nit. Reward me now! I will bring it.\u201d\n\nShe looked so bright and coaxing, and the others so cordially joined\nin her request, that the Signora could not but consent, though usually\nshy of reading her unpublished productions to any one.\n\n\u201cHow I like hot noons!\u201d she sighed through a smile of languid\ncontentment, leaning back in her chair, and dropping in her lap the\nfolded paper Bianca had brought her. \u201cI found out the charm of them\nwhen I was in Frascati. At this early season the heat of the city,\ntoo, is good\u2015\u2015a pure scorch and scald. In August it is likely to be\nthick and morbid. That first noon in Frascati was a new experience to\nme. I went to see Villa Torlonia, which was open to the public only\nbetween the hours of eleven and five\u2015\u2015a time when scarcely any one,\nespecially any Italian, wants to go out in hot weather. I wished to\nsee the villa, however, and I went, stealing along the shadowy edges\nof streets, and down a long stairway street that is nearly or always\nshaded by the tall houses at either side and the hill behind, catching\nmy breath as I passed through the furnace of sunshine in the open\n_piazza_, finally, with my face in a flame, stepping under the great\ntrees inside the gate, and pausing to refresh myself a little before\ngoing on. There was still the open terrace to pass, and the grand\nunshaded steps to ascend; but it was easier to go forward than back,\nfor a few minutes would bring me to avenues as dim as _Ave Maria_\ntime. I stood a little and dreaded the sun. The _casino_ and the\ngravel of the terrace and the steps were reflecting it so that one\nmight almost have fancied the rays clashed on each other in the midst\nof the opening. The rose-trees in the flower-garden looked as if they\nbore clusters of fire-coals, and some sort of flowering tree in the\ngreen spaces between the stairs seemed to be breaking out into flame\nwith its red and yellow blossoms. I remembered Mrs. Browning\u2019s\n\n \u201c\u2018The flowers that burn, and the trees that aspire,\n And the insects made of a song or a fire.\u2019\u201d\n\nShe paused to lay a laurel leaf over a _carafon_ of cream that a fly\nwas buzzing about, then exclaimed: \u201cWhy wasn\u2019t that woman a Catholic,\nand why isn\u2019t she alive now, that I may kiss her hand, and her cheek,\nif she would let me? Fancy such a genius consecrated to religion! You\nknow the other stanza of that poem I have just quoted:\n\n \u201c\u2018And, oh! for a seer to discern the same,\u2019\n Sighed the South to the North;\n \u2018For the poet\u2019s tongue of baptismal flame,\n To call the tree and the flower by its name,\u2019\n Sighed the South to the North.\n\n\u201cIt seems to me that not one person in a thousand\u2015\u2015Italians no more\nthan strangers\u2015\u2015would know there were anything remarkable here, if a\nsmall, small number of persons hadn\u2019t told them there is. How they all\nrepeat the same words, from the teeth out, and talk learnedly of what\nthey know nothing about! They don\u2019t one of them find a beauty that\nisn\u2019t in the guidebooks.\u201d\n\nShe sighed impatiently, and returned to her subject.\n\n\u201cI was telling you about noon in Villa Torlonia: I stood under the\ngreat solid trees awhile, then took courage and walked into the sun\nagain, across the terrace, with only a glance at the vast panorama\nvisible from it, up the steps that were hot to my feet, and then\nplunged into the upper avenues as into a cool bath. There was another\nopening to cross, for I wanted to go to the upper fountain; but here\nthe cascade cooled the eyes, at least. I went up the cascade stairs as\nthe waters came down, and found myself alone in that beautiful\ngreen-walled drawing-room, with the fountain leaping all to itself in\nthe centre, and the forty masks of the balustrade about the basin each\ntelling its different story. Beside the tall central jet there used to\nbe, perhaps may now be, a jet from each of these masks that are carved\non the great posts of the balustrade, no two alike. I made a circuit\nof the place to assure myself that no one else was there; looking down\neach path that led away through the over-arching trees. Not a soul was\nin sight. There was no danger of Italians being there; and as for\n_forestieri_, there were none in Frascati. How delicious it was simply\nto sit on one of the stone benches and live! A spider\u2019s web glistened\nacross the place, starting straight from a tree behind me. Where it\nwas fastened at the other end I could not guess; for the nearest\nobject in that line was the tossing column of foamy water, fifty feet,\nmay be more, distant, then an equal distance to the trees at the other\nside. There was no sound but that of falling water, that seemed to\ncarry the chirp of the _cicali_ and the whisper of the trees, as the\nwaters themselves carried the dry leaves and twigs that fell into\nthem. All around the sun searched and strove to enter through the\nthick green, so near that his fiery breath touched my face. How my\nchains melted off! How pure the heat was, and how sweet! One bird sang\nthrough it now and then\u2015\u2015sang for me: he the only lark abroad at that\nhour, as I was the only signora. I answered him with a little faint\nsong, to which again he replied. I never was so happy, never felt so\nfree from all that could annoy. Probably Adam and Eve had some such\ndelight in the mere feeling that they were alive. And so I sat there,\nhour after hour, half asleep, half fainting with the heat, in which I\nseemed to float. If I had been called on then to say what God is, I\nshould have said, He is a fire that burns without consuming. Fire and\nits attendant heat were the perfection of all things, and coldness was\nmisery\u2015\u2015but a pure, clear fire which an anemone could pass through\nunscathed.\u201d\n\nThe Signora drew a breath that was half a sigh, and took up the folded\npaper from her lap. \u201cHow happy I am in Italy in the summer!\u201d she said,\nhalf to herself. \u201cI can work in the cool months, but I live in the hot\nones.\u201d\n\n\u201cBianca wants me to read this rhyme? It is a summer rhyme, too, and\ncommemorates a little incident of my first summer here\u2015\u2015a visit to\n_Santa Maria della Vittoria_. You have not been there yet. It is very\nnear, just out on the _Via della porta Pia_, which the new people call\n_Venti Settembre_, because the invaders came in that way on the 20th\nof September. They try to keep the anniversary, and to make the city\nlook as if the people cared for it, but it is a dreary pretence. A\nmilitary procession, a few flags hung out here and there from houses\nof government officials and foreigners, chiefly Americans\u2015\u2015that is\nall.\u201d\n\nShe read:\n\n Never so fair a rose as this, I think,\n E\u2019er bloomed on a rose-tree;\n So sweet a rose as this, I surely know,\n Was never given to me.\n Like the reviving draught to fainting lips,\n The gentle word to strife,\n Cool, fresh, and tender, in a bitter hour,\n It dropt into my life.\n\n Hid in the silence of a darkened room,\n With sleepless eyes I lay,\n And an unresting mind, that vainly strove\n To shut its thoughts away.\n When through the loosened _perslane_ slipped\n A sunbeam, sharply bright,\n That cleft the chamber\u2019s quiet duskiness,\n And put my dreams to flight.\n\n Before the windows, in a dusty square\n Fretted by restless feet,\n Where once a palace-garden had unrolled\n Its alleys green and sweet,\n Men rooted up a fountain-base that lay\n Whitened like bleaching bones,\n Or into new walls piled, with a weary care.\n The weary, ancient stones.\n\n And all about the slowly-growing work,\n In warlike mantles drest,\n Disputing with the spade for every sod,\n The angry poppies prest.\n And when I thought how fate uproots always\n My gardens, budding sweet,\n The hot _scirocco_ of an angry pain\n Blew me into the street.\n\n The unveiled heights of sapphire overhead\n Dazzled the lifted eyes;\n The sun, in lovely splendor, blazed from out\n The keystone of the skies;\n And Rome sat glowing on her seven hills,\n Yellow with fervid heat,\n And scorched the green Campagna, where it crept\n And clung about her feet.\n\n The ways were silent where the sunshine poured\n Its simmering, golden stream;\n For half the town slept in its shaded halls,\n Half worked as in a dream;\n The very fountains dropt from sleepiness,\n Pillowed in their own foam,\n I only, and the poppies, it would seem,\n Were wide awake in Rome.\n\n There were the gray old ruins, in whose nooks\n Nodded each wild flower-bell,\n Where San Bernardo\u2019s fane is hidden, like\n A pearl within its shell.\n There marched the Piedmont robber and his host\n In through the long, long street;\n And there the open portal of a church\n Drew in my straying feet.\n\n Silence and coolness, and a shade so deep,\n At first I saw no more\n Than circling clouds and cherubs, with the dome\u2019s\n Bright bubble floating o\u2019er;\n Wide flocks of milk-white angels in the roof,\n The hovering Bird divine;\n And, starring the lower dusk, the steady lamps\n That marked each hidden shrine.\n\n Then marble walls and gilded galleries\n Grew slowly into sight;\n And holy visions peered from out the gloom\n Of chapels left and right;\n And I perceived a brown-robed sacristan,\n With a good, pleasant face,\n Who sat alone within an altar-rail\n To guard the sacred place.\n\n He showed me all their treasures\u2015\u2015the dead saint\n Within her altar-shrine;\n Showed where the Master sat, in gilded bronze,\n Blessing the bread and wine;\n Unveiled the niche whose swooning marble form\n \u2019Tis half a sin to see\u2015\u2015\n Bernini\u2019s St. Teresa\u2015\u2015and betrayed\n Her dying ecstasy;\n\n Then led me to the sacristy, where hung,\n Painted the glorious field\u2015\u2015\n Lepanto\u2019s\u2015\u2015and he told the ancient tale,\n How, like a magic shield,\n Our Lady\u2019s sacred picture, borne aloft\n In the dread battle\u2019s shock.\n Had sent the scattered Paynim flying far,\n Like foam from off a rock.\n\n When all was seen and said, my parting foot\n A soft \u201cAspetti!\u201d stayed\n Just where a tiny garden \u2019mid the walls\n Its nook of verdure made.\n And while I waited, was broke off for me\n A bright geranium bloom,\n And this blush-rose, whose richly-perfumed breath\n Has sweetened the whole room.\n\n \u201c_O Rosa Mystica!_\u201d I thought, and felt\n Consoled, scarce knowing why;\n It seemed that in that brief hour all my wrong\n Had righted silently,\n As when, new-shriven, we go forth to tread\n The troubled ways of men.\n Folded in peace, and with no need, it seems,\n Ever to speak again.\n\n Lady invincible! Her grander fields\n Are praised \u2019neath every sun;\n But who shall count the secret victories\n Her gentler arms have won?\n Hers are the trumpet and the waving flag;\n But there is one who knows\n That on a certain summer day in Rome\n She conquered with a rose.\n\n\n\n\nLONDON GUILDS AND APPRENTICES.\n\n\nThe halls of the old London guilds or companies are still among the\nmost interesting sights of London. They are not only interesting as\nthe relics of by-gone times and manners, but as living and active\nrepresentatives of the influential bodies whose names they bear. Many\nof the companies give an annual dinner to the members of the Cabinet\n(of no matter which of the two great political parties), and all are\nwide awake and progressive. They bestow the honorary membership of\ntheir various crafts upon outsiders as a very great distinction and\nfavor, and with many of the proudest names of the nobility this or\nthat company has a hereditary connection. Their actual halls are none\nof them of great antiquity, as they can date no further back than\n1666, the year of the great fire of London, when every building of any\nconsequence in the city was destroyed; and many are far more modern\nthan that, having been rebuilt in our own century. The Company of the\nGoldsmiths, which at present ranks fifth in the order of precedence\namong the London guilds, boasts of being one of the oldest of all, its\nfirst charter dating from 1327 (before its rivals possessed a similar\nroyal license), and its records prove that it existed more than two\nhundred years previous to that date, and was even fined in 1180 for\nits irregular and independent being. This was under Henry II., and it\nis presumable that it was not even then in its infancy. The craftsmen\nof the capital were obliged to protect themselves by associations of\nmutual comfort and defence, and the goldsmiths especially, as they\nwere most often liable to taxation and forcible levies for the benefit\nand at the caprice of the king. They were the earliest bankers, both\nin England and in other countries. Their power and organization,\nbefore they obtained the charter of incorporation under Edward III. in\n1327, is shown by the following account given by Maitland, the\nhistorian of the city of London, and copied by him from an old\nchronicler, Fabyan\u2015\u2015no doubt a witness of the fray:\n\n \u201cAbout the same time (1269) a great difference happened\n between the Company of Goldsmiths and that of the Merchant\n Tailors [or, as it was written, \u2018Taylors\u2019]; and other\n companies interesting themselves on each side, the animosity\n increased to such a degree that on a certain night both\n parties met (it seems by consent) to the number of 500 men,\n completely armed; when fiercely engaging, several were\n killed and many wounded on both sides; and they continued\n fighting in an obstinate and desperate manner, till the\n sheriffs raised a great body of citizens, suppressed the\n riot, and apprehended many of the combatants, who were soon\n after tried by the mayor and Laurence de Brooke, one of the\n king\u2019s justices; and thirteen of the ringleaders being found\n guilty, they were condemned and hanged.\u201d\n\nThe goldsmiths stood, both to individuals and to the government, in\nthe relation of agents in the transfer of bullion and coin, in making\npayments and obtaining loans, and in the safe custody of treasure.\nThis branch of their business has not been relinquished so very long\nago; for we find a statement made in a book called _A General\nDescription of all Trades_, and published in 1747, to the effect that\u2015\u2015\n\n \u201cGoldsmiths, the fifth company, are, strictly speaking, all\n those who make it their business to work up and deal in all\n sorts of wrought gold and silver plate; but of late years\n the title of goldsmith has been generally taken to signify\n one who banks, or receives and pays running cash for others,\n as well as deals in plate; but he whose business is\n altogether cash-keeping is properly a banker.\u201d\n\nTo distinguish such of the craft as did not bank, the name silversmith\nwas used; and these again were sub-divided into the working\nsilversmiths, who fashioned the precious metals, and the shopkeepers,\nwho only sold them. This statement has been preserved by Malcolm in\nhis work on the city, called _Londinium Redivivum_. The distinction is\npractically obsolete in our day, and the whole craft goes more\ngenerally by the name of jewellers. It would be difficult at present\nto find one jeweller who is still a banker, though there is no doubt\nthat private negotiations of the sort described may sometimes take\nplace; but as to the safe-keeping of jewels and plate, the London\njewellers do a very extensive business. Full as many people keep their\nfamily heirlooms at the great jewellers\u2019\u2015\u2015Hancock, Emmanuel, Garrett,\nTessier, Hunt, and Roskell, etc., etc.\u2015\u2015as they do at banks; and,\nagain, the secret loans on valuable jewels, and the sale of some, to\nbe replaced by cunningly-wrought paste, constitute, as of old, an\nimportant though private branch of their traffic. The great goldsmiths\nof old times were pawnbrokers on a magnificent scale, as well as\nbankers, and even church plate often came for a time into their\nkeeping. Royal jewels and the property of the nation were not seldom\nin their hands as pledges, and through their aid alone could war be\ncarried on or clamoring mercenaries paid.\n\nItaly was more liberal towards her goldsmiths than England. Here they\nwere artists and ranked as such; in England they were artificers and\ntraders. In the latter country they were powerful, but only through\nthe wealth they controlled; in Italy they were admired, courted, and\nflattered in society, but politically their power was less. The\nEnglish at all times excelled rather in manual skill than in design;\nand to this day the designers of jewellers, lamp-makers,\nfurniture-makers, house-decorators, and even silk, ribbon, and cotton\nmerchants, in England, are generally not English.\n\nIn ancient times the London goldsmiths all lived in or near Cheapside,\nor, as it was often called, West Cheap, to distinguish it from the\nother Cheap Street, more to the east. \u201cCheap\u201d was the same as market.\nClose by was the Royal Exchange, where the bullion for the coinage of\nthe realm was received and kept, and the street in which stood this\nbuilding is still called the Old Exchange. Whether by law or custom,\nonly goldsmiths were allowed to have shops in this neighborhood; but\neven if the right was at first but a prescriptive one, the company\nsoon contrived to have laws passed to forbid any other craft from\nencroaching on their domains. This localizing of various crafts was\ncommon all over Europe in the middle ages, and in many instances was\nreally a convenience to purchasers, as well as a means of defence for\nthe members of the guilds. In the case of the goldsmiths the\ngovernment had an object of its own. It might have been thought that\nthe concentration of other turbulent companies would have been rather\na danger and a provocation to the royal authority; but it was\nobviously the policy of the king to make the services of this wealthy\ncompany as accessible as might be, in case of any sudden emergency\nrequiring a loan or a tax. It was not politic to let any of the\nfraternity escape contribution by hiding himself in some obscure part\nof the city; so that not only were other tradesmen prohibited from\nopening shops among the goldsmiths, but the latter were themselves\nforbidden from setting up their shops elsewhere. Although neither law\nnor custom now interferes with them, the majority of the great\njewellers have their glittering shops in Bond Street, London, while in\nother countries the same rule, on the whole, still prevails. The _Rue\nde Rivoli_ and the _Palais Royal_ are the chief emporiums for these\nprecious goods in Paris; in Vienna they are mainly sold in the\n_Graben_, and one street leading out of it; Rome has its _Via\nCondotti_, thronged with jewelry shops and those selling objects of\n_virtu_; Venice has its _Procurazie_, an arcade beneath which nearly\nall the jewellers in the city are congregated; and in many old Italian\ncities the _Strada degli Orefici_ (goldsmiths\u2019 street) still fully\ndeserves its name. This is particularly the case at Genoa, where this\nold, crooked lane, bordered by the booths and dens that we moderns\nwould take for poor cobblers\u2019 shops, is still one of the most\nsurprising and picturesque sights of the city. Goldsmiths\u2019 Row is thus\ndescribed in Maitland\u2019s _History_:\n\n \u201cThe same was built by Thomas Wood, goldsmith, one of the\n sheriffs of London in the year 1491. It contained in number\n ten dwelling-houses and fourteen shops, all in one frame,\n uniformly built, four stories high, beautified towards the\n street with the goldsmith\u2019s arms and the likeness of\n _woodmen_, in memory of his name, riding on monstrous\n beasts, all of which were cast in lead, richly painted over\n and gilt. The said front was again new painted and gilt over\n in the year 1594, Sir Richard Martin being then mayor, and\n keeping his mayoralty in one of them.\u201d\n\nThe Row, however, before this embellishment, had existed in the same\nplace, and covered adjoining parts of Cheapside, betwixt Bread Street\nend and the Cross in Cheap. This beautiful monument is now gone, but\nit stood at the west end of the street, in the middle of an open space\nfrom which St. Martin-le-Grand (still one of the London parishes)\nbranches out on the one hand, and St. Paul\u2019s churchyard on the other.\nThe \u201cchurchyard,\u201d still retaining its name, is now filled with gay\nshops, mostly for the sale of silks, feathers, and other female gear,\nand quite equal to the resplendent shops of the West End of London.\nThe Cross in Cheap was one of a series which Edward I. built at every\nplace where the body of his wife, Queen Eleanor, rested on the way\nfrom Herdeley in Lincolnshire to Westminster, where she was buried.\n\nIn 1629 the appearance of the goldsmiths\u2019 shops is thus described:\n\n \u201cAt this time the city greatly abounded in riches and\n splendor, such as former ages were unacquainted with; then\n it was beautiful to behold the glorious appearance of\n goldsmiths\u2019 shops in the South Row of Cheapside, which in a\n continued course reached from the Old \u2019Change to\n Bucklersbury, exclusive of four shops only of other trades\n in all that space.\u201d\n\nAnother reason that had been early alleged for the concentration of\nthe guild was that \u201cit might be seen that their works were good and\nright\u201d; for as early as 1327 complaints were made of the substitution\nof paste for real gems, and of plated ware for genuine metal. Some of\nthe fraternity were wont to hide themselves in by-lanes and obscure\nturnings, and buy stolen plate, melt it down, and resell it secretly\nto merchants about to put to sea.\n\n \u201cAnd so they made also false work of gold and silver, as\n bracelets, lockets, rings, and other jewels; in which they\n set glass of divers colors, counterfeiting real stones, and\n put more alloy in the silver than they ought, which they\n sold to such as had no skill in such things. And that the\n cutlers in their workhouses covered tin with silver so\n subtilly, and with such slight,[3] that the same could not\n be discerned and severed from the tin; and by that means\n they sold the tin so covered for fine silver, to the great\n damage and deceit of the king and his people.\u201d\n\nAll this was very distasteful to the respectable members of the\ncompany, from whose petition the above words are quoted, and\nhenceforward the law did all it could to protect both the public from\ndeceit and the guild from dishonor. Yet, since human law never yet\nreached an abuse upheld by obstinate men interested in law-breaking or\nlaw-evading, the ordinances had to be constantly renewed. As years\nwent on the law was more and more disregarded. One order was passed in\n1629 to confine the goldsmiths to Cheapside and Lombard Street;\nanother in 1635, another in 1637, and two in 1638. Summary proceedings\nwere taken against the intrusive shopkeepers who paraded their \u201cmean\ntrades\u201d among the privileged goldsmiths. For instance, \u201cif they should\nobstinately refuse and remain refractory, then to take security of\nthem to perform the same by a certain day, or in default to commit\nthem to prison until they conform themselves.\u201d The arbitrary Star\nChamber, whose rule under the later Stuarts became a real \u201cReign of\nTerror,\u201d threatened that if such shops were not forthwith shut up, the\nalderman of the ward, or his deputy, should be committed to prison.\nBut these were the last among the despotic threats of the terrible\ntribunal, which was soon after abolished, and the twenty-four common\nshops which were enumerated in 1638 as spoiling the fair appearance of\nGoldsmiths\u2019 Row were soon reinforced by many others. The prohibitory\nordinances ceased, and custom alone was not strong enough to expel\nintruders. Besides, the great fire soon came to sweep away almost the\nwhole city, and the plague that preceded it did much to break up all\nlocal customs and attachments. The tide of fashion afterwards carried\nthe jewellers with it, setting every year more and more to the west of\nthe city, and the old landmarks and restrictions died a natural death.\nLombard Street, however, originally named from the Lombard refugees\nwho settled in London as bankers and pawnbrokers as well as jewellers,\nis still distinguished by the number of banks and imposing warehouses\nit contains, and by the comparatively stately architecture of some of\nits great commercial buildings.\n\nThe Goldsmiths\u2019 Company, by letters-patent of Edward III., was granted\nthe privilege of assaying (or testing) all gold and silver plate\nbefore it could be exposed for sale. But this was probably only a\nrenewal of a right already exercised by them; for it is mentioned in\nthe document that all work ascertained to be of the proper fineness\nshall have upon it \u201ca stamp of a puncheon with a leopard\u2019s head, as of\nancient time it hath been ordained.\u201d The company also has the\nprivilege of assisting at what is called \u201cthe trial of the pyx\u201d\u2015\u2015that\nis, the examination of the coinage of the realm, with a view of\nascertaining whether it is of the sterling weight and purity. The pyx\nis the box in which the coins to be weighed and analyzed are\ncontained. The jury of goldsmiths summoned on this occasion usually\nconsists of twenty-five, and they meet with great formalities and\nceremonies in a vaulted chamber on the east side of the cloisters at\nWestminster, called the Chapel of the Pyx.\n\nSince the great fire the company has built two halls, the present one\ndating only from 1829, when the old one was pulled down. It stands\nimmediately behind the new post-office, and is an Italian building,\nmore worthy of examination inside than out. The hall which preceded\nthe present one was celebrated for a court-room elaborately decorated\nand possessing a richly-sculptured marble chimney-piece and a massive\nbronze grate of the value of a hundred pounds, in days when that sum\nmeant thrice as much as it does now. Like all the companies, that of\nthe goldsmiths possessed some valuable pictures, chiefly portraits of\ndistinguished members or protectors. Hawthorne mentions the hall of\nthe Barber-Surgeons\u2019 Company, in Monkwell Street, which boasted of a\npicture by Holbein, representing the company of barber-surgeons\nkneeling before Henry VIII., receiving their charter from his hands,\nand for which the company very rightly refused $30,000, and even\n$6,000 for a single head of a person of the name of Pen, which the\nlate Sir Robert Peel wished to cut out from the canvas and replace by\na copy which should rival the original in fidelity and minuteness. The\nheads in this picture were all portraits, and represent grave-looking\npersonages in dark, sober costumes. The king is in scarlet. Round the\nbanqueting-room of this hall were other valuable pictures of the\ndistinguished men of the company, and notably one, by Vandyke, of an\nelderly, bearded personage, very stately in demeanor, refined in\nfeature, and dressed in a style of almost courtly though chastened\nelegance. The company also treasures its old vellum manuscript book of\nrecords, all in black letter, and in which there has been no entry\nmade for four hundred years. The hall has a lofty, carved roof of\nwood, and a sombre, rich appearance from its antique furniture and\nnumerous old portraits. There is a sky-light in the roof, which may\nhave served to cast light on bodies dissected on the great table\nbelow. In old times the barbers and surgeons formed but one company;\nbut we believe that the latter alone now claim the possession of this\nhall (one of the oldest now standing in London, and the work of Inigo\nJones), although, in official nomenclature, they still retain the\ndouble title of barber-surgeons. Close by Monkwell Street is shown a\ndilapidated Elizabethan row of almshouses, erected by a pious and\ncharitable alderman for six poor men. Their successors and\nrepresentatives still enjoy the founder\u2019s bounty, but the almshouses\nare now choked up by a network of unwholesome streets, and the funds\nof the institution, which have enormously increased in relative value,\nremain in the hands of the trustees. The number of those who, under\ndifferent names, belong to the fraternity of goldsmiths, is, at a\nrough calculation, nearly eight hundred, exclusive of watchmakers who\nare also jewellers. Indeed, in the country these two trades are always\njoined, and even many shops of this mixed kind are found in London.\n\nThe Fishmongers were the fourth of the incorporated companies, ranking\njust before the goldsmiths. At one time they were the wealthiest and\nmost powerful; but although they existed and flourished as a civic\nassociation long before they obtained a regular charter, they referred\nthe latter privilege to no earlier date than 1433. The inherent spirit\nof division and local jealousy which seems to animate all bodies\ncorporate, whether political, commercial, or artistic, caused the\nfishmongers punctiliously to keep asunder and form two separate\ncompanies\u2015\u2015that of the salt-fishmongers (which had the earliest\ncharter), and that of the stock-fishmongers, whose letters-patent were\nnot granted till 1509. In Catholic times, of course, the consumption\nof fish was great among all classes, and its sale a very important\nbusiness. The salt-fishmongers naturally had the largest trade, and at\none period so great was the influence of their company that it gave to\nthe city six lord-mayors in the space of twenty-four years. The last\nand most famous of these was Sir William Walworth, who in 1381, under\nRichard II., slew the rebel Wat Tyler with his own hand, in the\nmarket-place at Smithfield, when that leader was at the head of thirty\nthousand rebels. The king knighted him for this act of prowess\u2015\u2015a far\ndifferent cause for the honor from that which is so indulgently\nthought sufficient now, _i.e._, the accident of a royal visit during a\nmayor\u2019s term of office, irrespective of any merit in the holder of the\noffice.\n\nThe glory and power of the fishmongers stirred up the envy and\nill-will of their fellow-citizens, and Walworth\u2019s successor, John of\nNorthampton, a draper of an imperious and turbulent character, well\nknown in his day by the popular titles of Troubletown and Cumbertown,\nwas able to array the interest of several rival companies against the\ntoo prosperous fishmongers, and to procure from the crown leave for\nforeigners (meaning strangers or persons not freemen) to sell fish in\nLondon, in violation of the company\u2019s right of monopoly. Maitland even\nrecords that he made the company acknowledge that its occupation was\n\u201cno craft, and was therefore unworthy of being reckoned among the\nother mysteries.\u201d It was also enacted that for the future no\nlord-mayor should be chosen from among the fishmongers. But the credit\nof the fishmongers revived as soon as John of Northampton\u2019s term of\noffice ended, and the company was soon restored by Parliament to all\nits old rights and privileges, except the right of holding courts for\nthe trial of complaints. This was transferred to the supreme city\ncourt, that of the lord-mayor himself. In 1536 the two companies of\nsalt and stock fishmongers were incorporated into one by Henry VIII.\nunder the title of \u201cThe Wardens and Commonalty of the Mystery of\nFishmongers.\u201d\n\nAfter the Reformation the sale of fish diminished so as to endanger\nthe trade of the company, and a curious act of Parliament was passed\nin 1563, under Elizabeth, enjoining the exclusive use of fish on\nWednesdays and Saturdays, \u201cas well for the maintenance of shipping,\nthe increase of fishermen and mariners, and the repairing of\nport-towns, as for the sparing and increase of the flesh victual of\nthe realm.\u201d The cases excepted, of course, were those of sickness, and\nof ability and willingness to pay for a license to eat flesh-meat on\nthose days. The fine for disobeying the law was \u00a33 for each offence,\nand the licenses of exemption cost for a peer \u00a31 6s. and 8d., for a\nknight and a gentleman 13s. and 4d., for the commonalty 6s. and 8d.\nEven the license, however, only authorized the eating of mutton and\nfowl, not beef; but that there might be no mistake as to the motive of\nthis odd, restrictive law\u2015\u2015so like the sumptuary laws, and almost as\nunavailing\u2015\u2015this clause was added:\n\n \u201cBut because no person shall misjudge the intent of this\n statute, be it enacted that whoever shall, by preaching,\n teaching, writing, or open speech, notify that any eating of\n fish, or forbearing of flesh, mentioned in this statute, is\n of any necessity for the soul of man, or that it is the\n service of God, otherwise than as other politic laws are and\n be, then such persons shall be punished as spreaders of\n false news ought to be.\u201d\n\nIt is probable that this regulation failed of its effect, for a\nsubsequent statute again renewed the prohibition, though limiting it\nto Saturdays only; still, the concession was but partial, for the\n_sale_ of flesh was forbidden on Fridays and Saturdays and during all\nLent.\n\nThere were three streets in the city named after the Fishmongers\u2019\nCompany\u2015\u2015Old Fish Street, New Fish Street, and Fishmonger Row, now\ncalled Thames Street. In each of these the two original companies had\neach one hall, making no less than six halls for the whole guild; but\non their fusion they chose one in Thames Street for their common hall,\nsince which time there have been three successive buildings on or\nabout the same spot. The first, a very old one, originally the gift of\nSir John Cornwall, Lord Franhope, was destroyed in the great fire of\n1666, and soon after Sir Christopher Wren built them another, famed\nfor a magnificent double flight of stone stairs on the wharf.\nAccording to old historians, those were the times when the Strand was\nan open road, bordered sparsely with pleasant houses, having large\ngardens down to the river\u2019s edge. This hall was taken down about 1830\nto make room for the approaches of the new London Bridge, and the\npresent hall was built just a little to the west of the site of its\npredecessor. This is another of those heavy, would-be-palatial\nbuildings which attest the bad architectural taste of the first half\nof the present century.\n\nIt has long been customary to enroll as honorary members of the civic\ncompanies many royal and noble personages; and when, in 1750,\nFrederick, Prince of Wales, was admitted as a freeman, the clerk of\nthe Fishmongers\u2019 Company, Mr. Tomkyns, proudly reminded him that \u201cthis\ncompany, sir, is famous for having had near threescore lord-mayors of\nthe city of London, besides many of the most considerable merchants\nand eminent citizens, free of it.\u201d\n\nKing James I. incorporated himself with the guild of cloth-workers in\n1607, and Stow\u2019s _Chronicle_, continued by Howes, gives the following\ndescription of the occurrence:\n\n \u201cBeing in the open hall, he [the king] asked who was master\n of the company, and the lord-mayor answered, \u2018Sir William\n Stowe,\u2019 unto whom the king said: \u2018Wilt thou make me free of\n the cloth-workers?\u2019 \u2018Yea,\u2019 quoth the master, \u2018and think\n myself a happy man that I live to see this day.\u2019 Then the\n king said: \u2018Stowe, give me thy hand; and now I am a\n cloth-worker.\u2019\u201d\n\nSir Samuel Pepys was master of the company seventy years later, and\npresented them with a rich loving-cup, which is still used on solemn\noccasions. The Winthrops, ancestors of the famous governor of the\nMassachusetts Company, were hereditarily connected with this\ncloth-workers\u2019 guild, several of them becoming members by regular\napprenticeship to the trade; and Adam Wyntrope, the governor\u2019s\ngrandfather, is mentioned as master of the company in 1551, having\npreviously held all the minor offices leading to that dignity.\n\nIntimately connected with the system of the companies was the status\nof the London apprentices. Both have been materially modified, and\ntheir representatives have ceased to exercise the tangible power they\nonce possessed. But when the system was in full operation, every trade\nhaving its separate guild; and when, in order that any one might\nexercise a trade, it was necessary he should have the freedom of the\nguild, this freedom could only be obtained by serving an\napprenticeship to a member of the company. In old times the\napprentices were a superior class of men, and it was not permitted to\nevery one to exercise the chief trades. Under Henry IV. an act was\npassed containing a clause to the effect that no one should put his\nson or daughter apprentice to a handicraft trade, \u201cexcept he have land\nor rent to the value of 20s. by the year,\u201d which in those days would\nbe a fair competency. The regulations of the city of London forbade\nany to be admitted to be bound apprentice except such as were\n\u201cgentlemen born,\u201d by which was understood freeborn, and not in a state\nof villeinage\u2015\u2015the son of a free-holder or a yeoman. In the days of\nthe Tudors and Stuarts even the younger sons of gentlemen often served\nin the commercial establishments of rich citizens. The chronicler Stow\nattributes to this cause their \u201ccostly apparel, their wearing weapons,\nand frequenting schools of dancing, fencing, and music.\u201d\n\nBut this very pretension to \u201cgentility\u201d it was which Ben Jonson\nrebuked in his _Eastward Hoe_, a comedy, the counterpart of Hogarth\u2019s\nsubsequent caricatures in pencil. The old goldsmith boasts that he\nmade his wealth by \u201chiring me a little shop; bought low; took small\ngain; kept no debt-book; garnished my shop, for want of plate, with\ngood, wholesome, thrifty sentences, as, \u2018Touchstone, keep thy shop,\nand thy shop will keep thee\u2019; \u2018Light gains make heavy purses,\u2019 etc.\u201d\n\nThe apprentices were very clannish, and ready to defend each other to\nthe death, and this spirit often led to riots and serious\ndisturbances, but a curious poem published in 1647, called _The Honor\nof London Apprentices_, mentions that this bravery had led them to\ndistinguish themselves in a nobler field than a city brawl\u2015\u2015namely, in\nthe Crusades and on the field of Cr\u00e9cy.\n\nTheir duties, it seems to us, corresponded in their way to the service\nrequired from youths of good birth as pages and esquires in the house\nof a knight, before they themselves could aspire to the honor of\nknighthood. These waited at table, served the ladies, and performed\nmany offices now termed menial; and, as a tract published in London in\n1625 avers, so too did the apprentices:\n\n \u201cHe goes bare-headed, stands bare-headed, waits bare-headed,\n before his master and mistress; and while as yet he is the\n youngest apprentice, he doth perhaps, for discipline\u2019s sake,\n make old leather over-night shine with blacking for the\n morning; brusheth a garment, runs of errands, keeps silence\n till he have leave to speak, follows his master or ushereth\n his mistress, and sometimes my young mistresses their\n daughters (among whom some one or other of them doth not\n rarely prove the apprentice\u2019s wife), walks not far out but\n with permission, and now and then, as offences happen, he\n may chance to be terribly chidden or menaced, or [for?] what\n sometime must be worthily corrected.\u201d\n\nStow, in his _Survey of London_, says that \u201cwhen apprentices and\njourneymen attended upon their masters and mistresses at night, they\nwent before them carrying a lantern and a candle in their hands, and a\ngreat long club on their necks; and many well-grown, sturdy\napprentices used to wear long daggers in the daytime on their backs or\nsides.\u201d All this the master in his young days had done for _his_\nmaster, and all this the present apprentice had the prospective right\nof claiming for himself in the future; so in this inequality for the\nnonce there was no element of caste and no room for foolish murmuring.\nThe turbulence of these young fellows was turned now against the city\nauthorities, now against foreign or unlicensed traders and artificers,\nnow against their masters. From the thirteenth to the seventeenth\ncentury\u2015\u2015times when all classes were turbulent enough\u2015\u2015these\noccasional riots went on and were punished; but what chiefly led to\ntheir cessation was the gradual falling to pieces of the old system,\nand the more effectual police force which patrolled the city after\n1688. But the peculiarity of the apprentices\u2019 privileges and of the\ninfluence of the companies in England was that, no matter how low a\nman began, his industry and good behavior could raise him to high\npublic honor. This was not the case in most other European countries.\nWealth and domestic happiness, of course, attended virtue and\napplication to business, but such advancement as the English\nConstitution offered existed nowhere, unless, perhaps, in the Low\nCountries. This has been significantly commented upon by Lichtenberg,\nan admirer and critic of Hogarth, and professor of natural history at\nthe University of G\u00f6ttingen. \u201cIn Hogarth\u2019s country,\u201d says he, \u201cit is\nnot unfrequent that the son of a weaver or a brewer may distinguish\nhimself in the House of Commons, and his grandson or great-grandson in\nthe House of Lords. Oh! what a land, in which no cobbler is certain\nthat the favors of his great-grandson may not one day be solicited by\nkings and emperors. And yet they grumble!\u201d\n\nAlthough there are no restrictive laws as to trade in the London of\nour day, and though much of the state of the companies has dwindled\ninto formalities, and is more interesting from a historical than a\npolitical point of view, still the foundations on which the system was\nbuilt are unalterable. In these days, as in centuries gone by, the\npride in one\u2019s work, the personal industry, and the _esprit de corps_\nof tradesmen are the real steps by which they mount to civic and\npolitical success. They were once embodied in the close system of\nalliance and defence encouraged by the guilds; times and customs have\nchanged, and each man stands more or less on his own merits alone, but\nthe underlying principle is the same. It is not every tradesman or\nmerchant who, because he is honest and thrifty, becomes lord-mayor of\nLondon, is knighted, or elected M.P.; but these prizes are within the\nreach of all. The city records for the latter half of the eighteenth\ncentury, for instance, witness to the perseverance of many men born in\nthe lowest and most hopeless circumstances, and that, too, when the\nancient prestige of the companies had somewhat faded. Sir James\nSanderson, sheriff and lord-mayor of London, was the son of a poor\ngrocer of York, who died young, leaving his widow to manage the\nbusiness till his son should be old enough to carry it on. The son\nleft the shop to his mother for her support, and went to London,\nentered the service of a hop-merchant, and throve so well through his\nindustry that he attained great wealth and position. He was afterwards\nmade a baronet. Alderman Boydell came to London on foot, from\nShropshire, and worked as an engraver. After great trials, he too\nsucceeded and became lord-mayor, besides being a great patron of the\narts. Skinner was apprenticed to a box-maker and undertaker, and,\nthrough obscure local influence, began a small business of\nauctioneering; he ended by becoming lord-mayor, and the first\nauctioneer of the kingdom. Sir William Plomer began life in an\noil-shop in Aldgate, a dingy old part of the city. Brooke Watson, M.P.\nfor the city of London,[4] was the son of a journeyman tailor, and\nserved his apprenticeship to that trade. Sir John Anderson, lord-mayor\nand member for the city, was the son of a day laborer. Macauley was\nthe son of a captain of a coasting vessel, who died leaving nine\nchildren unprovided for. Sir William Staines and Alderman Hamerton\nwere both working paviors and stone-masons. Aldermen Wright and Gill\nwere servants in a warehouse of which they afterwards became masters;\nthey lived for sixty years in partnership as stationers, and never\ndisagreed, although the latter married the former\u2019s sister. Wright\nmade \u00a3400,000. The two old friends died the same year, beloved and\nregretted by many who had experienced their kindness and generosity.\n\nTo point out contrary instances would not be so easy\u2015\u2015they are legion;\nbut the typical idle apprentice of Hogarth is a fair specimen of those\nwho wreck their lives through weakness of resolve and inordinate love\nof so-called enjoyment. These we have under our eyes every day, in\nevery country.\n\n\n [3] Sleight or skill.\n\n [4] The members for the city have the right to wear scarlet\n gowns on the first or opening day of every Parliament, and\n sit all together on the right hand of the chair, next the\n speaker. No other members, except the speaker and the\n clerks, have the right of wearing robes.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SAINTE CHAPELLE OF PARIS AND THE CROWN OF THORNS.\n\n\nIn the very heart of Paris, to the northwest of _Notre Dame_, and as\nif a flower detached from her garland, or a graceful sapling from the\nmajestic parent tree, sprang up, more than six centuries ago, the\n_Sainte Chapelle_.\n\nIt almost seems as if Heaven had extended a special protection to the\nsanctuary raised to enshrine the precious relics of the Passion of our\nLord; for although injured and despoiled by evil hands in the time of\nthe First Revolution, it was subsequently restored to all the splendor\nof its pristine beauty; and again, when the conflagrations kindled by\nthe _Commune_ were raging around it, the _Sainte Chapelle_, with its\nfearless _fl\u00eache_, its protecting angel, and its golden crown, stood\nunharmed in the very midst of the flames, and so remained when they\nhad died out, amid the heaps of ashes and the crumbling ruins left\naround its unscathed walls.\n\nSince the time of St. Louis France has possessed the crown of thorns\nof our Lord Jesus Christ, and there is great interest in tracing the\nvicissitudes through which this priceless treasure has passed, and in\nlearning the circumstances under which the saintly monarch obtained\nit. In the year 1204 the French and the Venetians, having captured\nConstantinople, established there as emperor Baldwin, Count of\nFlanders. On the division of the booty this prince requested for his\nshare the sacred crown of our Saviour, which was found among the\ntreasure of the emperors of the East, offering, if it were adjudged to\nhim, to give to the Doge of Venice a large portion of the true cross\nin exchange.\n\nHis successor, Baldwin II., finding his empire, in the year 1238,\nthreatened by the Greeks on the one side, and on the other by the\nBulgarians, came into the West to seek aid and protection against his\nenemies. Whilst at the court of France, whither he had gone to entreat\nthe assistance of St. Louis, tidings reached him that the nobles whom\nhe had left at Constantinople, finding their resources completely\nexhausted, were on the point of pledging the holy crown to the\nVenetians for a sum of money. The young emperor, strongly disapproving\nof this measure, offered as a free gift to St. Louis the precious\nrelic which the lords of Byzantium were wishing to sell. \u201cFor,\u201d said\nhe, \u201cI greatly desire to bestow it upon you, my cousin, who are my\nlord and benefactor, as well as upon the realm of France, my country.\u201d\n\nSt. Louis eagerly accepted such a gift as this, and immediately, at\nthe same time that Baldwin despatched one of his officers with\nletters-patent commanding that the holy crown should be sent to him,\nthe French monarch sent two of the Friars Preachers, named James and\nAndrew, to receive it in his name. Journeys in those days, however,\nwere by no means expeditious, and on the arrival of the messengers at\nConstantinople they found the sacred relic gone from the treasury, and\npledged to the Venetians for 13,075 hyperperia, or about \u00a3157,000\nsterling. It had been deposited by their chamberlain, Pancratius\nCaverson, in the church of Panta Craton, that of his nation at\nByzantium. On receiving the emperor\u2019s orders the Latin lords\nrearranged the matter with the Venetians, and it was agreed that, if\nwithin a reasonably short time the latter did not receive the\nreimbursement of the sum they had paid, the sacred crown should become\ntheir undoubted property. Meanwhile, it was to be carried to Venice,\naccompanied by the envoys of the King of France, one of whom, Father\nAndrew, had formerly been guardian of the convent of his order at\nConstantinople, and, having on several occasions seen the crown, knew\nits appearance perfectly well. It was this circumstance which had\ndetermined St. Louis to send him as one of his messengers.\n\nEvery possible precaution was taken to secure the identification of\nthe holy crown, which was enclosed in three chests, the first of gold,\nthe second of silver, on which the Venetian lords affixed their seals,\nthe third of wood, which was sealed by the French nobles.\n\nThe season, being Christmas, was unfavorable for the voyage by sea,\nbut the envoys had no hesitation in embarking, secure in the\nconviction that the crown of Jesus would be their protection in the\ntempest and the perils of the wintry seas. Nor was their trust\ndisappointed. They escaped unharmed from other dangers also; for the\ngalleys of Vataces, the Greek pretender to the imperial throne, having\nstarted in pursuit of their vessel, were unable to overtake or even to\ndiscover them, and they reached Venice in safety.\n\nThe holy crown was at once borne to St. Mark\u2019s, and there placed among\nthe treasures in the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, where reposed\nthe body of the Evangelist, between the two columns of alabaster which\nare said to have been brought from the Temple of Solomon. At the same\ntime one of the Dominican Fathers set out for France to acquaint St.\nLouis with the terms agreed upon.\n\nThese were approved of by the king, who directed the French merchants\nto repay the Venetians the sum they had advanced. The sacred relic was\nthen delivered into the hands of the French envoys, who, after\nassuring themselves that the seals were intact, started homewards with\ntheir treasure on the road to France. No sooner had the king heard of\nthe arrival of the holy crown at Troyes, in Champagne, than he\nimmediately set out, with the queen-mother, Blanche of Castile, the\nprinces his brothers, and several of the chief prelates and nobles, to\nreceive and accompany it to the capital. The meeting took place at\nVilleneuve l\u2019Archev\u00eaque, five leagues from Sens, on the 10th of\nAugust, 1239. The seals were then broken, and in the midst of an\nindescribable emotion the sacred relic was displayed.\n\nThe king and his brother, the Comte d\u2019Artois, both barefooted and\nwearing a simple tunic of wool, taking it upon their shoulders, bore\nit in great pomp to the metropolitan church of Sens, where it remained\nexposed for the veneration of the faithful until the following day,\nwhen the march towards Paris was resumed, and they reached the capital\nin eight days\u2019 time. A platform had been raised at St. Antoine des\nChamps, where the crown was placed; and when everyone had contemplated\nit with an inexpressible joy, the king and his brother, taking it, as\nbefore, upon their shoulders, carried it in procession to the palace\nchapel, at that time dedicated to St. Nicholas, where it was\ndeposited.\n\nBesides all the precautions taken to render any substitution\nimpossible, we may add that Baldwin, on being required to examine and\nidentify the relic, declared its authenticity in a document written on\nparchment, which was in existence until the Revolution of 1793, signed\nwith his own hand in Greek characters, traced in cinnabar, and having\nhis own seal, of lead covered with gold, affixed. On one side of this\nseal the emperor was represented enthroned, with the inscription:\n\u201c_Balduinus Imperator Romani\u00e6 semper Augustus_.\u201d On the other he was\non horseback, with the inscription in Greek letters: \u201c_Baudoin,\nEmpereur, Comte de Flandre_.\u201d It must also be borne in mind that the\nVenetians, before lending so considerable a sum for such a pledge,\nwould be certain to satisfy themselves beyond all doubt as to its\nauthenticity, and that, even had he been so minded, Baldwin could not\nin this matter have imposed upon the credulity of St. Louis, as some\nmodern writers have asserted, but that he did really receive that\nwhich the whole Christian world regarded as the crown of thorns of our\nLord Jesus Christ. Still, some additional proof may be required, and\nfor this we must go back to an earlier period. We must also consider\nthe nature of this crown; for many churches affirm, and with good\nreasons, that they possess thorns or fragments of the same, and yet\nthese portions frequently do not resemble that which is at Paris.\n\nIn the first place, it is certain that a century and a half before the\nreign of St. Louis, at the time of the First Crusade, all the world\nadmitted that a very large portion of the crown was preserved at\nConstantinople, in the chapel of the Greek emperors. When Alexis\nComnenus wished to induce the Christian princes to go to his\nassistance, he spoke to them of the very precious relics which they\nwould help to save, amongst which he especially designated the crown\nof thorns.\n\nAlso, in the time of Charlemagne, all the West had the certainty that\nConstantinople possessed this treasure, of which a considerable part\nwas equally known to be at Jerusalem. Towards the year 800, according\nto Aimoin, the Patriarch of Jerusalem had detached some of the thorns,\nwhich he sent to Charlemagne, who deposited them at Aix-la-Chapelle\nwith one of the nails of the true cross, and it was these relics which\nwere afterwards given by Charles le Chauve to the Abbey of St. Denis.\n\nThe existence of the crown is a fact constantly alluded to in the\nsixth century, by St. Gregory of Tours amongst others; and about the\nyear 409 St. Paulinus of Nola knew of its preservation. He writes:\n\u201cThe thorns with which the Saviour was crowned, and the other relics\nof his Passion, recall to us the living remembrance of his presence.\u201d\n\nNo written testimonies of an earlier date remain, but these appear to\nbe fully sufficient, as they are the expression of an oral tradition\nwell known to every one. As for the idea that such a relic as this\ncould have been _invented_ in those ages of conscience and of faith,\nit is wholly inadmissible.\n\nThe crown was not found with the cross and nails on Mount Calvary, nor\nis it probable that it was there buried with them, but that, when\nJoseph of Arimathea took down the body of Jesus from the cross, he\nwould have preserved it apart. That no mention of this remains to us\nis easily accounted for by the silence and the exceeding precautions\nnecessary so long as the persecutions by Jews and pagans continued.\nDuring this time the relics of the Passion which had been in the\ncustody of the Blessed Virgin, or by her entrusted to others, could\nnot, for reasons of safety, have been distributed to the various\nchurches, but were honorably preserved in private dwellings, to be\nbrought forth and publicly acknowledged when peace was granted to the\nchurch by the conversion of Constantine. Then it was that St. Helena\nsought with pious eagerness for every memorial that could be found of\nthe Crucifixion, and distributed them chiefly among the churches of\nJerusalem, Constantinople, and Rome.[5]\n\nAn apparent difficulty still remains, which obliges us to inquire into\nthe nature and form of the sacred crown, with respect to which ancient\nauthors differ from one another, some asserting that it was formed of\nreed (_juncus palustris_), about which, however, there are no points\nof any great sharpness; while others maintain it to have been made\nfrom the branches of a shrub belonging to the genus _Rhamnus_, several\nspecies of which, especially the _Zizyphus Spina Christi_, or the\nthorn of Christ, are furnished with exceedingly long, hard, and\nsharply-pointed thorns, exactly similar to those venerated in several\nchurches, but bearing no resemblance whatever to the holy crown at\nParis, which is, in fact, of reed.\n\nHow is this diversity to be accounted for? Thanks to the learned\nresearches of M. Rohault de Fleury,[6] it is fully explained. The\ncrown at Paris is a circle formed of small reeds bound together, and\nfrom which only a small number of particles have been taken. The\nopening is large enough to encircle the head and to fall rather low\nover the brow. But this circle is only the support or foundation, so\nto speak, of the painful crown of our Lord. The branches of those\nthorns of which we have been speaking were twined alternately within\nand without, and twisted across in such a manner as to form of these\nsharp spines not only a _circlet_ but a _cap_, as it were, of torture,\nwhich covered the Redeemer\u2019s head.\n\nThe year 1241 added new treasures to those already acquired by St.\nLouis. These were also from Constantinople, and sent as expressions of\nthe homage paid by the Emperor Baldwin to the \u201cMost Christian King.\u201d\nThese relics were accompanied by a parchment document to establish\ntheir authenticity, and which especially designated three remarkable\nportions of the true cross: the first and largest, _Crucem Sanctam_;\nthe second, _Magnam partem Crucis_; and the third, which was smaller,\nand known as the Cross of Victory, because it had been borne before\nthe armies of Constantine and his successors, _Aliam crucem mediocrem\nquam Crucem Triumphalem veteres appellabant_. With these was sent also\nthe point of the lance which had pierced our Saviour\u2019s side, and\nwhich, from the beginning of the seventh century, had been kept in the\nchapel of the _Martyrion_, raised by Constantine on Mount Calvary over\nthe very place of the Crucifixion. Heraclius, fearing lest the lance\nshould fall into the hands of the Persians, sent it to Constantinople,\nfrom which the greater part of it was later taken to Antioch, where\nthe Crusaders found it in 1097, but the point had been retained in the\nformer city, and was sent from thence to Paris.\n\nIt was also in the palace of the _Bucoleon_ at Byzantium that were for\na long period preserved a portion of the purple robe, the reed, and\nthe sponge of the Passion. Baldwin I., by means of certain concessions\nmade to the other crusading princes, obtained that the chapel in this\npalace should remain undisturbed, and thus secured for himself the\ngreater part of its treasures, which were so largely drawn upon by his\nsuccessor for the benefit of St. Louis and of France.\n\nOn their arrival the king immediately prepared to erect an edifice\nthat should be as worthy as possible to receive relics so precious;\nnor were there wanting at that time great artists well able to furnish\nthe design. The middle of the thirteenth century was perhaps the best\nand purest period of religious architecture. Churches and cathedrals\nthen arose the majesty of whose beauty has never been surpassed or\neven equalled. For the execution of his work Louis chose his own\narchitect, Pierre de Montereau, the most renowned master-worker in\nstone of the great school of Philippe Auguste, whom he charged to\nconstruct, in place of the chapel of St. Nicholas, which was old and\nruinous, another which should be not so much a church as a delicate\nreliquary in stone, with open-worked carving like a filigree of gold,\npaved with enamel, and lighted by windows filled with richly-colored\nglass.\n\nThe artist was no less ready to enter into the ideas of the king than\nhe was competent to realize them. A plan, wonderful in the beauty of\nits proportions and the gracefulness of its design, was soon ready and\nsubmitted to the monarch\u2019s approval, who found it so excellent that\nhis one desire was to see it carried out as expeditiously as possible.\n\nThe legendary spirit of the middle ages, which did not easily allow\nthat a too perfect work could be the result of a man\u2019s own thought and\nlabor, has, as usual, embroidered facts with fancies, and attributed\nthe conception of so exquisite a design to supernatural and magical\nmeans. It is not difficult to understand that the simple imagination\nof the people may have had some scope in the colossal construction of\nthe ancient cathedrals, which required centuries for their completion,\nand which often left no name of the master who conceived the design or\nof those who executed it; but the _Sainte Chapelle_ was not to have\nsuch dimensions as to require time and labor either very great or\nprolonged, and, moreover, he who cut this jewel would engrave on it\nhis name.[7]\n\nIt is evident that the chief intention of the architect was to give to\nhis work as spiritual a character as it is possible to impress upon\nmatter, and to translate into stone the _sursum corda_ of religious\naspiration.\n\nThe first stone was laid by the king in the year 1245. The proportions\nof the plan are considered perfect by competent judges. It forms a\nlengthened parallelogram, terminated at the east end by an apse, and\nformed of two chapels, one above the other, without aisles or\ntransepts. The edifice measures outside 36 metres 33 centimetres in\nlength, by 17 in width; the exterior elevation from the ground of the\nlower chapel to the front gable is 42m. 50cm.; the spire[8] rises 33m.\n25cm. above the roof. The interior elevation measures 6m. 60cm. in the\nlower chapel, and from 20m. to 50m. in the upper. The king\u2019s desire\nfor the speedy completion of the building was so great that,\nnotwithstanding the conscientious care bestowed upon every detail, the\nwork went on with such rapidity that in three years the whole was\nfinished, and the fairy-like beauty of the edifice excited the most\nenthusiastic admiration, tempered, however, by serious apprehensions\nas to the stability of the fabric\u2015\u2015apprehensions which raised a\ntempest of reproaches against the daring architect. Pierre de\nMontereau was himself for a time dismayed at the possible consequences\nof his boldness. How could he be certain that a church so slight, so\ndelicate, and, in comparison with its area, so lofty, would stand\nsecurely, almost in defiance of possibilities?\n\nSebastien Rouillard declares that scarcely was the _Sainte Chapelle_\nerected when it was seen to oscillate in the wind, and the spire to\nsway to and fro in the air when its bells were rung. Thus, _Quasimodo_\nor \u201cLow\u201d Sunday of the year of grace 1248, on which the church was\nconsecrated, far from being a festival or triumph for the hapless\narchitect, was to him a day of anguish. So effectually had he hidden\nhimself that, though everywhere sought for, he could nowhere be found;\nand, to quote the words of Paul de St. Victor, \u201cThe very workmen had\nall fled, fearing that they might be taught the laws of equilibrium\nfrom the top of a gibbet. But time has proved that the seeming\nrashness of the medi\u00e6val master was well reasoned, and that this fair\nflower of his planting has the roots of an oak.\u201d\n\nThe proportions had been so carefully drawn, and the laws of\nmathematics so exactly observed, the materials so well chosen and\nshaped with such precision, that the aerial structure could not fail\nto consolidate itself in settling firmly upon its foundation. \u201cOne\ncannot conceive,\u201d writes M. Viollet-le-Duc, \u201chow a work so wonderful\nin the multiplicity and variety of its details, its purity of\nexecution, its richness of ornamentation, could have been executed in\nso short a time. From the base to the roof-ridge it is built entirely\nof hard freestone, every layer of which, cramped together by iron\nhooks run into the lead, is cut and placed with perfect exactness; the\ncomposition and carving of the sculpture likewise give evidence of the\nutmost care. Nowhere can one find the least indication of negligence\nor hurry!\u201d[9]\n\nNor was it the _Sainte Chapelle_ alone that was completed by the end\nof these three years, but also the beautiful sacristy adjoining, which\nwas in itself a masterpiece of Gothic architecture, with a touch of\npeculiar refinement about it suggestive of some influence from the\nEast.\n\nThe upper and lower chapels corresponded with the two divisions of the\npalace. The lower one, which is less a crypt than a splendid church,\nwith its sparkling windows, its paintings, its slender pillars with\nsculptured capitals, was destined for the officers and domestics of\nthe royal household. Over the principal door was placed the image of\nthe Blessed Virgin, which, according to a graceful legend, bent its\nhead to Duns Scotus, in sign of thanks to that learned theologian, who\nhad defended the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception, and which ever\nafterwards retained this attitude. The upper chapel was reserved for\nthe king and court, and the cell which was the oratory of St. Louis,\nmay still be seen adjacent to the southern wall.\n\nThis church was his especial delight. He had it solemnly consecrated\nby two illustrious prelates on the same day; the lower chapel to the\nBlessed Virgin, by Philippe de Berruyer, Archbishop of Bourges, and\nthe upper dedicated to our Lord\u2019s Crown of Thorns, by Eudes de\nCh\u00e2teauroux, Bishop of Tusculum and legate of the Holy See. The sacred\ntreasures which the king had received from Constantinople were placed\nin reliquaries of marvellous richness, wrought in gold and enamel,\nadorned with carbuncles and pearls. These again were enclosed in what\nwas called _La Grande Ch\u00e2sse_, or \u201cThe Great Shrine,\u201d which was in the\nform of an arch of bronze, gilt, and adorned with figures in the\nfront. It was raised on a kind of Gothic pedestal behind the high\naltar, and closed with ten keys, each fitting a different lock, six of\nwhich secured the two exterior doors, and the four others an inner\ntrellis-work or grating. The relics themselves were in frames or vases\nof gold and crystal. There the holy crown was placed, in the centre,\nbetween the largest portion of the true cross on the one side and the\nlance on the other. Thanks to the luxury of locks and to the six\narchers who every night kept guard within the _Sainte Chapelle_, its\nriches were safe from all possibility of robbery or fraud.\n\nAll these things could not be accomplished without enormous outlay.\nThe cost of the _Sainte Chapelle_ amounted to more than \u00a3800,000. The\nsums sent to the Emperor of Constantinople, and those spent upon the\nreliquaries, amounted to two millions; and when it was suggested to\nthe king that this lavish expenditure, even upon holy things, was\nsomewhat excessive, he replied: \u201cDiex m\u2019a donn\u00e9 tout ce que poss\u00e8de;\nce que d\u00e9penserai pour lui et pour les n\u00e9cessiteux sera tousiours le\nmieux plac\u00e9.\u201d[10]\n\nHe did not wait until the completion of the church before establishing\nthere a college of seventeen ecclesiastics, amply endowed. The clergy\nof the _Sainte Chapelle_, in virtue of certain privileges and\nexemptions granted by Pope Innocent IV., were under the immediate\njurisdiction of the Holy See. The same pope, at the prayer of the\nking, enriched the relics with numerous indulgences, and at the same\ntime granted to St. Louis and his successors the privilege of making\nthe exposition of them every Shrove Tuesday. On this day, therefore,\nthe court of the palace was filled, from the hour of seven in the\nmorning, by the inhabitants of the twelve parishes of Paris, who there\nwaited, as it was impossible for the chapel to contain the multitude.\nThen the king, taking the cross, elevated it, whilst the people sang\n_Ecce Crux Domini_; after which he exposed it before the central\nwindow of the apse in such a manner that through the open portal of\nthe church the crowds could behold and venerate it from the court\noutside.\n\nThose days were occasions of exceeding happiness to the saintly\nmonarch, who, besides, took delight in everything connected with the\nsanctuary he had raised, whether in the pomp of its religious\nsolemnities or in the solitude of the holy place. There he devoutly\nfollowed the divine Office, and there he was wont to pass long hours,\nalone, in prayer, kneeling in his oratory, or prostrate on the\npavement near the altar. He had there created for himself something of\nthat East towards which the thoughts and desires of his heart were\never turning, and around this glorified Calvary which he had raised to\nthe honor of God he seemed to behold an ideal representation of the\nHoly Land. All the neighboring streets had taken the names of towns or\nvillages of Palestine: Bethlehem, Nazareth, Jerusalem, etc. But the\npious illusion did not satisfy a soul so in love with the cross as\nthat of St. Louis; his knightly heart bounded at the story of the\nmisfortunes in the East, and on the 25th of May, 1270, he again\nenrolled himself among the Crusaders; his sons and barons did the\nsame. He first directed his operations against Tunis in Africa, but\nbefore he reached that place he died near it, in August, 1270.\n\nGreat was the mourning in France when tidings came of the death of the\nking. The _Sainte Chapelle_ seemed plunged, as it were, into\nwidowhood, and the poet Rutebeuf, in his _Regrets au Roy Loeys_, has\nnot forgotten the desolation which seemed to be shed over it:\n\n \u201cChap\u00e8le de Paris, bien \u00eares maintenue,\n La mort, ce m\u2019est advis, t\u2019a fest desconvenue,\n Du miex de tes amys, t\u2019a laiss\u00e9 toute nue.\n De la mort sont plaintifs et grant gent et menue.\u201d[11]\n\nA day of joy and renewed life, as it were, was, however, in store for\nthe royal sanctuary, when the departed monarch received within its\nprecincts the first homage of the Christian world as one of the\nglorious company whom the church had raised to her altars. Pope\nBenedict VIII., in accordance with the ardent prayers of the whole of\nFrance, had, in his bull of the 11th of August, 1297, declared the\nsanctity of Louis IX. The following year Philip le Bel convoked in the\nabbey church of St. Denis all the prelates, abbots, princes, and\nbarons of the realm; the body of St. Louis was placed in a _ch\u00e2sse_ or\ncoffer of silver, and borne by the Archbishops of Rheims and Lyons to\nthe _Sainte Chapelle_, where immense multitudes were assembled to\nreceive it, and where it remained three days exposed for the\nveneration of the faithful. Philip would fain have kept it there in\nfuture, but, fearing to violate the rights of the royal abbey of St.\nDenis, he restored it thither, excepting the head, which he caused to\nbe enclosed in a bust of gold, and placed amongst the sacred treasures\nof the holy monarch\u2019s favorite sanctuary.\n\nLong and prosperous days were yet in store for the _Sainte Chapelle_,\nwhich reckons in its annals a series of great solemnities. Although\nits circumscribed space did not allow large numbers of people to\nassemble at a time within its precincts, it was very suitable for\ncertain festivals of a family character, such as royal marriages and\nthe coronation of queens, at which none but the principal prelates and\nnobles were present. Here it was that, in 1275, Mary of Brabant,\ndaughter of Philip le Hardi, received the royal consecration, and\nthat, in 1292, Henry VII., Emperor of Germany, in presence of the\nking, espoused Margaret of Brabant. In due time the daughter of this\nprince, Mary of Luxemburg, here became the wife of Charles le Bel, who\nhad been married once before, and who, on the death of his second\nwife, not long afterwards took a third, Jeanne d\u2019Evreux. Here also the\ntoo famous Isabel of Bavaria gave her hand to the unfortunate Charles\nVI. About a century previous a noble and touching ceremony had taken\nplace within these walls, when the Emperor Charles IV., accompanied by\nhis son Wenceslaus, King of the Romans, after having, together with\nthe King of France, assisted at the first Vespers of the Epiphany, on\nthe following day, at the High Mass, which was sung by the Archbishop\nof Rheims, these three august personages, representing the Magi, bore\ntheir gifts to the altar, and there offered gold and frankincense and\nmyrrh.\n\nThe _Sainte Chapelle_ was always the place of meeting and departure of\nevery expedition, public or private, to the Holy Land. Even at the\nperiod when the Crusades were no longer in favor, it was here that the\nlast sparks of religious enthusiasm were kindled in their regard. In\n1332 a noble assemblage was gathered in the upper chapel. There were\npresent Philippe II. of Valois; John of Luxemburg, King of Bohemia;\nPhilippe d\u2019Evreux, King of Navarre; Eudes IV., Duke of Burgundy; and\nJohn III., the Good, Duke of Brittany; prelates, lords, and barons.\nThe Patriarch of Jerusalem, Pierre de la Pallu, who was addressing the\nassembly, drew so heartrending a picture of the misfortunes of the\nHoly Land that all present arose as one man, and, with their faces\nturned to the altar and their right hands stretched out towards the\nsacred cross and crown of the Saviour, vowed to go to the rescue of\nthe holy places. Alas! the days of Tancred and Godfrey de Bouillon\nwere gone by, and this generous ardor was doomed to be paralyzed by\ncircumstances more powerful than the courage of brave hearts.\n\nThe clergy appointed by St. Louis were more than sufficient for the\nservice of the chapel, which for a long period retained its privileges\nand organization. Up to the time of the Revolution it was served by a\ntreasurer, a _chantre_ or (chief) \u201csinger,\u201d twelve canons, and\nthirteen clerks. The chantry had been founded in 1319 by le Long. The\ntreasurer was a person of very considerable importance, wore the\nepiscopal ring, and officiated with the mitre. He was sometimes called\nthe pope of the _Sainte Chapelle_. This office was borne by no less\nthan five cardinals, as well as by many archbishops and other\nprelates.\n\nThere were certain ceremonies peculiar to the chapel. For example, on\nthe Feast of Pentecost flakes of burning flax were let fall from the\nroof, in imitation of the tongues of fire, and a few moments\nafterwards a number of white doves were let fly in the church, which\nwere also emblematic of the Holy Spirit. Lastly, at the Offertory one\nof the youngest children of the choir, clad in white garments, and\nwith outspread golden wings, suddenly appeared hovering high above the\naltar, by the side of which he gradually descended, and approached the\ncelebrant with a silver ewer for the ablutions. Again, on the festival\nof the Holy Innocents, and in their honor, the canons gave up their\nstalls to the choir-children, who, being made for a few hours superior\nto their masters, had the honor of chanting the divine Office and of\ncarrying out all the ceremonial. These juvenile personages sat in\nstate, wore the copes, and officiated with the utmost gravity and\npropriety. Nothing was wanting; even the cantoral baton was entrusted\nto the youthful hands of an improvised _pr\u00e6centor_. This custom was\nobserved with so much reverence and decorum that it continued in\nexistence until as late as the year 1671.\n\nThe splendors of the _Sainte Chapelle_ began to decline from the day\nthat the kings abandoned the _Ile du Palais_ to take up their abode on\nthe northern bank of the Seine; and from the commencement of the\nsixteenth century it gradually fell almost into oblivion. The\nsubsequent events which have from time to time called attention\ntowards it have nearly all been of a dark and distressing character.\nScarcely had the Reformation, by its appearance in France, roused the\nevil passions which for long years plunged the land into all the\nmiseries of civil war, when fanaticism here signalized itself by the\ncommission of a fearful sacrilege. On the 25th of August, 1503, a\nscholar, twenty-two years of age, rushed into the chapel during the\ncelebration of holy Mass, snatched the Host out of the hands of the\npriest, and crushed it to pieces in the court of the palace. He was\narrested, judged, and condemned to be burnt. A solemn service of\nexpiation was held in the church, and the pavement upon which the\nfragments of the sacred Host had fallen was carefully taken up and\ndeposited in the treasury.\n\nWe mentioned before that the largest portion of the cross, as well as\nthe smallest (the _Crux Triumphalis_), were preserved in the great\nshrine, together with the sacred crown; but the intermediate one,\ndesignated _aliam magnam partem_, being the portion exposed, from time\nto time, for the veneration of the faithful, was deposited in the\nsacristy. All at once, on the 10th of May, 1575, it was found that\nthis piece had disappeared, together with the reliquary that contained\nit. Great was the general grief and consternation. No pains were\nspared in the search for it, and large rewards were offered to any\npersons who should discover any trace of the robbers: all in vain,\nalthough public prayers and processions were made to obtain the\nrecovery of the lost relic.\n\nBut the guilty person was one whom no one thought of suspecting. Grave\nhistorians have nevertheless affirmed that the robber was none other\nthan the king himself, Henry III., who, under the seal of secrecy,\nhad, for a very large sum of money, given back this portion into the\nhands of the Venetians. A true cross, however, must be had for the\nsolemn expositions customary at the _Sainte Chapelle_. In September of\nthe same year Henry III. caused the great shrine to be opened, and cut\nfrom the _Crucem Sanctam_ a piece which was thenceforth to take the\nplace of that which was missing, and which he caused to be similarly\nshaped and arranged. A reliquary was also to be made like the former\none, the decoration of which furnished the unblushing monarch with a\nfresh opportunity of enriching himself at the expense of the treasures\nof the _Sainte Chapelle_, from which he managed to abstract five\nsplendid rubies of the value of 260,000 crowns, and which his\nsuccessor, Henry IV., was unable to recover from the hands of the\nusurers to whom they had been pledged. About thirty years later the\nchurch narrowly escaped destruction by a fire which, owing to the\ncarelessness of some workmen, broke out upon the roof; but although\nthe timber-work was burnt and the sheets of lead that covered it\nmelted, yet the lower roof resisted, and even the windows were\nuninjured. The beautiful spire was consumed, and replaced by one so\npoor and ill constructed that a century and a half later it was found\nnecessary to take it down.\n\nBut where the fire had spared man destroyed. A devotion to the\nstraight line led certain builders to commit, in 1776, an act of\nunjustifiable vandalism. The northern _fa\u00e7ade_ of the _Palais de\nJustice_ was to be lengthened; and as the exquisite sacristy which\nPierre de Montereau had placed by the _Sainte Chapelle_, like a\nrosebud by the side of the expanded flower, was found to be within the\nline of the projected additions, these eighteenth-century architects\nhesitated not: the lovely fabric was swept away to make room for heavy\nand unsightly buildings which well-nigh hid the _Sainte Chapelle_ and\ntook from its windows half their light.\n\nThe days of the Revolution soon afterwards darkened over France. The\nNational Assembly, at the same time that it declared the civil\nconstitution of the clergy, suppressed all church and cathedral\nchapters, together with all monasteries and abbeys. The _Sainte\nChapelle_ was deprived of its priests and canons, and the municipality\nof Paris set seals upon the treasury until such time as it should\nchoose to take possession. Louis XVI., who only too truly foresaw the\nfate that was in store for all these riches, resolved to save at least\nthe holy relic, and sending for M. Gilbert de la Chapelle, one of his\ncounsellors, in whom he could place full confidence, he charged him to\ntransfer them from the treasury to some place where they would be\nsecure.\n\nOn the 12th of March, 1791, therefore, the king\u2019s counsellor, assisted\nby the Abb\u00e9 F\u00e9nelon, had the seals removed in presence of the\npresident of the Chamber of Accounts and other notable personages;\ntook out the relics, and, after having presented them to the monarch,\naccompanied them himself to the royal abbey of St. Denis, where they\nwere at once deposited in the treasury of the church. No one then\nforesaw that the sacrilegious hand of the Revolution would reach not\nonly thither, but to the very extremities of the land.\n\nIn 1793 a mocking and savage crowd forced itself into the _Sainte\nChapelle_, and made speedy havoc of the accumulated riches of five\ncenturies. Besides the great shrine and the bust containing the head\nof St. Louis, there were statues of massive gold and silver, crosses,\nchalices, monstrances, and reliquaries, of which the precious material\nwas but of secondary value in comparison with their exquisite\nworkmanship. There were delicate sculptures in ivory, richly-illuminated\nMissals and Office-books of which even the jewelled binding alone was\nof enormous value. Every tiling was hammered, twisted, broken,\nwrenched down, torn, or dragged to the mint to be melted into ingots.\nBut, worse than this, the relics that had been taken to St. Denis were\nsoon after to be snatched from their place of shelter. On the night of\nthe 11th-12th of November in that dismal year this venerable cathedral\nwas desecrated in its turn. We will not dwell upon the horrible\nsaturnalia enacted there; but first of all the treasures of the\nsanctuary were carried off to Paris, with the innumerable relics they\ncontained, and handed over to the Convention as \u201cobjects serving to\nthe encouragement of superstition.\u201d\n\nWhat was to become of the true cross and of the holy crown in such\nhands as these? They who burnt the mortal remains of St. Denis and of\nSt. Genevi\u00e8ve would not scruple to destroy the sacred memorials of the\nPassion. But they were to be saved. Happily, it was put into the heads\nof the Convention that, in the light of curiosities, some of these\n\u201cobjects\u201d might serve to adorn museums and similar collections, and\nthey were therefore submitted to the examination of learned\nantiquarians. The Abb\u00e9 Barth\u00e9lemy, curator of the _Biblioth\u00e8que\nNationale_, affirmed the crown to be of such great antiquity and\nrarity that no enlightened person would permit its destruction; and\nhaving obtained that it should be confided to him, preserved it with\nthe utmost care in the National Library. M. Beauvoisin, a member of\nthe commission, took the portion of the cross (_Crucem magnam_) and\nplaced it in the hands of his mother. The nail was saved in the same\nmanner, besides a considerable number of other very precious relics,\nwhich, in various places of concealment, awaited the return of better\ndays.\n\nBut the hand of the spoiler had not yet finished its work upon the\n_Sainte Chapelle_. Not that, like many other ancient sanctuaries, it\nwas wholly demolished, but its devastation was complete. The grand\nfigure of our Lord on the principal pier of the upper chapel, the\nVirgin of Duns Scotus, the admirable bas-reliefs, the porch, the\nrichly-sculptured tympanum and arches, the great statues of the\napostles in the interior, the paintings and enamels which adorned the\nwalls\u2015\u2015not one of these escaped destruction at the hands of the\niconoclasts of the Revolution, who left this once dazzling sanctuary\nnot only bare but mutilated on every side. And as if this had not been\nruin enough, the pitiless hardness of utilitarians put the finishing\nstroke to the havoc already made by anti-Christian fanaticism. The\nadministrators of 1803 thought they could do nothing better than make\nof the _Sainte Chapelle_ a store-room for the records of the Republic.\n\nThen were the walls riddled with hooks and nails, along the arcades\nand in the defoliated capitals. Up to a given height a portion of the\nrich glazing of the windows was torn down round the whole compass of\nthe building, and the space walled up with lath and plaster, along\nwhich was fixed a range of cupboards, shelves, and cases with\ncompartments. Dulaure, in his _Description of Paris_, highly applauds\nthese proceedings, and considers that the place had rather gained than\nlost by being turned into a store for waste paper. \u201cThe _Sainte\nChapelle_,\u201d he says, \u201cis now consecrated to public utility. It\ncontains archives, of which the different portions are arranged in\nadmirable order. The cupboards in which they are placed occupy a great\npart of the height of the building, and present by their object and\ntheir decoration a happy mixture of the useful and the agreeable. O\nPrudhomme! thou art eternal.\u201d[12]\n\nAnd yet this poor flower, so rudely broken by the tempest, had tried\nto lift her head, as it were, and recover something of the past, when\nthe dawn of a brighter day shed some of its first rays on her.\n\nIn the year 1800, while Notre Dame, still given up to schismatic\nministers, was utterly deserted, two courageous priests, the Abb\u00e9\nBorderies, since Bishop of Versailles, and the Abb\u00e9 Lalande,\nafterwards Bishop of Rodez, first gathered together the faithful\nwithin the walls of the _Sainte Chapelle_ for holy Mass, and also for\ncatechisings which were long afterwards remembered. In 1802 these good\npriests held there a ceremony which for years past had been unknown in\nFrance\u2015\u2015the First Communion of a large number of children and young\npersons, whom they had carefully watched over and prepared. This\nearliest ray of light after the darkness soon shone upon all the\nsanctuaries of the land.\n\nWhen the churches were opened again, priests were needed for them, and\nof these there remained, alas! but too few. The _Sainte Chapelle_ had\nto be left without any, and it was then put to the use we have\ndescribed. A few years later, when an endeavor was about to be made to\nhave it employed for its original purposes, it was found to require so\nmuch repairing that the question arose whether it would not be\nadvisable to pull it down rather than attempt to restore it. Happily,\nneither course was then taken. The architects of the Empire and of the\nRestoration were alike incapable of touching unless irremediably to\nspoil so delicate a medi\u00e6val gem. Its state was, however, so ruinous\nthat after the Revolution it was impossible to think of replacing the\nsacred relics in a building no longer capable of affording them a safe\nshelter; they were therefore, in 1804, at the request of Cardinal\nBelloy, Archbishop of Paris, given into the hands of the vicar-general\nof the diocese, the Abb\u00e9 d\u2019Astros, by M. de Portalis, then Minister of\nPublic Worship. The holy crown, of which the identity was established\nbeyond all doubt, was at first carried to the archbishop\u2019s palace,\nwhere it remained two years, during which time a fitting reliquary was\nprepared for its reception, and on the 10th of August it was\ntransferred to Notre Dame and solemnly exposed for veneration.\n\nBeyond the removal of a few small particles, it had not undergone the\nleast alteration, nor had it certainly been broken into three parts,\nas has been stated. M. Rohault de Fleury, who was permitted to examine\nit minutely, could not discover the least trace of any fracture. It is\nnow enclosed in a reliquary of copper gilt, measuring 3 feet 2 inches\nin height and 1 foot in width, of which the rectangular pedestal rests\non lions\u2019 claws, while upon it kneel two angels, supporting between\nthem a globe on which is inscribed _Vicit Leo de Tribu Juda_. The\nbackground is of lapis lazuli veined with gold. In the flat mouldings\nabout the base are various inscriptions relating to the principal\nfacts in the history of the holy crown. The globe, which is made to\nopen in the middle, encloses a reliquary of crystal within another of\nsilver, in the form of a ring, and it is within this circular tube of\nten inches and a half in diameter that the precious relic is\nenshrined.\n\nAnother crystal reliquary contains the portion of the _Crucem magnam_\nwhich had replaced that which disappeared from the sacristy in 1575.\nThis remarkable fragment is no less than eight inches in length. The\nnail of the Passion which was formerly in the great shrine is also at\nNotre Dame.\n\nIn addition to several other relics which were part of the treasure of\nthe _Sainte Chapelle_, there are also various articles that belonged\nto St. Louis, and amongst others the discipline, which is accompanied\nby a very ancient inscription, as follows: \u201c_Flagellum ex catenulis\nferreis confectum qua SS. rex Ludovicus corpus suum in servitutem\nredigebat._\u201d William of Nangis mentions this discipline, with which\nLouis IX. caused himself to be scourged by his confessor every Friday.\nThe ivory case in which it was kept contains a piece of parchment\nwhereon is written in Gothic letters: \u201c_Cestes escourgestes de fer\nfurent \u00e0 M. Loys, roy de France._\u201d[13] The sacred relics of the\nPassion are exposed at Notre Dame on all Fridays in Lent. In their\ncrystal reliquaries, which are suspended from a cross of cedar-wood,\nthey are placed on a framework covered with red hangings, which\noccupies the central space at the entrance of the choir, and is\nseparated from the nave by a temporary railing. The nail is placed\nwithin the holy crown, and above them is the portion of the true\ncross.\n\nWe must return, for a few parting words, to the _Sainte Chapelle_,\nwhich for more than thirty years remained in a state of\never-increasing dilapidation and decay, until, in 1837, M. Duban was\ncharged to commence repairing it by strengthening the fabric, and soon\nafterwards two other architects were associated with him in the work\nof careful and complete restoration which it was intended should be\neffected. It is enough to mention the names of MM. Lassus and\nViollet-le-Duc to show how wise a choice had been made, these\ngentlemen having not only a thorough and scientific knowledge of\nmedi\u00e6val architecture, an appreciation of its beauty and a sympathy\nwith its spirit, but also that power of patient investigation, coupled\nwith an accurate instinct, which would accomplish the reconstruction\nof a building from the study of a fragment, just as Cuvier, from a\nfossil bone, would delineate the entire form of an extinct animal.\n\nThe _Sainte Chapelle_ was built in three years, but its restoration\noccupied nearly twenty-five. Every breach and rent was studied with an\nattentive eye and closed by an experienced hand. Nothing was left to\nimagination or caprice. Here the original foliage must be restored to\nthe broken capital; there the modern paint and whitewash must be\ncarefully removed to discover what remained beneath of the ancient\npaintings, and supply with accurate similarity of coloring and design\nthe numerous portions that had been disfigured or destroyed. Fragments\nof the ancient statues and stained glass were carefully sought for in\nprivate gardens and in heaps of rubbish, and in some cases it was\nfound practicable to reconstruct an entire statue from the pieces\ndiscovered here and there at different times; otherwise, from the\nindications afforded by a portion, a copy of the original was\nproduced.\n\nThis long and painstaking labor, which alone could ensure the\nrestoration of the _Sainte Chapelle_ to its former condition, has been\ncrowned with complete success. Nothing is wanting. Exteriorly the\nbuttresses and pinnacles rise as heretofore, with their flowered\nfinials and double crowns; that of royalty being dominated by the\ncrown of Christ. The bas-reliefs and statues are in their places; the\nroofs have recovered their finely-cut crests of leaden open-work; the\ngolden angel stands as of old over the summit of the apse; and\nspringing above all, from amid the group of saintly figures at its\nbase, loftily rises the light and slender spire, its open stone-work\nchiselled like a piece of jewelry.\n\nThe lower chapel, standing on a level with the ground, is entered by\nthe western porch, to the pier of which the Virgin of Duns Scotus has\nreturned. It is lighted by seven large openings, and also by the seven\nnarrower windows of the apse. The low-arched roofs rest upon fourteen\nvery graceful though not lofty pillars with richly-foliated capitals\nand polygonal bases. Arcades, supported by light columns, surround the\nwalls, which are entirely covered by paintings. The roof is adorned by\n_fleurs-de-lis_ upon an azure ground.\n\nQuitting the lower chapel by a narrow and winding staircase, which\nstill awaits its restoration, you arrive beneath the porch of the\nupper one, and, entering, suddenly find yourself in an atmosphere of\nrainbow-tinted light. The characteristics of this beautiful sanctuary\nwhich at once strike you are those of lightness, loftiness, and\nsplendor. A few feet from the floor the walls disappear, and slender,\nfive-columned pillars spring upwards to the roof, supporting the\nrounded mouldings by which it is intersected. The space between these\npillars is occupied by four great windows in the nave, while in the\napse the seven narrower ones are carried to the roof. Half-figures of\nangels bearing crowns and censers issue from the junction of the\narches, and against the pillars stand the majestic forms of the twelve\nApostles, in colored draperies adorned with gold, each of them bearing\na cruciform disc in his hand. It was these discs which received the\nholy unction at the hands of the Bishop of Tusculum when the building\nwas consecrated.\n\nThe walls beneath the windows are adorned by richly gilt and\nsculptured arcades filled with paintings. No two of the capitals are\nalike, and the foliage is copied, not from conventional, but from\nnatural and indigenous, examples.\n\nThe windows are all of the time of St. Louis, with the exception of\nthe lower compartments, which were renewed by MM. Steinheil and\nLusson, and the western rose-window, which was reconstructed under\nCharles VIII. The ancient windows are very remarkable, not only for\nthe richness of their coloring, but for the multitudes of little\nfigures with which they are peopled. Subjects from the Old Testament\noccupy seven large compartments in the nave and four windows in the\napse, the remaining ones being devoted to subjects from the Gospels\nand the history of the sacred relics. The translation of the crown and\nof the cross affords no less than sixty-seven subjects, in several of\nwhich St. Louis, his brother, and Queen Blanche appear; and\nnotwithstanding the imperfection of the drawing, these representations\nvery probably possess some resemblance to the features or bearing of\nthe originals. In the window containing the prophecies of Isaias the\nprophet is depicted in the act of admonishing Mahomet, whose name is\ninscribed at length underneath his effigy.\n\nThe altar, which was destroyed, has not yet been replaced. That of the\nthirteenth century had in bas-relief on the retable the figures of our\nLord on the cross, with the Blessed Virgin and St. John standing\nbeneath, painted, on a gold ground. A cross hung over it, at the top\nof which was balanced the figure of an angel with outspread wings,\nbearing in his hands a Gothic ciborium, in which was enclosed the\nBlessed Sacrament. And why not still? Why is the mansion made once\nmore so fair when the divine Guest dwells no longer there? When the\nmagistracy assembles to resume its sittings, Mass is said. One Mass a\nyear said in the _Sainte Chapelle_!\n\n\n [5] A branch from the crown of thorns was presented to the\n church at Treves. Two of the thorns also are in that of\n _Santa Croce in Gerusalemme_ at Rome.\n\n [6] _M\u00e9moire sur les Instruments de la Passion._\n\n [7] Until the Revolution the tomb of Pierre de Montereau\n still existed in the abbey church of St. Germain des Pr\u00e8s,\n where he had built an exquisitely beautiful chapel to the\n Blessed Virgin, and where he was buried, at the age of\n fifty-four.\n\n [8] The present spire was erected by M. Lassus, who has\n faithfully followed the character of the rest of the\n building.\n\n [9] _Dictionnaire Arch\u00e9ologique._\n\n [10] God has given me all that I possess; that which I shall\n spend for him and for the needy will be always the best\n invested.\n\n [11] \u201cChapel of Paris, erst so well maintained,\n Death, as I am advised, has robbed thee\n Of thy best friend, and left thee desolate\n Great folk and small, all make complaint at death.\u201d\n\n [12] See Paul de St. Victor, _Sainte Chapelle_.\n\n [13] These _escourgettes_ of iron belonged to Monsieur\n Louis, King of France.\n\n\n\n\nSIR THOMAS MORE.\n\n_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._\n\nFROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.\n\nXIV.\n\n\nThe following day, toward noon, Thomas More was seated, as usual after\ndinner, in the midst of his children. No one could discover in his\ncountenance any trace of anxiety. He conversed with his customary\ncheerfulness. Margaret was a little pale, and it was evident that she\nhad been weeping. She alone kept silence and held aloof from Sir\nThomas. Near the window overlooking the garden, on the side next the\nriver, sat Lady More engaged in knitting, according to her invariable\nhabit, and murmuring between her teeth against the monkey, which had\nthree or four times carried off her ball of yarn and tangled the\nthread.\n\nSir Thomas from time to time raised his eyes to the clock; he then\nbegan to interrogate his children about the work each had done during\nthe morning. At last he called the little jester, who was pulling the\ndog\u2019s ears and turning summersaults in one corner of the room, trying\nto make his master laugh, whom he found less cheerful than usual.\n\n\u201cCome hither,\u201d said Sir Thomas. \u201cHenry Pattison, do you hear me?\u201d\n\nThe fool paid no attention to what his master said to him.\n\n\u201cHenry Pattison!\u201d cried Sir Thomas.\n\n\u201cMaster, I haven\u2019t any ears.\u201d He turned a summersault and made a\nhideous grimace, which he thought charming.\n\n\u201cSince you have no ears, you can hear me as well where you are.\nUnderstand, then, little fool, that I have given you to the\nlord-mayor. I have written to him about you this morning, and I have\nno doubt but that he will send for you to-day or to-morrow.\u201d\n\nHad a pail of boiling water been thrown on the poor child, he could\nnot have jumped up more suddenly. On hearing these words he ran toward\nSir Thomas, and, throwing himself at his feet, burst into a torrent of\ntears.\n\n\u201cWhat have I done, master?\u201d he cried. \u201cHow have I offended you? Why\nhave you not told me? Forgive me, I will never do so any more; but\ndon\u2019t drive me away. I will never, never displease you again! No! no!\ndon\u2019t send me away!\u201d\n\n\u201cMy child,\u201d said Sir Thomas, \u201cyou are mistaken. I am not at all\ndispleased or vexed with you; on the contrary. You will be very happy\nwith the lord-mayor; he will take good care of you, and that is why I\nprefer giving you to him.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo! no!\u201d cried Henry Pattison, sobbing. \u201cDon\u2019t let me eave you, I\nimplore you! Do anything you please with me, only don\u2019t send me away.\nWhy is it you no longer want me? Dame Margaret, take pity on me, and\nbeg your father to let me stay!\u201d\n\nBut Margaret, usually very willing to do what she was requested,\nturned away her head and paid no attention to this petition.\n\n\u201cMaster, keep me!\u201d he cried in despair. \u201cWhy do you not want me with\nyou any longer?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy child,\u201d said Sir Thomas, \u201cI am very much distressed at it; but I\nam too poor now to keep you in my house, to furnish you with scarlet\ncoats and all the other things to which you are accustomed, You will\nbe infinitely better off with the lord-mayor.\u201d\n\n\u201cI want nothing with the lord-mayor. I will have no more scarlet coats\nnor gold lace; and if I am too expensive to feed, I will go eat with\nthe dog in the yard. You don\u2019t send him away; he is very happy. It is\ntrue that he guards the house, and that I\u2015\u2015I am good for nothing.\nWell, I will work; yes, I will work. I implore you, only keep me. I\nwill work. I don\u2019t want to leave you, my dear master. Have pity on\nme!\u201d\n\nSir Thomas was greatly disturbed. Alas! his heart was already so full,\nit required so much courage to conceal the state of his soul, he was\nin such an agony, that he felt if the dwarf said any more he would be\nforced to betray himself.\n\nAssuredly it was not the thought of being separated from his jester\nthat afflicted him to such a degree, but the attachment of this\ndeformed and miserable child, his tears, his entreaties, his dread of\nlosing him, reminded him but too forcibly of the grief which later\nmust seize on the hearts of his own children; for the composure which\nthey saw him maintain at this moment alone prevented them from\nindulging in expressions of affection far more harrowing still.\n\n\u201cMargaret,\u201d he said, \u201cyou will take care of him, will you not?\u201d And\nfearing he had said too much, he arose hurriedly, and went to examine\na vase filled with beautiful flowers, which was placed on the table in\nthe centre of the apartment, and thus concealed the tears which arose\nand filled his eyes. But the dwarf followed, and fell on his knees\nbefore him.\n\n\u201cCome, come, do not distress yourself,\u201d said Sir Thomas; \u201cI will take\ncare of you. Be quiet. Go get your dinner; it is your hour now.\u201d\n\nSir Thomas approached the window. While he stood there William Roper\nentered, and, going to him, told him that the boat was ready and the\ntide was up. More was seized with an inexpressible grief. For an\ninstant he lost sight of everything around him; his head swam.\n\n\u201cWhither go you?\u201d asked his wife.\n\n\u201cDear Alice, I must to London.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo London?\u201d she replied sharply. \u201cBut we need you here! Why go to\nLondon? Is it to displease his majesty further, in place of staying\nquietly here in your own house, and doing simply whatever they ask of\nyou? Well did I say that you did wrong in giving up your office. That\nis what has made the king displeased with you. You ought to write to\nMaster Cromwell; he has a very obliging manner, and I am sure that all\nthis could be very easily arranged; but you are ever loath to give up\nanything.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is indispensably necessary for me to go,\u201d replied Sir Thomas. \u201cI\nmuch prefer remaining. Come!\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cFather! father!\u201d exclaimed all the children, \u201cwe will go with you to\nthe boat.\u201d\n\n\u201cLead me, dear papa,\u201d said the youngest.\n\nSir Thomas cast a glance toward Margaret, but she had disappeared. He\nsupposed she did not wish to see him start, and he was grieved.\nHowever, he felt that it would be one trial less.\n\n\u201cNo, my children,\u201d he replied; \u201cI would rather that you come not with\nme.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not, dear father?\u201d they cried in accents of surprise and regret.\n\n\u201cThe wind is too strong, and the weather is not fair enough,\u201d said Sir\nThomas.\n\n\u201cYes, yes!\u201d they cried, and threw their arms around his neck.\n\n\u201cYou cannot go to-day. I do not wish it,\u201d said Sir Thomas in a decided\nmanner.\n\nWords cannot describe the sufferings of this great man; he knew that\nhe would no more behold his home or his children, and that, determined\nnot to take the oath which he regarded as the first step toward\napostasy in a Christian, they would not pardon him. He cast a last\nlook upon his family and hurried toward the door.\n\n\u201cYou will come back to-morrow, will you not, father?\u201d cried the\nchildren in one voice.\n\nHe could not reply; but this question re-echoed sadly in the depths of\nhis soul. He hastened on still more rapidly. Roper, who knew no more\nthan the others, was alarmed at the alteration he saw in the features\nof Sir Thomas, and began to fear that something had happened still\nmore distressing than what he had already heard. However, More had\ntold them so far that it was impossible for him to be found guilty in\nthe affair of the Holy Maid of Kent, but Roper knew not even who she\nwas. The absence of Margaret alone seemed to him inexplicable.\nEntirely absorbed in these reflections, he followed Sir Thomas, who\nwalked with extraordinary rapidity, and they very soon reached the\ngreen gate.\n\n\u201cCome, my son,\u201d said Sir Thomas, \u201chasten and open the gate; time\npresses.\u201d\n\nRoper felt in his belt; he found he had not the key.\n\n\u201cI have not the key,\u201d he said. \u201cI must return.\u201d\n\n\u201cO God!\u201d exclaimed Sir Thomas when he found himself alone; and he\nseated himself on the step of the little stairway, for he felt no\nlonger able to stand on his feet.\n\n\u201cMy God!\u201d he cried, \u201cto go without seeing Margaret! Oh! I shall see\nher again; if not here, at least before I die. Adieu, my cherished\nhome! Adieu, thou loved place of my earthly sojourn! Why dost thou\nkeep within thy walls those whom I love? If they had left thee, then I\ncould abandon thee without regret. I shall see them no more. This is\nthe last time I shall descend these steps, and that this little gate\nwill close upon me. Be still, my soul, be still; I will not listen to\nyou; I will not hear you; you would make me weak. I have no heart; I\nhave no feeling; I do not think. Well, since you will have me speak,\ntell me rather why this creeping insect, why this straw, has been\ncrushed in the road? Ah! here is Roper.\u201d\n\nHe at once arose. They went out and descended to the boat. Then Sir\nThomas seated himself in the stern, and spoke not a word. Roper\ndetached the cable, and, giving a push with the bar against the\nterrace wall, the boat immediately put off and entered the current of\nthe stream.\n\n\u201cThis is the end,\u201d said Sir Thomas, looking behind him. He changed his\nseat, and remained with his eyes fixed upon his home until in the\ndistance it disappeared for ever from his view. He continued, however,\ngazing in that direction even when the house could no longer be seen,\nand after some time he observed some one running along the bank of the\nriver, which ascended and descended, and from time to time waving a\nwhite handkerchief. He was not able to distinguish whether it was a\nman or a woman, and told Roper to approach a little nearer to the\nbank. Then his heart throbbed; he thought he caught a glimpse of, he\nbelieved he recognized, Margaret, and he immediately arose to his\nfeet.\n\n\u201cRoper! Margaret! there is Margaret! What can be wrong?\u201d\n\nThey drew as near the bank as they could, and Margaret (for it was\nindeed she) leaped with an unparalleled dexterity from the shore into\nthe boat.\n\n\u201cWhat is it, my dear child?\u201d exclaimed Sir Thomas, with eager anxiety.\n\n\u201cNothing,\u201d replied Margaret.\n\n\u201cNothing! Then why have you come?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause I wanted to come! I also am going to London.\u201d And looking\nround for a place, she seated herself with a determined air. \u201cPush off\nnow, William,\u201d she said authoritatively.\n\n\u201cMy daughter!\u201d exclaimed Sir Thomas.\n\nShe made no reply, and More saw that she had a small package under her\nleft arm. He understood very well Margaret\u2019s design, but had not the\ncourage to speak of it to her.\n\n\u201cMargaret, I would rather you had remained quietly at Chelsea,\u201d he\nsaid.\n\nShe made no reply.\n\n\u201cYour mother and sisters need you!\u201d\n\n\u201cNobody in this world has need of me,\u201d replied the young girl coldly,\n\u201cand Margaret has no longer any use for anybody.\u201d\n\n\u201cMargaret, you pain me sorely.\u201d\n\n\u201cI feel no pain myself! Row not so rapidly,\u201d she said to Roper; \u201cI am\nin no hurry; it is early. Frail bark, couldst thou only go to the end\nof the earth, how gladly would I steer thee thither!\u201d And she stamped\nher foot on the bottom of the boat with passionate earnestness.\n\nSir Thomas wished to speak, but his strength failed him. His eyes\nfilled with tears, and, fearing to let them flow, he bowed his head on\nhis hands. It was the first time in her life that Margaret had\ndisobeyed him, and now it was for his own sake. Besides, he knew her\nthoroughly, and he felt sure that nothing could change the resolution\nshe had taken not to leave him at that moment.\n\nThey all three sat in silence. The father dared not speak; Roper was\nengaged in rowing the boat; and Margaret had enough in her own heart\nto occupy her. She became pale and red alternately, and turned from\ntime to time to see if they were approaching the city. As soon as she\nperceived the spires of the churches she arose.\n\n\u201cWe are approaching the lions\u2019 den,\u201d she cried; \u201clet us see if they\nwill tear Daniel.\u201d\n\nAnd again she took her seat.\n\nThey were soon within the limits of the city, and found, to their\nastonishment, the greatest noise and excitement prevailing. Crowds of\nthe lowest portion of the populace thronged the bridges, were running\nalong the wharves, and gesticulating in the most violent manner. This\nvile mob, composed of malefactors and idlers, with abuse in their\nmouths and hatred in their hearts, surges up occasionally from the\nlowest ranks of society, of which they are the disgrace and the enemy,\nto proclaim disorder and destruction; just as a violent storm disturbs\nthe depths of a foul marsh, whose poisonous exhalations infect and\nstrike with death every living being who imprudently approaches it. At\nsuch times it takes the names of \u201cthe people\u201d and \u201cthe nation,\u201d\nbecause it has a right to neither, and only uses them as a cloak for\nits hideous deformity and a covering for its rags, its filthy\nhabiliments. They buy up its shouts, its enthusiasm, its incendiaries,\nterrors, and assassinations; then, when its day is ended, when it is\nwearied, drunk, and covered with crimes, it returns to seethe in its\niniquitous depths and wallow in contempt and oblivion.\n\nCromwell was well aware of this. Delighted, he moved about among the\nrabble, and smiled an infamous smile as he heard the cries that burst\non the air and pierced the ear: \u201cLong live Queen Anne! Death to the\ntraitors who would dare oppose her!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet men say,\u201d he repeated to himself, \u201cthat it is difficult to do\nwhat you will. See! it is Cromwell who has done all this. Not long\nsince the streets resounded with the name of Queen Catherine; to-day\nit is that of Anne they proclaim. What was good yesterday is bad\nto-day; is there any difference? What are the masses? An agglomeration\nof stupid and ignorant creatures who can be made to howl for a few\npieces of silver, who take falsehood for wine and truth for water. And\nit is Cromwell who has done all this. Cromwell has reconciled the\npeople and the king; he has made his reckoning with virtue, and seen\nthat nothing would remain for him. He has then taken one of the scales\nof the balance; he has placed therein the heart of a man branded and\ndishonored by an impure passion, which has sufficed to carry him out\nof himself; the beam has inclined toward him. He has added crimes; he\nhas added blood, remorse, treason; he will heap it up until it runs\nover, rather than suffer him to recover himself in the least. Shout,\nrabble! Ay, shout! for ye shout for me.\u201d And he looked at those red\nfaces, blazing, perspiring; those features, disfigured by vice and\ndebauchery; those mouths, gaping open to their ears, and which yet\nseemed not large enough to give vent to their thousand discordant and\npiercing sounds.\n\n\u201cThere is something, then, viler than Cromwell,\u201d he went on with a\nfiendish glee; \u201cthere is something more degraded and baser than he.\nCome, you must confess it, ye moralists, that crime, in white shirts\nand embroidered laces, is less hideous than that which walks abroad\nall naked, and with its deformities exposed to the bold light of day.\u201d\n\nHe looked toward the river, but the light bark which carried Sir\nThomas and his party escaped his keen vision: carried along by the\nforce of the current, she shot swiftly as an arrow under the low\narches of the first bridge.\n\n\u201cAlas!\u201d said Sir Thomas, \u201cwhat is going on here?\u201d\n\nHe looked at Margaret and regretted she was there; but she seemed\nentirely unmoved. Margaret had but one thought, and that admitted of\nno other.\n\nOn approaching the Tower they were still more surprised to see an\nimmense crowd assembled and thronging every avenue of approach. The\nbridges and decks of the vessels were covered with people, and there\nseemed to be a general commotion and excitement.\n\n\u201cThither she comes,\u201d said some women who were dragging their children\nafter them at the risk of having them crushed by the crowd.\n\n\u201cI saw her yesterday,\u201d said another. \u201cShe is lovely; the fairest\nplumes on her head.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how her diamonds glittered! You should have seen them.\u201d\n\n\u201cBe still there, gabblers!\u201d said a fat man mounted on a cask, leaning\nagainst a wall. \u201cYou keep me from hearing what they are shouting down\nyonder.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy troth! she is more magnificent than the other.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey say we are to have fountains of wine at the coronation, and a\ngrand show at Westminster Hall.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll is not gold that glitters,\u201d said the fat man, who appeared to\nhave as much good sense as flesh.\n\nHe made a sign to a man dressed like himself, who advanced with\ndifficulty through the crowd, pushing his way by dint of effort and\nperseverance. He seemed to be swimming on a wave of heads, each\noscillation of which threw him back in spite of the determined\nresistance he made. The other, perceiving this, extended his hand to\nhim, and, supporting himself by a bar of iron he found near, he drew\nhis companion up beside him.\n\n\u201cEh! good-day to you, Master Cooping. A famous day, is it not? All\nthis scum goes to drink about five hundred gallons of beer for the\nmonks.\u201d\n\n\u201cMay they go to the devil!\u201d replied the brewer, \u201cand may they die of\nthirst! Hark how they yell! Do you know what they are saying? Just now\nI heard one of them crying: \u2018Long live the new chancellor.\u2019 They know\nno more about the names than the things. This Audley is one of the\nmost adroit knaves the world has ever seen. There is in him, I\nwarrant, enough matter to make a big scoundrel, a good big vender of\njustice. I have known him as an advocate; and as for the judge, I\nremember him still.\u201d As he said this he struck the leathern purse he\ncarried in the folds of his belt.\n\n\u201cThese lawyers are all scoundrels; they watch like thieves in a market\nfor a chance to fleece the poor tradesmen.\u201d\n\nAbove these men, who complained so harshly of the lawyers and of those\nwho meted out justice to all comers, there was a window, very high and\nnarrow, placed in a turret that formed the angle of a building of good\nappearance and solid construction. This window was open, the curtains\nwere drawn back, and there could be seen coming and going the heads of\nseveral men, who appeared and disappeared from time to time, and who,\nafter having looked out and surveyed the river and the streets\nadjacent, returned to the extremity of the apartment.\n\nThis house belonged to a rich merchant of Lucca named Ludovico\nBonvisi; he was a man of sterling integrity, and in very high repute\namong the rich merchants of the city. Established in England for a\ngreat number of years, he had been intimate with Sir Thomas More at\nthe time the latter was Sheriff of London, and he had ever since\nretained for him a particular friendship and esteem. On this day\nLudovico had invited four or five of his friends to his house; he was\nseated in the midst of them, in a large chair covered with green\nvelvet, before a table loaded with rare and costly wines, which were\nserved in decanters of rock crystal banded with hoops of silver. There\nwere goblets of the same costly metal, richly carved, and a number of\nthese were ornamented with precious stones and different kinds of\nenamel. Superb fruits arranged in pyramids on rare porcelain china,\nconfectioneries, sweetmeats of all kinds and in all sorts of figures,\ncomposed the collation he offered his guests, among whom were John\nStory, Doctor of Laws; John Clement, a physician of great celebrity,\nand most thoroughly versed in the Greek language and the ancient\nsciences; William Rastal, the famous jurist; his friend John Boxol, a\nman of singular erudition; and Nicholas Harpesfield, who died in\nprison for the Catholic faith during the reign of Elizabeth. They were\nall seated around the table, but appeared to be much more interested\nin their conversation than in the choice viands which had been\nprepared for them by their host. John Story, particularly, exclaimed\nwith extraordinary bitterness against all that was being done in the\nkingdom.\n\n\u201cNo!\u201d said he, \u201cnothing could be more servile or more vile than the\ncourse Parliament has pursued in all this affair. We can scarcely\nbelieve that these men, not one of whom in his heart approves of the\ndivorce and the silly and impious pretensions of the king, have never\ndared to utter a single word in favor of justice and equity! No, each\none has watched his neighbor to see what _he_ would do; and when there\nhas been question for debate, they have found no other arguments than\nsimply to pass all that was asked of them. The only thing they have\ndared to suggest has been to insert in this shameful bill that those\nwho should speak against the new queen and against the supremacy of\nthe king would be punished only so far as they had done so\n_maliciously_. Beautiful and grand restriction! They think to have\ngained a great deal by inserting that, so closely are they pursued by\ntheir fears.\n\n\u201cWhen they have instituted proceedings against those unfortunates who\nshall have offended them, do you believe that Master Audley, and\nCromwell, and all the knaves of that class will be at great pains to\nhave entered a well-proven maliciousness? No; it is a halter that will\nfit all necks\u2015\u2015their own as well as those of all others. I have often\ntold them this, but they will believe nothing. Later they will repent\nit; we shall then be in the net, and there will be no way to get out\nof it. Yes, I say, and I see it with despair, there is no more courage\nin the English nation, and very soon we shall let ourselves be seized\none by one, like unfledged birds trembling on the edge of their\ndevastated nest.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is very certain,\u201d replied William Rastal, \u201cthat I predict nothing\ngood from all these innovations; there is nothing more immoral and\nmore dangerous to society than to let it become permeated, under any\nform whatever, with the idea of divorce\u2015\u2015at least, unless we wish it\nto become transformed into a vast hospital of orphans abandoned to the\nchance of public commiseration, into a camp of furious ravishers,\nexcited to revenge and mutual destruction. Take away the\nindissolubility of marriage, and you destroy at the same blow the only\nchances of happiness and peace in the interior and domestic life of\nman, in order to replace them by suspicions, jealousies, crimes,\nrevenge, and corruption.\u201d\n\n\u201cOr rather,\u201d said John Clement, \u201cit will be necessary to reduce women\nto a condition of slavery, as in the ancient republics, and place them\nin the ranks of domestic animals.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd, as a natural consequence, be ourselves degraded with them,\u201d\ncried John Story, \u201csince we are their brothers and their sons.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith this base cowardice in Parliament, all is possible,\u201d interrupted\nHarpesfield, \u201cand I do not see how we are to arrest it. When they no\nlonger regard an oath as an inviolable and sacred thing, what\nguarantee is left among men? You know, I suppose, what the Archbishop\nof Canterbury has done with the king\u2019s approval, in Westminster even,\nat the moment of being consecrated?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo!\u201d they all answered.\n\n\u201cHe took four witnesses aside before entering the sanctuary, and\ndeclared to them\u2015\u2015he, Cranmer\u2015\u2015that the antiquity of the usage and\ncustom of his predecessors requiring that he should take the oath of\nfidelity to the pope on receiving the pallium from him, he intended,\nnotwithstanding, to pledge himself to nothing in opposition to the\nreforms the king might desire to make in the church, of which he\nrecognized him as the sole head. What think you of the invention of\nthis preservative of the obligations that bear the sanctity and\nsolemnity of an oath made at the foot of the altar, in presence of all\nthe people, accustomed to listen to and see it faithfully observed?\nThat proceeding sufficiently describes the age in which we live, our\nking, and this man.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut everybody knows very well that Cranmer is an intriguer, void of\nfaith or law,\u201d replied Rastal, \u201cwho has been foisted into his present\nposition in order to do the will of the king and accommodate himself\nto his slightest desires.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe has given him a wife,\u201d said John Clement, pouring out a glass of\nCyprus wine, whose transparent color testified to its excellent\nquality; \u201cI verily believe she will not be the last.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat kind of a face has she, this damsel Boleyn? Is she dark or fair?\nFair, without doubt; for the other was dark. This is perfect nectar,\nLudovico! Have you more of it?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are right; she has lovely blue eyes. She sings and dances\ncharmingly.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow much more, Ludovico? A small barrel\u2015\u2015hem!\u2015\u2015of the last invoice?\n_Excellentissimo_, Signor Ludovico!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, we will see her pass very soon; they escort her to the Tower,\nwhere she will remain until the coronation. They say the king has had\nthe apartments in the Tower furnished with an unparalleled\nmagnificence.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; and to sustain that magnificence he is contracting debts every\nday, and all his revenues do not cover his expenses.\u201d\n\n\u201cA good king is a good thing,\u201d said Harpesfield; \u201cbut nothing is worse\nthan a bad one, and the good ones are so rare!\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is because,\u201d replied Boxol, who was very deliberate, \u201cthe power,\nrenown, and flattery surrounding the throne tend so much to corrupt\nand encourage the passions of a man that it is very difficult for him,\nwhen seated there, to maintain himself without committing any faults.\nBesides, my masters, we must remember that the faults of private\nindividuals, often quite as shameful, remain unknown, while those of a\nking are exposed to all eyes and counted on all fingers.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said John Clement; \u201cbut this one is certainly somewhat\nweighty, and I would not care to be burdened by having his sins\ncharged to my account, to be held in reserve against the day of the\nlast judgment.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood Bonvisi, give me a little of that dish which has nothing in\ncommon with the _brouet spartiate_.\u201d\n\n\u201cA good counsellor and a true friend,\u201d said John Story\u2015\u2015\u201cthat is what\nis always wanting to princes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen they have them, they don\u2019t know how to keep them,\u201d said\nLudovico. \u201cSee what has happened to More! Was not this a brilliant\nlight which the king has concealed under a bushel?\u201d\n\n\u201cAssuredly,\u201d replied Boxol; \u201che is an admirable man, competent for,\nand useful in, any position.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is a true Christian,\u201d said Harpesfield; \u201camiable, moderate, wise,\nbenevolent, disinterested. At the height of prosperity, as in a humble\nposition, you find him always the same, considering only his duty and\nthe welfare of others. He seems to regard himself as the born servant\nand the friend of justice.\u201d\n\n\u201cHold, sirs!\u201d replied Clement, turning around on his chair. \u201cThere is\none fact which cannot be denied; which is, that nothing but religion\ncan render a man ductile. Otherwise he is like to iron mixed with\nbrimstone. We rely upon him, we confide in his face and in the\nstrength of his goodness; but suddenly he falls and breaks in your\nhands as soon as you wish to make some use of him.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere must be a furious amount of sulphur in his majesty\u2019s heart,\u201d\nreplied Harpesfield, \u201cfor he is going to burn, in Yorkshire, four\nmiserable wretches accused of heresy. For what? I know not; for having\nwished, perhaps, to do as he has done\u2015\u2015get rid of a wife of whom he\nwas tired! There is a fifth, who, more adroit, has appealed to him as\nsupreme head of the church; he has been immediately justified, and\nMaster Cromwell set him at liberty. Thus the king burns heretics at\nthe same time that he himself separates from the church. All these\nactions are horrible, and nothing can be imagined more absurd and at\nthe same time more criminal.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs for me,\u201d replied Clement, who had been watering his sugared fruits\nwith particular care for a quarter of an hour, \u201cI have been very much\nedified by the pastoral letter of my Lord Cranmer to his majesty. Have\nyou seen it, Boxol?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d replied Boxol, who was not disposed to treat this matter so\nlightly as Master Clement, as good an eater as he was a scholar, and\nwhat they call a _bon vivant_; \u201cthese things make me very sick, and I\ndon\u2019t care to speak of them lightly or while dining.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor which reason, my friend,\u201d replied Clement, \u201cyou are excessively\nlean\u2015\u2015the inevitable consequence of the reaction of anxiety of soul\nupon its poor servant, the body; for there are many fools who confound\nall and disown the soul, because they are ashamed of their hearts and\ncan discern only their bodies. As if we could destroy that which God\nhas made, or discover the knots of the lines he has hidden! He has\nwilled that man should be at the same time spirit and matter, and that\nthese two should be entirely united; and very cunning must he be who\nwill change that union one iota. They will search in vain for the\nplace of the soul; they will no more find where it is than where it is\nnot. Would you believe\u2015\u2015but this is a thing I keep secret because of\nthe honor of our science\u2015\u2015that I have a pupil who asserts that we have\nno soul, because, says this beardless doctor, he has never been able\nto distinguish the moment when the soul escaped from the body of the\ndying! Do you not wonder at the force of that argument? And would it\nnot be in fact a very beautiful thing to observe, and a singular\nspectacle to see, our souls suddenly provided with large and handsome\nwings of feathers, or hair, or some other material, to use in flying\naround and ascending whither God calls them? Now, dear friends,\nbelieve what I tell you: the more we learn, the more we perceive that\nwe know nothing. Our intelligence goes only so far as to enable us to\nunderstand effects, to gather them together, to describe them, and in\nsome cases to reproduce them; but as for the causes, that is an order\nof things into which it is absolutely useless to wish to penetrate.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, now, here is Clement going into his scientific dissertations,\nin place of telling us what was in Cranmer\u2019s letter!\u201d cried Ludovico,\ninterrupting him.\n\n\u201cAh! that is because I understand them better; and I prefer my\ncrucibles, my nerves and bones, to the subtleties, the falsehoods, of\nyour pretended casuists. Boxol could tell you that very well; but\nafter all I have been obliged to laugh at the sententious manner,\ngrave and peremptory, in which this archbishop, prelate, primate,\northodox according to the new order, commands the king to quit his\nwicked life and hasten to separate from his brother\u2019s wife, under pain\nof incurring ecclesiastical censure and being excommunicated. What\nthink you of that? And while they distribute copies of this lofty\nadmonition among the good tradesmen of London, who can neither read\nnor write, nor see much farther than the end of their noses and the\nbottom of their money-bags, they have entered proceedings at Dunstable\nagainst that poor Queen Catherine, who is cast out on the world and\nknows not where to go. Can anything more ridiculous or more pitiable\nbe found? Ha! ha! do you not agree with me?\u201d\n\n\u201cVerily,\u201d said Boxol, who became crimson with anger, \u201cClement, I\ndetest hearing such things laughed at.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! my poor friend,\u201d replied Clement, \u201cwould you have me weep, then?\nYour men are such droll creatures! When one studies them deeply, he is\nobliged to ridicule them; otherwise we should die with weeping.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is right,\u201d said John Story. \u201cWe see how they dispute and flay each\nother daily for a piece of meadow, a rut in the road which I could\nhold in the hollow of my hand. They write volumes on the subject; they\nsweat blood and water; they compel five hundred arrests; then\nafterwards they are astonished to find they have spent four times as\nmuch money as the thing they might have gained was worth. Why cannot\nmen live at peace? If you put them off without wishing to press the\nsuit, they become furious; and yet they always begin by representing\ntheir affairs to you in so equitable a light that the devil himself\nwould be deceived. There is one thing I have observed, and that is,\nthere is nothing which has the appearance of being in such good faith\nas a litigant whose case is bad, and who knows his cause to be\nunjust.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, my friends,\u201d cried Clement, \u201cyou speak well; all that excites\ncompassion. You often ridicule me and what you please to call my\nsimplicity, and yet I see everything just as clearly as anybody else;\nbut I have a plain way of dealing, and I do not seek so much cunning.\nIf God calls me, I answer at once: Lord, here I am! I have spent the\nnights of my youth in studying, in learning, in comparing; I have\nexamined and gone to the depths of all the philosophers of antiquity,\napparently so lucid, so luminous; I have found only pride, weakness,\ndarkness, and barrenness. I have recognized that it was all profitless\nand led to no good; it was always _the man_ that I was finding; and of\nthat I had enough in myself to guide and support. Then I took the\nBible, and I felt that it was God who spoke to me from its inspired\npages; whereat I abandoned my learning and all those philosophical\nwranglings which weary the mind without bettering the heart. I go\nstraight to my object without vexing myself with anything. There are\nthings which I do not understand. That is natural, since it has\npleased God to conceal them from me. Evidently I do not need to\ncomprehend them, since he has not revealed them; and there is no\nreason, because I find some obscurities, why I should abandon the\nlight which burns in their midst. \u2018Master Clement,\u2019 they ask me, \u2018how\ndid God make that?\u2019 \u2018Why that?\u2019 My dear friends, this is just as far\nas we know. \u2018And this, again?\u2019 This I know nothing about, because it\ncannot be explained. When our dear friend More read us his _Utopia_, I\nremember that I approached him and said: \u2018Why have you not founded a\npeople every man of whom followed explicitly the laws of the church?\nThat would have given you a great deal less trouble, and you would at\nonce have arrived at the art of making them happy, without employing\nother precepts than these: to avoid all wrong-doing, to love their\nneighbor as themselves, and to employ their time and their lives in\nacquiring all sorts of merits by all sorts of good works. There you\nwould find neither thieves nor slanderers, calumniators nor\nadulterers, gamblers nor drunkards, misers nor usurers, spendthrifts\nnor liars; consequently, you would have no need of laws, prisons, or\npunishments, and such a community would unite all the good and exclude\nthe bad.\u2019 He smiled and said to me: \u2018Master Clement, you are in the\nright course, and you would walk therein with all uprightness, but\nothers would turn entirely around and never even approach it.\u2019\nTherefore, when I see a man who has no religion, I say: \u2018That man is\ncapable of the utmost possible wickedness\u2019; and I am by no means\nastonished, when the occasion presents, that he should prove guilty. I\nmentally exclaim: \u2018My dear friend, you gain your living by selfish and\nwicked means\u2019; and I pass by him, saying, \u2018Good-day, my friend,\u2019 as to\nall the others. He is just what he is; and what will you? We can\nneither control him nor change his nature.\u201d\n\nHis companions smiled at this discourse of John Clement, whom they\nloved ardently, and who was a man as good as he was original. A little\nbrusque, he loved the poor above all things, and was never happier\nthan when, seated by their humble bedsides, he conversed with them\nabout their difficulties and endeavored to relieve them. Then it\nseemed to him that he was king of the earth, and that God had placed\nin his hands a treasure of life and health for him to distribute among\nthem. As often as he added largely to his purse, just so often was it\ndrained of its contents; but he had for his motto that the Lord fed\nthe little birds of the field, and therefore he would not forget him;\nand, besides, nobody would let John Clement die of hunger. Always\ncheerful, always contented with everything, he had gone entirely round\nthe circle of science, and, as he said, having learned all that a man\ncould learn, was reduced to the simplicity of a child, but of an\nenlightened child, who feels all that he loses in being able to go\nonly so far.\n\n\u201cBut take your breakfast now, instead of laughing at and listening to\nme,\u201d he cried.\n\nAs he spoke the sound of music was suddenly heard in the distance, and\na redoubled tumult in the streets. A dull murmur, and then a loud\nclamor, reached their ears. They immediately hurried to the window,\nand left John Clement at the table, who also arose, however, and went\nto the window, where he arrived the last.\n\n\u201cIt is she! It is Queen Anne!\u201d was heard from all sides; and heads\narose one above the other, while the roofs even of the houses were\ncovered with people.\n\nThere is a kind of electricity which escapes from the crowd and the\neager rush and excitement\u2015\u2015something that makes the heart throb, and\nthat pleases us, we know not why. There were some who wept, some who\nshouted; and the sight of the streamers floating from the boats, which\nadvanced in good order like a flotilla upon the river, was sufficient\nto cause this emotion and justify this enthusiasm; for the people love\nwhat is gay, what is brilliant; they admire, they are satisfied. In\nsuch moments they forget themselves; the poet sings without coat or\nshoes; his praises are addressed to the glowing red velvet, the\nnodding white plume, the gold lace glittering in the sunlight. A king,\na queen\u2015\u2015synonyms to him of beauty, of magnificence\u2015\u2015he waits on them,\nhopes in them, applauds them when they pass, because he loves to see\nand admire them.\n\nSix-and-twenty boats, painted and gilded, ornamented with garlands of\nflowers and streaming banners, with devices and figures entwined,\nfilled with richly-dressed ladies, surrounded the bark which conveyed\nthe new spouse. Anne, arrayed in a robe of white satin heavily\nembroidered with golden flowers, was seated on a kind of throne which\nhad been erected in the centre of the boat. A rich pavilion was raised\nabove her head, and her long veil of magnificent point lace was thrown\nback, permitting a view of her beautiful features and fair hair. She\nwas glowing with youth and satisfaction; and her heart thrilled with\ndelight at seeing herself treated as a queen, and making her entry in\nso triumphant a manner into the city of London.\n\nHer cheeks were red and delicate as the flower of spring; her eyes\nsparkled with life and animation. The old Duchess of Norfolk, her\ngrandmother, was seated beside her, and at her feet the Duke of\nNorfolk, the Earl of Wiltshire, her brother, Viscount Rochford, her\nsister-in-law, and other relatives. The king was in another boat, and\nfollowed close. In all the surrounding boats there were musicians. The\nweather was superb, and favored by its calmness and serenity the\n_f\u00eate_ that had been prepared for the new queen. Soon shouts arose of\n\u201cLong live the king!\u201d \u201cLong live the queen!\u201d and the populace, trained\nand paid by Cromwell, rushed upon the quays, upsetting everything that\ncame in its way, in order to bring its shouts nearer. They seemed like\ndemons seized with an excess of fury; but the eye confounded them\namong the curious crowd, and the distance harmonized to the royal eyes\ntheir savage expression.\n\nMeanwhile, the boats, having made divers evolutions, drew up before\nthe Tower, and Anne Boleyn was received at the landing by the\nlord-mayor and the sheriffs of the city, who came to congratulate and\nescort her to her apartments. It would be difficult to describe the\nostentation displayed by Henry VIII. on this occasion; he doubtless\nthought in this way to exalt, in the estimation of the people, the\nbirth of his new wife, and impose on them by her dignity. The\napartments in the Tower destined to receive them had been entirely\nrefurnished; the grand stairway was covered from top to bottom with\nFlanders tapestry, and loaded with flowers and censers smoking with\nperfume, which embalmed the air with a thousand precious odors. A\nviolet-colored carpet, embroidered with gold and furs, extended along\ntheir line of march and traversed the courtyards. Anne and all her\n_cort\u00e8ge_ followed the route so sumptuously marked out. As she rested\nher delicate feet on the silken carpet she was transported with joy,\nand gazed with delighted eyes on the splendors surrounding her. \u201cI am\nqueen\u2015\u2015Queen of England!\u201d she said to herself every moment. That\nthought alone found a place in her heart; she saw nothing but the\nthrone, the title, this magnificence; she was in a whirl of enjoyment\nand reckless delight.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn the meantime Margaret and Sir Thomas were also entering the Tower.\nThe young girl shuddered at the aspect of the black walls and the long\nand gloomy corridors through which she had been made to follow. Her\nheart throbbed violently as she gazed at the little iron-grated\nwindows, closely barred, rising in tiers one above the other. It\nseemed to her she could see at each one of those little squares, so\nlike the openings of a cage, a condemned head sighing at the sight of\nheaven or the thought of liberty. She walked behind Sir Thomas, and\nher heart was paralyzed by terror and fear as she fixed her eyes on\nthat cherished father.\n\nThey at length reached a large, vaulted hall, damp and gloomy, the\nwhite-washed walls of which were covered with names and various kinds\nof drawings; a large wooden table and some worm-eaten stools\nconstituted the only furniture. A leaden inkstand, some rolls of\nparchment, an old register lying open, and a man who was writing,\ninterrogated Sir Thomas.\n\n\u201cAge?\u201d asked the man; and he fixed his luminous, cat-like eyes on\nThomas More.\n\n\u201cFifty years,\u201d responded Sir Thomas.\n\n\u201cYour profession?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have none at present,\u201d he answered.\n\n\u201cIn that case I shall write you down as the former lord chancellor.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs you please,\u201d said More. \u201cBut, sir,\u201d continued Sir Thomas, \u201cI have\nreceived an order to present myself before the council, and I should\nnot be imprisoned before being heard.\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon me, sir,\u201d replied the clerk quietly, \u201cthe order has been\nreceived this morning; and if you had not come to-day, you would have\nbeen arrested this evening.\u201d\n\nAs he coolly said these words he passed to him a roll of paper from\nwhich hung suspended the seal of state. Sir Thomas opened it, and\ncasting his eyes over the pages, the long and useless formula of which\nhe knew by heart, he came at once to the signature of Cromwell below\nthat of Audley. He recalled this man, who had coolly dined at his\ntable yesterday, surrounded by his children. He then took up the great\nseal of green wax which hung suspended by a piece of amaranth silk.\nThe wax represented the portrait of Henry VIII., with a device or\ninscription. He held the seal in his hand, looked at it, and turned it\nover two or three times.\n\n\u201cThis is indeed the royal seal,\u201d said he. \u201cI have been familiar with\nit for a long time; and now the king has not hesitated to attach it to\nmy name. Well, God\u2019s will be done!\u201d And he laid the seal and the roll\nof paper on the table.\n\n\u201cYou see it,\u201d said the clerk, observing from the corner of his eye\nthat he had replaced the paper. \u201cOh! I am perfectly at home with\neverything since I came here. It was I who registered Empson and\nDudley, the ministers of Henry VII., and the Duke of Buckingham. A\nfamous trial that! High treason also\u2015\u2015decapitated at Tower Hill. A\nnoble lord, moreover; he\u2015\u2015listen, I am going to tell you; for it is\nall written here.\u201d And he began to turn the leaves of the book. \u201cHere,\nthe 17th of May, 1521, page 86.\u201d And placing the end of his finger on\nthe page indicated, he looked at Sir Thomas complacently, as if to\nsay: \u201cAdmire my accuracy, now, and my presence of mind.\u201d\n\nOn hearing this Margaret arose involuntarily to her feet. \u201cSilence,\nmiserable wretch!\u201d she cried. \u201cWhat is it to us that you have kept an\naccount of all the assassinations which have been committed in this\nplace? No! no! my father shall not stay here; he shall not stay here.\nHe is innocent\u2015\u2015yes, innocent; it would be impossible for him to be\nguilty!\u201d\n\nThe clerk inspected her closely, as if to determine who she could be.\n\u201cThat is the custom; they always say that, damsel. As for me, however,\nit concerns me not. They are tried up above; but I\u2015\u2015I write here; that\nis all. Why do they allow themselves to be taken? People ought not to\nbe called wretches so readily,\u201d he added, fixing his eyes upon her. \u201cI\nam honest, you see, and the worthy father of a family, you understand.\nI have two children, and I support them by the fruit of my labor.\u201d\n\n\u201cMargaret,\u201d said Sir Thomas, \u201cmy dearest daughter, you must not remain\nhere!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou believe\u2015\u2015you think so! Well, perhaps not; and yet I implore you!\nUndoubtedly I am only a woman; I can do nothing at all; I am only\nMargaret!\u201d\n\nAnd a gleam shot from her eyes.\n\nSir Thomas regarded her, overwhelmed with anguish and despair. He took\nher by the arm and led her far away from the clerk, toward the large\nand only window, looking out on the gloomy and narrow back yard.\n\u201cCome,\u201d he said, \u201clet me see you display more courage; do not add to\nthe anguish that already fills my soul! Margaret, look up to heaven.\u201d\nAnd he raised his right hand toward the firmament, of which they could\nsee but the smallest space. \u201cHave these men, my daughter, the power to\ndeprive us of our abode up there? Whatever afflictions may befall us\nhere on earth, one day we shall be reunited there in eternity. Then,\nMargaret, we shall have no more chains, no more prisons, no more\nseparations. Why, then, should you grieve, since you are immortal?\nWhat signify the years that roll by and are cast behind us, more than\na cloud of dust by which we are for a moment enveloped? If my life was\nto be extinguished, if you were to cease to exist, then, yes, my\ndespair would be unlimited; but we live, and we shall live for ever!\nWe shall meet again, whatever may be the fate that attends me,\nwhatever may be the road I am forced to follow. Death\u2015\u2015ah! well, what\nis death? A change of life. Listen to me, Margaret: the present is\nnothing; the future is everything! Yes, I prefer the gloom of the\nprison to the brilliancy of the throne; all the miseries of this place\nto the delights of the universe, if they must be purchased at the cost\nof my soul\u2019s salvation. Cease, then, to weep for me. If I am\nimprisoned here, it is only what He who called me out of nothing has\npermitted; and were I at liberty to leave, I would not do so unless it\nwere his will. Know, then, my daughter, that I am calm and perfectly\nresigned to be here, since God so wills it. Return home now; see that\nnothing goes wrong there. I appoint you in my place, without, at the\nsame time, elevating you above your mother; and rest assured that your\nfather will endure everything with joy and submission, not because of\nthe justice of men, but because of that of God!\u201d\n\nMargaret listened to her father without replying. She knew well that\nshe would not be permitted to remain in the prison, and yet she so\nmuch wished it.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d she exclaimed at last, \u201cI do not wish to be thus resigned! It is\nvery easy for you to talk, it is nothing for me to listen; but as for\nme, I am on the verge of life. Without you, for me life has no longer\nthe least attraction! Let them take mine when they take yours! It is\nthe same thing; they owe it to the king. He so thirsts for blood that\nit will not do to rob him of one drop. Have you not betrayed him?\nWell! I am a traitor also; let him avenge himself, then; let him take\nhis revenge; let him pick my bones, since he tears my heart. I am you;\nlet him devour me also. Write my name on your register,\u201d she\ncontinued, suddenly turning toward the clerk, as if convinced that the\nreasons she had given could not be answered. \u201cCome, friend,\ngood-fortune to you\u2015\u2015two prisoners instead of one! Come, write; you\nwrite so well! Margaret More, aged eighteen years, guilty of high\ntreason!\u201d\n\nThe clerk made no reply.\n\n\u201cIs there anything lacking?\u201d said Margaret.\n\n\u201cBut, damsel,\u201d he replied, placing his pen behind his ear with an air\nof indecision, \u201cI cannot do that; you have not been accused. If you\nare an accomplice and have some revelations to make, you must so\ndeclare before the court.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are right; yes, I am an accomplice!\u201d she cried. \u201cTherefore come;\nlet nothing stop you.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy beloved child,\u201d said Sir Thomas painfully, \u201cyou would have me,\nthen, condemn myself by acknowledging you as an accomplice in a crime\nwhich I have not committed?\u201d\n\n\u201cO my father!\u201d cried the young girl, \u201ctell me, have you, then, some\nhope? No! no! you are deceiving me. You see it! You have heard it!\nThey would have come this night to tear you from our arms, from your\ndesolated home! No; all is over, and I too wish to die!\u201d\n\nAs she said these words, Cromwell, who had rapidly and noiselessly\nascended the stairs, pushed open the door and entered. He came to see\nif More had arrived. He saluted him without the least embarrassment,\nand remarked the tears that wet the beautiful face of Margaret. She\nimmediately wiped them away, and looked at him scornfully.\n\n\u201cYou come to see if the time has arrived!\u201d she said; \u201cif my father has\nfallen into your hands. Yes, here he is; look at him closely, and dare\nto accuse him!\u201d\n\n\u201cDamsel,\u201d replied Cromwell, bowing awkwardly, \u201cladies should not\nmeddle with justice, whose sword falls before them.\u201d\n\nAs he said this, Kingston, the lieutenant of the Tower, entered,\nfollowed by an escort of armed guards.\n\nThe sound of their footsteps, the clanking of their arms, astonished\nMargaret. Her bosom heaved. She felt that there was no longer any\nresistance to be offered; she understood that it was this power which\nthreatened to crush and destroy all she loved\u2015\u2015she, poor young girl,\nfacing these armed men, covered with iron, clashing with steel; these\nliving machines, who understood neither eloquence, reason, truth, sex,\nage, nor beauty. She regarded them with a look of silent despair.\n\nShe saw Kingston advance toward her father, and say he arrested him in\nthe name of the king; and then take his hand to express the regret\nwith which he executed this act of obedience to the king. \u201cThe\ncoward!\u201d she thought; \u201che sacrifices his friend.\u201d\n\nShe saw her father approach her, to clasp her in his arms, to bid her\nadieu, to tell her to return home, to watch over her sisters, to\nrespect her mother, take care of Henry Pattison, for his sake. She\nheard all this; she was almost unconscious, for she saw and heard, and\nyet remained transfixed and motionless. Then he left her. Kingston\nconducted him, the guards surrounded him, he passed through the door\nleading into the interior of the Tower; it closed, and Margaret was\nalone.\n\nShe stood thus for a long time, as if paralyzed by what had just\npassed before her. She put her hand upon her forehead; it was burning,\nand she could recall nothing more. By degrees animation returned, and\nshe felt she was cold. She looked around her; she saw the clerk still\nseated at his desk, writing. Absolute silence reigned; those great\nwalls were gloomy, deaf, and mute. Then she arose. She saw the day was\ndeclining; she thought she would try to go. Roper was waiting, and\nperhaps uneasy. She cast a lingering look at the door she had seen\nclose upon her father; she set these places in her memory, saying: \u201cI\nwill return.\u201d She then went out, and slowly descended to the bank of\nthe river, where she found Roper, who had charge of the boat, and who\nwas astonished at her long absence.\n\n\u201cWell, Margaret, and your father?\u201d he said, seeing her alone. She\ndrooped her head. \u201cWill he not return?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d she replied, and entered the boat; then she suddenly seized the\nhands of Roper. \u201cHe is there\u2015\u2015do you see?\u2015\u2015within those black walls,\nin that gloomy prison. The guards have taken him; they seized and\nsurrounded him; he disappeared, and I am left\u2015\u2015left alone! He has sent\nme away; he told me to go. Kingston! Cromwell! O Roper! I can stand no\nmore; let us go.\u201d And Margaret sank, panting and exhausted, upon the\nforepart of the boat. Roper listened and looked at her.\n\n\u201cWhat! he will not return?\u201d he repeated; and his eyes questioned\nMargaret.\n\nBut the noble and beautiful young girl heard him not; with her eyes\nfixed on the walls of the Tower, she seemed absorbed in one thought\nalone.\n\n\u201cFarewell, farewell, my father!\u201d she said. \u201cYour ears no more hear me,\nbut your heart responds to my own. Farewell, farewell!\u201d And she made a\nsign with her hand, as though she had him before her eyes.\n\n\u201cIs it true, Margaret, that he will not return?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo! I tell you he will not. We are now all alone in the world. You\nmay go. You may go quickly now, if you wish.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Roper, \u201che will be detained to stand his trial; that will\nend, perhaps, better than you think.\u201d And he seated himself quietly at\nthe oars; because Roper, always disposed to hope for the best in the\nfuture, concluded that Margaret, doubtless frightened at the imposing\nappearance of justice, believed Sir Thomas to be in far greater danger\nthan he really was; and, following the thread of his own thoughts, he\nadded aloud: \u201cMen are men, and Margaret is a woman.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat would you say by that?\u201d she asked with energy. \u201cDo you mean to\nsay that I am your inferior, and that my nature is lower than your\nown? What do you mean by saying \u2018a woman\u2019? Yes, I am inferior, but\nonly in the animal strength which enables you to row at this moment\nand make me mount the wave that carries me. I am your inferior in\ncruelty, indifference, and selfishness. Ah! if I were a man like you,\nand could only retain under your form all the vigor of my soul and the\nfearlessness with which I feel myself transported, you would see if my\nfather remained alone, abandoned without resistance in the depths of\nthe prison where I saw him led; and if the oppressor should not, in\nhis turn, fear the voice of the oppressed; and if this nation, which\nyou call a nation of _men_, should be allowed to slaughter its own\nchildren!\u201d\n\n\u201cMargaret,\u201d said Roper, alarmed, \u201ccalm yourself.\u201d\n\n\u201cI must sleep, I suppose, in order to please you, when I see my father\ndelivered into the hands of his enemies! He is lost, I tell you, and\nyou will not believe it, and I can do nothing for him. Of what good is\ncourage to one who cannot use it? Of what use is strength, if one can\nonly wish for it? To fret one\u2019s self in the night of impossibility; to\nsee, to hear, and have power to do nothing. This is the punishment I\nmust endure for ever! Nothing to lean upon! Everything will fall\naround me. He is condemned, they will say; there will be only one\nhuman creature less! That will be my father!\u201d\n\nAnd Margaret, standing up in the middle of the boat, her hair\ndishevelled, her eyes fixed, seemed to see the wretchedness she was\ndescribing. The wind blew violently, and scattered the curls of her\ndark hair around her burning face.\n\n\u201cMargaret,\u201d cried Roper, running to her and taking her in his\narms\u2015\u2015\u201cMargaret, are you dreaming? What would your father say if he\nknew you had thus abandoned yourself to despair?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe would say,\u201d replied Margaret, \u201cthat we must despise the world and\nplace our trust in Heaven; he would recall resignation into my\nexasperated soul. But shall I see him henceforth? Who will aid me in\nsupporting the burdens of this life, against which, in my misery, I\nrevolt every instant? Oh! if I could only share his chains. Then, near\nhim, I would brave tyrants, tortures, hell, and the devils combined!\nThe strength of my will would shake the earth, when I cannot turn over\na single stone!\u201d\n\nAt this moment the boat, which Roper, in his trouble, had ceased to\nguide, struck violently against some piers the fishermen had sunk\nalong the river. It was almost capsized, and the water rushed in\nthrough a hole made by the stakes.\n\n\u201cWe are going to sink,\u201d cried Roper, leaving Margaret and rushing\ntoward the oar he had abandoned.\n\n\u201cWell! do what you can to prevent it,\u201d replied the young girl coldly,\nas she seated herself in her former position in the stern of the boat.\n\nBut the water continued to rush in, and was already as high as their\nfeet. Roper seized his cloak, and made it serve, though not without\nconsiderable difficulty, to close the vent through which the water\nentered. A plank which he found in the bottom of the boat was used to\nfinish his work, and they were able to resume their course; the boat,\nhowever, made but slow way, and it was constantly necessary to bail\nout the water that leaked through the badly-repaired opening. Night\ncame on, and it was already quite late when they succeeded in reaching\nthe Chelsea terrace, at the foot of which they landed.\n\nRoper, having attached the boat to the chain used for that purpose,\nopened the gate, and they entered together. Margaret\u2019s heart throbbed\nviolently; this lonely house, deprived of him who had made the\nhappiness of her life; the gate which they had closed without his\nhaving entered it\u2015\u2015everything, even to the sound of her own footsteps,\npierced her soul with anguish. She passed rapidly through the garden\nand entered the house, where she found the rest of the family\nassembled as usual. All appeared sad, Lady More alone excepted; this\nwoman, vulgar and coarse, was not in a condition to comprehend the\nposition in which she found herself; the baseness of her sentiments,\nthe littleness of her soul, rendered her a burden as annoying as she\nwas painful to support. Margaret, in particular, could feel no\naffection for her. Frank and sincere herself, she abhorred the cunning\nand artifice her stepmother believed herself bound to employ to make\nup for her deficiency of intellect; and when, in the midst of a most\ninteresting and elevated conversation, the reasoning of which Margaret\ncaught with so much avidity, she heard her loudly decide a question\nand pronounce a judgment in the vulgar phrases used among the most\nobscure class of people, she was not always able to conceal her\nimpatience. Her father, more cheerful, more master of himself,\nrecalled by a glance or a smile his dear Margaret to a degree of\npatience and respect he was always ready to observe.\n\nOn entering, therefore, Margaret\u2019s indignation was excited by hearing\nher stepmother abusing unmercifully poor Henry Pattison, who had wept\nincessantly ever since the departure of his master.\n\n\u201cTill-Wall! Till-Wall!\u201d she cried. \u201cThis fool here will never let us\nhave any more peace! Sir Thomas had better have taken him with him;\nthey could have acted the fool together!\u201d\n\nMargaret listened at first to her stepmother, but she could not permit\nher to continue. \u201cWeep!\u201d she cried\u2015\u2015\u201cyes, weep, poor Pattison! for\nyour master is now imprisoned in the Tower, and God knows whether you\nwill ever see him again. Weep, all of you,\u201d she continued, turning to\nher sisters, \u201cbecause you do not see your father in the midst of us.\nBelieve in my presentiments; they have never deceived me. Those souls,\ncoarse and devoid of sensibility, over whom life passes and dries like\nrain upon a rock, will always reject such beliefs; but if, when one is\nunited by affection to a cherished being, the slightest movement of\nhis eyes enables you to read his soul, and you discover the most\nsecret emotion of his heart, we must believe also that nature, on the\napproach of misfortunes which are to befall us, reveals to us the\nsecrets of the future. That is why I say to you, Weep, all of you; for\nyou will never see him again. I\u2015\u2015no, I will not weep, because to me\nthis means death! I shall die!\u201d\n\nAnd crossing the room, she went and threw herself on her knees before\nthe arm-chair usually occupied by her father. \u201cYesterday at this hour\nhe was here; I have seen him here; I have heard him speak to me!\u201d she\ncried, and it seemed to her she still heard him; but in place of that\ncherished voice which sounded always near her that of Lady More alone\nfell on her ear.\n\n\u201cCecilia,\u201d she said, \u201cgo and see if supper is ready; it should have\nbeen served an hour ago. I have waited for you,\u201d she added, looking at\nMargaret, \u201calthough you may not have expected it, judging from the\ntime you were absent.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thank you,\u201d replied Margaret. \u201cIt was not necessary; I could not\neat.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is something one could not guess,\u201d angrily replied Lady More,\nrising from her arm-chair and proceeding to the dining-room.\n\nThey all followed her; but, on seeing her stepmother take Sir Thomas\u2019\nplace, and begin in a loud voice to say grace (as was customary in\nthose days, when heads of families did not blush to acknowledge\nthemselves Christians), Margaret was unable to restrain her tears, and\nimmediately left the dining-room. Roper cast an anxious look after\nher, but on account of her stepmother he said nothing.\n\n\u201cIt appears,\u201d said Lady More, whilst helping the dish which was placed\nbefore her, \u201cthat we are at the end of our trouble. All my life I\u2019ve\nbeen watching Sir Thomas throwing himself into difficulties and\ndangers: at one time he would sustain a poor little country squire\nagainst some powerful family; at another he was taking part against\nthe government; and now, I fear, this last affair will be the worst of\nall. But what have you heard, Roper? Why has Sir Thomas not returned?\u201d\n\nRoper then related to her how he had waited in the boat; how he had\nseen the new queen pass, followed by the most brilliant assembly; and,\nfinally, what Margaret had told him concerning her father.\n\n\u201cYou see!\u201d she exclaimed at every pause he made in his narration. \u201cI\nwas right! Say if I was not right?\u201d\n\nMeanwhile, her appetite remained, undisturbed; she continued to eat\nvery leisurely while questioning Roper.\n\nHe was anxious to finish satisfying the curiosity of his stepmother,\nwho detained him for a long time, giving the details of Lady Boleyn\u2019s\ndress, although, in spite of his complacent good-will, Roper was\nunable to describe but imperfectly the inventions, the materials,\njewelry, and embroideries which composed her attire.\n\n\u201cHow stupid and senseless these scruples of Sir Thomas are!\u201d she cried\non hearing these beautiful things described. \u201cI ask you now if it is\nnot natural for me to wish to be among those elegant ladies, and to be\nadorned like them? But no; he has done everything to deprive himself\nof the king\u2019s favor, who has yielded to him to the utmost degree. But\nI will go and find him; I will speak to him, and demonstrate to him\nthat his first duty is to take care of his family, and not drag us all\ndown with him.\u201d As she said this, she shook her gray head, and assumed\na menacing air as she turned towards Roper. But he was gone. He was\nafraid she would make him recommence his narrative; and, contrary to\nhis usual custom, he was greatly troubled at the condition in which he\nsaw Margaret.\n\nHe softly ascended to the chamber of the young girl, and paused to\nlisten a moment at the door. The light shone through the windows, and\nyet he heard not the slightest sound. He then entered, and found\nMargaret asleep, kneeling on the floor like a person at prayer. She\nwas motionless, but her sleep seemed troubled by painful dreams; and\nher eyebrows and all the features of her beautiful face were\nsuccessively contracted. Her head rested on her shoulder, and she\nappeared to be still gazing at a little portrait of her father, which\nshe had worn from her childhood, and which she had placed on the chair\nbefore her.\n\nRoper regarded her a moment with a feeling of intense sorrow. He then\nknelt by her side and took her hand.\n\nThe movement aroused Margaret. \u201cWhere are we now, Roper?\u201d she said,\nopening her eyes. \u201cHave you finished mending the boat?\u201d\n\nBut scarcely had she pronounced the words when, looking around her,\nshe perceived her error. \u201cAh!\u201d she continued, \u201cI had forgotten we had\nreached home.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear Margaret,\u201d said Roper, \u201cI have felt the most dreadful anxiety\nsince you left your stepmother.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! my stepmother,\u201d cried Margaret. \u201cHow happy she is! How I envy her\nthe selfishness which makes us feel that in possessing ourselves all\nour wishes are accomplished! She is, at least, always sure of\nfollowing and carrying herself in every place; they cannot separate\nher from the sole object of her love, and nothing can tear her from\nit.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it, then, a happiness to love only one\u2019s self? And can you, dear\nMargaret, desire any such fate?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes!\u201d replied Margaret. \u201cThe stupid creature by whom the future is\ndisregarded, the past forgotten, the present ignored, makes me\nenvious! Why exhaust ourselves in useless efforts? And why does not\nman, like the chrysalis which sleeps forty days, not await more\npatiently the moment when he shall be born in eternity\u2015\u2015the moment\nthat will open to him the sources of a new existence, where he shall\nlove without fearing to lose the object of his devotion; where, happy\nin the happiness of the Creator himself, he will praise and bless him\nevery moment with new transports of joy? William, do you know what\nthat power is which transforms our entire being into the one whom we\nlove, in order to make us endure his sufferings a thousand times over?\nDo you understand well that love which has neither flesh nor bone;\nwhich loves only the heart and mind; which mounts without fear into\nthe presence of God himself; which draws from him, from his grandeur,\nhis perfections, from his infinite majesty, all its strength and all\nits endurance; which, fearing not death, extends beyond the grave, and\nlives and increases through all eternity? That celestial love\u2015\u2015have\nyou ever felt it? that soul within a soul, which considers virtue\nalone, lives only for her, and which is every moment exalted by its\nsacrifices and its devotion? that life within another life, which\nfeels that nothing can extinguish it, and considers the world and\ncreatures as nothing? Speak, Roper, do you entirely comprehend it? O\nmy friend! listen attentively to me; when the fruit of experience\nshall have ripened for you, when your fellow-creatures shall no more\nspeak of you but as \u2018the old man,\u2019 when you shall have long looked\nupon your children\u2019s children, then you will assemble them round you,\nand tell them that in other times a tyrant named Henry VIII.\ndevastated their country, and immolated, in his bloody rage, the\nfather of Margaret; you will tell them that you loved Margaret, and\nthat she perished in the flower of her youth; and you will teach them\nto execrate the memory of that cruel king, to weep over the oppressed,\nand to defend them.\u201d\n\n\u201cMargaret!\u201d cried Roper, \u201cwhither have your excited feelings carried\nyou? Who will be able to take you from me? And the children of whom\nyou speak\u2015\u2015will they not also be yours?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, they will not be mine! Upon the earth there remains for me\nneither father nor husband, now that all are reduced to slaves. And\nlearn this, if you do not already know it: Slaves should have no\nhearts! But I\u2015\u2015I have one,\u201d she cried, \u201cand I well understand how to\nkeep it out of their hands!\u201d\n\n\u201cMargaret,\u201d replied Roper, \u201cyou are greatly to blame for expressing\nyourself in this manner. What! because the king sends for your father\nto come and take an oath which he believes he has a right to exact,\nyou already accuse him of wishing to encompass his death? Your father\nis lost, you say. Have you forgotten, then, the numberless assurances\nof protection and particular regard which the king has not ceased to\nbestow on him in the most conspicuous manner? Has he not raised him to\nthe highest position in his kingdom? And if your father had not\nvoluntarily renounced it, the office would have been still in his\npossession.\u201d\n\n\u201cWithout doubt,\u201d replied Margaret, \u201cif my father had been willing to\nbarter his conscience, they would have bought it. To-day they will\nweigh it in the balance against his life. He is already doomed.\u201d\n\n\nTO BE CONTINUED.\n\n\n\n\nSANCTA SOPHIA.[14]\n\n\nThe new and improved edition of Father Cressy\u2019s compendium of the\nprincipal treatises of the English Benedictine, Father Baker, entitled\n_Sancta Sophia_, or Holy Wisdom, which has now appeared, has been long\nlooked for, and we give it a cordial welcome. In compliance with an\nearnest request of the very reverend and learned prelate under whose\ncareful supervision this new edition has been prepared, we very gladly\nmake use of the opportunity which is thus presented of calling\nattention to this admirable work, and to some topics of the greatest\ninterest and importance which are intimately connected with its\npeculiar nature and scope as a book of spiritual instruction. It\nbelongs to a special class of books treating of the higher grades of\nthe spiritual life, and of the more perfect way in which the soul that\nhas passed through the inferior exercises of active meditation is led\nupward toward the tranquil region of contemplation. It is a remarkable\nfact, and an indication of the increasing number of those who feel the\naspiration after this higher life, that such a demand has made itself\nfelt, within a comparatively recent period, for spiritual treatises of\nthis sort. The most voluminous and popular modern writer who has\nministered to this appetite of souls thirsting for the fountains of\npure spiritual doctrine, is the late holy Oratorian, Father Faber. The\nunparalleled circulation of his works is a matter of common notoriety.\nThe lives of saints and of holy persons who have been led in the\nhighways of mystic illumination and union with God, which have poured\nforth in such copious abundance from the Catholic press, and have been\nso eagerly read, are another symptom as well as a cause of this\nincreasing taste for the science and wisdom of the saints. The most\nchoice and elevated spiritual works which have appeared are, however,\nwith few exceptions, republications of books of an older and bygone\ntime. Among these we may mention that quaint treatise so often\nreferred to by Father Baker, called _The Cloud of the Unknowing_,\nWalter Hilton\u2019s _Scala Perfectionis_, the _Spiritual Dialogues_ of St.\nCatherine of Genoa, St. Teresa\u2019s writings, Dom Castaniza\u2019s _Spiritual\nConflict and Conquest_, and above all others that truly magnificent\nedition in an English version of the _Works of St. John of the Cross_,\nfor which we are indebted to Mr. Lewis and his Eminence the Cardinal\nof Westminster. As a manual for common and general use, the _Sancta\nSophia_ of Father Baker has an excellence and value peculiarly its\nown. Canon Dalton, a good authority on subjects of this kind, says\nthat \u201cit is certainly the _best book_ we have in English on prayer.\u201d\nBishop Ullathorne says of it: \u201cNothing is more clear, simple, solid,\nand profound.\u201d Similar testimonies might be multiplied; and if the\nsuffrages of the thousands of unknown but devout persons in religious\ncommunities and in the secular state, who have made use of this book,\ncould be collected, the result would prove that the high esteem in\nwhich it has ever been held by the English Benedictines is perfectly\nwell deserved, according to the sense of the most pious among the\nfaithful.\n\nThe first modern edition of _Sancta Sophia_ was published in New York\nin 1857. Before this time it was wholly unknown in this country, so\nfar as we are informed, excepting in the convent of Carmelite Nuns at\nBaltimore. At the ancient convent on Aisquith Street, where a small\ncommunity of the daughters of St. Teresa had long been strictly\npractising the rule of their holy mother, an old copy of the first\nedition of _Sancta Sophia_ was preserved as their greatest treasure.\nIt was there that Father Walworth became acquainted with the book,\nand, charmed with its quaint style and rare, old-fashioned excellence,\nresolved to have a new edition of it published for the benefit of the\nCatholics of the United States. By permission of the Very Rev. Father\nBernard, of holy memory, who was then provincial of the Redemptorists,\nit was published, under Father Hecker\u2019s supervision, by James B.\nKirker (Dunigan & Bro.) of New York. It was reprinted correctly,\nthough in a plain and unattractive form, without any change excepting\nin the spelling of words and the omission of certain forms of short\nprayers and aspirations which were added to the treatises in the\noriginal. There is no substantial difference, as to the text of the\nwork itself, between this edition and the new one edited by Dr.\nSweeney. He has, however, had it published in a much better and more\nattractive form, has restored all the parts omitted, and, besides\ncarefully revising the text, has added prefatory matter, notes, and\nappendices, which make his edition more complete. A portrait of the\nvenerable Father Baker is prefixed. If an index of the contents of the\nchapters had been added, it would have made the edition as perfect as\nwe could desire. That it will now become once more widely known and\nappreciated in England we cannot doubt, and we trust that it will also\nobtain a much wider circulation in this country than it has hitherto\nenjoyed. There is but one serious obstacle in the way of its becoming\na universal favorite with those who have a taste for solid spiritual\nfood. It is food of the most simple, dry, and hard quality, served\nwithout sauce or condiments of any kind\u2015\u2015pure nutriment, like brown\nbread, wheaten, grits, farina, or Scotch porridge. It is most\nwholesome and conducive to spiritual growth, but altogether destitute\nof the eloquence which we find in Tauler, the deep philosophy and\nsublime poetry of St. John of the Cross, the ecstatic rapture of St.\nTeresa. Whoever studies it will have no stimulus but a pure and simple\ndesire for instruction, improvement, and edification. The keynote to\nthe entire mode and measure of the book is given in the chapter,\nborrowed from Father Walter Hilton, on the spiritual pilgrimage: \u201cOne\nway he knew, which, if he would diligently pursue according to the\ndirections and marks that he would give him\u2015\u2015though, said he, I cannot\npromise thee a security from many frights, beatings, and other\nill-usage and temptations of all kinds; but if thou canst have courage\nand patience enough to suffer them without quarrelling or resisting,\nor troubling thyself, and so pass on, having this only in thy mind,\nand sometimes on thy tongue, _I have naught, I am naught, I desire\nnaught but to be at Jerusalem_, my life for thine, thou wilt escape\nsafe with thy life, and in a competent time arrive thither.\u201d Father\nBaker attempts nothing but to furnish a plain guide-book over this\nroute. For descriptions of the scenery, photographic views of\nmountains, valleys, lakes, and prospects, one must go elsewhere. A\nclear, methodical, safe guide-book over the route he will find in\n_Sancta Sophia_. This is not to say that one should confine himself\nexclusively to its perusal, or deny himself the pleasure of reading\nother books in which there is more that pleases the imagination and\nawakens the affections, or that satisfies the demands of the intellect\nseeking for the deepest causes of things and the exposition of sublime\ntruths. The most important and practical matter, however, is to find\nand keep the right road. And certainly many, if not all, of those who\nare seeking the straightest and safest way to perfection and\neverlasting beatitude, will value the _Sancta Sophia_ all the more for\nits very plainness, and the absence of everything except that simple\nand solid doctrine which they desire and feel the need of amid the\ntrials and perplexities of the journey of life.\n\nThe doctrine of Father Baker has not, however, lacked opponents from\nhis own day to the present. Since the publication of _Sancta Sophia_\nin this country we have repeatedly heard of its use being\ndiscountenanced in religious communities and in the case of devout\npersons in the world. Dr. Sweeney calls attention directly to this\nfact of opposition to Father Baker\u2019s doctrine, and devotes a\nconsiderable part of his own annotations to a refutation of the\nobjections alleged against it. He has pointed out one seemingly\nplausible ground of these censures which we were not before aware of,\nand which was unknown to the American editors of _Sancta Sophia_ when\nthey republished it in this country. We cannot pass this matter by\nwithout some examination; for although on such subjects controversy is\ndisagreeable, and to the unlearned and simple-minded may be vexatious\nand perplexing, it cannot be avoided where a question of orthodox\nsoundness in doctrine is concerned. The gist of the whole matter is\nfound in chapter the seventh, \u201cOn the Prayer of Interior Silence,\u201d to\nwhich Dr. Sweeney has appended a long note of explanation. The matter\nof this chapter is professedly derived from an old Spanish work by\nAntonio de Rojas, entitled _The Life of the Spirit Approved_, which\nwas placed on the Index about fifty years after the death of Father\nBaker, and two years after the condemnation of Quietism. We have never\nseen this book, but we are informed by Dr. Sweeney that its language,\ntaken in the most natural and obvious sense, leads to the conclusion\nthat the state of charity which is requisite to perfection excludes\nall private interest, not only all fear of punishment, but all hope of\nreward\u2015\u2015that is, all desire or consideration of the beatitude of\nheaven. In order to attain this state of indifference and annihilation\nof self-love, all express acts are discountenanced, and that kind of\nsilence and passivity in prayer recommended which suppresses the\nactive movements of the soul toward God, such as hope, love toward God\nas the chief good, petition and supplication, thanksgiving, etc. Now,\nsuch a doctrine as this is manifestly tinged with some of the errors\nof Quietism, and seems to be precisely similar to the semi-Quietism of\nMadame Guyon and F\u00e9nelon which was condemned by Innocent XII. in 1699.\nThe second of the propositions from F\u00e9nelon\u2019s _Maxims of the Saints_\ncondemned by this pope is as follows: \u201cIn the state of contemplative\nor unitive life every interested motive of fear and hope is lost.\u201d The\ndoctrinal error here is the notion that the soul\u2019s love of itself,\ndesire and hope for its own beatification in God, and love to God as\nits own sovereign good, is incompatible with a pure, disinterested,\nperfect love of God, as the sovereign good in himself. The practical\nerror is the inculcation of direct efforts to suppress every movement\nof interested love to God in prayer, in order to make way for passive,\ndisinterested love. Father Baker lived so long before the errors of\nfalse mysticism had been thoroughly investigated, refuted, and\ncondemned that it was very easy for him to fail of detecting what was\nunguarded, inaccurately expressed, exaggerated, or of erroneous\ntendency in a book which was approved by a number of prelates and\ntheologians. He has certainly not borrowed or adopted what was\nerroneous in the book, but that portion of its teaching which was\nsound and safe, upon which the error was a mere excrescence. The mere\nfact of citing a book which has been placed on the Index is a matter\nof small and only incidental moment. Dr. Sweeney seems to us to have\nfollowed too timorous a conscience in his way of treating the chapter\nof _Sancta Sophia_ in which the work of De Rojas is quoted. We cannot\nagree with him that Father Baker would have suppressed that chapter if\nthe book had been censured during his lifetime. He would have\nsuppressed his commendation of the book, and looked carefully to see\nwhat the error was on account of which it had been condemned, as any\ngood Catholic is bound to do in such a case. But we feel confident\nthat he would not have felt himself obliged to make any essential\nalteration in what he had written on the prayer of silence, though he\nwould probably have explicitly guarded it against any possible\nmisapprehension or perversion. Any one who reads the _Sancta Sophia_,\nespecially with Dr. Sweeney\u2019s annotations, will see at once how absurd\nis the charge of a tincture of semi-Quietism against so sober and\npractical a writer as Father Baker, and how remote from anything\nfavoring the illusions of false spirituality are his instructions on\nprayer. It would be almost as absurd to impute Quietism to Father\nBaker as rigorism to St. Alphonsus. We are afraid that Dr. Sweeney\u2019s\nsignal-board of \u201ccaution\u201d will scare away simple-minded and devout\nreaders from one of the most useful chapters of _Sancta Sophia_, one\nwhich is really the pivot of the whole book. Father Baker\u2019s special\nscope and object was not to give instruction in meditation and active\nexercises, but to lead the soul through and beyond these to\ncontemplation. The instructions on the prayer of interior silence are\nprecisely those which are fitted to enlighten and direct a person in\nthe transition state from the spiritual exercises of discursive\nmeditation to that state of ordinary and acquired contemplation which\nScaramelli and all standard writers recognize as both desirable and\nattainable for those who have devoted a considerable time to the\npractice of mental prayer. Father Baker\u2019s directions on this head\nshould be judged by what they are intrinsically in themselves, without\nany regard to anything else. Are they singular, imprudent, or in any\nrespect contrary to the doctrine of the saints and other authors of\nrecognized soundness in doctrine? We cannot see that they are.\nWhatever perversion of the method of prayer in question may have been\ncontained in the book of De Rojas, sprang from his erroneous doctrine\nthat explicit acts of the understanding and will in prayer should be\nsuppressed in order to eradicate the implicit acts, the habits, and\ntendencies of the soul, by which its intention and desire are directed\ntoward its own supreme good and felicity in God. But this is no reason\nagainst the method itself, apart from a perversion no trace of which\nis to be found in Father Baker\u2019s own language. The well-known and\njustly-revered Father Rami\u00e8re, S.J., in his introduction to a little\nwork by another Jesuit, Father De Caussade, entitled _L\u2019Abandon \u00e0 la\nProvidence Divine_, remarks in reference to the doctrine of that book,\nwhich is quite similar in its spirit to the _Sancta Sophia_, as\nfollows: \u201cThere is no truth so luminous that it does not change into\nerror from the moment when it suffers diminution or exaggeration; and\nthere is no nourishment, however salutary to the soul, which, if\nimprudently used, may not produce in it the effect of a noxious\npoison.\u201d It would seem that some are so afraid of the perversion of\nthe luminous truths of mystical theology, and of the abuse of the\nsalutary nourishment it affords to the soul, that they would desire to\navoid the danger by shutting out the light and locking up the food in\na closet. They would restrict all persons whatever, in every stage and\ncondition of the spiritual life, to certain methods of prayer and the\nuse of certain books, excellent for the majority of persons while they\nare beginners or proficients, but unsuitable, or even injurious, to\nsome who are of a peculiar disposition, or who have advanced so far\nthat they need something of a different order. It is a great mistake\nto suppose that such a course is safe or prudent. There are some who\ncannot, even in the beginning, make use of discursive meditation. It\nis a generally-recognized rule that those who can, and actually do,\npractise this kind of mental prayer, ought, as soon as it ceases to be\npleasant and profitable to them, to change it for a simpler method.\nEven those set methods which are not discursive, if they consist in\noft-repeated acts of the understanding, the affections, and the will,\nbecome frequently, after the lapse of time, too laborious, wearisome,\nand insipid to be continued with any fervor. The soul needs and\ninstinctively longs for the cessation of this perpetual activity in a\nholy repose, in tranquil contemplation, in rest upon the bosom of God.\nIt is for such souls that the chapter on the prayer of interior\nsilence was written.\n\nWe may now examine a little more closely the passages which Dr.\nSweeney seems to have had in view, as requiring to be read with\ncaution because similar to statements made by De Rojas and other\nwriters whose doctrine is tinctured with Quietism. Dr. Sweeney\nremarks: \u201cWhen afterwards (in the book of De Rojas) express acts\ntoward God are discountenanced, and it is declared that an advantage\nof this kind of prayer is _self-annihilation_, and that resignation\nthen becomes so pure that all private interest is forgotten and\nignored, we see the prudence and watchfulness of the Holy See in\ncautioning her children against a book which, if it does not\nexpressly, distinctly, and advisedly teach it, yet conveys the\nimpression that a state of charity excludes all private interest, such\nas fear of punishment and hope of reward, and that perfection implies\nsuch a state.\u201d[15]\n\nFather Baker says that in the prayer of silence, \u201cwith the will she\n[the soul] frames no particular request nor any express acts toward\nGod\u201d; that \u201cby this exercise we come to the most perfect operation of\nself-annihilation,\u201d and practise in the most sublime manner\n\u201cresignation, since the soul forgets all private interests\u201d; and more\nto the same effect. Nevertheless, the dangerous and erroneous sense\nwhich this language might convey, if intended or interpreted to mean\nthat the soul must suppress all hope or desire for its own private\ngood as incompatible with the perfect love of God, is plainly excluded\nby the immediate context in which it occurs. The soul, says Father\nBaker, should \u201ccontinue in his presence _in the quality of a\npetitioner_, but such an one as makes no special, direct requests, but\ncontents herself to appear before him _with all her wants and\nnecessities_, best, and indeed only, known to him, who therefore needs\nnot her information.\u201d Again, he compares the soul to the subject of a\nsovereign who abstains from asking any particular favors from his\nprince, because he knows that \u201che is both most wise to judge what\nfavors may become the one to give and the other to receive, and in\nthat that he has a love and magnificence to _advance him beyond his\ndeserts_.\u201d\n\nOnce more he says that in this prayer the soul exercises in a sublime\nmanner \u201c_hope_, because the soul, placing herself before God _in the\nposture of a beggar_, confidently expects that he will impart to her\nboth the knowledge of his will and ability to fulfil it.\u201d\n\nIt is equally plain that Father Baker\u2019s method of the prayer of\ninterior silence is not liable to the censure which Dr. Sweeney\nattaches to the one of De Rojas when he remarks that \u201cwe can at once\nsee what danger accompanies such an exercise, if that can be called an\nexercise where all activity ceases and prayer is really excluded.\u201d\n\u201c_Since an intellectual soul is all activity_,\u201d says Father Baker, \u201cso\nthat it cannot continue a moment without some desires, the soul then\nrejecting all desires toward created objects, she cannot choose but\ntend inwardly in her affections to God, for which end only she put\nherself in such a posture of prayer; her tendence then being much like\nthat of the mounting of an eagle after a precedent vigorous springing\nmotion and extension of her wings, which ceasing, _in virtue thereof\nthe flight is continued for a good space with a great swiftness_, but\nwithal with great stillness, quietness, and ease, without any waving\nof the wings at all or the least force used in any member, being in as\nmuch ease and stillness as if she were reposing on her nest.\u201d For the\nfurther defence of Father Baker\u2019s doctrine from the other parts of\n_Sancta Sophia_, and in general from his known method of personal\nconduct and his direction of others, what his learned Benedictine\neditor has furnished amply suffices.\n\nWe are not content, however, with simply showing that Father Baker\u2019s\nmethod of conducting souls to perfection by means of contemplative\nprayer is free from the errors of Quietism and the illusions of false\nmysticism. The _Sancta Sophia_ is not merely a good book, one among\nthe many English books of devotion and spiritual reading which can be\nsafely and profitably read. We think Canon Dalton\u2019s opinion that it is\nthe best book on prayer we have in the English language is correct. It\nis a guide for those who will scarcely find another book to fill its\nplace; and we venture to affirm that the very part of it which we have\nbeen specially criticising is not only defensible, but positively in\naccordance, even to its phraseology, with the doctrine of the most\napproved authors, and of special, practical value and importance.\n\nIn an appendix which Father Rami\u00e8re has added to the little book by\nFather Caussade already once cited in this article, there is a chapter\ntaken from Bossuet, entitled \u201cA Short and Easy Method of making the\nPrayer of Faith and of the simple presence of God,\u201d from which we\nquote the following passages: \u201cMeditation is very good in its own\ntime, and very useful at the beginning of the spiritual life; but it\nis not proper to make it a final stopping-place, for the soul which is\nfaithful in mortification and recollection ordinarily receives a gift\nof prayer which is purer and more simple, and may be called the prayer\nof _simplicity_, consisting in a simple view, or fixed, attentive, and\nloving look directed toward some divine object, whether it be God in\nhimself, or some one of his perfections, or Jesus Christ, or one of\nthe mysteries relating to him, or some other Christian truths. In this\nattitude the soul leaves off reasoning, and makes use of a quiet\ncontemplation, which keeps it peaceful, attentive, and susceptible to\nthe divine operations and impressions which the Holy Spirit imparts to\nit; it does little and receives a great deal; its labor is easy, and\nnevertheless more fruitful than it would otherwise be; and as it\napproaches very near to the source of all light\u2015\u2015grace and virtue\u2015\u2015it\nreceives on that account the more of all these. The practice of this\nprayer ought to begin on first awaking, by an act of faith in the\npresence of God, who is everywhere, and in Jesus Christ, whose eyes\nare always upon us, if we were even buried in the centre of the earth.\nThis act is elicited either in the ordinary and sensible manner, as by\nsaying inwardly, \u2018I believe that my God is present\u2019; or it is a simple\ncalling to memory of the faith of God\u2019s presence in a more purely\nspiritual manner. After this, one ought not to produce multifarious\nand diverse acts and dispositions, but to remain simply attentive to\nthis presence of God, and as it were exposed to view before him,\ncontinuing this devout attention and attitude as long as the Lord\ngrants us the grace for doing so, without striving to make other acts\nthan those to which we are inspired, since this kind of prayer is one\nin which we converse with God alone, and is a union which contains in\nan eminent mode all other particular dispositions, and disposes the\nsoul to passivity; by which is meant, that God becomes sole master of\nits interior, and operates in it in a special manner. The less working\ndone by the creature in this state, the more powerful is the operation\nof God in it; and since God\u2019s action is at the same time a repose, the\nsoul becomes in a certain way like to him in this kind of prayer,\nreceiving in it wonderful effects; so that as the rays of the sun\ncause the growth, blossoming, and fruit-bearing of plants, the soul,\nin like manner, which is attentive and tranquilly basking under the\nrays of the divine Sun of righteousness, is in the best condition for\nreceiving divine influences which enrich it with all sorts of\nvirtues.\u201d[16]\n\nSt. John of the Cross declares that \u201cthe soul having attained to the\ninterior union of love, _the spiritual faculties of it are no longer\nactive_, and still less those of the body; for now that the union of\nlove is actually brought about, the faculties of the soul _cease from\ntheir exertions_, because, now that the goal is reached, all\nemployment of means is at an end.\u201d[17]\n\nAgain: \u201cHe who truly loves makes shipwreck of himself in all else,\nthat he may gain the more in the object of his love. Thus the soul\nsays that it has lost itself\u2015\u2015that is, deliberately, of set purpose.\nThis loss occurs in two ways. The soul loses itself, making no account\nwhatever of itself, but referring all to the Beloved, resigning itself\nfreely into his hands without any selfish views, losing itself\ndeliberately, and seeking nothing for itself. Secondly, it loses\nitself in all things, making no account of anything save that which\nconcerns the Beloved. This is to lose one\u2019s self\u2015\u2015that is, to be\nwilling that others should have all things. Such is he that loves God;\nhe seeks neither gain nor reward, but only to lose all, even himself\naccording to God\u2019s will. This is what such an one counts gain.\u2026 When a\nsoul has advanced so far on the spiritual road as to be lost to all\nthe natural methods of communing with God; when it seeks him no longer\nby meditation, images, impressions, nor by any other created ways or\nrepresentations of sense, but only by rising above them all, in the\njoyful communion with him by faith and love, then it may be said to\nhave gained God of a truth, because it has truly lost itself as to all\nthat is not God, and also as to its own self.\u201d[18]\n\nIn another place the saint explains quite at length the necessity of\npassing from meditation to contemplation, the reasons for doing so,\nand the signs which denote that the time for this change has arrived.\nThe state of beginners, he says, is \u201cone of meditation and of acts of\nreflection.\u201d After a certain stage of progress has been reached, \u201cGod\nbegins at once to introduce the soul into the state of contemplation,\nand that very quickly, especially in the case of religious, because\nthese, having renounced the world, quickly fashion their senses and\ndesires according to God; they have, therefore, to pass at once from\nmeditation to contemplation. This passage, then, takes place when the\ndiscursive acts and meditation fail, when sensible sweetness and the\nfirst fervors cease, when the soul cannot make reflections as before,\nnor find any sensible comfort, but is fallen into aridity, because the\nspiritual life is changed.\u2026 It is evident, therefore, that if the soul\ndoes not now abandon its previous ways of meditation, it will receive\nthis gift of God in a scanty and imperfect manner.\u2026 If the soul will\nat this time make efforts of its own, and encourage another\ndisposition than that of _passive, loving attention_, most submissive\nand calm, and if it does not _abstain from its previous discursive\nacts_, it will place a complete barrier against those graces which God\nis about to communicate to it in this loving knowledge.\u2026 The soul must\nbe attached to nothing, not even to the subject of its meditation, not\nto sensible or spiritual sweetness, because God requires a spirit so\nfree, so _annihilated_, that every act of the soul, even of thought,\nof liking or disliking, will impede and disturb it, and break that\n_profound silence of sense and spirit_ necessary for hearing the deep\nand delicate voice of God, who speaks to the heart in solitude; it is\nin profound peace and tranquillity that the soul is to listen to God,\nwho will speak peace unto his people. When this takes place, when the\nsoul feels that it is silent and listens, its loving attention must be\nmost pure, _without a thought of self, in a manner self-forgotten_, so\nthat it shall be wholly intent upon hearing; for thus it is that the\nsoul is free and ready for that which our Lord requires at its\nhands.\u201d[19]\n\nWe have sufficiently proved, we trust, that there is no reason to be\ndisquieted by a certain verbal and merely apparent likeness between\nsome parts of Father Baker\u2019s spiritual doctrine and the errors of a\nfalse mysticism. We may, perhaps, return to this subject on a future\noccasion, and point out more distinctly and at length the true\nphilosophical and theological basis of Catholic mystical doctrine, in\ncontrast with the travesties and perversions of its counterfeits in\nthe extravagant, absurd, and revolting systems of infidel and\nheretical visionaries. At present a few words may suffice to sum up\nand succinctly define the difference between the true and the false\ndoctrine in respect to the case in hand. That doctrine which is false,\ndangerous, and condemned by the unerring judgment of the holy church\nteaches that the love and pursuit of our own good and happiness, even\nin God, is sinful, or at least low and imperfect. It inculcates, as a\nmeans for suppressing and eradicating our natural tendency towards the\nattainment of the good as an end, and annihilating our self-activity,\nthe cessation of all operation of the natural faculties of\nunderstanding and volition, at least in reference to God as our own\nsupreme and desirable good. It inculcates a fixed, otiose quietude and\nindifference toward our own happiness or misery. Its effect is\ntherefore to quench the life of the soul, to extinguish its light, and\nto reduce it to a state of torpor and apathy resembling that of a\nstoical Diogenes or an Indian fakir. Its pretence of disinterestedness\nand pure love to God for himself alone is wholly illusory and founded\non a false view of God as the intrinsically sovereign good and the\nobject of supreme love to the intelligent creature. The goodness of\nGod as the first object of the love of complacency cannot be separated\nfrom the same goodness as the object of desire. The extrinsic glory of\nGod as the chief end of creatures is identified with the exaltation\nand happiness of those intellectual and rational beings whom he has\ncreated and elevated to a supernatural end. Hope, desire, and effort\nfor the attainment of the good intended for and promised to man is a\nduty and obligation imposed by the law of God. It is impossible to\nlove God and be conformed to his will without loving our neighbors,\nand our own soul as our nearest neighbor. Moreover, we are not saved\nmerely by the action of God upon us passively received, but also by a\nconcurrence of our understanding and will, a co-operation of our own\nactive efforts with the working of God in us, or, as it is commonly\nexpressed, by a diligent and faithful correspondence to grace. Not to\ndesire our own true happiness is therefore a suicidal, idiotic folly.\nNot to work for it is presumption, ingratitude, and the deadly sin of\nsloth. Moreover, to attempt to fly with unfledged wings; to soar aloft\nin the sky among the saints when we ought to be walking on the earth,\nto undertake while yet weak beginners the heroic works of the perfect;\nto anticipate by self-will the time and call which God appoints, and\npervert the orderly course of his providence; to strive by our own\nnatural powers to accomplish what requires the special gifts and\ngraces of the Holy Spirit, is imprudent, contrary to humility, and\nfull of peril. The dupe of false spirituality may, therefore, either\ntake an entirely wrong road or attempt to travel the right road in a\nwrong manner; in either case sure to fail of reaching his intended\ngoal, if he persists in his error.\n\nThe sound and orthodox doctrine of Catholic mystical theology presents\nGod as he is in his own intrinsic essence, as the object of his own\nbeatific contemplation, and of the contemplation of the blessed who\nhave received the faculty of intuitive vision by the light of glory.\nThe nearest approach to this beatific state, as well as the most\nperfect and immediate preparation for it, is the state of quiet,\ntranquil contemplation of God by the obscure light of faith. The\nexcellence and blessedness of this state consists in the pure love of\nGod. It is of the nature of love and the intention of the mind toward\nthe sovereign good, by which the will is directed in its motion toward\nthe good which it loves and in the fruition of which it finds its\nrepose, that the consideration of the object precede the consideration\nand desire of the fruition of the object. Liberatore, who is a good\nexpositor of the doctrine of St. Thomas and all sound Catholic\nphilosophers on this head, proposes and proves this statement in the\nclearest terms. The object is first apprehended and loved for its\nintrinsic goodness. Reflection on the enjoyment which is received and\ndelight in this enjoyment, though a necessary consequence of the\npossession of the chief good, is the second but not the first act. St.\nJohn of the Cross teaches the same truth: \u201cAs the end of all is love,\nwhich inheres in the will, the characteristic of which is to give and\nnot to receive, to the soul inebriated with love the first object that\npresents itself is not the essential glory which God will bestow upon\nit, but the entire surrender of itself to him in true love, without\nany regard to its own advantage. The second object is included in the\nfirst.\u201d[20] Father Mazzella, S.J., of Woodstock College, in his\nadmirable work on the infused virtues, makes a lengthened exposition\nof the distinction between that love of benevolence and complacency\ntoward God which is the principle of perfect contrition, and by itself\ntakes away sin and unites the soul with God, and the love of desire\nwhich terminates on the good received from God. The first considers\nGod as the sovereign good in himself; the second considers him\ndirectly and explicitly as the source and giver of good to us. It\nmanifests itself as an efficacious desire for the rewards of\neverlasting life, accompanied by a fear of the punishment of sin in\nthe future state, and is the principle of imperfect contrition or\nattrition, which of itself does not suffice for justification, though\nit is a sufficient condition for receiving grace through the appointed\nsacraments. The Catholic teachers of mystical theology direct the soul\nprincipally and as their chief purpose toward the higher and more\nperfect love. The second object is included in this first object, and\ntaken for granted. It is not excluded, but comparatively neglected,\nbecause it follows of itself from the first, and is sought for by the\nnatural, necessary law of our being, without any need of direct,\nexplicit efforts. The resignation, forgetfulness of private interests,\nself-annihilation, so strongly recommended, do not denote any\nsuppression or destruction of our natural beatific impulses, but only\nof our own personal notions, wishes, and interests in respect to such\nthings as are merely means to the attainment of an end, a conformity\nof our will to the will of God, and an abandonment of solicitude\nrespecting our own future happiness, founded on filial confidence in\nthe wisdom and goodness of God.\n\nIt follows from this doctrine of sound, mystical writers that the\nquietude of the state of contemplation and union with God is totally\nopposite to a condition of apathy and sloth. It is a state of more\ntranquil activity, of more steady and therefore more imperceptible yet\nmore rapid movement. Previously the soul was like a boat propelled by\noars against wind and tide. Now it is like a yacht sailing with a\npress of canvas under a strong and fair breeze.\n\nSo far as the imprudent misuse of mystical theology is concerned, we\nneed not waste words on a truism of spiritual direction, that\nbeginners and unlearned, inexperienced persons must follow the counsel\nof a guide, if they can have it. If not, they must direct themselves\nas well as they can by good books, which will instruct them gradually\nand soberly in the first principles of solid virtue and piety, and\nafterwards lead them on to perfection. They cannot have a better guide\nthan _Sancta Sophia_. It is a book that will last for years, and even\nfor a lifetime; for it is a guide along the whole way, from the gate\nat the entrance to the river of death, for such as are really and\nearnestly seeking to attain perfection by prayer, and desire to lead\nan interior life amid the external occupations, duties, and trials of\ntheir state in life, or even in the most strict cloistral seclusion.\nThe exterior persecutions to which the church is subject, the\ndisorders of the times, and the multifarious troubles of every kind,\nboth outward and inward, to which great numbers of the best-disposed\nand most virtuous people are subjected, have an effect to throw\nthoughtful persons on the interior life as a refuge and solace. Pius\nIX., whose long experience and great sanctity, as well as his divine\noffice, make him as a prophet of God to all devout Catholics, has told\nus that the church is now going through the exercises of the purgative\nway as a preparation for receiving great gifts from the Holy Spirit,\nwhich will accompany a new and glorious triumph of the kingdom of\nJesus Christ on the earth. Whatever external splendor the reign of\nChrist over this world may exhibit, it is in the hearts of men that\nhis spiritual royalty has its seat. There is nothing on earth for\nwhich, so to speak, he really cares, except the growth of the souls of\nmen. The world and the church were made for this purpose. The wisdom\nof the ancients was an adumbration of the truth, and that doctrine\nwhich teaches the full and complete form of it alone deserves to be\ncalled in the highest sense wisdom, and to win the love and admiration\nof all men for its celestial beauty.\n\n\n [14] _Sancta Sophia; or, Directions for the Prayer of\n Contemplation, etc._ Extracted out of more than forty\n treatises written by the late Father Augustin Baker, a monk\n of the English Congregation of the Holy Order of St.\n Benedict; and methodically digested by R. F. Serenus Cressy.\n Doway, A.D. 1657. Now edited by the Very Rev. Dom Norbert\n Sweeney, D.D., of the same order and congregation. London:\n Burns & Oates. 1876. New York: The Catholic Publication\n Society.\n\n [15] P. 492, note.\n\n [16] _L\u2019Abandon \u00e0 la Providence Divine_, pp. 164-167.\n\n [17] Complete Works, Lewis\u2019 Trans., vol. ii. p. 75.\n\n [18] _Ib._ pp. 158, 159.\n\n [19] Complete Works, etc., vol. ii. pp. 267-270.\n\n [20] Complete Works, vol. ii pp. 198, 199.\n\n\n\n\n EVENING ON THE SEA-SHORE.\n\n FROM THE FRENCH OF VISCOUNT DE CHATEAUBRIAND.\n\n\n The woods, the sand-beach desolate and bare,\n Blend dusky with the shadows dim and far,\n And, glittering from the depths, the evening star\n Gleams solitary through the silent air.\n\n Westward, and sparkling under purest skies,\n Foams on the long, low reef the line of white;\n And towards the north, o\u2019er seas of crystal light,\n The gathering mist of deepening purple flies.\n\n The mountains redden still with sunset fire,\n Soft dies the plaintive breeze in murmurs low,\n And, each to each linked in their gentle flow,\n The waves roll calmly shoreward and expire.\n\n All grandeur, mystery, love! In this, the time\n Of dying day, all nature with her state\n Of mountain ranges and her forests great,\n The eternal order and the plan sublime,\n\n Stands like a temple on whose walls of light\n The beauties of creation\u2019s day are shown\u2015\u2015\n A sanctuary, where is the Godhead\u2019s throne\n Veiled by the curtains of the holy night\n\n Whose cupola high to the zenith towers,\n A glorious harmony, a work divine,\n And painted with the heavenly hues that shine\n In dawns, in rainbows, and in summer flowers.\n\n\n\n\nLETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.\n\nFROM THE FRENCH.\n\n\nNOVEMBER 2.\n\n \u201cVoici les feuilles sans s\u00e8ve\n Qui tombent sur le gazon.\u201d[21]\n\nWhat a solemn day to the Christian is All Souls\u2019 day! I prayed much,\nvery much, for all our dear friends in the other world. Oh! how I pity\nthe suffering souls consumed by the flames of purgatory. They have\nseen God; they have had a glimpse of his glory on the day of their\njudgment; they long for the Supreme Good with unutterable ardor. What\ntorment! And some there are who will be in those lakes of fire even to\nthe end of the world. We can do nothing but offer our prayers, and\nthey bring deliverance! Who would not devote themselves to the\nsuffering souls? What misfortune more worthy of pity than theirs? I\nlove the \u201cHelpers of the Holy Souls!\u201d[22] It is to me a great\nhappiness to be united with them in thought, prayer, and action. A\nthousand memories have come into my mind; there have passed before me\nall my beloved dead, all the dead whom I have known or whom I have\nonce seen. How numerous they are, and yet I have not been living so\nvery long. Each day thins our ranks, links drop off from the chain.\nBlessed are the dead who die in the Lord!\n\nHere is winter upon us\u2015\u2015melancholy winter, which makes poor mothers\nweep.\n\nMeditated yesterday on the joys of the love of Jesus, which in Holy\nCommunion melts our heart like two pieces of wax into one only\u2015\u2015Jesus,\nthe only true friend, who consoles and sustains, and without whom all\nis vanity. The Christian who has prayer and Communion ought to live in\nperpetual gladness of heart.\n\nI must confess to you, my Kate, that I envy Johanna, Berthe, and Lucy.\nThey allow me to share largely in their maternal joys, but these\ntreasures in which I take such pleasure, why are they not my own? I\nfelt sad about it yesterday, and murmured to myself these lines of\nBrizeux:\n\n \u201cJours pass\u00e9s, que chacun rappelle avec des larmes,\n Jours qu\u2019en vain on regrette, aviez vous tant des charmes?\n Ou les vents troublaient-ils aussi votre clart\u00e9,\n Et l\u2019ennui du pr\u00e9sent fait-il votre beaut\u00e9\u201d[23]\n\nRen\u00e9 was behind me. \u201cWhat, then, do you regret, my Georgina?\u201d I told\nhim all, and how gently and sweetly he comforted me\u2015\u2015as you would, my\nKate! Poor feeble reed that I am, I lean upon you.\n\nMay the Blessed Virgin Mary protect us, dear sister!\n\n\nNOVEMBER 13.\n\nEleven days between my two letters, my note-book tells me. Happily,\nRen\u00e9 has taken my place, and you are aware in what occupations I have\nbeen absorbed, dear Kate. The poor are becoming quite a passion with\nme. I catechise them, I clothe them; it is so delightful to lavish\none\u2019s superabundance on the disinherited ones of this world! To-morrow\nwe go to Nantes to take leave of our saintly friend Elizabeth, who\nwill shortly depart for Louisiana. She has received permission to come\nand bid adieu to her mother\u2015\u2015perhaps a lifelong adieu; for who can say\nwhether she will return? I have had a letter from Ellen, giving me\nmany details of her sojourn in the Highlands. The wound is still\nbleeding. The sight of a child makes her weep; and in her dreams she\nsees her son. May God support her!\n\nTo-day is St. Stanislaus\u2015\u2015the gentle young saint whose feast Margaret\npointed out to me with a hope which is not realized. Our dear\n_Anglaise_ wanted to have us _all together_ in her princely dwelling.\nThe absence of the _Adrien family_, Lucy\u2019s journey\u2015\u2015all these\ndispersions have disarranged the grand project. And yet there are\nmoments when I experience a kind of home-sickness\u2015\u2015a thirst to see our\ndear Erin again, a longing to live under my native sky\u2015\u2015which tells\nupon my health. Do not pity me too much, Kate; I possess all the\nelements of happiness which could be brought together in a single\nexistence. I love the seraphic Stanislaus, holding in his arms the\ninfant Jesus. O great saint! give me a little of your love of God, a\nlittle of your fervent piety, that I may detach myself from the world!\nI am afraid of loving it too much, my sister. The day before yesterday\nwas the feast of St. Martin\u2015\u2015this hero whose history is so poetic. I\nlike to think of this mantle, cut in two to clothe a poor man, and of\nour Lord appearing that night to the warrior, who in the Saviour\u2019s\nvestment recognized the half of his mantle. Kind St. Martin! giving us\na second summer, which I find delightful, loving as I do the warm and\nperfumed breezes of the months that have long days, and regretting the\nreturn of winter with its ice, when, shivering in well-closed rooms,\none thinks of the poor without fire and shelter. Dear _poor of the\ngood God_![24] Margaret shares my fondness for them. Never in our\nBrittany will the sojourn of this sweet friend be forgotten.\n\nWhat noise! _Adieu_, my sister; _Erin go bragh!_\n\n\nNOVEMBER 17.\n\nYou have heard the joyful tidings, Kate dearest\u2015\u2015the triumph of\nMentana? Gertrude writes to us. _Adrien_ and his two sons fought like\nlions, and his courageous wife followed the army, waiting on the\nwounded, praying for her dear ones, who had not a scratch! They were\nafterwards received in private audience by the Holy Father, who seemed\nto them more saintly and sublime than ever. God does indeed do all\nthings well! All these loving hearts, torn by the departure of H\u00e9l\u00e8ne,\nhave recovered their happiness, are enthusiastic in their heroism and\ndevotion, have been violently snatched from all selfish regrets, and\nhave enriched themselves with lifelong memories. Mgr. Dupanloup has\nwritten to the clergy of his diocese, ordering thanksgivings to be\noffered in the churches; and the holy and illustrious Pius IX. has\nwritten to the eloquent bishop, to whom he sends his thanks and\nbenediction.\n\nTruly, joy has succeeded to sorrow. But how guilty is Europe! Can you\nconceive such inertia in the face of this struggle between strength\nand weakness? Our good _abb\u00e9_ is in possession of all the _mandements_\n(or charges) of the bishops of France. He is making a collection of\nthem. Yesterday he quoted to me the following passage from that of\nMgr. de Perpignan: \u201cPrinces of the earth, envy not the crown of Rome!\nOne of the greatest of this world\u2019s potentates was fain to try it on\nthe brow of his son, and placed it on his cradle; but it weighed too\nheavily on that frail existence, and the child, to whom the father\u2019s\ngenius promised a brilliant future, withered away, and died at the age\nof twenty years\u201d; and this other by Mgr. de P\u00e9rigueux: \u201cWhen God sends\ngreat trials upon his church, he raises up men capable of sustaining\nthem. We are in one of these times of trial, and we have Pius IX.\u201d\n\nDear Isa sends me four pages, all impregnated with sanctity. Her life\nis one long holocaust; all her aspirations tend to one end, and one\nthat I fear she will not attain. God will permit this for his glory.\nHow much good may one soul do! I see it by Isa. Her life is one of the\nfullest and most sanctified that can be; she sacrifices herself hour\nby hour, giving herself little by little, as it were, and yet all at a\ntime. Ellen is starting for Hy\u00e8res; she is mortally stricken. They\ndeceived themselves with regard to her. She herself, overwhelmed for a\ntime by the side of that cradle changed into a death-bed, did her best\nto look forward cheerfully to the future. Her last letter, received\nonly fifteen days afterwards, and which was long and affectionate,\nappeared to me mysterious; she spoke so much of _outward_ things.\nDear, dear Ellen! I wish I could see her. Impossible, alas! Isa\u2019s\nletter is dated the 10th. The sad, dying one must have crossed the\nChannel that same day. There is something peculiarly sorrowful in the\nthought of death with regard to this young wife, going away to die far\nfrom her home, her country, and her family, beneath mild and genial\nskies, where life appears so delightful. Her state is such as to allow\nof no hope, but her husband wishes to try this last remedy. The little\nangel in heaven awaits his mother.\n\nA terrible gale\u2015\u2015quite a tempest. I am thinking of the poor mariners.\nThese howlings of the wind, these gusts which rush through the long\ncorridors, resemble wild complaints; one would think that all the\nelements, let loose, weep and implore. O holy Patroness of sailors!\ntake pity on them.\n\nVisits all the week\u2015\u2015pious visits, such as I love. My heart attaches\nitself to this country.\n\nLet us praise the Lord, dear Kate! May he preserve to Ireland her\nfaith and her love! There is no slavery for Christian hearts.\n\n\nNOVEMBER 19.\n\nA line from Karl\u2015\u2015one heart-rending plaint, thrown into the post at\nParis after Ellen had received your last kiss. \u201cPray,\u201d he says to me,\n\u201cnot for this soul, of whom I was not worthy, and who is going to\nrejoin her son, but for my weakness, which alarms me.\u201d Ren\u00e9 wept with\nme. Oh! how sad is earth to him who remains alone. The same thought of\nanguish and apprehension seized us both. Ah! dearest, let your prayers\npreserve to me him in whom I live.\n\n_Saint Elizabeth_, \u201cthe dear saint,\u201d this fair and lovely flower of\nHungary transplanted into Thuringia, there to shed such sweetness of\nperfume! I have been thinking of her, of her poetic history, of all\nthat M. de Montalembert has written about her\u2015\u2015the veritable life of a\nsaint, traced out with poetry and love. You remember that St.\nElizabeth was one of the chosen heroines of my childhood. I could wish\nthat I had borne her name. I used to dream of becoming a saint like\nher. What an unparalleled life hers was! Dying so young, she appeared\nbefore God rich in merits. Born in the purple, the beloved daughter of\nthe good King Andrew, and afterwards Duchess of Thuringia; united to\nthe young Duke Louis, also so good and holy, so well suited to the\npure and radiant star of Hungary seen by the aged poet; then a widow\nat nineteen years of age, and driven from her palace with her little\nchildren, drinking to its dregs the cup of bitterness and anguish\u2015\u2015my\ndear saint knew suffering in its most terrible and poignant form. How\nI love her, from the moment when the good King Andrew, taking in his\narms the cradle of solid gold in which his Elizabeth was sleeping,\nplaced it in those of the Sire de Varila, saying, \u201cI entrust to your\nknightly honor my dearest consolation,\u201d until the time when I find\nher, clad in the poor habit of the Seraph of Assisi, reading a letter\nof St. Clare! What an epoch was that thirteenth century, that age of\nfaith, when the throne had its saints, when there was in the souls of\nmen a spring of energy and of religious enthusiasm which peopled the\nmonasteries and renewed the face of the earth! Who will obtain for me\nthe grace to love God as did Elizabeth? O dear saint! pray for me, for\nRen\u00e9, Karl, Ellen, the church, France, Ireland, the universe.\n\nHere is something, dear sister, which I think would comfort Karl:\n\n\u201cTo desire God is the essential condition of the human heart; to go to\nGod is his life; to contemplate God is his beatitude. To desire God is\nthe noble appanage of our nature; to go to God is the work which grace\neffects within us; to contemplate God is our state of glory. To desire\nGod is the principle of good; to go to God is the way of good; to\ncontemplate God is the perfection of good.\n\n\u201cGod is everything to the soul. The soul breathes: God is her\natmosphere. The soul needs nourishment and wherewith to quench her\nthirst: God is her daily bread and her spring of living water. The\nsoul moves on: God is her way. The soul thinks and understands: God is\nher truth. The soul speaks\u2015\u2015God is her word; she loves\u2015\u2015God is her\nlove.\u201d[25]\n\nExquisite thoughts! Oh! love, the love of God, can replace everything.\nMay we be kindled with this love, dear sister of my life!\n\n\nNOVEMBER 22.\n\nMy sweet one, I love to keep my festivals with you! Yesterday, the\nPresentation of Mary in the Temple, we spent here _in retreat_\u2015\u2015a\nretreat, according to all rules, preached by a monsignor! Ren\u00e9 is\nwriting you the details. I am not clever at long descriptions; with\nyou especially it is always on confidential matters that I like to\nwrite\u2015\u2015the history of my soul, my thoughts, my impressions.\n\nWhat a heavenly festival! How, on this day of the Presentation, must\nthe angels have rejoiced at beholding this young child of Judea,\nscarcely entered into life, and yet already so far advanced in the\ndepths of divine science, consecrating herself to God! How must you, O\nSt. Anne! the happy mother of this immaculate child, have missed her\npresence! This sunbeam of your declining years, this flower sprung\nfrom a dried-up stem, this virgin lily whose fragrance filled your\ndwelling, all at once became lost to you. Ah! I can understand the\nbitterness which then flowed in upon your soul, and it seems to me\nthat for this sacrifice great must be your glory in heaven!\n\nTo-day, St. Cecilia, the sweet martyr saint, patroness of musicians,\nthe Christian heroine, mounting to heaven by a blood-stained way.\nLouis Veuillot, in _Rome and Loretto_, speaking of the \u201cSt. Cecilia\u201d\nof Raphael, calls it \u201cone of the most thoroughly beautiful pictures in\nthe world.\u201d \u201cThe saint,\u201d he says, \u201cis really a saint; one never\nwearies of contemplating the perfect expression with which she listens\nto the concert of angels, and breaks, by letting them fall from her\nhands, the instruments of earthly music.\u201d Kate, do you remember the\nmuseum at Bologna, and how we used to stand gazing at this page of\nRaphael?\n\nI am reading Bossuet with Ren\u00e9. What loftiness of views! What\nvehemence of thought! Another consolation for Karl: \u201cDeath gives us\nmuch more than he takes away: he takes away this passing world, these\nvanities which have deceived us, these pleasures which have led us\nastray; but we receive in return the wings of the dove, that we may\nfly away and find our rest in God.\u201d H\u00e9l\u00e8ne had copied these lines into\nher journal, and remarked upon them as follows: \u201cBeautiful thought!\nwhich enchants my soul, and makes me more than ever desire that hour\nfor which, according to Madame Swetchine, we ought to live; that day\nwhen my true life will begin, far from the earth, where nothing can\nsatisfy the intensity of my desires.\u201d We are going to travel about a\nlittle, and visit the funeral cemetery of Quiberon and various other\npoints of our Brittany, so rich in memories. I am packing up my things\nwith the pleasure of a child, assisted by the gentle Picciola and\npretty little Alix, whom I have surnamed Lady-bird.[26] One of my\nBengalese is ill, and all the young ones are interested about it,\nwanting to kiss and caress it, and give it dainty morsels, but nothing\nrevives the poor little thing. Ah! dear Kate, this Indian bird dying\nin Brittany makes me think of Ellen, a thousand times more lovable and\nprecious, and who is also bending her fair head to die.\n\nSister, friend, mother, all that is best, most tender, and beloved,\nGod grant to us to die the same day, that together we may see again\nthe kind and excellent mother who confided me to your love.\n\n\nDECEMBER 2.\n\nHere we are, home again, in the most _Advent-like_ weather that ever\nwas. We have seen beautiful things; we have lived in the ideal, in the\ntrue and beautiful, in minds, in scenery, in poetry, and music\u2015\u2015in a\nfeast of the understanding, the eyes, and the heart. But with what\npleasure we have again beheld our _home_, so calm, so pious, and so\ngrand! It is only two hours since I took possession of my rooms. We\nfound here piles of letters; Ren\u00e9 is reading them to me while I am\nsaying good-morning to you\u2015\u2015Kate, dearest, _you_ first of all; this\nbeautiful long letter which I reverently kiss, which I touch with\ndelight; it has been with you; it has _seen you_! How I want to see\nyou again!\n\nA letter from Ireland from Lizzy, who is anxious about Ellen.\n\nAlas! her anxiety is only too well founded. Karl writes to me that\nEllen grows weaker every day; strength is gradually leaving the body,\nwhile the soul is fuller of life and energy than ever before, and\npreparing for her last journey with astonishing serenity, and also\npreparing for it him who is the witness of her departure. In a firm\nhand she has added a few lines to the confidences of Karl: \u201cDear\nGeorgina, will you not come and see me at Hy\u00e8res? Your presence would\nhelp me to quit this poor earth, here so fair, which I would always\ninhabit on account of my good Karl. The will of our Father be done!\nTender messages to Kate and to your good husband. Pray for me.\u201d\n\nPoor, sweet Ellen! How can I refuse this last prayer? But there is no\ntime to be lost; Ren\u00e9 will consult my mother. Ah! my sister, pray that\nthis journey may be possible, and that the angel of death may not so\nsoon pluck this charming flower which we love so much.\n\n_Evening._\u2015\u2015How good God is! We are _all_ going; my mother wishes it\nto be so. \u201cI do not,\u201d she said to me, \u201cwant to have any distance\nbetween you and me.\u201d The winter is so severe that my sisters are glad\nto get their children away from the season which is setting in. I am\nwriting to Lizzy and to Karl. We shall be at Hy\u00e8res next week. Pray\nwith us, beloved.\n\n\nDECEMBER 12.\n\nArrived, dear Kate, without accident, and all installed in a beautiful\n_chalet_ near to that of Ellen, who welcomed us with joy. Karl had\ngently prepared her for this meeting. How thin she has become!\u2015\u2015still\nbeautiful, white, transparent; her fine, melancholy eyes so often\nraised, by preference, to heaven, her hands of marble whiteness, her\nfigure bending. She would come as far as to the door of her room to\nmeet us, and there it was that I embraced her and felt her tears upon\nmy cheek. \u201cGod be praised!\u201d These were her first words. Then she was\nplaced on her reclining-chair, and by degrees was able to see all the\nfamily. I was trembling for the impression the children might make\nupon her; but she insisted. Well, dearest, she caressed, admired,\nlistened to them, without any painful emotion or thought of herself;\none feels that she is already in heaven. Every day, by a special\npermission granted by Pius IX., Mass is said in a room adjoining hers.\nThe removal of a large panel enables her to be present at the Holy\nSacrifice. This first moment was very sweet. In spite of this fading\naway, which is more complete than I could have imagined it, to find\nher _living_ when I had so dreaded that it might be otherwise, was in\nitself happiness; but when I had become calm, how much I felt\nimpressed! Karl\u2019s resignation is admirable. Ren\u00e9 compels me to stop,\nfinding me pale enough to frighten any one. Love me, my dearest!\n\n\nDECEMBER 20.\n\nDearest sister, Ellen remains in the same state\u2015\u2015a flickering lamp,\nand so weak that Ren\u00e9 and I are alone admitted into this chamber of\ndeath, which Karl now never leaves. Yesterday Ellen entreated him to\ntake a little rest, and he went out, suffocated by sobs, followed by\nRen\u00e9; then the sufferer tried to raise herself so as to be still\nnearer to me. I leaned my head by hers and kissed her. \u201cDear Georgina,\nthanks for coming. You will comfort Karl. Do not weep for me; mine is\na happy lot: I am going to Robert. Ah! look, he comes, smiling and\nbeautiful as he was before his illness; he stretches out his arms to\nme. I come! I come!\u201d And she made a desperate effort, as if to follow\nhim. I thought the last hour was come, and called. Ren\u00e9 and Karl\nhastened in; but the temporary delirium had passed, and Ellen began\nagain to speak of her joy at our being together.\n\nThe window is open. I am writing near the bed where our saint is\ndying. The weather is that of Paradise, as Picciola says\u2015\u2015flowers and\nbirds, songs and verdure. It is spring, and death is here, ready to\nstrike.\n\n\nDECEMBER 25.\n\n_Sic nos amantem, quis non redamaret?_ Ellen departed to heaven while\nRen\u00e9 was singing these words[27] after the Midnight Mass. This death\nis life and gladness. I am by _her_, near to that which remains to us\nof Ellen. Lucy and I have adorned her for the tomb; we have clothed\nher in the white lace robe which was her mother\u2019s present to her, and\narranged for the last time her rich and abundant hair, which Karl\nhimself has cut. It is, then, true that all is over, and that this\nmouth is closed for ever. She died without suffering, after having\nreceived the Beloved of her soul. What a night! I had a presentiment\nof this departure. For two days past I have lived in her room, my eyes\nalways upon her, and listening to her affectionate recommendations. On\nthe 23d we spoke of St. Chantal\u2015\u2015that soul so ardent and so strong in\ngoodness, so heroic among all others, who had a full portion of\ncrosses, and who knew so truly how to love and suffer. On the 24th a\nswallow came and warbled on the marble chimney-piece. \u201cI shall fly\naway like her, but I shall go to God,\u201d murmured Ellen. At two o\u2019clock\nthe same day her confessor came; we left her for a few minutes, and I\nhad a sort of fainting fit which frightened Ren\u00e9. Karl\u2019s grief quite\novercame me. Towards three o\u2019clock Ellen seemed to be a little\nstronger; she took her husband\u2019s hand, and, in a voice of tenderness\nwhich still resounds in my ear, said to him slowly: \u201cRemember that God\nremains to you, and that my soul will not leave you. Love God alone;\nserve him in the way he wills. Robert and I will watch over your\nhappiness.\u201d She hesitated a little; all her soul looked from her eyes:\n\u201cTell me that _you will be a priest_; that, instead of folding\nyourself up in your regrets, you will spend yourself for the salvation\nof souls, you will spread the love of Him who gives me strength to\nleave you with joy to go to him!\u201d Karl was on his knees. \u201cI promise it\nbefore God!\u201d he said. The pale face of the dying one became tinged\nwith color, and she joined her hands in a transport of gratitude; then\nshe requested me to write at her dictation to Lizzy, Isa, Margaret,\nand Kate. Her poor in Ireland were not forgotten. She became animated,\nand seemed to revive, breathing with more ease than for some time\npast. She received \u201call the dear neighbors,\u201d said a few heartfelt\nwords to each, asked for the blessing of our mother, who would not\nabsent herself any more, and shared our joys and sorrows. The doctor\ncame; Ren\u00e9 went back with him. \u201cIt will be to-morrow, if she can last\nuntil then.\u201d O my God! And the night began\u2015\u2015this solemn night of the\nhosanna of the angels, of the Redeemer\u2019s birth. I held one of her\nhands, Karl the other; my mother and Ren\u00e9 were near us, our brothers\nand sisters in the room that is converted into a chapel. At eleven\no\u2019clock I raised the pillows, and began reading, at the request of\nEllen, a sermon upon death. After the first few lines she stopped me\nwith a look; Karl was pale again. The dear, dying one asked us to\nsing. Kate, we were so _electrified_ by Ellen\u2019s calmness that we\nobeyed! She tried to join her voice to ours. The priest came; the Mass\nbegan. Ellen, radiant, followed every word. We all communicated with\nher. After the Mass she kissed us all, keeping Karl\u2019s head long\nbetween her hands\u2015\u2015her poor little alabaster hands; then, at her\nrequest, Ren\u00e9 sang the _Adeste_: \u201c_Sic nos amantem, quis non\nredamaret?_\u201d At this last word Ellen kissed the crucifix for the last\ntime and fled away into the bosom of God. The priest had made the\nrecommendation of the soul a little before. Oh! those words, \u201cGo\nforth, Christian soul!\u201d\n\n_Excelsior!_ Let us love each other, dear Kate.\n\n\nDECEMBER 29.\n\n\u201cIn Rama was a voice heard, weeping and lamentation: Rachel weeping\nfor her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.\u201d\nPoor mothers of Bethlehem, what must you not have suffered! But you,\nye \u201cflowers of martyrdom,\u201d as the church salutes you\u2015\u2015you who follow\nthe Lamb whithersoever he goeth\u2015\u2015how happy were you to die for him who\nhad come to die for you!\n\nDear sister, we followed her to the church, and then Karl and Ren\u00e9 set\nout, taking this coffin with them to Ireland. The family have wished\nit thus. This sorrowful journey has a double object: Karl is going to\nsettle his affairs, and in two months at most he will enter the\n_S\u00e9minaire des Missions Etrang\u00e8res_, the preparatory college of the\nforeign missions. He will see you at that time. He was sublime. God\nhas been with us, and the soul of Ellen shone upon these recent\nscenes. My mother would not consent to my going also. I was weaker\nthan I thought. On returning to the _chalet_ I was obliged to go to\nbed. What an inconvenience I should have been to the dear travellers!\nBut how sad it is to end a year, a first year of marriage, without\nRen\u00e9! This beautiful sky, this luxuriant nature, all the poetry of the\nsouth, which I love so much\u2015\u2015all this appears to me still more\nbeautiful since that holy death. Why were you not with us? There are\ninexpressible things. I have understood something of what heaven is.\nSweet Ellen! What peace was in her death, what suavity in her words! I\ndid not leave her after her death, but remained near her bed, where I\nhad so much admired her. I tried to warm her hand, to recall her\nglance, her smile, until the appearance of the gloomy coffin. O my\nGod! how must Karl have suffered. Those hammer-strokes resounded in my\nheart!\n\nDear, she is with God; she is happy. Sweet is it thus to die with\nJesus in the soul. It is Paradise begun.\n\nI embrace you a hundred times, my Kate. We had some earth from\nIreland, and some moss from Gartan, to adorn Ellen\u2019s coffin. O death!\nwhere is thy sting? O grave! where is thy victory?\n\n\nJANUARY 1, 1868.\n\nO my God! pardon me, bless me, and bless all whom I love.\n\nDear sister of my soul, the anniversary of my marriage has passed\nwithout my having been able to think of it to thank you again for your\nshare in making my happiness. But you know well how I love you! It is\nthe 1st of January, and I wish to begin the year with God and with\nyou. May all your years be blessed, dearest, the angel Raphael of the\ngreat journey of my life! I have wished to say, in union with you, as\nI did a year ago, the prayer of Bossuet: \u201cO Jesus! by the ardent\nthirst thou didst endure upon the cross, grant me a thirst for the\nsouls of all, and only to esteem my own on account of the holy\nobligation imposed upon me not to neglect a single one. I desire to\nlove them all, since they are all capable of loving thee; and it is\nthou who hast created them with this blessed capacity.\u201d I said on my\nknees the last thought copied by Ellen in the beautiful little volume\nwhich she called _Kate\u2019s book_: \u201cEverything must die\u2015\u2015sweetness,\nconsolation, repose, tenderness, friendship, honor, reputation.\nEverything will be repaid to us a hundred-fold; but everything must\nfirst die, everything must first be sacrificed. When we shall have\nlost all in thee, my God, then shall we again find all in thee.\u201d\n\nYesterday the _Adrien family_ arrived. What nice long conversations we\nshall all have! George and Amaury have been heroic. All are in need of\nrepose. How delightful it is to meet again _en famille!_ And Ren\u00e9 is\nfar away. May God be with him, with you, and with us, dear Kate!\n\n\nJANUARY 6.\n\nNeed I tell you about the first day of this year, beloved? Scarcely\nhad I finished writing to you than the children made an irruption into\nmy room. Then oh! what kissing, what outcries of joy, what smiles and\nclapping of hands, at the sight of the presents arrived from Paris,\nthanks to the good Vincent, who has made himself wonderfully useful.\nHow much I enjoyed it all! Then, on going to my mother, she blessed me\nand gave me a letter from Ren\u00e9, together with an elegantly-chased cup\nof which I had admired the model. Then in the drawing-room all the\ngreetings, and our poor (for my passion follows me everywhere), and\nyour letter, with those from Ireland and Brittany (from the good\n_cur\u00e9_ who has charge of our works)\u2015\u2015what delight for the whole day!\nKarl thanks me for having copied for him these consoling words: \u201cNo;\nwhatever cross we may have to bear in the Christian life, we never\nlose that blessed peace of the heart which makes us willingly accept\nall that we suffer, and no longer desire any of the enjoyments of\nwhich we are deprived.\u201d It is F\u00e9nelon who says that.\n\nWe have been making some acquaintances, amongst others that of a young\nwidow who is spending the winter here on account of her daughter, a\nfrail young creature of an ideal beauty\u2015\u2015graceful, smiling, and\naffectionate; a white rose-bud half open. Her blue, meditative eyes\nremind me of Ellen\u2019s. This interesting widow (of an officer of rank)\nknows no one, with the exception of the doctor. Her isolation excited\nour compassion. Lucy made the first advances, feeling attracted by the\nsadness of the unknown lady. Now the two families form but one.\nPicciola and _Duchesse_ have invited the sweet little Anna to share\ntheir lessons and their play. Her mother never leaves her for a\nmoment; this child is her sole joy.\n\nThe 3d, Feast of St. Genevi\u00e8ve: read her life with the children. What\na strong and mortified soul! I admire St. Germanus distinguishing, in\nthe midst of the crowd, this poor little Genevi\u00e8ve who was one day to\nbe so great. Is not this attraction of holy souls like a beginning of\nthe eternal union?\n\nYesterday, St. Simon Stylites, that incomparable penitent separated\nfrom the world, living on a lofty column, between heaven and earth.\nThus ought we also to be, in spirit, on a column\u2015\u2015that of love and\nsacrifice.\n\nI am sad about my first separation from Ren\u00e9, and for so sorrowful a\ncause. That which keeps me from weeping is the certainty of Ellen\u2019s\nhappiness, and also the thought that from heaven she sees Ren\u00e9 and\nKarl together.\n\nTo-day is the Epiphany\u2015\u2015this great festival of the first centuries,\nand that of our call to Christianity. Gold, frankincense, myrrh, the\ngifts of the happy Magi, those men of good-will who followed the\nstar\u2015\u2015symbolic and mysterious gifts: the gold of love, the incense of\nadoration, the myrrh of sacrifice\u2015\u2015why cannot I also offer these to\nthe divine Infant of the stable of Bethlehem? Would that I had the\nardent faith of those Eastern sages\u2015\u2015the faith which stops at nothing,\nwhich sees and comes! And the legendary souvenirs of the bean, an\nephemeral royalty which causes so much joy!\n\nMy mother is fond of the old traditions. We have had a kingcake.[28]\n_Anna_ had the bean; she offered the royalty to Arthur. Cheerful\nevening. Mme. de Clissey was less sad. We accompanied her back to her\nhouse _in choir_.\n\nGood-night, beloved sister; I am going to say my prayers and go to\nsleep.\n\n\nJANUARY 12.\n\nRen\u00e9 will be in Paris on the 15th, darling Kate. He will tell you\nabout Karl, Lizzy, Isa, all our friends, and then I shall have him\nagain! Adrien is reading Lamartine to us; I always listen with\nenchantment. What poetry! It flows in streams; it is sweet, tender,\nmelancholy, moaning; it sings with nature, with the bird, with the\nfalling leaf, the murmuring stream, the sounding bell, the sighing\nwind; it weeps with the suffering heart, and prays with the pleading\nsoul. Oh! how is it that this poet could stray aside from his heavenly\nroad, and burn incense on other altars? How could he leave his\nChristian lyre\u2015\u2015he who once sang to God of his faith and love in\naccents so sublime? Will he not one day recover the sentiments and\nemotions of his youth, when he went in the footsteps of his mother to\nthe house of God\n\n _Offrir deux purs encens, innocence et bonheur._[29]\n\nThe _Harmonies_ are rightly named. I never read anything more\nharmoniously sweet, more exquisite in cadence. How comes it that he\nshould have lost his faith where so many others have found it\u2015\u2015in that\njourney to the East, from which he ought to have returned a firmer\nCatholic, a greater poet? Could it be that the death of his daughter,\nshe who was his future, his joy, his dearest glory, overthrew\neverything within him? O my God! this lyre has, almost divinely, sung\nof thee; thou wilt not suffer its last notes to be a blasphemy. Draw\nall unto thyself, Lord Jesus, and let not the brows marked by the seal\nof genius be stamped eternally with that of reprobation!\n\nMme. de Clissey has told us her history; you must hear it, since your\nkind heart is interested in these two new friends of your Georgina.\nMadame is Roman, and has been brought up in Tuscany. You know the\nproverb: \u201cA Tuscan tongue in a Roman mouth.\u201d[30] Her mother made a\nmisalliance, was cast off by her family after her husband\u2019s death, and\nthe poor woman hid at Florence her loneliness and tears. Thanks to her\ntalents as a painter, she was enabled to secure to Marcella a solid\nand brilliant education; but her strength becoming rapidly exhausted\nby excessive labor, Marcella, when scarcely sixteen years of age, saw\nher mother expire in her arms. She remained alone, under the care of a\nvenerable French priest, who compassionated her great misfortune, and\nobtained for his _prot\u00e9g\u00e9e_ an honorable engagement. She was taken as\ngoverness to her daughter by a rich duchess, who, after being in\necstasies about her at first, cast her aside as a useless plaything.\nHer pupil, however, a very intelligent and affectionate child, became\nthe sole and absorbing interest of the orphan; but the young girl\u2019s\nattachment to her mistress excited the jealousy of the proud duchess,\nwho contrived to find a pretext for excluding Marcella from the house.\nHer kind protector then brought her to France, and, as it was\nnecessary that she should obtain her living, she entered as teacher in\na boarding-school in the south. A year afterwards a lady of high rank\nengaged her to undertake the education of her daughters. She\nthankfully accepted this situation, but had scarcely occupied it a\nmonth before she was in a dying state from typhoid fever and\ninflammation of the brain. For fifty-two days her life was in danger,\nand for forty-eight hours she was in a state of lethargy, from which\nshe had scarcely returned, almost miraculously, to consciousness,\nbefore she had to witness the death of the kind priest who alone, with\na Sister of Charity, had done all that it was possible to do to save\nher life. What was to become of her? The slender means of which the\nold man had made her his heir lasted only for the year of her\nconvalescence; she then unexpectedly made the acquaintance of a rich\nwidow who was desirous of finding a young girl as her companion,\npromising to provide for her future. Marcella was twenty years of age;\nthe old lady took a great fancy to her, and took her to Paris and to\nGermany. Unfortunately, the character of her protectress was not one\nto inspire affection. Ill-tempered, fanciful, exacting, life with her\nwas intolerable. Her servants left her at the end of a month. Marcella\nbecame the submissive slave of her domineering caprice, and was shut\nup the whole day, having to replace the waiting-woman, adorn the\nantique idol, enliven her, and play to her whatever she liked. In the\ndrawing-room, of an evening, she had to endure a thousand vexations;\nat eleven o\u2019clock the customary visitors took leave, and Marcella\nexamined the account-books of the house under the eye of the terrible\nold dowager, who, moreover, could not sleep unless some one read to\nher aloud. \u201cTill five o\u2019clock in the morning I used to read Cooper or\nScott.\u201d What do you think of this anticipated purgatory, dear Kate?\nMarcella, timid, and without any experience of life, tried to resign\nherself to her lot, until at Paris M. de Clissey asked her to exchange\nher dependent condition for a happy and honored life. She accepted his\noffer, to the no small despair of the old lady, who loudly charged her\nwith ingratitude, and thought to revenge herself by not paying her the\npromised remuneration. M. de Clissey triumphantly took away his\nbeautiful young bride to his native town. \u201cIt seemed to me as if I had\nhad a resurrection to another life. For ten years our happiness was\nwithout alloy. But the cross, alas! is everywhere; and I am now, at\nthirty-two years of age, a widow, with unspeakable memories and my\npretty little Anna, whose love is my consolation.\u201d\n\nThank God! Marcella has friends also, and my mother wishes to propose\nto her to live with us.\n\nKate, what a good, sweet, happy destiny God has granted us! How I pity\nthose orphans who have not, as I have, a sister to love them! Oh! may\nGod bless you, and render to you all the good that your kind heart has\ndone to me! Hurrah for Ireland! Erin mavourneen!\n\n\nJANUARY 20.\n\nI have recovered my happiness: Ren\u00e9 is here. I never weary of hearing\nhim, of rejoicing that I have him. Dearest, I am enchanted with what\nhe tells me about you. Tell me if ever two sisters loved each other as\nwe do? No; it is not possible.\n\nLord William, Margaret, Lizzy, Isa, all our friends beyond the sea,\nare represented on my writing-table\u2015\u2015under envelopes. Karl will come\nback to us; he \u201cis burning to belong to God.\u201d You know all the\ndetails: the father blessing the coffin of his daughter, the sister,\nabounding in consolation\u2015\u2015all these miracles of grace and love. O dear\nKate! how good God is.\n\nWhat will you think of my boldness? Isa has often expressed regret at\nher inability to read _Gu\u00e9rin_, as Gerty used to say; so I thought I\nwould attempt a translation. I write so rapidly that I shall soon be\nat the end of my task. The souls of Eug\u00e9nie and of Isa are too much\nlike those of sisters not to understand each other. These few days\nspent in the society of the Solitary of Cayla have more than ever\nattached me to that soul at the same time so ardent and so calm, a\nfurnace of Jove, concentrated upon his brother Maurice, who was taken\nfrom him by death\u2015\u2015alas! as if to prove once more that earth is the\nplace of tears, and heaven alone that of happiness.\n\n \u201cQu\u2019est-ce donc que les jours pour valoir qu\u2019on les pleure?\u201d[31]\n\nH\u00e9l\u00e8ne wrote to me on the 10th, Feast of St. Paul the Hermit, full of\nadmiration for the poetic history of this saint: the raven daily\nbringing half a loaf to the solitary; the visit of St. Antony; St.\nPaul asking if houses were still built; St. Antony exclaiming when he\nreturned to the monastery: \u201cI have seen Elias; I have seen John in the\ndesert; I have seen Paul in Paradise\u201d; the lions digging the grave of\nthis friend of God\u2015\u2015what a poem!\n\nRen\u00e9 has brought me back the _Consolations_ of M. de Sainte-Beuve. How\nis it that the poets of our time have not remained Christian? In his\n_Souvenirs d\u2019Enfance_ (\u201cMemories of Childhood\u201d) the author of the\n_Consolations_ says to God:\n\n \u201cTu m\u2019aimais entre tous, et ces dons qu\u2019on d\u00e9sire,\n Ce pouvoir inconnu qu\u2019on accorde \u00e0 la lyre,\n Cet art myst\u00e9rieux de charmer par la voix,\n Si l\u2019on dit que je l\u2019ai, Seigneur, je te le dois.\u201d[32]\n\nKarl tells me that he carefully keeps on his heart the last words\ntraced by Ellen. It is like the _testament_ of our saintly darling,\nwhom I seem still to see. I had omitted to mention this. The evening\nbefore her death, after I had written by her side the solemn and\ntouching effusions for those who had not, like us, been witnesses of\nthe admirable spectacle of her deliverance, the breaking of the bonds\nwhich held her captive in this world of sorrows, Ellen asked me to let\nher write. Ten minutes passed in this effort, this victorious\nwrestling of the soul over sickness and weakness. On the sealed\nenvelope which she then gave me was written one word only\u2015\u2015\u201cKarl.\u201d\nWould you like to have this last adieu, Kate? How I have kissed these\ntwo almost illegible lines:\n\n\u201cMy beloved husband, I leave you this counsel of St. Bernard for your\nconsolation: \u2018Holy soul, remain alone, in order that thou mayest keep\nthyself for Him alone whom thou hast chosen above all!\u2019\u201d\n\nWhat a track of light our sweet Ellen has left behind her! Love me,\ndearest Kate!\n\n\nJANUARY 25.\n\nWe leave in a week, my dearest Kate. Ren\u00e9 made a point of returning to\nthe south, whose blue sky we shall not quit without regret; and also\nhe wished to pray once more with us in Ellen\u2019s room. Karl does not\nwish the _Chalet of souvenirs_ to pass into strange hands. He had\nrented it for a year; Ren\u00e9 proposed to him to buy it, and the matter\nwas settled yesterday. I am writing to Mistress Annah, to lay\nbefore her the offer of a good work, capable of tempting her\nself-devotion\u2015\u2015namely, that she should install herself at the\n_chalet_, and there take in a few poor sick people, and we might\nperhaps return thither. What do you think of this plan, dearest Kate?\n\nWe are all in love with Marcella and her pretty little girl, who are\nglad to accompany us to Orleans. Gertrude has offered H\u00e9l\u00e8ne\u2019s room to\nour new friend, whose melancholy is gradually disappearing. It is\nneedless to say that she is by no means indifferent to Kate. You would\nlove her, dear sister, and bless God with me for having placed her on\nour path. She has the head of an Italian Madonna, expressive,\nsympathetic, sweet; her portrait will be my first work when we return\nto Orleans.\n\nOn this day, eighteen centuries ago, St. Paul was struck to the earth\non his way to Damascus; he fell a persecutor of Christ, and arose an\napostle of that faith for which he would in due time give his life.\nLet us also be apostles, my sister.\n\nA visit from Sarah on her wedding journey. Who would have thought of\nmy seeing her here?\n\nWe prayed much for France on the ill-omened date of the 21st. O\ndearest! if you were but to read M. de Beauch\u00eane\u2019s _Louis XVII._ It is\nheartrending! Poor kings! It is the nature of mountain-tops to attract\nthe lightning. Ren\u00e9 has given to Marcella _Marie Antoinette_, by M. de\nLescure. Adrien has been reading it to us in the evenings. The grand\nand mournful epic is related with a magical charm of style which I\nfind most attractive. Marie Antoinette, the calumniated queen, there\nappears in all the purity and splendor of her beauty. This reading\nleft on my mind a deep impression of sadness. Poor queen! so great, so\nsanctified. \u201cThe martyrology of the Temple cannot be written.\u201d The\nlife of Marie Antoinette is full of contrasts; nothing could be fairer\nthan its dawn, nothing more enchanting than the picture of her\nchildhood, youth, and marriage\u2015\u2015this latter the dream of the courts of\nAustria and France, which made her at fifteen years old the triumphant\nand almost worshipped Dauphiness. And yet what shadows darkened here\nand there the radiant poem of her happy days! She went on increasing\nin beauty; she became a mother; and beneath the delightful shades of\nTrianon, \u201cthe Versailles of flowers which she preferred to the\nVersailles of marble,\u201d she came to luxuriate in the newly-found joys\nwhich filled her heart. Then came a terrible grief, the sinister\nprecursor of the horrible tempests which were to burst upon the head\nof this queen, so French, but whom her misguided people persisted in\ncalling _the foreigner_\u2015\u2015the death of Maria Theresa the Great. What a\ncruel destiny is that of queens! Marie Antoinette, whose heart was so\nnobly formed for holy family joys, quitted her own at the age of\nfifteen, going to live far from her mother, whom she was never to see\nagain, even at the moment when that heroic woman rendered up to God\nthe soul which had struggled so valiantly. The Revolution was there,\ndreadful and menacing. Marie Antoinette began her militant and\nglorious life, and the day came when \u201cthe monster\u201d said with truth:\n\u201cThe king has but one man near him, and that man is the queen.\u201d O dear\nKate! the end of this history makes me afraid. What expiation will God\nrequire of France for these martyrdoms?\n\nAnd we are going away.\u2026 Shall we return?\n\nWe are to visit Fourvi\u00e8res, Ars, Paray-le-Monial, and first of all the\nGrande Chartreuse\u2015\u2015what a journey!\u2015\u2015and _you_ afterwards. I am fond of\ntravelling\u2015\u2015fond of the unknown, of beautiful views, movement, the\npretty, wondering eyes of the little ones, the halts, for one or two\ndays, in hotels, all the moving of the household which reminds me of\nthe pleasant time when I used to travel with my Kate. Dearest sister,\nI long, I long to embrace you! Your kind, rare, and delightful\nletters, which I learn by heart the first day, the feeling of that\nnearness of our hearts to each other which nothing on earth can\nseparate\u2015\u2015this is also you; but to _see_ you is sweeter than all the\nrest.\n\nMarcella wishes to be named in this letter. You know whether or not\nthe whole family loves Mme. Kate.\n\nSend us your good angel during our wanderings, and believe in the\nfondest affection of your Georgina.\n\n\nTO BE CONTINUED.\n\n\n [21] \u201cBehold the sapless leaves, which fall upon the turf.\u201d\n\n [22] \u201c_Dames Auxiliatrices du Purgatoire._\u201d\n\n [23] Past days, which each of us recalls with tears,\n Days we regret in vain, had you so many charms?\n Or was your brightness also marred by winds,\n And doth our weariness of the present make you seem so fair?\n\n [24] In Brittany the poor are habitually called _les pauvres\n du Bon Dieu_.\u2015\u2015TRANSL.\n\n [25] Mgr. de la Bouillerie\n\n [26] In French, _L\u2019Oiseau du Bon Dieu_; in Catholic England,\n \u201cOur Lady\u2019s bird.\u201d\n\n [27] In the hymn _Adeste fideles_.\n\n [28] _G\u00e2teau des Rois_, \u201cTwelfth-Cake.\u201d\n\n [29] To offer two pure [grains of] incense: innocence and\n happiness.\n\n [30] The purest Italian, \u201c_Lingua Toscana in bocca Romana_.\u201d\n\n [31] What, then, are days, that they should deserve our\n tears?\n\n [32] \u201cThou lovedst me amongst all, and the gifts that men\n desire\u2015\u2015this unknown power accorded to the lyre, this\n mysterious art of pleasing by the voice\u2015\u2015if I am said to own\n it, Lord, I owe it all to thee.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHRISTINA ROSSETTI\u2019S POEMS.[33]\n\n\nChristina Rossetti is, we believe, the queen of the Preraphaelite\nschool, the literary department of that school at least, in England.\nTo those interested in Preraphaelites and Preraphaelitism the present\nvolume, which seems to be the first American edition of this lady\u2019s\npoems, will prove a great attraction. The school in art and literature\nrepresented under this name, however, has as yet made small progress\namong ourselves. It will doubtless be attributed to our barbarism, but\nthat is an accusation to which we are growing accustomed, and which we\ncan very complacently bear. The members of the school we know: Ruskin,\nMadox Brown, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, all the other Rossettis,\nSwinburne, Morris, and the rest; but we know no school. It has not yet\nwon enough pupils to establish itself among us, and we at best regard\nit as a fashion that will pass away as have so many others: the low\nshirt-collar, flowing locks, melancholy visage, and aspect of general\ndisgust with which, for instance, the imitators of Byron, in all save\nhis intellect, were wont to afflict us in the earlier portion of the\npresent century. The fact is, our English friends have a way of\nrunning into these fashions that is perplexing, and that would seem to\nindicate an inability on their part to judge for themselves of\nliterary or artistic merit. To-day Pope and Addison are the fashion;\nto-morrow, Byron and Jeffreys; then Wordsworth and Carlyle; then\nTennyson and Macaulay; and now Rossetti, Swinburne, Morris, and their\nkin, if they are not in the ascendant, gain a school, succeed in\nmaking a great deal of noise about themselves, and in having a great\ndeal of noise made about them. It is the same with tailoring in days\nwhen your tailor, like your cook, is an \u201cartist.\u201d\n\nSurely the laws and canons of art are constant. The good is good and\nthe bad bad, by whomsoever written or wrought. Affectation cannot\ncover poverty of thought or conception. A return to old ways, old\nmodels, old methods, is good, provided we go deeper than the mere\nfringe and trappings of such. How the name Preraphaelite first came we\ndo not know. It originated, we believe, in an earnest revolt against\ncertain viciousness in modern art. It was, if we mistake not, a\nreturn, to a great extent, to old-time realism. The question is, How\nfar back did the originators of the movement go? If we take the strict\nmeaning of the word, Homer was a Preraphaelite; so was Virgil; so was\nHorace; so were the Greek tragedians; so was Aristophanes. Apelles\u2019\nbrush deceived the birds of heaven; Phidias made the marble live ages\nbefore Raphael. Nay, how long before Raphael did the inspired prophets\ncatch the very breathings of God to men, and turn them into the music\nand the religion of all time? These are surely Preraphaelites; yet we\nfind few signs of their teachings in this fussy, ardent, and\naggressive little modern English school.\n\nWe do not deny many gifts to certain members of the school. Swinburne,\nfor instance, seems capable of playing with words as he pleases, of\nturning and tuning them into any form of melodious rhythm. But he\nbegins and ends with _words_. Dante Gabriel Rossetti has given us some\nmassive fragments, but nothing more. We look and say, \u201cHow much this\nman might have done!\u201d but there our admiration ceases. Morris has\nwritten much and well, but he teases one with the antique. Set Byron\nby the side of any or all of them, and at once they dwindle almost\ninto insignificance. Yet Byron wrote much that was worthless. He\nwrote, however, more that was really great. He never played tricks\nwith words; he never allowed them to master him. He began the _Childe\nHarold_ in imitation of Spenser; but he soon struck out so freely and\nvigorously that, though it may be half heresy to say it, Spenser\nhimself was left far in the rear, and we believe that any intelligent\njury in these days would award a far higher prize to the _Childe\nHarold_ than to the _Faerie Queen_. Byron was a born poet. Like all\ngreat poets, undoubtedly, he owed much to art; but then art was always\nhis slave. He rose above it. The fault with our present poets, not\nexcepting even Tennyson, is that they are better artists than they are\npoets. Consequently, they win little cliques and knots of admirers,\nwhere others, as did Byron, win a world in spite of itself. It is all\nthe difference between genius and the very highest respectability.\n\nMiss Rossetti we take to be a very good example of the faults and\nvirtues of her school. Here is a volume of three hundred pages, and it\nis filled with almost every kind of verse, much of which is of the\nmost fragmentary nature. Some of it is marvellously beautiful; some\ntrash; some coarse; some the very breathing and inspiration of the\ndeep religion of the heart. In her devotional pieces she is\nundoubtedly at her best. Surely a strong Catholic tradition must be\nkept alive in this family. Her more famous brother sings of the\nBlessed Virgin in a spirit that Father Faber might have envied, and in\nverse that Father Faber never could have commanded. How she sings of\nChrist and holy things will presently appear. But her other pieces are\nnot so satisfactory. The ultra-melancholy tone, the tiresome\nrepetitions of words and phrases that mark the school, pervade them.\nOf melancholy as of adversity it may be said, \u201cSweet are its uses,\u201d\nprovided \u201cits uses\u201d are not too frequent. An ounce of melancholy will\nserve at any time to dash a ton of mirth.\n\nBut our friends the Preraphaelites positively revel in gloom. They are\nfor ever \u201chob and nob with Brother Death.\u201d They seem to study a\nskeleton with the keen interest of an anatomist. Wan ghosts are their\nfavorite companions, and ghosts\u2019 walks their choice resorts. The\nscenery described in their poems has generally a sad, sepulchral look.\nThere is a vast amount of rain with mournful soughing winds, laden\noften with the voices of those who are gone. A favorite trick of a\nPreraphaelite ghost is to stalk into his old haunts, only to discover\nthat after all people live in much the same style as when he was in\nthe flesh, and can manage to muster a laugh and talk about mundane\nmatters even though he has departed. Miss Rossetti treats us to\nseveral such visits, and in each case the \u201cpoor ghost\u201d stalks out\nagain disconsolate.\n\nThere is another Preraphaelite ghost who is fond of visiting, just on\nthe day of her wedding with somebody else, the lady who has jilted\nhim. The conversation carried on between the jilt and the ghost of the\njilted is, as may be imagined, hardly of the kind one would expect on\nso festive an occasion. For our own part, we should imagine that the\nghost would have grown wiser, if not more charitable, by his visit to\nthe other world, and would show himself quite willing to throw at\nleast the ghost of a slipper after the happy pair.\n\nBetween the Preraphaelite ghosts and the Preraphaelite lovers there\nseems really little difference. The love is of the most tearful\ndescription; the lady, wan at the start, has to wait and wait a woful\ntime for the gentleman, who is always a dreadfully indefinite distance\naway. Strange to say, he generally has to make the journey back to his\nlady-love on foot. Of course on so long a journey he meets with all\nkinds of adventures and many a lady gay who keep him from his true\nlove. She, poor thing, meanwhile sits patiently at the same casement\nlooking out for the coming of her love. The only difference in her is\nthat she grows wanner and more wan, until at length the tardy lover\narrives, of course, only to find her dead body being carried out, and\nthe good old fairy-story ending\u2015\u2015that they were married and lived\nhappy ever after\u2015\u2015is quite thrown out.\n\nIt will be judged from what we have said that, whatever merits the\nPreraphaelite school of poetry may possess, cheerfulness is not one of\nthem. As a proof of this we only cull a few titles from the contents\nof the book before us. \u201cA Dirge\u201d is the eighth on the list; then come\nin due order, \u201cAfter Death,\u201d \u201cThe Hour and the Ghost,\u201d \u201cDead before\nDeath,\u201d \u201cBitter for Sweet,\u201d \u201cThe Poor Ghost,\u201d \u201cThe Ghost\u2019s Petition,\u201d\nand so on. But Miss Rossetti is happily not all melancholy. The\nopening piece, the famous \u201cGoblin Market,\u201d is thoroughly fresh and\ncharming, and, to our thinking, deserves a place beside \u201cThe Pied\nPiper of Hamlin.\u201d Is not this a perfect picture of its kind?\n\n \u201cLaughed every goblin\n When they spied her peeping;\n Came towards her hobbling,\n Flying, running, leaping,\n Puffing and blowing,\n Chuckling, clapping, crowing,\n Clucking and gobbling,\n Mopping and mowing,\n Full of airs and graces,\n Pulling wry faces,\n Demure grimaces,\n Cat-like and rat-like,\n Ratel and wombat-like,\n Snail-paced in a hurry,\n Parrot-voiced and whistler,\n Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry,\n Chattering like magpies,\n Fluttering like pigeons,\n Gliding like fishes\u2015\u2015\n Hugged her and kissed her;\n Squeezed and caressed her;\n Stretched up their dishes,\n Panniers and plates;\n \u2018Look at our apples\n Russet and dun,\n Bob at our cherries,\n Bite at our peaches,\n Citrons and dates,\n Grapes for the asking,\n Pears red with basking\n Out in the sun,\n Plums on their twigs;\n Pluck them and suck them,\n Pomegranates, figs.\u2019\u201d\n\nOf course this is not very high poetry, nor as such is it quoted here.\nBut it is one of many wonderful pieces of minute and life-like\npainting that occur in this strange poem. From the same we quote\nanother passage as exhibiting what we would call a splendid fault in\nthe poet:\n\n \u201cWhite and golden Lizzie stood,\n Like a lily in a flood\u2015\u2015\n Like a rock of blue-veined stone\n Lashed by tides obstreperously;\n Like a beacon left alone\n In a hoary, roaring sea,\n Sending up a golden fire;\n Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree\n White with blossoms honey-sweet,\n Sore beset by wasp and bee;\n Like a royal virgin town,\n Topped with gilded dome and spire,\n Close beleaguered by a fleet,\n Mad to tug her standard down.\u201d\n\nUndoubtedly these are fine and spirited lines, and, some of them at\nleast, noble similes. What do they call up to the mind of the reader?\nOne of those heroic maidens who in history have led armies to victory\nand relieved nations\u2015\u2015a Joan of Arc leading a forlorn hope girt around\nby the English. Any picture of this kind it would fit; but what is it\nintended to represent? A little girl struggling to prevent the little\ngoblin-men from pressing their fatal fruits into her mouth! The statue\nis far too large for the pedestal. Here is another instance of the\nsame, the lines of which might be taken from a Greek chorus:\n\n \u201cHer locks streamed like the torch\n Borne by a racer at full speed,\n Or like the mane of horses in their flight,\n Or like an eagle when she stems the light\n Straight toward the sun,\n Or like a caged thing freed,\n Or like a flying flag when armies run.\u201d\n\nThe locks that are like all these wonderful things are those of\nLizzie\u2019s little sister Laura, who had tasted the fruits of the\ngoblin-men. How different from this is \u201cThe Convent Threshold\u201d! It is\na strong poem, but of the earth earthy. As far as one can judge, it is\nthe address of a young lady to her lover, who is still in the world\nand apparently enjoying a gay life. She has sinned, and remorse or\nsome other motive seems to have driven her within the convent walls.\nShe gives her lover admirable advice, but the old leaven is not yet\npurged out, as may be seen from the final exhortation:\n\n \u201cLook up, rise up; for far above\n Our palms are grown, our place is set;\n There we shall meet as once we met,\n And love with old familiar love.\u201d\u2015\u2015\n\nWhich may be a very pleasant prospect for separated lovers, but is\nscarcely heaven.\n\nThe poem contains a strong contrast\u2015\u2015and yet how weak a one to the\ntruly spiritual soul!\u2015\u2015between the higher and the lower life.\n\n \u201cYour eyes look earthward; mine look up.\n I see the far-off city grand,\n Beyond the hills a watered land,\n Beyond the gulf a gleaming strand\n Of mansions where the righteous sup\n Who sleep at ease among the trees,\n Or wake to sing a cadenced hymn\n With Cherubim and Seraphim;\n They bore the cross, they drained the cup,\n Racked, roasted, crushed, rent limb from limb\u2015\u2015\n They, the off-scouring of the world:\n The heaven of starry heavens unfurled,\n The sun before their face is dim.\n\n \u201cYou, looking earthward, what see you?\n Milk-white, wine-flushed among the vines,\n Up and down leaping, to and fro,\n Most glad, most full, made strong with wines,\n Blooming as peaches pearled with dew,\n Their golden, windy hair afloat,\n Love-music warbling in their throat,\n Young men and women come and go.\u201d\n\nSomething much more characteristic of the school to which Miss\nRossetti belongs is \u201cThe Poor Ghost,\u201d some of which we quote as a\nsample:\n\n \u201cOh! whence do you come, my dear friend, to me,\n With your golden hair all fallen below your knee,\n And your face as white as snow-drops on the lea,\n And your voice as hollow as the hollow sea?\u201d\n\n \u201cFrom the other world I come back to you,\n My locks are uncurled with dripping, drenching dew.\n You know the old, whilst I know the new:\n But to-morrow you shall know this too.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cLife is gone, then love too is gone,\n It was a reed that I leant upon:\n Never doubt I will leave you alone\n And not wake you rattling bone with bone.\u201d\n\nBut this is too lugubrious. There are many others of a similar tone,\nbut we prefer laying before the reader what we most admire. We have no\ndoubt whatever that there are many persons who would consider such\npoems as the last quoted from the gems of the volume. To us they read\nas though written by persons in the last stage of consumption, who\nhave no hope in life, and apparently very little beyond. The lines,\ntoo, are as heavy and clumsy as they can be. Perhaps the author has\nmade them so on purpose to impart an additional ghastliness to the\npoem; for, as seen already, she can sing sweetly enough when she\npleases. Another long and very doleful poem is that entitled \u201cUnder\nthe Rose,\u201d which repeats the sad old lesson that the sins of the\nparents are visited on the heads of the children. A third, though not\nquite so sad, save in the ending, is \u201cThe Prince\u2019s Progress,\u201d which is\none of the best and most characteristic in the volume. As exhibiting a\nhappier style, we quote a few verses:\n\n \u201cIn his world-end palace the strong Prince sat,\n Taking his ease on cushion and mat;\n Close at hand lay his staff and his hat.\n \u2018When wilt thou start? The bride waits, O youth!\u2019\n \u2018Now the moon\u2019s at full; I tarried for that:\n Now I start in truth.\n\n \u2018But tell me first, true voice of my doom,\n Of my veiled bride in her maiden bloom;\n Keeps she watch through glare and through gloom,\n Watch for me asleep and awake?\u2019\n \u2018Spell-bound she watches in one white room,\n And is patient for thy sake.\n\n \u2018By her head lilies and rosebuds grow;\n The lilies droop\u2015\u2015will the rosebuds blow?\n The silver slim lilies hang the head low;\n Their stream is scanty, their sunshine rare.\n Let the sun blaze out, and let the stream flow:\n They will blossom and wax fair.\n\n \u2018Red and white poppies grow at her feet;\n The blood-red wait for sweet summer heat,\n Wrapped in bud-coats hairy and neat;\n But the white buds swell; one day they will burst,\n Will open their death-cups drowsy and sweet;\n Which will open the first?\u2019\n\n Then a hundred sad voices lifted a wail;\n And a hundred glad voices piped on the gale:\n \u2018Time is short, life is short,\u2019 they took up the tale:\n \u2018Life is sweet, love is sweet; use to-day while you may;\n Love is sweet and to-morrow may fail:\n Love is sweet, use to-day.\u2019\u201d\n\nThe Prince turns out to be a sad laggard; but what else could he be\nwhen he had to traverse such lands as this?\n\n \u201cOff he set. The grass grew rare,\n A blight lurked in the darkening air,\n The very moss grew hueless and spare,\n The last daisy stood all astunt;\n Behind his back the soil lay bare,\n But barer in front.\n\n \u201cA land of chasm and rent, a land\n Of rugged blackness on either hand;\n If water trickled, its track was tanned\n With an edge of rust to the chink;\n If one stamped on stone or on sand,\n It returned a clink.\n\n \u201cA lifeless land, a loveless land,\n Without lair or nest on either hand\n Only scorpions jerked in the sand,\n Black as black iron, or dusty pale\n From point to point sheer rock was manned\n By scorpions in mail.\n\n \u201cA land of neither life nor death,\n Where no man buildeth or fashioneth,\n Where none draws living or dying breath;\n No man cometh or goeth there,\n No man doeth, seeketh, saith,\n In the stagnant air.\u201d\n\nSo far for the general run of Miss Rossetti\u2019s poems. It will be seen\nthat they are nothing very wonderful, in whatever light we view them.\nThey are not nearly so great as her brother\u2019s; indeed, they will not\nstand comparison with them at all. The style is too varied, the pieces\nare too short and fugitive to be stamped with any marked originality\nor individuality, with the exception, perhaps, of the \u201cGoblin Market.\u201d\nBut there is a certain class of her poems examination of which we have\nreserved for the last. Miss Rossetti has set up a little devotional\nshrine here and there throughout the volume, where we find her on her\nknees, with a strong faith, a deep sense of spiritual needs, a feeling\nof the real littleness of the life passing around us, of the true\ngreatness of what is to come after, a sense of the presence of the\nliving God before whom she bows down her soul into the dust; and here\nshe is another woman. As she sinks her poetry rises, and gushes up out\nof her heart to heaven in strains sad, sweet, tender, and musical that\na saint might envy. What in the wide realm of English poetry is more\nbeautiful or more Catholic than this?\n\n\n THE THREE ENEMIES.\n\n _The Flesh._\n\n \u201cSweet, thou art pale.\u201d\n \u201cMore pale to see,\n Christ hung upon the cruel tree\n And bare his Father\u2019s wrath for me.\u201d\n\n \u201cSweet, thou art sad.\u201d\n \u201cBeneath a rod\n More heavy, Christ for my sake trod\n The wine-press of the wrath of God.\u201d\n\n \u201cSweet, thou art weary.\u201d\n \u201cNot so Christ;\n Whose mighty love of me sufficed\n For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist.\u201d\n\n \u201cSweet, thou art footsore.\u201d\n \u201cIf I bleed,\n His feet have bled; yea, in my need\n His Heart once bled for mine indeed.\u201d\n\n _The World._\n\n \u201cSweet, thou art young.\u201d\n \u201cSo He was young\n Who for my sake in silence hung\n Upon the Cross with Passion wrung.\u201d\n\n \u201cLook, thou art fair.\u201d\n \u201cHe was more fair\n Than men, Who deigned for me to wear\n A visage marred beyond compare.\u201d\n\n \u201cAnd thou hast riches.\u201d\n \u201cDaily bread:\n All else is His; Who living, dead,\n For me lacked where to lay His Head.\u201d\n\n \u201cAnd life is sweet.\u201d\n \u201cIt was not so\n To Him, Whose Cup did overflow\n With mine unutterable woe.\u201d\n\n _The Devil._\n\n \u201cThou drinkest deep.\u201d\n \u201cWhen Christ would sup\n He drained the dregs from out my cup.\n So how should I be lifted up?\u201d\n\n \u201cThou shalt win Glory.\u201d\n \u201cIn the skies,\n Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes\n Lest they should look on vanities.\u201d\n\n \u201cThou shalt have Knowledge.\u201d\n \u201cHelpless dust,\n In thee, O Lord, I put my trust:\n Answer Thou for me, Wise and Just.\u201d\n\n \u201cAnd Might.\u201d\n \u201cGet thee behind me. Lord,\n Who hast redeemed and not abhorred\n My soul, oh! keep it by thy Word.\u201d\n\nAnd what a cry is this? Who has not felt it in his heart? It is\nentitled \u201cGood Friday\u201d:\n\n \u201cAm I a stone and not a sheep,\n That I can stand, O Christ! beneath Thy Cross,\n To number drop by drop Thy Blood\u2019s slow loss,\n And yet not weep?\n\n \u201cNot so those women loved\n Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;\n Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;\n Not so the thief was moved;\n\n \u201cNot so the Sun and Moon\n Which hid their faces in a starless sky,\n A horror of great darkness at broad noon,\u2015\u2015\n I, only I.\n\n \u201cYet give not o\u2019er,\n But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;\n Greater than Moses, turn and look once more\n And smite a rock.\u201d\n\nIt would seem that the heart which can utter feelings like these\nshould be safely housed in the one true fold. There, and there only,\ncan such hearts find room for expansion; for there alone can they find\nthe food to fill them, the wherewith to satisfy their long yearnings,\nthe light to guide the many wanderings of their spirits, the strength\nto lift up and sustain them after many a fall and many a cruel deceit.\nOutside that threshold, however near they may be to it, they will in\nthe long run find their lives empty. With George Eliot, they will find\nlife only a sad satire and hope a very vague thing. Like her heroine,\nDorothea Brooke, the finer feelings and aspirations of their really\nspiritual and intensely religious natures will only end in petty\ncollisions with the petty people around them, and thankful they may be\nif all their life does not turn out to be an exasperating mistake, as\nit must be a failure, compared with that larger life that they only\ndimly discern. How truly Miss Rossetti discerns it may be seen in her\nsonnet on \u201cThe World\u201d:\n\n \u201cBy day she wooes me, soft, exceeding fair:\n But all night as the moon so changeth she;\n Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy,\n And subtle serpents gliding in her hair.\n By day she wooes me to the outer air,\n Ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety:\n But through the night, a beast she grins at me,\n A very monster void of love and prayer.\n By day she stands a lie: by night she stands,\n In all the naked horror of the truth,\n With pushing horns and clawed and clutching hands.\n Is this a friend indeed; that I should sell\n My soul to her, give her my life and youth,\n _Till my feet, cloven too, take hold on hell?_\u201d\n\nCould there be anything more complete than this whole picture, or\nanything more startling yet true in conception than the image in the\nlast line, which we have italicized? One feels himself, as it were, on\nthe very verge of the abyss, and the image of God, in which he was\ncreated, suddenly and silently falling from him. But a more beautiful\nand daring conception is that in the poem \u201cFrom House to Home.\u201d\nTreading on earth, the poet mounts to heaven, but by the thorny path\nthat alone leads to it. Her days seemed perfect here below, and all\nhappiness hers. Her house is fair and all its surroundings beautiful.\nShe tells us that\n\n \u201cOfttimes one like an angel walked with me.\n With spirit-discerning eyes like flames of fire,\n But deep as the unfathomed, endless sea,\n Fulfilling my desire.\u201d\n\nThe spirit leaves her after a time, calling her home from banishment\ninto \u201cthe distant land.\u201d All the beauty of her life goes with him, and\nhope dies out of her heart, until something whispered that they should\nmeet again in a distant land.\n\n \u201cI saw a vision of a woman, where\n Night and new morning strive for domination;\n Incomparably pale, and almost fair,\n And sad beyond expression.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cI stood upon the outer barren ground,\n She stood on inner ground that budded flowers;\n While circling in their never-slackening round\n Danced by the mystic hours.\n\n \u201cBut every flower was lifted on a thorn,\n And every thorn shot upright from its sands\n To gall her feet; hoarse laughter pealed in scorn\n With cruel clapping hands.\n\n \u201cShe bled and wept, yet did not shrink; her strength\n Was strung up until daybreak of delight;\n She measured measureless sorrow toward its length,\n And breadth, and depth, and height.\n\n \u201cThen marked I how a chain sustained her form,\n A chain of living links not made nor riven:\n It stretched sheer up through lightning, wind, and storm,\n And anchored fast in heaven.\n\n \u201cOne cried: \u2018How long? Yet founded on the Rock\n She shall do battle, suffer, and attain.\u2019\n One answered: \u2018Faith quakes in the tempest shock:\n Strengthen her soul again.\u2019\n\n \u201cI saw a cup sent down and come to her\n Brimful of loathing and of bitterness:\n She drank with livid lips that seemed to stir\n The depth, not make it less.\n\n \u201cBut as she drank I spied a hand distil\n New wine and virgin honey; making it\n First bitter-sweet, then sweet indeed, until\n She tasted only sweet.\n\n \u201cHer lips and cheeks waxed rosy\u2015\u2015fresh and young;\n Drinking she sang: \u2018My soul shall nothing want\u2019;\n And drank anew: while soft a song was sung,\n A mystical low chant.\n\n \u201cOne cried: \u2018The wounds are faithful of a friend:\n The wilderness shall blossom as a rose.\u2019\n One answered: \u2018Rend the veil, declare the end,\n Strengthen her ere she goes.\u2019\u201d\n\nThen earth and heaven are rolled up like a scroll, and she gazes into\nheaven. Wonderful indeed is the picture drawn of the heavenly court;\nbut we have already quoted at such length that we fear to tire our\nreaders. Still, we must find room for the following three verses:\n\n \u201cTier beyond tier they rose and rose and rose\n _So high that it was dreadful_, flames with flames:\n No man could number them, no tongue disclose\n Their secret sacred names.\n\n \u201cAs though one pulse stirred all, one rush of blood\n Fed all, one breath swept through them myriad-voiced,\n They struck their harps, cast down their crowns, they stood\n And worshipped and rejoiced.\n\n \u201cEach face looked one way like a moon new-lit,\n Each face looked one way towards its Sun of Love;\n Drank love and bathed in love and mirrored it\n And knew no end thereof.\u201d\n\nWe might go on quoting with pleasure and admiration most of these\ndevotional pieces, but enough has been given to show how different a\nwriter is Miss Rossetti in her religious and in her worldly mood. The\nbeauty, grace, pathos, sublimity often, of the one weary us of the\nother. In the one she warbles or sings, with often a flat and\ndiscordant note in her tones that now please and now jar; in the other\nshe is an inspired prophetess or priestess chanting a sublime chant or\ngiving voice to a world\u2019s sorrow and lament. In the latter all\naffectation of word, or phrase, or rhythm disappears. The subjects\nsung are too great for such pettiness, and the song soars with them.\nThe same thing is true of her brother, the poet. Religion has inspired\nhis loftiest conceptions, and a religion that is certainly very unlike\nany but the truth. We trust that the reverence and devotion to the\ntruth which must lie deep in the hearts of this gifted brother and\nsister may bear their legitimate fruit, and end not in words only, but\nblossom into deeds which will indeed lead them \u201cFrom House to Home.\u201d\n\n\n [33] Poems by Christina G. Rossetti. Boston: Roberts\n Brothers. 1876.\n\n\n\n ECHO TO MARY.\n\n\n Who gently dries grief\u2019s falling tear?\n Maria.\n Of fairy flowers which fairest blows?\n The Rose.\n What seekest thou, poor plaining dove?\n My Love.\n Rejoice, thou morning Dove!\n Earth\u2019s peerless Rose, without a thorn,\n Unfolds its bloom this natal morn\u2015\u2015\n Maria, Rose of Love!\n\n What craves the heart of storms the sport?\n A Port.\n And what the fevered patient\u2019s quest?\n Calm Rest.\n What ray to cheer when shadows slope?\n Hope.\n O Mary, Mother blest!\n Through nights of gloom, through days of fear,\n Thy love the ray by which to steer,\n Bright Hope! to Port of Rest.\n\n Desponding heart what gift will please?\n Heart of Ease.\n What scent reminds of a hidden saint?\n Jess\u2019mine Faint.\n What caught its hue from the azure sky?\n Violet\u2019s Eye.\n O Mary, peerless dower!\n A balm to soothe, love\u2019s odor sweet,\n A glimpse of heaven in thee we greet\u2015\u2015\n Heartsease, Jess\u2019mine, Violet flower!\n\n Of Mary\u2019s love who most secure?\n The Pure.\n What lamp diffuses light afar?\n A Star.\n When is light-wing\u00e9d zephyr born?\n At Morn.\n My eyes, with watching worn,\n Will vigil keep till day returns;\n To see thy light my spirit yearns,\n Mary Pure, Star of Morn!\n\n What name most sweet to dying ear?\n Maria.\n On heavenly hosts who smiles serene?\n Their Queen.\n What joy is perfected above?\n Love.\n Welcome, thou spotless Dove!\n Awake, my soul, celestial mirth!\n This day brings purest joy to earth!\n Maria, Queen of Love.\n\nNATIVITY B. V. MARY, September 8.[34]\n\n\n [34] The above is a free translation from a beautiful short\n Spanish poem which lately appeared in the _Revista Catolica_\n of Las Vegas, New Mexico.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HIGHLAND EXILE.\n\n\nA recent number of the London _Tablet_ contains some very interesting\nfacts concerning the return of the Benedictine Order to Scotland. This\nevent is expected soon to take place, after a banishment of the Order\nfor nearly three hundred years from those regions of beauty where for\nmany previous centuries it had been the source and dispenser of\ncountless spiritual and temporal blessings to the people.\n\nIt is among the most marvellous of the wonderful compensations of\ndivine Providence in these days of mysterious trial for the church as\nto her temporalities, and of her most glorious triumphs in the\nspiritual order, that the place for this re-establishment should have\nbeen fixed at Fort Augustus, in Inverness-shire\u2015\u2015the very spot which\nthe \u201cdark and bloody\u201d Duke of Cumberland made his headquarters while\npursuing with merciless and exterminating slaughter the hapless\nCatholics of the Highlands after the fatal field of Culloden in 1746.\nNo less significant is the fact that a descendant of the Lord Lovat\nwho was beheaded for his participation in that conflict, and the\ninheritor of his title, should have purchased Fort Augustus from the\nBritish government with a view to this happy result, though he was not\npermitted to live long enough to witness the accomplishment of his\npious purpose.\n\nA more beautiful or appropriate abode for the devoted sons of St.\nBenedict could not have been found than this secluded spot, where, far\nremoved from all the turmoil and distractions of the world, they will\nbe free to exercise the spirit of their holy rule, and draw down\nabundant benedictions upon the surrounding country. The buildings are\nsituated near the extremity of Loch Ness, commanding toward the east a\nview of that picturesque lake, and to the west of the wild range of\nGlengarry Mountains.\n\nIt is consoling to reflect that the place which, notwithstanding the\nfascinations of its extraordinary beauty, has so long been held in\ndetestation by the faithful Catholic Highlanders, on account of the\nfearful atrocities once committed under protection of its strong\ntowers, is destined thus to become the very treasure-house of Heaven\u2019s\nchoicest blessings for them in the restoration of their former\nbenefactors and spiritual directors.\n\nVery pleasant, also, to every child of the faith the world over, is\nthe thought that these hills and glens, long so \u201cfamous in story,\u201d\nwill once again give echo, morning, noon, and night, to the glad\ntidings of salvation proclaimed by the holy Angelus, and to the\nancient chants and songs of praise which resounded through the older\ncenturies from the cloisters of this holy brotherhood; and that in\nthese solitudes the clangor of the \u201cchurch-going bell\u201d will again\nsummon the faithful to the free and open exercise of the worship so\nlong proscribed under cruel penalties. The tenacity with which the\nHighlanders of Scotland clung to their faith through the most\npersistent and appalling persecutions proved that the foundations of\nthe spiritual edifice in that\n\n \u201cLand of brown heath and shaggy wood,\n Land of the mountain and the flood,\u201d\n\nwere laid broad and deep by saints not unworthy to be classed with the\nglorious St. Patrick of the sister shores.\n\nIn the course of our studies of history in early youth, before we were\ninterested in such triumphs of the church, save as curious historical\nfacts not to be accounted for upon Protestant principles, we were\ndeeply impressed by proofs of her supernatural and sustaining power\nover this noble race which came within our personal notice.\n\nDuring a winter in the first quarter of this century my father and\nmother made the journey from Prescott, Upper Canada, to Montreal, in\ntheir own conveyance, taking me with them.\n\nWe stopped over one night at an inn situated on the confines of a\ndismal little village, planted in a country as flat and unattractive\nin all its features as could well be imagined. The village was settled\nentirely by Highlanders exiled on account of their religion and the\ntroubles which followed the irretrievable disaster of Culloden. Its\ninhabitants among themselves spoke only the Gaelic language, which I\nthen heard for the first time. My father\u2019s notice was attracted by the\naged father of our host, a splendid specimen of the native Highlander,\nclad in the full and wonderfully picturesque costume of his race.\nAlthough from his venerable appearance you might have judged that\n\n \u201cA hundred years had flung their snows\n On his thin locks and floating beard,\u201d\n\nyet was his form as erect and his mind as clear as when in youth he\ntrod his native glens.\n\nMy father soon drew him into a conversation to which their juvenile\ncompanion was an eager and retentive listener. The chief tenor of it\nwas concerning the state of Scotland, and the prevailing sentiment of\nher people in the north, before the last hapless scion of the Stuarts\nmade the fatal attempt which resulted in utter defeat and ruin to all\nconnected with it. In the course of their chat, and as his intellect\nwas aroused and excited by the subject, a narrative of his own\npersonal knowledge of those matters and share in the conflict fell\nunconsciously, as it were, from his lips.\n\nHe was a young lad at the time his father\u2019s clan gathered to the\nrallying-cry of the Camerons for the field of Culloden. Young as he\nwas, he fought by his father\u2019s side, and saw him slain with multitudes\nof his kin on that scene of carnage. He was among the few of his clan\nwho escaped and succeeded by almost superhuman efforts in rescuing\ntheir families from the indiscriminate slaughter which followed. Among\nthe rocks and caves of the wild hills and glens with which they were\nfamiliar they found hiding-places that were inaccessible to the\ndestroyers who were sent out by the merciless Cumberland, but their\nsufferings from cold and hunger were beyond description. In the haste\nof their flight it was impossible to convey the necessary food and\nclothing, and the whole country was so closely watched by scattered\nbands of soldiers that there was no chance of procuring supplies.\nInsufficiently clad and fed, and very imperfectly sheltered from the\nwild storms of those bleak northern regions, many of the women, the\nchildren, and the aged people perished before it was possible to\naccept offers made by the British government of founding colonies in\nNova Scotia and Upper Canada for those who, persistently refusing to\nrenounce the Catholic faith, would consent to emigrate. Large rewards\nand the most tempting inducements were held out to all who would\nsurrender their faith, embrace Protestantism, and remain among their\nbeloved hills.\n\nSo intense is the love of country in the hearts of this brave and\ngenerous people that many could not tear themselves away from scenes\ninwoven with their tenderest affections, but remained, some to enjoy\nin this world the price of that apostasy which imperilled their\neternal interests for the next, while multitudes sought the most\nremote and unapproachable nooks of the rugged north, and remained true\nto their religion in extreme poverty and distress, with no hope of\nalleviation. Our aged narrator joined a band of emigrants from the\nneighborhood of Loch Ness, and came to the dreary wilderness where the\npresent village has grown up. My father expressed his surprise that\nthey should have chosen a place so entirely different in all its\nfeatures from their native scenes, in preference to the hilly parts of\nCanada, where it would seem that they would have been more at home.\n\n\u201cNa, na!\u201d exclaimed the venerable old man, his dark eye kindling with\nthe fire of youth, while he smote the ground with his staff, as if to\nemphasize his dissent\u2015\u2015\u201cna, na; sin\u2019 we could na tread our native\nhills, it iss better far that we had nane! I think the sicht of hills\nwithoot the heather wad drive me mad! Na, na; it iss far better that\nwe should see nae hills!\u201d\n\nHis touching recital of the wrongs sustained by his people at the\nhands of their ruthless conquerors, and the bitter sufferings they\nendured for the faith, awakened my deep and enduring sympathy.\n\nMy father questioned whether, after all, it would not have been better\nfor them to have submitted in the matter of religion, accepted the\nliberal terms offered under that condition, and remained contented in\ntheir beloved homes, rather than make such cruel sacrifices, for\nthemselves and the helpless ones dependent upon them, in support of a\nmere idea, as the difference between one religion and another seemed\nto him. The old man rose in his excitement to his feet, and, standing\nerect and dignified, with flashing eyes exclaimed: \u201cRenounce the\nfaith! Sooner far might we consent that we be sold into slavery! Oh!\nyes; we could do _that_\u2015\u2015we could bow our necks to the yoke in _this_\nworld that our souls might be free for the _next_\u2015\u2015but to renounce the\nfaith! It iss that we could na do whatever; no! not the least one\namong us, though it wass to gain ten kingdoms for us in this warld!\u201d\n\nMy father apologized for a suggestion which had such power to move\nhim, remarking that he was himself quite ignorant concerning the\nCatholic religion, and, indeed, not too well informed as to any other;\nupon which the hoary patriarch approached him, laid his hand upon his\nhead, and said with deep solemnity: \u201cThat the great God, who is ever\nmerciful to the true of heart, might pour the light of his truth into\nyours, and show you how different is it from the false religions, and\nhow worthy that one should die for it rather than yield the point that\nshould seem the most trifling; for there iss nothing connected with\nthe truth that will be trifling.\u201d\n\nThe grand old man! He little suspected that his words struck a\nresponsive chord in the hearts of his listeners that never ceased to\nvibrate to their memory!\n\nA few years after this incident I was passing the months of May and\nJune with a relative in Montreal. Several British regiments were then\nquartered in that city. One of them, I was told, was the famous\n\u201cThirty-ninth\u201d which had won, by its dauntless valor on many\nhard-fought battle-fields in India, the distinction of bearing upon\nits colors the proud legend, \u201c_Primus in Indis_.\u201d\n\nIt was ordered to Canada for the invigorating effect of the climate\nupon the health of soldiers exhausted by long exposure, in fatiguing\ncampaigns, to the sultry sun of India. It was composed chiefly, if not\nwholly, of Scotch Highlanders, well matched in size and height, and,\ntaken all together, quite the finest body of men in form and feature,\nand in chivalrous bearing, that I have ever seen. Their uniform was\nthe full Highland dress, than which a more martial or graceful\nequipment has never been devised. Over the Scotch bonnet of each\nsoldier drooped and nodded a superb ostrich plume.\n\nUnder escort of the kind friend to whose care I had been committed,\nand who was delighted with the fresh enthusiasm of his small rustic\ncousin, just transported from a home in the woods to the novel scenes\nof that fair city, I witnessed repeatedly the parade of the troops on\nthe _Champ de Mars_. The magnificent Highlanders took precedence and\nentirely eclipsed them all, while the bitterness of feeling with which\nthe other regiments submitted to the ceremony of \u201cpresenting arms\u201d\nwhenever the gallant \u201cThirty-ninth\u201d passed and repassed was apparent\neven to me, a stranger and a mere child.\n\nImpressive as these scenes on the _Champ de Mars_ were, however, to\nthe eager fancy of a juvenile observer, they fell far short of the\nthrilling effect produced by a pageant of a widely different nature\nwhich I was soon to witness.\n\nWhile I was expressing my glowing admiration for those \u201csuperb\nHighlanders,\u201d my kinsman, himself a Presbyterian elder, would exclaim:\n\u201cOh! this is nothing at all. Wait until you have seen them march to\nchurch and assist at a grand High Mass!\u201d\n\nAccordingly, on one fine Sunday morning in June he conducted me to an\nelevated position whence the muster of the regiment with its splendid\nbanners, and the full line of march\u2015\u2015to the music of the finest band\nin the army, composed entirely of Highland instruments\u2015\u2015could be\ndistinctly observed. Then, taking a shorter turn, we entered the\nchurch, and secured a seat which overlooked the entrance of the troops\nwithin the sacred precincts. The full band was playing, and the music\nbreathed the very spirit of their native hills. It was a spectacle\nnever to be forgotten. The measured tramp of that multitude as the\nfootfall of one man; their plumed bonnets lifted reverently before the\nsacred Presence by one simultaneous motion of the moving mass; their\ngenuflections, performed with the same military and, as it seemed to a\nspectator, automatic precision and unity; the flash and clash of their\narms, as they knelt in the wide space allotted to them under the\ncentral dome of the immense edifice; the rapt expression of devotion\nwhich lighted up each face; the music of the band, bursting forth at\nintervals during the most solemn parts of the first High Mass I had\never attended, now exquisitely plaintive and soul-subduing, and again\nswelling into a volume of glorious harmony which filled the whole\nchurch and electrified the hearts of the listeners\u2015\u2015all this combined\nto produce emotions not to be expressed in words. Strangers visiting\nthe city, and multitudes of its non-Catholic inhabitants, were drawn\nweek by week to witness the solemn and soul-awakening ceremonial;\nfirst from curiosity, and afterwards, in many instances, from the\nconviction that a religion whence flowed a worship so sublime and\nirresistible in its power over the souls of men must be the creation\nof the great Author of souls.\n\nIt seemed a fitting compensation to this noble race, after the\ndegradation and oppression to which they had been subjected by their\nruthless conquerors, that this valiant band of their sons should have\nbeen enabled to achieve such renown as gave them the most\ndistinguished position in the British army, and placed them before the\nworld with a prestige and a glory not surpassed by the bravest of\ntheir ancestors at the period of their greatest prosperity. But\ninfinitely more precious than all earthly fame was the right, won\nback, as it were, by their arms, to practise fully and freely the\nreligion of those ancestors, so long proscribed and forbidden to their\npeople. Nor was it a slight satisfaction to their national pride and\npatriotism to be permitted to resume the costume which had also been\nproscribed and included in the suppression of the clans.\n\nSince those days of long ago we have not seen a Scottish Highlander;\nbut the notice in the London _Tablet_ of which we have spoken awakened\nthe recollections we have thus imperfectly embodied as our slight\ntribute to the cairn that perpetuates, in this world, the memory of\nall this people have done and suffered for that faith which shall be\ntheir eternal joy and crowning glory in the next.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LATE ARCHBISHOP OF HALIFAX, N. S.\n\n\nThe Catholic Church in America has recently lost, in the person of the\nMost Reverend Dr. Connolly, one of her most distinguished prelates.\nThomas Louis Connolly was born about sixty-two years ago in the city\nof Cork, Ireland. In his person were found all the virtues and noble\nqualities of head and heart that have made his countrymen loved and\nhonored. Like many other distinguished churchmen, he was of humble\nparentage; and there are many townsmen of his in America to-day who\nremember the late archbishop as a boy running about the streets of\nCork. He lost his father when he was three years old; nevertheless,\nhis widowed mother managed to bring up her little son and a still\nyounger daughter in comfort. She kept a small but decent house of\nentertainment, and the place is remembered by a mammoth pig that stood\nfor years in the window, and which bore the quaint inscription:\n\n \u201cThis world is a city with many a crooked street,\n And death the market-place where all men meet.\n If life were merchandise that men could buy,\n The rich would live and the poor would die.\u201d\n\nFather Mathew, the celebrated Apostle of Temperance, whose church was\nbut a few doors from young Connolly\u2019s home, noticed the quiet,\ngood-natured boy who was so attentive to his church and catechism,\nand, perhaps discerning in him some of the rare qualities which\nafterwards distinguished him as a man, became his friend, confidant,\nand adviser. The widow was able to give her only son a good education,\nand we learn that at sixteen young Connolly was well advanced in\nhistory and mathematics and in the French, Latin, and Greek languages.\nThe youth, desiring to devote his life to the church, became a novice\nin the Capuchin Order, in which order Father Mathew held high office.\n\nIn his eighteenth year he went to Rome to complete his studies for the\npriesthood. He spent six years in the Eternal City, and they were\nyears of hard study, devoted to rhetoric, philosophy, and theology.\nEven then he was noted for his application, and was reserved and\nretiring in his disposition, except to the few with whom he was\nintimately acquainted. He left Rome for the south of France, where he\ncompleted his studies, and in 1838, at the cathedral at Lyons, he was\nordained priest by the venerable archbishop of that city, Cardinal\nBol\u00e6. The following year he returned to Ireland, and for three years\nhe labored hard and fervently in the Capuchin Mission House, Dublin,\nand at the Grange Gorman Lane Penitentiary, to which latter\ninstitution he was attached as chaplain. In 1842, when Dr. Walsh was\nappointed Bishop of Halifax, the young Capuchin priest, then in his\ntwenty-eighth year, volunteered his services, and came out as\nsecretary to the studious and scholarly prelate whom he was afterwards\nto succeed.\n\nUntil 1851, a period of nine years, Father Connolly labored\nincessantly, faithfully, and cheerfully as parish priest, and after a\nwhile as Vicar-General of Halifax. In the prime of his manhood,\npossessed of a massive frame and a vigorous constitution, with the\nruddy glow of health always on his face, the young Irish priest went\nabout late and early, in pestilence and disease, among the poor and\nsick, hearing confessions, organizing societies in connection with the\nchurch, preaching in public, exhorting in private, doing the work that\nonly one of his zeal and constitution could do, and through it all\ncarrying a smiling face and cheering word for every one. It is this\nperiod of his life that the members of his flock love to dwell upon,\nand to which he himself, no doubt, looked back with pleasure as a time\nwhen, possessed of never-failing health, he had only the subordinate\u2019s\nwork to do, without the cares, crosses, and momentous questions to\ndecide which the mitre he afterwards wore brought with it. Indeed, at\nthat time Father Connolly was everywhere and did everything. All the\nold couples in Halifax to-day were married by him; and all the young\nmen and women growing up were baptized by him.\n\nThe worth, labors, and abilities of the ardent missionary could not\nfail to be recognized, and when Dr. Dollard died, in 1851, on the\nrecommendation of the American bishops Father Connolly was appointed\nto succeed him as Bishop of St. John, New Brunswick. He threw all his\nheart and soul into his work, and before the seven years he resided in\nSt. John had passed away he had brought the diocese, which he found in\na chaotic, poverty-stricken, and ill-provided state, into order,\nefficiency, and comparative financial prosperity. Without a dollar,\nbut with a true reliance on Providence and his people, he set to work\nto build a cathedral, and by his energy and the liberality of his\nflock soon had it in a tolerable state of completion. He seems to have\ntaken a special delight in building, and no sooner was one edifice\nfairly habitable than he was at work on another. Whatever little\ndifficulties or differences he may have had with the Catholics under\nhis jurisdiction can be all traced to this; they were money questions,\nquestions of expense. He always kept a warm corner in his heart for\nthe orphans of his diocese, whom he looked upon as especially under\nhis care, and who were to be provided for at all costs; and soon the\npresent efficient Orphan Asylum of St. John sprang up, nuns were\nbrought from abroad to conduct it, and, through the exertions of their\nwarm-hearted bishop, the little wanderers and foundlings of New\nBrunswick were provided with a home.\n\nOn the death of Archbishop Walsh, in 1859, Bishop Connolly was\nappointed by the present Pontiff to succeed him. In his forty-fifth\nyear, with all his faculties sharpened, his views and mind widened,\nand his political opinions changed for the better by his trying\nexperience, Bishop Connolly came back to Halifax a different man, in\nall but outward appearance, from the Father Connolly who had left that\ncity eight years before.\n\nHalifax is noted as being one of the most liberal and tolerant cities\non the continent. Nowhere do the different bodies of Christians mingle\nand work so well together; and although it is not free from individual\nbigotry, the great mass of its citizens work and live together in\nharmony and cordial good-will. It is too much to credit the late\narchbishop with this happy state of affairs, for it existed before his\ntime, and owes its existence to the good sense and liberality of the\nProtestant party as well as the Catholic; but it is only common\njustice to say that the archbishop did all in his power to maintain\nit. Hospitable and genial by nature, it was a pleasure to him to have\nat his table the most distinguished citizens of all creeds, to\nentertain the officers of the army and navy, and to extend his\nhospitality to the guests of the city. Without lessening his dignity,\nand without conceding a point of what might be considered due to the\nrights of his church, he worked and lived on the most friendly and\nintimate footing with those who differed from him in religion. A hard\nworker, an inveterate builder, and a great accumulator of church\nproperty, he was hardly settled in his archdiocese before he set to\nwork to convert the church of St. Mary\u2019s into the present beautiful\ncathedral. The work has been going on for years under his personal\nsupervision, and he resolutely refused to let any part out to\ncontract; and although his congregation has grumbled at the money sunk\nin massive foundations, unnecessary finish, and the extras for\nalterations, yet time, by the strength, durability, and thoroughness\nof the work, will justify the archbishop in the course he adopted.\nSchool-houses were built, homes for the Sisters of Charity,\norphanages, an academy, and a summer residence for himself and clergy\nat the Northwest Arm, a few miles from the city. All of these\nbuildings have some pretensions to architecture, and are substantial\nand well built. Excepting the cathedral, the archbishop was generally\nhis own architect; and as he was a little dogmatic in his manner, and\nnot too ready to listen to suggestions from the tradesmen under him,\nhe on more than one occasion made blunders, more amusing than serious,\nin his building operations. A man\u2019s religion never stood in his way in\nworking for Archbishop Connolly.\n\nHis duties as the father of his flock were not neglected on account of\nhis outside work. No amount of physical or mental labor seemed too\nmuch for him. After the worry, work, and travelling of the week, it\nwas no uncommon thing for him to preach in the three Catholic churches\nin the city on the one Sunday. His knowledge of the Scriptures was\nastonishing, even for a churchman, and was an inexhaustible mine on\nwhich he could draw at pleasure. His reading was wide and extensive.\nIt was hard to name a subject on which he had not read and studied; on\nthe affairs and politics of the day he was ready, when at leisure, to\ntalk; and on his table might be found the periodical light literature\nas well as heavier reading. In 1867, when the confederation of the\ndifferent British provinces into the present Dominion of Canada was\nbrought about, he took an active part in politics. Believing that Nova\nScotia would be rendered more prosperous, and that the Catholics would\nbecome more powerful by being united to their Canadian brethren, he\nwarmly advocated the union. But despite his position and influence,\nand the exertions of those on his side, the union party was defeated\nat the polls all over the province as well as in the city of Halifax.\nSince that he ceased to take an active part in politics, and refrained\nfrom expressing his political opinions in public.\n\nAs a speaker he was noted for his sound common sense and the absence\nof anything like tricks of rhetoric or of manner. His lectures and\naddresses from the pulpit of his own church to his own people were\ngenerally extempore. He was powerful in appealing to a mixed audience,\nand spoke more especially to the humbler classes. He had a fund of\nquaint proverbs and old sayings, and, by an odd conceit or happy\nallusion, would drive his argument home in the minds of those of his\nown country. He could, at times, be eloquent in the true sense of the\nword; and when he prepared himself, girded on his armor for the\nconflict, he was truly powerful. On the melancholy death of D\u2019Arcy\nMcGee the archbishop had service in St. Mary\u2019s, and delivered a\npanegyric on the life and labors of that gifted Irishman, who was a\npersonal friend of his own, which is looked upon as one of his ablest\nefforts.\n\nIf he was quickly excited, he was just as quick to forgive; and when\nhe thought he had bruised the feelings of the meanest, he was ever\nready to atone, and never happy till he did so. Like many great\nrepublicans, while claiming the greatest freedom of thought, word, and\naction for himself, he was, though he knew it not, arbitrary in his\ndictates to others. Whatever he took in hand he went at heart and\nsoul. The smallest detail of work he could not leave to another, but\nwould himself see it attended to\u2015\u2015from a board in a fence to the\nbuilding of a cathedral. Travelling over a scattered diocese with poor\nroads and poor entertainment, preaching, hearing confessions, and\nadministering the sacraments of the church, can it be wondered at that\nhis health broke down? that a constitution, vigorous at first, wore\nout before its time? With everything to do and everything a trouble to\nhim, can we wonder that some mistakes were made, that some things were\nill-done?\n\nThough hospitable, witty, and a lover of company, he was very\nabstemious and temperate in his habits; and, although never attacked\nby long disease, his health was continually bad. Last fall he visited\nBermuda, which was under his jurisdiction, partly for his health, and\nalso to see to the wants of the few Catholics there. In the spring he\nreturned to Halifax, but little benefited by the change.\n\nIf there was one subject of public importance more than another in\nwhich the archbishop was interested, it was the public-school\nquestion. No question requires more careful handling; none involves\nvaster public interests. His school-houses had been leased to the\nschool authorities; he had brought the Christian Brothers to Halifax,\nand these schools were under their charge; and the Catholics in\nHalifax had, thanks to their archbishop and the tolerance of their\nfellow-citizens, separate schools in all but the name. For a long time\npast there had been personal and private differences and grievances\nbetween the archbishop and the brothers. What they were, and what the\nrights and the wrongs of the matter are, was never fully made public,\nnor is it essential that it should be. On the Sunday after his arrival\nfrom Bermuda the archbishop was visited by the director-general of the\nbrothers, a Frenchman, who gave him twenty-four hours to accede to the\ndemands of the brothers, or threatened in default that they would\nleave the province. Both were hot-tempered, both believed they had\nright on their side, and it is more than probable that neither thought\nthe other would proceed to extremities. The archbishop did not take an\nhour to decide; he flatly refused. Next day saw the work of years\nundone; the brothers departed; their places were temporarily filled by\nsubstitutes; the School Board took the matter in hand; and the\nsympathies of the Catholics of Halifax were divided between their\narchbishop and the teachers of their children.\n\nMany think the excitement and worry that he underwent on this occasion\nhad much to do with his death. A gentleman who had some private\nbusiness with the archbishop called at the glebe-house on the Tuesday\nfollowing the Sunday on which the rupture with the brothers had taken\nplace. Although it was ten o\u2019clock in the morning, and the sun was\nshining brightly outside, he found the curtains undrawn, the gas\nburning, and the archbishop hard at work writing at a table littered\nwith paper. In the course of their conversation he mentioned\nincidentally to his visitor that he had not been to bed for two\nnights, nor changed his clothes for three days. Even after the\ndifficulty had been smoothed over, and matters seemed to be going on\nas of old, it was noticed that the archbishop had lost his\ncheerfulness and looked wearied and haggard. His duties were not\nneglected, though sickness and sadness may have weighed him down. He\nbegan a series of lectures on the doctrines of the church which\nunhappily were never to be completed. On the third Sunday before his\ndeath, in making an appeal to his parishioners for funds to finish the\ncathedral, he enumerated the many other works he wished to undertake,\nand stated that he trusted he had ten or fifteen years of life before\nhim wherein to accomplish these works. The meeting which he had called\nfor that afternoon was poorly attended, and the amount subscribed not\nnearly what he expected. It was noticed that this troubled him; for he\nloved to stand well with his people always, and he took this as a sign\nthat his popularity was on the wane.\n\nOn Saturday, the 22d of July, he complained of being unwell, but it\ndid not prevent him from speaking as usual at the three churches on\nthe morrow. He never allowed his own sufferings to interfere with what\nhe considered his duty. None of the many who heard him that day\nsurmised that the shadow of death was then on him, and that on the\nfollowing Sunday they would see the corpse of the speaker laid out on\nthe same altar. On Monday, still feeling unwell, he drove to his\nresidence at the Northwest Arm, thinking that a little rest and quiet\nwould restore him to his usual health. The next day, growing worse,\nand no doubt feeling his end approaching, he told his attendants to\ndrive him to the glebe-house and to write to Rome. Next day the whole\ncommunity was startled to hear that the archbishop was stricken down\nby congestion of the brain; that he was delirious; that he had been\ngiven up by the doctors; and that his death was hourly expected.\n\nA gloom seemed to have fallen over the city. The streets leading to\nthe glebe-house were filled all the next day and late into the night\nwith a noiseless throng; and hour after hour the whisper went from one\nto another, \u201cHe still lives, but there\u2019s no hope.\u201d All this time the\ndying prelate remained unconscious. The heavy breathing and the dull\npulse were all that told the watchful and sorrowing attendants that he\nyet lived. From his bedroom to the drawing-room, in which he had at\ntimes received such a brilliant company, they carried the dying man\nfor air. Those who wished were allowed in to see him; but he saw not\nthe anxious faces that gazed sorrowfully for a moment and then passed\naway; he heard not the low chant of the Litany for the Dying that was\nborne out through the open windows on the still night-air; he knew not\nof the tears that were shed by those who loved and honored him, and\nwho could not, in the presence of death, repress or hide their sorrow.\nAt midnight on Thursday, the 27th of July, the bell of the cathedral\ntolled out to tell the quiet city that the good archbishop lived no\nmore.\n\nThe next day, in the same apartment, the corpse was laid in state, and\nwas visited by hundreds of all creeds and classes, who came to take\ntheir last look at all that remained on earth of the wearied worker\nwho had at last found rest. What were the thoughts of many who looked\nupon that face, now fixed in death? Among the throng were those who\nhad come to him weighed down by sorrow and sin, and had left him\nlightened of their loads and strengthened in their resolutions of\natonement and amendment by his eloquent words of advice. Some had felt\nhis wide-spreading charity; for his ear and heart were ever open to a\ntale of distress, and he gave with a free and open hand, and his\ntongue never told of what his hand let fall. The general feeling was\none of bereavement; for the great multitude of his people knew not his\nworth till they had lost him. Who would take his place? They might\nfind his equal in learning, in eloquence, even in work; but could they\nfind one in whom were united all the qualities that had so eminently\nfitted him for the position he so ably filled? Perhaps there were\nothers present who had to regret that they had misjudged him, that\nthey had been uncharitable in their thoughts toward him, that they had\nnot assisted as they should have done the great, good, and unselfish\nman who had worked not to enrich or exalt himself, but who had worn\nout his life in the struggle for the welfare of his people and the\nglory of his church.\n\nIn his loved cathedral, the unfinished monument of his life, now\ndraped in mourning, the last sad and solemn rites of the Catholic\nChurch were performed by the bishops and clergy who had been ordained\nby him, who knew him so well and loved him so deeply. He was followed\nto his last resting-place by the civil and military authorities, by\nthe clergymen of other denominations, and by hundreds of all creeds,\nclasses, and colors, who could not be deterred by the rain, which fell\nin torrents, from testifying their respect for him who was honored and\nesteemed by all.\n\nWe may add that the late and much-lamented archbishop was ever the\nsincere and faithful friend of the Superior of the Paulist community.\nAmong the first of their missions was one at St. John; and the\narchbishop afterwards called them also to his cathedral at Halifax.\nBoth superior and congregation, no less than his own people, owe Dr.\nConnolly a debt of gratitude which it would indeed be difficult to\npay.\n\nThe character of Archbishop Connolly was marked by an ardent zeal for\nthe faith; a magnanimity which, whenever the occasion called for its\nexercise, rose above all human considerations whatever, even of his\nown life; and a charity that was not limited either by nationality,\nrace, or religious creed.\n\n\n\n\nNEW PUBLICATIONS.\n\n\n MEMOIRS OF THE RIGHT REVEREND SIMON WM. GABRIEL BRUTE, D.D., FIRST\n BISHOP OF VINCENNES. With sketches describing his recollections of\n scenes connected with the French Revolution, and extracts from his\n Journal. By the Rt. Rev. James Roosevelt Bayley, D.D., Bishop of\n Newark. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1876.\n\nThe Catholic Church in America has reason to be thankful that the\nseeds of faith were sown on her shores by some of the most eminent and\nholy men that ever lived. The names of Cheverus, Flaget, Carroll,\nDubois, and Gallitzin might be fittingly blazoned on the same scroll\nwith those of an Augustine, a Gregory, or an Ambrose. To the untiring\nlabors, profound piety, and extensive learning of these men Catholic\nfaith and sentiment in our land owe their freshness and vitality. To\ntheir devotion to the Holy See, and strictest adherence to all that is\northodox and canonical, American Catholics owe their unity and their\nardent attachment to the fortunes of the Sovereign Pontiff. And if the\ndistinguished ecclesiastics just mentioned contributed much to secure\nthose glorious results, more still even did that prince of\nmissionaries and model of bishops, Simon William Gabriel Brut\u00e9. The\ngrowing interest manifested in this admirable character is full,\ntimely, and calculated to do much good. As a man he was eminently\nhuman, feeling for his fellows with a keenness of sensibility which\ncould alone grow out of a heart that throbbed with every human\nemotion. This feature of high humanity also it was which gave that\nmany-sidedness to his character, making it full-orbed and polished _ad\nunguem_. Thus viewed, he was in truth _totus teres atque rotundus_.\nHis constantly-outgoing sympathies brought him into the closest\nrelations with his people, and magnate or peasant believed that in him\nthey had found one who could peculiarly understand themselves. Nature\nendowed him with just those gifts which pre-eminently fitted him for\nmissionary life. Lithe, agile, and compactly built, he could endure\nexposure and privation beyond most men. Constantly cheerful, and with\na mind which was a storehouse of the most varied and interesting\nknowledge, he could illumine darkness itself and convert despondency\ninto joy. Travelling at all seasons and at all hours, his presence was\neverywhere hailed with delight, and many a cot and mansion among the\nregions of the Blue Ridge Mountains watched and welcomed his presence.\nSo inured was he to hard labor that he deemed a journey of fifty-two\nmiles in twelve hours a mere bagatelle. And the quaintness with which\nhe relates those wonderful pedestrian achievements, interspersing his\nrecital with humorous and sensible allusions to wayside scenes, is not\nonly interesting, but serves often to reveal the simple and honest\ncharacter of the man. His English to the end retained a slightly\nGallic flavor, which, so far from impairing interest in what he has\nwritten, has lent it a really pleasing piquancy. He thus records one\nof his trips: \u201cThe next morning after I had celebrated Mass at the St.\nJoseph\u2019s, I started on foot for Baltimore, without saying a word to\nanybody, to speak to the Archbishop.\u2026 Stopped at Tancytown at Father\nLochi\u2019s, and got something to eat. At Winchester found out that I had\nnot a penny in my pocket, and was obliged to get my dinner on credit.\u2026\nIn going I read three hundred and eighty-eight pages in Anquetil\u2019s\nhistory of France; \u2026 fourteen pages of Cicero _De Officiis_; three\nchapters in the New Testament; my Office; recited the chapelet three\ntimes.\u201d As a worker he was indefatigable; nay, he courted toil, and\nthe prospect of a long and arduous missionary service filled him with\ndelight. Not content with preaching, administering the sacraments, and\nvisiting the sick and poor, he was constantly drawing on his unbounded\nmental resources for magazine articles, controversial, philosophic,\nand historical. He longed to spread the light of truth everywhere, and\nto refute error and recall the erring was the chief charm of his life.\nHe had early formed the habit of committing to paper whatever\nparticularly impressed him, and recommended this practice to all\nstudents as the most effectual mnemonic help, and as accustoming them\nto precision and exactness. His admirable notes on the French\nRevolution were the normal outcome of the habit of close observation\nwhich this practice engendered. Nothing escaped his notice, and the\nslightest meritorious act on the part of a friend or acquaintance drew\nfrom him the most gracious encomiums, whilst the reproval of faults\nwas always governed by extreme consideration and charity. Consecrated\nfirst Bishop of Vincennes, much against his will, he entered on his\nnew field of labor with the same zeal and love of duty which had\ncharacterized him as missionary and teacher at Mt. St. Mary\u2019s. The\nlimitless distances he had to travel over in his infant diocese never\ndaunted him. Four or five hundred miles on horseback, over prairie and\nwoodland, had no terrors for him, who bore a light heart and an ever\ncheerful soul within him, praising and blessing God at every step for\nthus allowing him to do what was pleasing to the divine will. What he\nmost regretted was his separation from the friends he left behind at\nMt. St. Mary\u2019s. He had a Frenchman\u2019s love of places as well as of\npersons, and he accordingly suffered much from the French complaint of\nnostalgia, or home-sickness. But nothing with him stood in the way of\nduty; and when the _fiat_ was pronounced, he went on his new way\nrejoicing. His memory will grow among us \u201cas a fair olive-tree in\nplains, and as a plane-tree by the waters\u201d; \u201clike a palm-tree in\nCades, and as a rose-plant in Jericho.\u201d When such another comes among\nus, our prayer should be, _Serus in c\u00e6lum redeas_.\n\nThe Most Rev. Archbishop of Baltimore has honored himself by thus\nhonoring the memory of a saintly bishop; and whoever knows the graces\nof style which the fluent pen of Archbishop Bayley distils will not\ndelay a moment in obtaining this delightful volume.\n\n\n THE VOICE OF CREATION AS A WITNESS TO THE MIND OF ITS DIVINE AUTHOR.\n Five Lectures. By Frederick Canon Oakeley, M.A. London: Burns &\n Oates. 1876. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.\n\nThis little volume bears the undoubted impress of a high reverence for\nthe Creator. It is not a mere refutation of atheistical opinions, as\nis the celebrated work of Paley, but an eloquent tribute to the divine\nbeneficence as made manifest in the works of nature. Everywhere and in\nall things the author, looking through the eyes of faith, beholds the\nfinger of God\u2015\u2015not alone in those marvels of skill and design in which\nthe animal and vegetable worlds abound, but in those apparent\nanomalies which the unseeing and unreflecting multitude often\npronounce to be the dismal proofs of purposelessness. Canon Oakeley,\nhowever, is not a mere pietist, but a highly cultured, scientific man\nwithal, and so grapples with the latest objections of godless\nphilosophers, and disposes of them in a satisfactory manner. In his\nletter of approbation his Eminence Cardinal Manning thus expresses\nhimself: \u201cThe argument of the third lecture on the \u2018Vestiges of the\nFall\u2019 seems to me especially valuable. I confess the prevalence of\nevil, physical and moral, has never seemed to me any real argument\nagainst the goodness of the Creator, except on the hypothesis that\nmankind has no will, or that the will of man is not free.\u2026 If the\nfreedom of the will has made the world actually unhappy, the original\ncreation of God made it both actually and potentially happy.\u2026 What God\nmade man marred.\u201d His Eminence pronounces the book to be both\n\u201cconvincing and persuasive,\u201d with which high approval we commend it to\nthe attention of our readers.\n\n\n UNION WITH OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST IN HIS PRINCIPAL MYSTERIES. For all\n seasons of the year. By the Rev. F. John Baptist Saint Jure, S.J.\n New York: Sadlier & Co. 1876.\n\nFather Saint Jure flourished in the seventeenth century and is known\nas the author of several spiritual works. The present volume, which is\na good translation of one of these works, published in a neat and\nconvenient form, is intended as a help to meditation during the\nvarious seasons of the ecclesiastical year. It is very well adapted\nfor that purpose\u2015\u2015simple, brief, easy of use, and in every way\npractical.\n\n\n REAL LIFE. By Madame Mathilde Froment. Translated from the French by\n Miss Newlin. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1876.\n\nReal life is, generally speaking, a dull enough thing to depict. The\nliving of a good Christian family life has nothing outwardly heroic in\nit, however much heroism there may be, and indeed must be, concealed\nunder the constant calm of its exterior. For Christianity, in its\nsmallest phase, is eminently heroic. It is just such a life that\nMadame Froment has taken up in the present volume, and out of it she\nhas constructed a useful and, on the whole, an interesting narrative.\nThe narrator is the heroine, who begins jotting down her experiences,\nhopes, thoughts, aspirations, while still a girl within the convent\nwalls. On the twenty third page she is married, and thenceforth she\ngives us the story of her married life, its crosses and trials as well\nas its pleasures. The whole story is told in the first person, and in\nthe form of a diary. This is rather a trying method, especially as in\nthe earlier portions of the narrative Madame Froment scarcely catches\nthe free, thoughtless spirit, the freshness and _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ of a young\ngirl just out of a convent and entering the world. Then, too, many of\nthe entries in the diary are remarkable for nothing but their brevity.\nOf course this may be a very good imitation of a diary, but too\nfrequent indulgence in such practice is likely to make a very poor\nbook. As the narrative advances, however, the interest deepens, and\nthe whole will be found worthy of perusal. The translation, with the\nexception of an occasional localism, is free, vigorous, and happy.\n\n\n SILVER PITCHERS AND INDEPENDENCE. A Centennial Love-Story. By Louisa\n M. Alcott. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1876.\n\nOf course our Centennial would not be complete without its Centennial\nliterature. We have had odes, poems, and all manner of bursts of song\nwhich might have been better, judged from a literary point of view,\nbut which all possess the one undeniable character of genuine and\nunbounded enthusiasm. It was but proper, therefore, that we should\nhave some Centennial story telling, and we are glad that the task has\nfallen into no worse hands then those of Miss Alcott. This lady has\nalready recommended herself to the reading public by a series of\nfresh, sprightly, and very readable little volumes. She tells a story\nwell. She is not pretentious, yet never low, and the English has not\nsuffered at her hands. Of late it has somehow become the vogue among\nso-called popular writers to supply true tact and the power to enlist\ninterest by a sort of _double-entendre_ style which, if it does not\nrun into downright indecency, is at least prurient; and, alas! that we\nshould have to say that our lady writers especially lay themselves\nopen to this charge.\n\nTo our own credit be it said that this reprehensible manner of writing\nis more common in England than among ourselves. Miss Alcott has\navoided these faults; and in saying this we consider we have said much\nin her praise. Her _Silver Pitchers_ is a charming little temperance\nstory told in her best vein. It is somewhat New-Englandish, but that\nhas its charms for some\u2015\u2015ourselves, we must confess, among the number.\nPity Miss Alcott could not understand that there are higher and nobler\nmotives for temperance than the mere impulse it gives to worldly\nsuccess and the desire to possess a good name. The siren cup will\nnever be effectually dashed aside by the tempted ones till prayer and\nsupernatural considerations come to their assistance.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLIC WORLD.\n\nVOL. XXIV., No. 140.\u2015\u2015NOVEMBER, 1876.\n\nCopyright: Rev. I. T. HECKER. 1877.\n\n\n\n\nTHOUGHTS ON MYSTICAL THEOLOGY.\n\n\nSt. John of the Cross, in commenting on these two lines of the\nthirty-ninth stanza of his _Spiritual Canticle_:\n\n \u201cThe grove and its beauty\n In the serene night,\u201d\n\ngives us a definition of mystical theology. \u201c\u2018In the serene\nnight\u2019\u2015\u2015that is, contemplation, in which the soul desires to behold\nthe grove (God as the Creator and Giver of life to all creatures). It\nis called night because contemplation is obscure, and that is the\nreason why it is also called mystical theology\u2015\u2015that is, the secret or\nhidden wisdom of God, wherein God, without the sound of words _or the\nintervention of any bodily or spiritual sense_, as it were in silence\nand repose, in the darkness of sense and nature, teaches the soul\u2015\u2015and\nthe soul knows not how\u2015\u2015in a most secret and hidden way. Some\nspiritual writers call this \u2018understanding without understanding,\u2019\nbecause it does not take place in what philosophers call the active\nintellect (_intellectus agens_), which is conversant with the forms,\nfancies, and apprehensions of the physical faculties, but in the\nintellect as it is passive (_intellectus possibilis_), which, without\nreceiving such forms, receives passively only the substantial\nintelligence of them, free from all imagery.\u201d[35]\n\nFather Baker explains mystic contemplation as follows: \u201cIn the second\nplace, there is a mystic contemplation which is, indeed, truly and\nproperly such, by which a soul, without discoursings and curious\nspeculations, without any _perceptible use_ of the internal senses or\nsensible images, by a pure, simple, and reposeful operation of the\nmind, in the obscurity of faith, simply regards God as infinite and\nincomprehensible verity, and with the whole bent of the will rests in\nhim as (her) infinite, universal, and incomprehensible good.\u2026 This is\nproperly the exercise of angels, for their knowledge is not by\ndiscourse (discursive), but by one simple intuition all objects are\nrepresented to their view at once with all their natures, qualities,\nrelations, dependencies, and effects; but man, that receives all his\nknowledge first from his senses, can only by effects and outward\nappearances with the labor of reasoning collect the nature of objects,\nand this but imperfectly; but his reasoning being ended, then he can\nat once contemplate all that is known unto him in the object.\u2026 This\nmystic contemplation or union is of two sorts: 1. Active and\nordinary.\u2026 2. Passive and extraordinary; the which is not a state, but\nan actual grace and favor from God.\u2026 And it is called passive, not but\nthat therein the soul doth actively contemplate God, but she can\nneither, when she pleases, dispose herself thereto, nor yet refuse it\nwhen that God thinks good to operate after such a manner in the soul,\nand to represent himself unto her _by a divine particular image, not\nat all framed by the soul, but supernaturally infused into her_.\u2026 As\nfor the former sort, which is active contemplation, we read in mystic\nauthors\u2015\u2015Thaulerus, Harphius, etc.\u2015\u2015that he that would become\nspiritual ought to practise the drawing of his external senses\ninwardly into his internal, there losing and, as it were, annihilating\nthem. Having done this, he must then draw his internal senses into the\nsuperior powers of the soul, and there annihilate them likewise; and\nthose powers of the intellectual soul he must draw into that which is\ncalled their unity, which is the principle and fountain from whence\nthose powers do flow, and in which they are united. And, lastly, that\nunity (which alone is capable of perfect union with God) must be\napplied and firmly fixed on God; and herein, say they, consist the\nperfect divine contemplation and union of an intellectual soul with\nGod. Now, whether such expressions as these will abide the strict\nexamination of philosophy or no I will not take on me to determine;\ncertain it is that, by a frequent and constant exercise of internal\nprayer of the will, joined with mortification, the soul comes to\noperate more and more abstracted from sense, and more elevated above\nthe corporal organs and faculties, so drawing nearer to the\nresemblance of the operations of an angel or separated spirit. Yet\nthis abstraction and elevation (perhaps) are not to be understood as\nif the soul in these pure operations had no use at all of the internal\nsenses or sensible images (for the schools resolve that cannot consist\nwith the state of a soul joined to a mortal body); but surely her\noperations in this pure degree of prayer are so subtile and intime,\nand the images that she makes use of so exquisitely pure and\nimmaterial, that she cannot perceive at all that she works by images,\nso that spiritual writers are not much to be condemned by persons\nutterly inexperienced in these mystic affairs, if, delivering things\nas they perceived by their own experience, they have expressed them\notherwise than will be admitted in the schools.\u201d[36]\n\nThat kind of contemplation which is treated of in mystical theology\nis, therefore, a state or an act of the mind in which the intellectual\noperation approaches to that of separate spirits\u2015\u2015that is, of human\nsouls separated from their bodies, and of pure spirits or angels who\nare, by their essence unembodied, simply intellectual beings. Its\ndirect and chief object is God, other objects being viewed in their\nrelation to him. The end of it is the elevation of the soul above the\nsphere of the senses and the sensible world into a more spiritual\ncondition approaching the angelic, in which it is closely united with\nGod, and prepared for the beatific and deific state of the future and\neternal life. The longing after such a liberation from the natural and\nimperfect mode of knowing and enjoying the sovereign good, the\nsovereign truth, the sovereign beauty, through the senses and the\ndiscursive operations of reason, is as ancient and as universal among\nmen as religion and philosophy. It is an aspiration after the\ninvisible and the infinite. When it is not enlightened, directed, and\ncontrolled by a divine authority, it drives men into a kind of\nintellectual and spiritual madness, produces the most extravagant\nabsurdities in thought and criminal excesses in conduct, stimulates\nand employs as its servants all the most cruel and base impulses of\nthe disordered passions, and disturbs the whole course of nature.\nDemons are fallen angels who aspired to obtain their deification\nthrough pride, and the fall of man was brought about through an\ninordinate and disobedient effort of Eve to become like the gods,\nknowing good and evil. An inordinate striving to become like the\nangels assimilates man to the demons, and an inordinate striving after\na similitude to God causes a relapse into a lower state of sin than\nthat in which we are born. The history of false religions and\nphilosophies furnishes a series of illustrations of this statement. In\nthe circle of nominal Christianity, and even within the external\ncommunion of the Catholic Church, heretical and false systems of a\nsimilar kind have sprung up, and the opinions and writings of some who\nwere orthodox and well-intentioned in their principles have been\ntinctured with such errors, or at least distorted in their verbal\nexpression of the cognate truths. This remark applies not only to\nthose who are devotees of a mystical theology more or less erroneous,\nbut also to certain philosophical writers with their disciples.\nOntologism is a kind of mystical philosophy; for its fundamental\ndoctrine ascribes to man a mode of knowledge which is proper only to\nthe purely intellectual being, and even a direct, immediate intuition\nof God which is above the natural power not only of men but of angels.\n\nThere are two fundamental errors underlying all these false systems of\nmystical theology\u2015\u2015or more properly theosophy\u2015\u2015and philosophy. One is\ndistinctively anti-theistic, the other distinctively anti-Christian;\nbut we may class both under one logical species with the common\n_differentia_ of denial of the real essence and personality, and the\nreal operation _ad extra_, of the Incarnate Word. The first error\ndenies his divine nature and creative act, the second his human nature\nand theandric operation. By the first error identity of substance in\nrespect to the divine nature and all nature is asserted; by the\nsecond, identity of the human nature and its operation with that\nnature which is purely spiritual. The first error manifests itself as\na perversion of the revealed and Catholic doctrine of the deification\nof the creature in and through the Word, by teaching that it becomes\none with God in its mode of being by absorption into the essence whose\nemanation it is, in substantial unity. The second manifests itself by\nteaching that the instrumentality and the process of this unification\nare purely spiritual. The first denies the substantiality of the soul\nand the proper activity which proceeds from it and constitutes its\nlife. The second denies the difference of the human essence as a\ncomposite of spirit and body, which separates it from purely spiritual\nessences and marks it as a distinct species. The first error is\npantheism; for the second we cannot think of any designating term more\nspecific than idealism. Both these errors, however disguised or\nmodified may be the forms they assume, conduct logically to the\nexplicit denial of the Catholic faith, and even of any form of\npositive doctrinal Christianity. Their extreme developments are to be\nfound outside of the boundaries of all that is denominated Christian\ntheology. Within these boundaries they have developed themselves more\nor less imperfectly into gross heresies, and into shapes of erroneous\ndoctrine which approach to or recede from direct and palpable heresy\nin proportion to the degree of their evolution. Our purpose is not\ndirectly concerned with any of the openly anti-Christian forms of\nthese errors, but only with such as have really infected or have been\nimputed to the doctrines and writings of mystical authors who were\nCatholics by profession, and have flourished within the last four\ncenturies. There is a certain more or less general and sweeping charge\nmade by some Catholic authors of reputation, and a prejudice or\nsuspicion to some extent among educated Catholics, against the German\nschool of mystics of the epoch preceding the Reformation, that they\nprepared the way by their teaching for Martin Luther and his\nassociates. This notion of an affinity between the doctrine of some\nmystical writers and Protestantism breeds a more general suspicion\nagainst mystical theology itself, as if it undermined or weakened the\nfabric of the external, visible order and authority of the church\nthrough some latent, unorthodox, and un-Catholic element of\nspiritualism. We are inclined to think, moreover, that some very\nzealous advocates of the scholastic philosophy apprehend a danger to\nsound psychological science from the doctrine of mystic contemplation\nas presented by the aforesaid school of writers. Those who are\ncanonized saints, indeed, as St. Bonaventure and St. John of the\nCross, cannot be censured, and their writings must be treated with\nrespect. Nevertheless, they may be neglected, their doctrine ignored,\nand, through misapprehension or inadvertence, their teachings may be\ncriticised and assailed when presented by other authors not canonized\nand approved by the solemn judgment of the church; and thus mystical\ntheology itself may suffer discredit and be undervalued. It is\ndesirable to prove that genuine mystical theology has no affinity with\nthe Protestant heresies which subvert the visible church with its\nauthority, or those of idealistic philosophy, but is, on the contrary,\nin perfect harmony with the dogmatic and philosophical doctrine of the\nmost approved Catholic schools. It is only a modest effort in that\ndirection which we can pretend to make, with respect chiefly to the\nsecond or philosophical aspect of the question. We must devote,\nhowever, a few paragraphs to its first or theological aspect.\n\nFrom the mystery of the Incarnation necessarily follows the\nsubstantial reality of human nature as a composite of spirit and body,\nthe excellence and endless existence, in its own distinct entity, not\nonly of the spiritual but also of the corporeal part of man and of the\nvisible universe to which he belongs as being an embodied spirit. The\ntheology which springs out of this fundamental doctrine teaches a\nvisible church, existing as an organic body with visible priesthood,\nsacrifice, sacraments, ceremonies, and order, as mediums subordinate\nto the theandric, mediatorial operation of the divine Word acting\nthrough his human nature. Sound philosophy, which is in accordance\nwith theology, teaches also that the corporeal life and sensitive\noperation of man is for the benefit of his mind and his intellectual\noperation. He is not a purely intellectual being, but a rational\nanimal. He must therefore derive his intelligible species or ideas by\nabstraction from sensible species furnished by the corporeal world to\nthe senses, and then proceed by a discursive process of reasoning from\nthese general ideas to investigate the particular objects apprehended\nby his faculties. False theology denies or undervalues the being of\nthe created universe or the corporeal part of it. Under the pretence\nof making way for God it would destroy the creature, and, to exalt the\nspiritual part of the universe, reduce to nothing that part which is\ncorporeal. Hence the denial of the visible church, the sacraments, the\nReal Presence, the external sacrifice and worship, the value of\nreason, the merit of good works, the essential goodness of nature, and\nthe necessity of active voluntary co-operation by the senses and the\nmind with the Spirit of God in attaining perfection. The corporeal\npart of man, and the visible world to which it belongs, are regarded\nas unreal appearances, or as an encumbrance and impediment, at the\nbest but temporary provisions for the earliest, most imperfect stage\nof development.\n\nSome of the German mystics, especially Eckhardt and the author of the\n_Theologia Germanica_, undoubtedly prepared the way for the errors of\nLuther and the pantheists who followed him. But the doctors of mystic\ntheology, the canonized saints of the church and their disciples, have\ninvariably taught that as the human nature of Christ is for ever\nessentially and substantially distinct from the divine nature in the\npersonal union, so much more the beatified, in their separate\npersonalities, remain for ever distinct in essence and substance from\nGod. So, also, as they teach that the body of Christ is immortal and\nto be adored for ever with the worship of _latria_, they maintain that\nthe union of the soul with the body and the existence of corporeal\nthings is for the advantage of the soul, and perpetual. It is only by\ncomparison with supernatural life in God that natural life is\ndepreciated by the Catholic mystics, and by comparison with the\nspiritual world that the corporeal world is undervalued. In a word,\nall things which are created and visible, even the humanity of the\nWord, are only mediums and instruments of the Holy Spirit; all nature\nis only a pedestal for grace; and the gifts and operations of grace\nare only for the sake of the beatific union with Christ in the Holy\nSpirit, in whom he is one with the Father. All things, therefore, are\nto be valued and employed for their utility as means to the final end,\nbut not as ends in themselves; and, consequently, the lower are to\ngive place to the higher, the more remote to the proximate, and that\nwhich is inferior in nature is to be wholly subordinated to that which\nis highest. Mystical theology is in doctrine what the lives of the\ngreat saints have been in practice. Neither can be blamed without\nimpiety; and when the actions or doctrines of those whose lives or\nwritings have not received solemn sanction from the church are\ncriticised, it must be done by comparing them with the speculative and\npractical science of the saints as a standard.\n\nThe psychological doctrine of the doctors and other canonized authors\nwho have treated scientifically of the nature of mystic contemplation,\nis not, however, placed above all critical discussion. A few important\nquestions excepted, upon which the supreme authority of the Holy See\nhas pronounced a judgment, the theory of cognition is an open area of\ndiscussion, and therefore explanations of the phenomena of the\nspiritual life, given by any author in accordance with his own\nphilosophical system, may be criticised by those who differ from him\nin opinion. Those who follow strictly the psychology of St. Thomas, as\ncontained in modern writers of the later Thomistic school, may easily\nbe led by their philosophical opinions to suspect and qualify as\nscientifically untenable the common language of mystical writers. The\npassage quoted from Father Baker at the head of this article will\nfurnish an illustration of our meaning. Those who are familiar with\nmetaphysics will understand at once where the apparent opposition\nbetween scholastic psychology and mystical theology is found. For\nothers it may suffice to explain that, in the metaphysics of the\nThomists, no origin of ideas is recognized except that which is called\nabstraction from the sensible object, and that the precise difference\nof the human mind in respect to the angelic intellect is that the\nformer is naturally turned to the intelligible in a sensible phantasm\nor image, whereas the latter is turned to the purely intelligible\nitself. Now, as soon as one begins to speak of a mode of contemplation\nsimilar to that of the angels\u2015\u2015a contemplation of God and divine\nthings without the intervention of images\u2015\u2015he passes beyond the known\ndomain of metaphysics, and appears to be waving his wings for a flight\nin the air, instead of quietly pacing the ground with the\nperipatetics.\n\nNow, assuming the Thomistic doctrine of the origin of ideas and the\nspecific nature of human cognition to be true, it is worthy of careful\ninquiry how the statements of mystical authors respecting infused\ncontemplation are to be explained in accordance with this system. We\ncannot prudently assume that there is a repugnance between them.\nPractically, St. Thomas was one of those saints who have made the\nhighest attainments in mystic contemplation. He is the \u201cAngelical,\u201d\nand the history of his life shows that he was frequently, and towards\nthe close of his life almost habitually, rapt out of the common sphere\nof the senses, so as to take no notice of what went on before his eyes\nor was uttered in his hearing. His last act as an instructor in divine\nwisdom was an exposition of the Canticle of Solomon to the monks of\nFossa Nuova, and he could no doubt have explained according to his own\nphilosophical doctrine all the facts and phenomena of mystic\ncontemplation, so far as these can be represented in human language.\nThere cannot be any sufficient reason, therefore, to regard the two as\ndissonant or as demanding either one any sacrifice of the other.\n\nIn respect to the purely passive and supernatural contemplation, there\nseems, indeed, to be no difficulty whatsoever in the way. There is no\nquestion of an immediate intuition of the divine essence in this\necstatic state, so that, even if the soul is supposed to be raised for\na time to an equality with angels in its intellectual acts, the errors\nof false mysticism and ontologism are excluded from the hypothesis.\nFor even the angels have no such natural intuition. That the human\nintellect should receive immediately from angels or from God infused\nspecies or ideas by which it becomes cognizant of realities behind the\nveil of the sensible, and contemplates God through a more perfect\nglass than that of discursive reason, does not in any way interfere\nwith the psychology of scholastic metaphysics. For the cause and mode\nare professedly supernatural. In the human intellect of our Lord, the\nperfection of infused and acquired knowledge, the beatific vision and\nthe natural sensitive life common to all men co-existed in perfect\nharmony. It is even probable that Moses, the Blessed Virgin, and St.\nPaul enjoyed temporary glimpses of the beatific vision. Therefore,\nalthough it is true that, without a miracle, no mere man \u201ccan see God\nand live,\u201d and that the ecstasies of the saints, in which there is no\nintuitive vision of the divine essence, but only a manifestation of\ndivine things, naturally tend to extinguish bodily life, yet, by the\npower of God, the operations of the natural life can be sustained in\nconjunction with those which are supernatural, because they are not\nessentially incongruous. The only question is one of fact and\nevidence. Whatever may be proved to take place in souls so highly\nelevated, philosophy has no objection to offer; for these things are\nabove the sphere of merely human and rational science.\n\nThe real matter of difficult and perplexing investigation relates to\ncertain abnormal or preternatural phenomena, which seem to indicate a\npartial liberation of the soul from the conditions of organic life and\nunion with the body, and to that state of mystic contemplation which\nis called active or acquired. In these cases there is no liberty\nallowed us by sound theology or philosophy of resorting to the\nsupernatural in its strict and proper sense. We are restricted to the\nsphere of the nature of man and the operations which can proceed from\nit or be terminated to it according to the natural laws of its being.\nThere is one hypothesis, very intelligible and perfectly in accordance\nwith psychology, which will remove all difficulty out of the way, if\nonly it is found adequate to explain all the certain and probable\nfacts and phenomena which have to be considered. Father Baker\nfurnishes this explanation as a probable one, and it no doubt amply\nsuffices for the greatest number of instances. That is to say, we may\nsuppose that whenever the mind seems to act without any species,\nimage, or idea, originally presented through the medium of the senses,\nand by a pure, spiritual intuition, it is really by a subtile and\nimperceptible image which it has elaborated by an abstractive and\ndiscursive process, and which exists in the imagination, that the\nintellect receives the object which it contemplates.\n\nBut let us suppose that this hypothesis is found insufficient to\nexplain all the facts to which it must be applied. Can it be admitted,\nwithout prejudice to rational psychology, that the soul may, by an\nabnormal condition of its relations to the body, or as the result of\nits efforts and habits, whether for evil or good, lawfully or\nunlawfully, escape from its ordinary limits in knowing and acting, and\nthus draw nearer to the state of separate spirits?\n\nWe must briefly consider what is the mode of knowing proper to\nseparate spirits before we can find any data for answering this\nquestion. Here we avail ourselves of the explication of the doctrine\nof St. Thomas given by Liberatore in his interesting treatise on the\nnature of man entitled _Dell\u2019Uomo_.[37]\n\nSt. Thomas, following St. Augustine, teaches that in the creation, the\ndivine idea in the Word was communicated in a twofold way, spiritual\nand corporeal. In the latter mode this light was made to reverberate\nfrom the visible universe. In the former it was made to shine in the\nsuperior and intellectual beings\u2015\u2015that is, the angels\u2015\u2015producing in\nthem ideally all that which exists in the universe really. As they\napproximate in intelligence to God, these ideas or intelligible\nspecies by which they know all things have a nearer resemblance to the\nIdea in the Divine Word\u2015\u2015that is, approach to its unity and simplicity\nof intuition\u2015\u2015are fewer and more general. As their grade of\nintelligence is more remote from its source, they depart to a greater\nand greater distance from this unity by the increasing multiplicity of\ntheir intelligible species. Moreover, the inferior orders are\nilluminated by those which are superior; that is, these higher beings\npresent to them a higher ideal universe than their own, and are as if\nreflectors or mirrors of the divine ideas, by which they see God\nmediately in his works. The human soul, being the lowest in the order\nof intelligent spirits, is not capable of seeing objects distinctly,\neven in the light of the lowest order of angels. It is made with a\nview to its informing an organized body, and it is aided by the bodily\nsenses and organic operations to come out of the state of a mere\ncapacity of intelligence, in which it has no innate or infused ideas,\ninto actual intelligence. It is naturally turned, as an embodied\nspirit, to inferior objects, to single, visible things, for the\nmaterial term of its operation, and from these abstracts the universal\nideas which are the principles of knowledge. The necessity of turning\nto these sensible phantasms is therefore partly the inchoate state of\nthe intelligence of man at the beginning of his existence, partly its\nessential inferiority, and, in addition, the actual union of the soul\nwith the body. There is, however, in the soul, a power, albeit\ninferior to that of angels, of direct, intellectual vision and\ncognition, without the instrumentality of sensation. When the soul\nleaves the body and goes into the state of a separate spirit, it has\nthe intuition of its own essence, it retains all its acquired ideas,\nand it has a certain dim and confused perception of higher spiritual\nbeings and the ideas which are in them. It is therefore, in a certain\nsense, more free and more perfect in its intellectual operation in the\nseparate state than it was while united with the body. All this\nproceeds without taking into account in the least that supernatural\nlight of glory which enables a beatified spirit to see the essence of\nGod, and in him to see the whole universe.\n\nWe see from the foregoing that the necessity for using sensible images\nin operations of the intellect does not arise from an intrinsic,\nessential incapacity of the human mind to act without them. As Father\nBaker says, and as Liberatore distinctly asserts after St. Thomas, it\nis \u201cthe state of a soul joined to a mortal body\u201d which impedes the\nexercise of a power inherent and latent in the very nature of the\nsoul, as a form which is in and by itself substantial and capable of\nself-subsistence and action in a separate state. Remove the impediment\nof the body, and the spirit starts, like a spring that has been\nweighted down, into a new and immortal life and activity. The curtain\nhas dropped, and it is at once in the world of spirits. The earth,\ncarrying with it the earthly body, drops down from the ascending soul,\nas it does from an aeronaut going up in a balloon. \u201cAnim\u00e6, secundum\nillum modum essendi, quo corpori est unita, competit modus\nintelligendi per conversionem ad phantasmata corporum, qu\u00e6 in\ncorporeis organis sunt. Cum autem fuerit a corpore separata, competit\nei modus intelligendi per conversionem ad ea, qu\u00e6 sunt intelligibilia\nsimpliciter, sicut et aliis substantiis separatis\u201d\u2015\u2015\u201cTo the soul, in\nrespect to the mode of being by union with a body, belongs a mode of\nunderstanding by turning toward the phantasms of bodies which are in\nthe bodily organs. But when it is separated from the body, a mode of\nunderstanding belongs to it in common with other separate substances,\nby turning toward things simply intelligible.\u201d[38] \u201cHujusmodi\nperfectionem recipiunt anim\u00e6 separat\u00e6 a Deo, mediantibus\nangelis\u201d\u2015\u2015\u201cThis kind of perfection the separate souls receive from God\nthrough the mediation of angels.\u201d[39] \u201cQuando anima erit a corpore\nseparata plenius percipere poterit influentiam a superioribus\nsubstantiis, quantum ad hoc quod per hujusmodi influxum intelligere\npoterit absque phantasmate _quod modo non potest_\u201d\u2015\u2015\u201cWhen the soul\nshall be separated from the body, it will be capable of receiving\ninfluence from superior substances more fully, inasmuch as by an\ninflux of this kind it can exercise intellectual perception without a\nphantasm, _which in its present state it cannot do_.\u201d This language of\nSt. Thomas and other schoolmen explains the hesitation of Father Baker\nin respect to certain statements of mystical authors, especially\nHarphius. He says, as quoted above: \u201cThis abstraction and elevation\n(perhaps) are not to be understood as if the soul in these pure\noperations had no use at all of _the internal senses or sensible\nimages_ (for the schools resolve that cannot consist with the state of\na soul joined to a mortal body).\u201d He says \u201cperhaps,\u201d which shows that\nhe was in doubt on the point. The precise question we have raised is\nwhether there is reason for this doubt in the shape of probable\narguments, or conjectures not absolutely excluded by sound philosophy.\nThe point to be considered, namely, is whether the reception of this\ninflux and the action of the intellect without the medium of sensible\nimages is made absolutely impossible, unless by a miracle, by the\nunion of the soul and body. It is a hindrance, and ordinarily a\ncomplete preventive of this kind of influx from the spiritual world\ninto the soul, and this kind of activity properly belonging to a\nseparate spirit. But we propose the conjectural hypothesis that there\nmay be, in the first place, some kind of extraordinary and abnormal\ncondition of the soul, in which the natural effect of the union with a\nbody is diminished, or at times partially suspended. In this condition\nthe soul would come in a partial and imperfect manner, and quite\ninvoluntarily, into immediate contact with the world of spirits,\nreceive influences from it, and perceive things imperceptible to the\nsenses and the intellect acting by their aid as its instruments. In\nthe second place, that it is possible to bring about this condition\nunlawfully, to the great damage and danger of the soul by voluntarily\nyielding to or courting preternatural influences, and thus coming into\nimmediate commerce with demons. In the third place, that it is\npossible, lawfully, for a good end and to the soul\u2019s great benefit, to\napproximate to the angelical state by abstractive contemplation,\naccording to the description given by Harphius and quoted by Father\nBaker. As for passive, supernatural contemplation, it is not possible\nfor the soul to do more than prepare itself for the visitation of the\ndivine Spirit with his lights and graces. In this supernatural\ncondition it is more consonant to the doctrine of St. John of the\nCross, who was well versed in scholastic metaphysics and theology; of\nSt. Teresa, whose wisdom is called by the church in her solemn office\n\u201ccelestial\u201d; and to what we know of the exalted experience of the most\nextraordinary saints, to suppose that God acts on the soul through the\nintermediate agency of angels, and also immediately by himself,\nwithout any concurrence of the imagination or the active intellect and\nits naturally-acquired forms. The quotation from St. John of the Cross\nat the head of this article, if carefully reperused and reflected on,\nwill make this statement plain, and intelligible at least to all those\nwho have some tincture of scholastic metaphysics.\n\nThere are many facts reported on more or less probable evidence, and\nextraordinary phenomena, belonging to diabolical and natural\nmysticism, which receive at least a plausible explanation on the same\nhypothesis. To refer all these to subjective affections of the\nexternal or internal senses and the imagination does not seem to be\nquite sufficient for their full explanation. It appears like bending\nand straining the facts of experience too violently, for the sake of a\ntheory which, perhaps, is conceived in too exclusive and literal a\nsense. At all events it is worth investigation and discussion whether\nthe _dictum_ of St. Thomas, _intelligere absque phantasmate modo non\npotest_, does not admit of and require some modification, by which it\nis restricted to those intellectual perceptions which belong to the\nnormal, ordinary condition of man within the limits of the purely\nnatural order.\n\n\n [35] Complete works, vol. iii. p. 208.\n\n [36] _Sancta Sophia_, treatise iii. sec. iv. chap. i. par.\n 5-12.\n\n [37] _Dell\u2019Uomo._ Trattato del P. Matteo Liberatore,\n D.C.D.G. Vol. ii. Dell\u2019Anima Humana, seconda ed. corretta ed\n accresciuta. Roma. Befani: Via delle Stimate 23, 1875. Capo\n x. Dell\u2019Anima separata dal Corpo.\n\n [38] _Summ. Theol._, i. p. qu. 89, art i.\n\n [39] Qq. disp. ii. _de Anima_, art. 19 ad 13.\n\n\n\n\nAVILA.\n\n Mira tu muro dichoso\n Que te rodea y corona,\n Pues de tantos victorioso!\n Mverece (en triumpho glorioso),\n Cada almena su corona.\n \u2015\u2015_Ariz grandezas de Avila._\n\n\nIt was on the 31st of January, 1876, we left the Escorial to visit the\n_muy leal, muy magnifica, y muy noble_ city of Avila\u2015\u2015_Avila de los\nCaballeros_, once famed for its valiant knights, and their daring\nexploits against the Moors, but whose chief glory now is that it is\nthe birthplace of St. Teresa, whom all Christendom admires for her\ngenius and venerates for her sanctity.\n\nKeeping along the southern base of the Guadarrama Mountains, whose\nsnowy summits and gray, rock-strewn sides wore a wild, lonely aspect\nthat was inexpressibly melancholy, we came at length to a lower\nplateau that advances like a promontory between two broad valleys\nopening to the north and south. On this eminence stands the\npicturesque city of Avila, the Pearl of Old Castile, very much as it\nwas in the twelfth century. It is full of historic mansions and\ninteresting old churches that have a solemn architectural grandeur.\nOne is astonished to find so small a place inland, inactive, and with\nno apparent source of wealth, with so many imposing and interesting\nmonuments. They are all massive and severe, because built in an heroic\nage that disdained all that was light and unsubstantial. It is a city\nof granite\u2015\u2015not of the softer hues that take a polish like marble, but\nof cold blue granite, severe and invincible as the steel-clad knights\nwho built it. The granite houses are built with a solidity that would\nwithstand many a hard assault; the granite churches, with their\nfrowning battlements, have the aspect of fortresses; and the granite\nconvents with their high granite walls look indeed like \u201ccitadels of\nprayer.\u201d Everything speaks of a bygone age, an age of conflict and\nchivalrous deeds, when the city must have been far more wealthy and\npowerful than now, to have erected such solid edifices. We are not in\nthe least surprised to hear it was originally founded by Hercules\nhimself, or one of the forty of that name to whom so many of the\ncities of Spain are attributed. Avila is worthy of being counted among\nhis labors.\n\nBut whoever founded Avila, it afterwards became the seat of a Roman\ncolony which is mentioned by Ptolemy. It has always been of strategic\nimportance, being at the entrance to the Guadarrama Mountains and the\nCastiles. When Roderick, the last of the Goths, brought destruction on\nthe land by his folly, Avila was one of the first places seized by the\nMoors. This was in 714. After being repeatedly taken and lost, Don\nSancho of Castile finally took it in 992, and the Moors never regained\npossession of it. But there were not Christians enough to repeople it,\nand it remained desolate eighty-nine years. St. Ferdinand found it\nuninhabited when he came from the conquest of Seville. Alonso VI.\nfinally commissioned his son-in-law, Count Raymond of Burgundy, to\nrebuild and fortify it.\n\nAlonso VI. had already taken the city of Toledo and made peace with\nthe Moors, but the latter, intent on ruling over the whole of the\nPeninsula, soon became unmindful of the treaty. In this new crisis\nmany foreign knights hastened to acquire fresh renown in this land of\na perpetual crusade. Among the most renowned were Henry of Lorraine;\nRaymond de St. Gilles, Count of Toulouse; and Raymond, son of\nGuillaume T\u00eate-Hardie of Burgundy, and brother of Pope Calixtus II.\nThey contributed so much to the triumph of the cross that Alonso gave\nthem his three daughters in marriage. Urraca (the name of a delicious\npear in Spain) fell to the lot of Raymond of Burgundy, with Galicia\nfor her portion, and to him was entrusted the task of rebuilding\nAvila, the more formidable because it required numerous outposts and a\ncontinual struggle with the Moors. The flower of Spanish knighthood\ncame to his aid, and the king granted great privileges to all who\nwould establish themselves in the city. Hewers of wood, stone-cutters,\nmasons, and artificers of all kinds came from Biscay, Galicia, and\nLeon. The king sent the Moors taken in battle to aid in the work. The\nbishop in pontificals, accompanied by a long train of clergy, blessed\nthe outlines traced for the walls, stopping to make special exorcisms\nat the spaces for the ten gates, that the great enemy of the human\nrace might never obtain entrance into the city. The walls were built\nout of the ruins left successively behind by the Moors, the Goths, and\nthe Romans, to say nothing of Hercules. As an old chronicler remarks,\nhad they been obliged to hew out and bring hither all the materials,\nno king would have been able to build such walls. They are forty-two\nfeet high and twelve feet thick. The so-called towers are rather solid\ncircular buttresses that add to their strength. These walls were begun\nMay 3, 1090. Eight hundred men were employed in the work, which was\ncompleted in nine years. They proved an effectual barrier against the\nSaracen; the crescent never floated from those towers. How proud the\npeople are of them is shown by the lines at the head of this sketch:\n\n\u201cBehold the superb walls that surround and crown thee, victorious in\nso many assaults! Each battlement deserves a crown in reward for thy\nglorious triumphs!\u201d\n\nIt was thus this daughter of Hercules rose from the grave where she\nhad lain seemingly dead so many years. Houses sprang up as by\nenchantment, and were peopled so rapidly that in 1093 there were about\nthirty thousand inhabitants. The city thus rebuilt and defended by its\nincomparable knights merited the name often given it from that time by\nthe old chroniclers, _Avila de los Caballeros_.\n\nOne of these cavaliers, Zurraquin Sancho, the honor and glory of\nknighthood, was captain of the country forces around Avila. One day,\nwhile riding over his estate with a single attendant to examine his\nherds, he spied a band of Moors returning from a foray into Christian\nlands, dragging several Spanish peasants after them in chains. As soon\nas Zurraquin was perceived, the captives cried to him for deliverance.\nWhereupon, mindful of his knightly vows to relieve the distressed, he\nrode boldly up, though but slightly armed, and offered to ransom his\ncountrymen. The Moors would not consent, and the knight prudently\nwithdrew. But, as soon as he was out of sight, he alighted to tighten\nthe girths of his steed, which he then remounted and spurred on by a\ndifferent path. In a short time he came again upon the Moors, and\ncrying \u201cSantiago!\u201d as with the voice of twenty men, he suddenly dashed\ninto their midst, laying about him right and left so lustily that,\ntaken unawares, they were thrown into confusion, and, supposing\nthemselves attacked by a considerable force, fled for their lives,\nleaving two of their number wounded, and one dead on the field.\nZurraquin unbound the captives, who had also been left behind, and\nsent them away with the injunction to be silent concerning his\nexploit.\n\nA few days after, these peasants came to Avila in search of their\nbenefactor, bringing with them twelve fat swine and a large flock of\nhens. Regardless of his parting admonition, they stopped on the Square\nof San Pedro, and related how he had delivered them single-handed\nagainst threescore infidels. The whole city soon resounded with so\nbrave a deed, and Zurraquin was declared a peerless knight. The women\nalso took up his praises and sang songs in his honor to the sound of\nthe tambourine:\n\n \u201cCantan de Oliveros, e cantan de Roldan,\n E non de Zurraquin, ca fue buen barragan.\u201d[40]\n\nA second band would take up the strain:\n\n \u201cCantan de Roldan, e cantan de Olivero,\n E non de Zurraquin, ca fue buen caballero.\u201d[41]\n\nAfter rebuilding Avila Count Raymond of Burgundy retired to his\nprovince of Galicia, and, dying March 26, 1107, he was buried in the\ncelebrated church of Santiago at Compostella. It was his son who\nbecame King of Castile under the name of Alonso VIII., and Avila,\nbecause of its loyalty to him and his successors, acquired a new\nname\u2015\u2015_Avila del Rey_\u2015\u2015among the chroniclers of the time.\n\nBut the city bears a title still more glorious than those already\nmentioned\u2015\u2015that of _Avila de los Santos_. It was in the sixteenth\ncentury especially that it became worthy of this name, when there\ngathered about St. Teresa a constellation of holy souls, making the\nplace a very Carmel, filled with the \u201csons of the prophets.\u201d _Avila\ncantos y santos_\u2015\u2015Avila has as many saints as stones\u2015\u2015says an old\nSpanish proverb, and that is saying not a little. The city has always\nbeen noted for dignity of character and its attachment to the church.\n\nThe piety of its ancient inhabitants is attested by the number and\ngrave beauty of the churches, with their lamp-lit shrines of the\nsaints and their dusky aisles filled with tombs of the old knights who\nfought under the banner of the cross. In St. Teresa\u2019s time it was\nhonored with the presence of several saints who have been canonized:\nSt. Thomas of Villanueva, St. Peter of Alcantara, St. John of the\nCross, and that holy Spanish grandee, St. Francis Borgia, besides many\nother individuals noted for their sanctity. But St. Teresa is the best\ntype of Avila. Her piety was as sweetly austere as the place, as broad\nand enlightened as the vast horizon that bounds it, and fervid as its\nglowing sun.\n\n\u201cYou mustn\u2019t say anything against St. Teresa at Avila,\u201d said the\ninevitable Englishmen we met an hour after our arrival.\n\n\u201cWe are by no means disposed to, here or anywhere else,\u201d was our\nreply. On the contrary, we regarded her, with Mrs. Jameson, as \u201cthe\nmost extraordinary woman of her age and country\u201d; nay, \u201cwho would have\nbeen a remarkable woman in _any_ age or country.\u201d We had seen her\nstatue among the fathers of the church in the first Christian temple\nin the world, with the inscription: _Sancta Teresa, Mater\nspiritualis_. We had read her works, written in the pure Castilian for\nwhich Avila is noted, breathing the imagination of a poet and the\nausterity of a saint, till we were ready to exclaim with Crashawe:\n\n \u201cOh! \u2019tis not Spanish, but \u2019tis Heaven she speaks!\u201d\n\nand we had come to Avila expressly to offer her the tribute of our\nadmiration. Here she reigns, to quote Miss Martineau\u2019s words, \u201cas true\na queen on this mountain throne as any empress who ever wore a crown!\u201d\n\nAt this very moment we were on our way to visit the places associated\nwith her memory. A few turns more through the narrow, tortuous\nstreets, and we came to the ponderous gateway of San Vicente on the\nnorth side of the city, so named from the venerable church just\nwithout the walls, beloved of arch\u00e6ologists. But for the moment it had\nno attraction for us; for below, in the broad, sunny valley, we could\nsee the monastery of the Incarnation, a place of great interest to the\nCatholic heart. There it was that St. Teresa, young and beautiful,\ntook the veil and spent more than thirty years of her life. The first\nglimpse of it one can never forget; and, apart from the associations,\nthe ancient towers of San Vicente on the edge of the hill, the fair\nvalley below with its winding stream and the convent embosomed among\ntrees, and the mountains that girt the horizon, made up a picture none\nthe less lovely for being framed in that antique gateway. We went\nwinding down to the convent, perhaps half a mile distant, by the\n_Calle de la Encarnacion_. No sweeter, quieter spot could be desired\nin which to end one\u2019s days. It is charmingly situated on the farther\nside of the Adaja, and commands a fine view of Avila, which, indeed,\nis picturesque in every direction. We could count thirty towers in the\ncity walls as we turned at the convent gate to look back. St. Teresa\nstopped in this same archway, Nov. 2, 1533, to bid farewell to her\nbrother Antonio, who, on leaving her, went to the Dominican convent,\nwhere he took the monastic habit. She was then only eighteen and a\nhalf years old. The inward agony she experienced on entering the\nconvent she relates with great sincerity, but there was no faltering\nin her determination to embrace the higher life. The house had been\nfounded only about twenty years before, and the first Mass was said in\nit the very day she was baptized. That was more than three centuries\nago. Its stout walls may be somewhat grayer, and the alleys of its\nlarge garden more umbrageous, but its general aspect must be very much\nthe same; for in that dry climate nature does not take so kindly to\nman\u2019s handiwork as in the misty north, where the old convents are all\ndraped with moss and the ivy green. It is less peopled also. In 1550\nthere were ninety nuns, but now there are not more than half that\nnumber.\n\nThere is a series of little parlors, low and dim, with unpainted\nbeams, and queer old chairs, and two black grates with nearly a yard\nbetween, through which you can converse, as through a tunnel, with the\nnuns. They have not been changed since St. Teresa\u2019s time. In one of\nthese our Lord reproved her for her conversations, which still savored\ntoo much of the world. Here, later in life, St. Francis Borgia came to\nsee her on his way from the convent of Yuste, where he had been to\nvisit his kinsman, Charles V. Here she saw St. Peter of Alcantara in\necstasy. In one of these parlors, now regarded as a sacred spot, she\nheld her interviews with St. John of the Cross when he was director of\nthe house. It is related that one day, while he was discoursing here\non the mystery of the Holy Trinity, she was so impressed by his words\nthat she fell on her knees to listen. In a short time he entered the\necstatic state, leaving St. Teresa lost in divine contemplation; and\nwhen one of the nuns came with a message, she found them both\nsuspended in the air! For a moment they ceased to belong to earth, and\nits laws did not control them. A picture of this scene hangs on the\nwall. In a larger and more cheerful parlor some nuns of very pleasing\nmanners of the true Spanish type showed us several objects that\nbelonged to St. Teresa, and some of her embroidery of curious Spanish\nwork, very nicely done, as we were glad to see; likewise, a Christ\ncovered with bleeding wounds as he appeared to St. John of the Cross,\nand many other touching memorials of the past.\n\nWe next visited the church, which is large, with buttressed walls,\nlow, square towers, and a gabled belfry. The interior is spacious and\nlofty, but severe in style. There is a nave, and two short transepts\nwith a dome rising between them. It is paved with flag-stones, and\nplain wooden benches stand against the stone walls. The high altar, at\nwhich St. John of the Cross used to say Mass, has its gilt retable,\nwith colonnettes and niches filled with the saints of the order, among\nwhom we remember the prophets who dwelt on Mt. Carmel, and St. Albert,\npatriarch of Jerusalem. The nuns\u2019 choir is at the opposite end of the\nchurch. We should say _choirs_; for they have two, one above the\nother, with double black grates, which are generally curtained. It was\nat the grate of the lower choir, dim and mystic as his _Obscure Night\nof the Soul_, that St. John of the Cross used to preach to the nuns.\nWhat sermons there must have been from him who wrote, as never man\nwrote, on the upward way from night to light!\n\nThe grating of this lower choir has two divisions, between which is a\nsmall square shutter, like the door of a tabernacle, on which is\nrepresented a chalice and Host. It was here St. Teresa received the\nHoly Communion for more than thirty years. Here one morning, after\nreceiving it from the hand of St. John of the Cross, she was\nmysteriously affianced to the heavenly Bridegroom, who called her, in\nthe language of the Canticles, by the sweet name of Spouse, and placed\non her finger the nuptial ring. She was then fifty-seven years of age.\nA painting over the communion table represents this supernatural\nevent.\n\nThis choir is also associated with the memory of Eleonora de Cepeda, a\nniece of St. Teresa\u2019s, who became a nun at the convent of the\nIncarnation. She was remarkable for her detachment from earth, and\ndied young, an angel of purity and devotion. St. Teresa saw her body\nborne to the choir by angels. No Mass of requiem was sung over her. It\nwas during the Octave of Corpus Christi. The church was adorned as for\na festival. The Mass of the Blessed Sacrament was chanted to the sound\nof the organ, and the Alleluia repeatedly sung, as if to celebrate the\nentrance of her soul into glory. The dead nun, in the holy habit of\nMt. Carmel, lay on her bier covered with lilies and roses, with a\ncelestial smile on her pale face that seemed to reflect the beatitude\nof her soul. The procession of the Host was made around her, and all\nthe nuns took a last look at their beautiful sister before she was\nlowered into the gloomy vault below.[42]\n\nIn the upper choir there is a statue of St. Teresa, dressed as a\nCarmelite, in the stall she occupied when prioress of the house. The\nnuns often go to kiss the hand as a mark of homage to her memory. The\nactual prioress occupies the next stall below.\n\nIt will be remembered that St. Teresa passed twenty-nine years in this\nconvent before she left to found that of San Jos\u00e9. She afterwards\nreturned three years as prioress, when, at her request, St. John of\nthe Cross (who was born in a small town near Avila) was appointed\nspiritual director. Under the direction of these two saints the house\nbecame a paradise filled with souls of such fervor that the heavenly\nspirits themselves came down to join in their holy psalmody, according\nto the testimony of St. Teresa herself, who saw the stalls occupied by\nthem.\n\n \u201cThe air of Paradise did fan the house,\n And angels office all.\u201d\n\nOne of St. Teresa\u2019s first acts, on taking charge of the house, was to\nplace a large statue of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel in the upper choir, and\npresent her with the keys of the monastery, to indicate that this\nwomanly type of all that is sweet and heavenly was to be the true\nruler of the house. This statue still retains its place in the choir,\nand in its hand are the keys presented by the saint.\n\nThe convent garden is surrounded by high walls. It wears the same\nsmiling aspect as in the saint\u2019s time, but it is larger. The\nneighboring house occupied by St. John of the Cross, with the land\naround it, has been bought and added to the enclosure. The house has\nbeen converted into an octagon chapel, called the _Ermita de San Juan\nde la Cruz_. The unpainted wooden altar was made from a part of St.\nTeresa\u2019s cell. In this garden are the flowers and shrubbery she loved,\nthe almond-trees she planted, the paths she trod. Here are the\noratories where she prayed, the dark cypresses that witnessed her\npenitential tears, the limpid water she was never weary of\ncontemplating\u2015\u2015symbol of divine grace and regeneration. St. Teresa\u2019s\nlove of nature is evident on every page of her writings. She said the\nsight of the fields and flowers raised her soul towards God, and was\nlike a book in which she read his grandeur and benefits. And she often\ncompared her soul to a garden which she prayed the divine Husbandman\nto fill with the sweet perfume of the lowly virtues.\n\nIn the right wing of the convent is a little oratory, quiet and\nsolitary, beloved of the saint, where an angel, all flame, appeared to\nthe eyes of her soul with a golden arrow in his hand, which he thrust\ndeep into her heart, leaving it for ever inflamed with seraphic love.\nThis mystery is honored in the Carmelite Order by the annual festival\nof the Transverberation. Art like-wise has immortalized it. We\nremember the group by Bernini in the church of Santa Maria della\nVittoria at Rome, in which the divine transport of her soul is so\nclearly visible through the pale beauty of her rapt form, which\ntrembles beneath the fire-tipped dart of the angel. What significance\nin this sacred seal set upon her virginal heart, from this time rent\nin twain by love and penitence! _Cor contritum et humiliatum, Deus,\nnon despicies!_ was the exclamation of St. Teresa when dying.\n\nThe sun was descending behind the proud walls of Avila when we\nregained the steep hillside, lighting up the grim towers and crowning\nthem with splendor. We stopped on the brow, before the lofty portal of\nSan Vicente, to look at its wreaths of stone and mutilated saints, and\nread the story of the rich man and Lazarus so beautifully told in the\narch. Angels are bearing away the soul of the latter on a mantle to\nAbraham\u2019s bosom. On the south side of the church is a sunny portico\nwith light, clustered pillars, filled with tombs, some in niches\ncovered with emblazonry, others like plain chests of stone set against\nthe wall. We went down the steps into the church, cold, and dim, and\ngray, all of granite and cave-like. The pavement is composed of\ngranite tombstones covered with inscriptions and coats of arms. There\nare granite fonts for the holy water. Old statues, old paintings, and\nold inscriptions in Gothic text line the narrow aisles. The windows\nare high up in the arches, which were still light, though shadows were\ngathering around the tombs below. There was not a soul in the church.\nWe looked through the _reja_ that divides the nave at the beautiful\nGothic shrine of San Vicente and his two sisters, Sabina and\nChrysteta, standing on pillars under a richly-painted canopy, with\ncurious old lamps burning within, and then went down a long, narrow,\nstone staircase into the crypt\u2015\u2015of the third century\u2015\u2015and kept along\nbeneath the low, round arches till we came to a chapel where, by the\nlight of a torch, we saw the bare rock on which the above-mentioned\nsaints were martyred, and the _Bujo_ out of which the legendary\nserpent came to defend their remains when thrown out for the beasts to\ndevour. This _Bujo_ was long used as a place of solemn adjuration, a\nkind of _Bocca de la Verit\u00e0_, into which the perjurer shrank from\nthrusting his hand, but the custom has been discontinued.\n\nThe following morning we went to visit the place where St. Teresa was\nborn. On the way we passed through the Plaza de San Juan, like an\nimmense cloister with its arcades, which takes its name from the\nchurch on one side, where St. Teresa was baptized. The very font is at\nthe left on entering\u2015\u2015a granite basin fluted diagonally, surrounded by\nan iron railing. Over it is her portrait and the following inscription:\n\n Vigesimo octavo Martii\n Teresia oborta,\n Aprilis ante nona est\n sacro hoc fonte\n renata\n MDXV.\n\nA grim old church for so sweet a flower to first open to the dews of\ndivine grace in; the baptismal font at one end, and the grave at the\nother, with cold, gray arches encircling both like the all-embracing\narms of that great nursing-mother\u2015\u2015Death. At each side of the high\naltar are low, sepulchral recesses, into which you look down through a\ngrating at the coroneted tombs, before which lamps hang dimly burning.\nOver the altar the Good Shepherd is going in search of his lost lambs,\nand at the left is a great, pale Christ on the Cross, ghastly and\nterrible in the shadowy, torch-lit arch. The whole church is paved\nwith tomb-stones, like most of the churches of Avila, as if the idea\nof death could never be separated from life. But then, which is death\nand which life? Is it not in the womb of the grave we awaken to the\nreal life?\n\nOne of the most popular traditions of Avila is connected with the\nSquare of San Juan: the defence of the city in 1109 by the heroic\nXimena Blasquez, whose husband, father, and brothers were all valiant\nknights. The old governor of the city, Ximenes Blasquez, was dead, and\nXimena\u2019s husband and sons were away fighting on the frontier. The\npeople, left without rulers and means of defence, came together on the\npublic square and proclaimed her governor of the place. She accepted\nthe charge, and proved herself equal to the emergency. Spain at this\ntime was overrun by the Moors who had come from Africa to the aid of\ntheir brethren. They pillaged and ravaged the country as they went.\nLearning the defenceless state of Avila, and supposing it to contain\ngreat riches and many Moorish captives, they resolved to lay siege to\nit. Ximena was warned of the danger, and, instantly mounting her\nhorse, she took two squires and rode forth to the country place of\nSancho de Estrada to summon him to her aid. Sancho, though enfeebled\nby illness, was too gallant a knight to turn a deaf ear to the behest\nof ladye fair. He did not make his entrance into the city in a very\nknightly fashion, however. Instead of coming on his war-horse, all\nbooted and spurred, and clad in bright armor, he was brought in a cart\non two feather-beds, on the principle of Butler\u2019s couplet, which we\nvary to suit the occasion:\n\n \u201cAnd feather-bed \u2019twixt knight urbane\n And heavy brunt of springless wain.\u201d\n\nIn descending at the door of his palace at Avila he unfortunately fell\nand was mortally injured, and the vassals he had brought with him\nbasely fled when they found they had no chastisement to fear.\n\nBut the dauntless Ximena was not discouraged. Determined to save the\ncity, she went from house to house, and street to street, to\ndistribute provisions, count the men, furnish them with darts and\narrows, and assign their posts. It is mentioned that she took all the\nflour she could find at the bishop\u2019s; and Tamara, the Jewess, made her\na present of all the salt meat she had on hand.[43]\n\nOn the 3d of July Ximena, hearing the Moors were within two miles of\nthe city, sent a knight with twenty squires to reconnoitre their camp\nand cut off some of the outposts, promising to keep open a postern\ngate to admit them at their return. Then she despatched several\ntrumpeters in different directions to sound their trumpets, that the\nMoors might suppose armed forces were at hand for the defence of the\ncity. This produced the effect she desired. The knight penetrated to\nthe camp, killed several sentinels, and re-entered Avila by the\npostern. Ximena passed the whole night on her palfrey, making the\nround of the city, keeping watch on the guards, and encouraging the\nmen. At dawn she returned to her palace, and, summoning her three\ndaughters and two daughters-in-law to her presence, she put on a suit\nof armor, and, taking a lance in her hand, called upon them to imitate\nher, which they did, as well as all the women in the house. Thus\naccoutred, they proceeded to the Square of San Juan, where they found\na great number of women weeping and lamenting. \u201cMy good friends,\u201d said\nXimena, \u201cfollow my example, and God will give you the victory.\u201d\nWhereupon they all hastened to their houses, put on all the armor they\ncould find, and covered their long hair with sombreros. Ximena\nprovided them with javelins, caltrops, and gabions full of stones, and\nwith these troops she mounted the walls in order to attack the Moors\nwhen they should arrive beneath.\n\nThe Moorish captain, approaching the city, saw it apparently defended\nby armed men, and, deceived by the trumpets in the night, supposed the\nplace had been reinforced. He therefore decided to retreat.\n\nAs soon as Ximena found the enemy really gone she descended from the\nwalls with her daughters and daughters-in-law, distributed provisions\nto her troops on the Square of St. John, and, after the necessary\nrepose, they all went in procession to the church of the glorious\nmartyrs San Vicente and his sisters, and, returning by the churches of\nSt. Jago and San Salvador, led Ximena in triumph to the Alcazar. The\nfame of her bravery and presence of mind extended all over the land,\nand has become the subject of legend and song. A street near the\nchurch of San Juan still bears the name of Ximena Blasquez.\n\nA convent for Carmelite friars was built in the seventeenth century on\nthe site of St. Teresa\u2019s family mansion, in the western part of Avila.\nThe church, in the style of the Renaissance, faces a large, sunny\nsquare, on one side of which is a fine old palace with sculptured\ndoors and windows and emblazoned shields. Near by is the _Posada de\nSanta Teresa_. The whole convent is embalmed with her memory. Her\nstatue is over the door of the church. All through the corridors you\nmeet her image. The cloisters are covered with frescoes of her life\nand that of St. John of the Cross. Over the main altar of the church,\nframed in the columns of the gilt retable, is an alto-relievo of St.\nTeresa, supported by Joseph and Mary, gazing up with suppliant hands\nat our Saviour, who appears with his cross amid a multitude of angels.\nThe church is not sumptuous, but there is an atmosphere of piety about\nit that is very touching. The eight side-chapels are like deep\nalcoves, each with some scene of the Passion or the life of the\nVirgin. The transept, on the gospel side, constitutes the chapel of\nOur Lady of Mt. Carmel, from which you enter a little oratory hung\nwith lamps and entirely covered with paintings, reliquaries, and\ngilding, as if art and piety had vied in adorning it. It was on this\nspot St. Teresa first saw the light in the year 1515, during the\npontificate of Leo X. A quieter, more secluded spot in which to pray\ncould not be desired. But Avila is full of such dim, shadowy\noratories, consecrated by some holy memory. Over the altar where Mass\nis daily offered is a statue of St. Teresa, sad as the Virgin of Many\nSorrows, representing her as when she beheld the bleeding form of\nChrist, her face and one hand raised towards the divine Sufferer, the\nother hand on her arrow-pierced breast. She wears a broidered cope and\ngolden rosary. Among the paintings on the wall are her Espousals, and\nJoseph and Mary bringing her the jewelled collar. Two little windows\nadmit a feeble light into this cell-like solitude. The ceiling is\npanelled. Benches covered with blue cloth stand against the wall. And\nthere are little mirrors under the paintings, in true modern Spanish\ntaste, to increase the glitter and effect. The De Cepeda coat of arms\nand the family tree hang at one end, appropriate enough here. But in\nthe church family distinctions are laid aside. There only the arms of\nthe order of Mt. Carmel, St. Teresa\u2019s true family, are emblazoned.\n\nIn a little closet of the oratory we were shown some relics of the\nsaint, among which were her sandals and a staff\u2015\u2015the latter too long\nto walk with, and with a small crook at the end. It might have been\nthe emblem of her monastic authority.\n\nBeneath the church are brick vaults full of the bones of the old\nfriars, into which we could have thrust our hands. Their cells above\nare less fortunate. They are tenantless, or without their rightful\ninmates; for since the suppression of the monasteries in Spain only\nthe nuns in Avila have been left unmolested. Here, at St. Teresa\u2019s, a\npart of the convent has been appropriated for a normal school. We went\nthrough one of the corridors still in possession of the church. _Ave\nMaria, sin peccado concebida_ was on the door of every cell. We\nentered one to obtain some souvenir of the place, and found a studious\nyoung priest surrounded by his books and pictures, in a narrow room,\nquiet and monastic, with one small window to admit the light.\n\nThen there is the garden full of roses and vines, also sequestered,\nwhere St. Teresa and her brother Rodriguez, in their childhood, built\nhermitages, and talked of heaven, and encouraged each other for\nmartyrdom.\n\n \u201cScarce has she learned to lisp the name\n Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame\n Life should so long play with the breath\n Which, spent, could buy so brave a death.\u201d\n\nAvila was full of the traditions of the incomparable old knights who\nhad delivered Spain from the Moor. The chains of the Christian\ncaptives they had freed were suspended on the walls of one of the most\nbeautiful churches in the land, and those who had fallen victims to\nthe hate of the infidel were regarded as martyrs. The precocious\nimagination of the young Teresa was fired with these tales of chivalry\nand Christian endurance. She was barely seven years of age when she\nand her brother escaped from home, and took the road to Salamanca to\nseek martyrdom among the Moors. We took the same path when we left the\nconvent. Leaving the city walls, and descending into the valley, we\ncame to the Adaja, which flows along a narrow defile at the foot of\nAvila, over a rocky bed bordered by old mills that have been here from\ntime immemorial, this faubourg in the middle ages having been\ninhabited by dyers, millers, tanners, etc. We crossed the river by the\nsame massive stone bridge with five arches, and went on and up a sunny\nslope, along the same road the would-be martyrs took, through open\nfields strewn with huge boulders, till we came to a tall, round\ngranite cross between four round pillars connected by stone\ncross-beams that once evidently supported a dome. This marks the spot\nwhere the children were overtaken by their uncle. The cross bends\nover, as if from the northern blasts, and is covered with great\npatches of bright green and yellow moss. The best view of Avila is to\nbe had from this point, and we sat down at the foot of the cross,\namong the wild thyme, to look at the picturesque old town of the\nmiddle ages clearly traced out against the clear blue sky\u2015\u2015its gray\nfeudal turrets; its _palacios_, once filled with Spanish valor and\nbeauty, but now lonely; the strong Alcazar, with its historic\nmemories; and the numerous towers and belfries crowned by the\nembattled walls of the cathedral, that seems at once to protect and\nbless the city. St. Teresa\u2019s home is distinctly visible. The Adaja\nbelow goes winding leisurely through the broad, almost woodless\nlandscape. Across the pale fields, in yonder peaceful valley, is the\nconvent of the Incarnation, where Teresa\u2019s aspirations for martyrdom\nwere realized in a mystical sense. Her brother Rodriguez was\nafterwards killed in battle in South America, and St. Teresa always\nregarded him as a martyr, because he fell in defending the cause of\nreligion.\n\nThe next morning we were awakened at an early hour by the sound of\ndrum and bugle, and the measured tramp of soldiers over the pebbled\nstreets. We hurried to the window. It was not a company of phantom\nknights fleeing away at the dawn, but the flesh-and-blood soldiers of\nAlfonso XII. going to early Mass at the cathedral of San Salvador on\nthe opposite side of the small square. We hastened to follow their\nexample.\n\nSan Salvador, half church, half fortress, seems expressly built to\nhonor the God of Battles. Chained granite lions guard the entrance.\nStone knights keep watch and ward at the sculptured doorway. Happily,\non looking up we see the blessed saints in long lines above the\nyawning arch, and we enter. The church is of the early pointed style,\nthough nearly every age has left its impress. All is gray, severe, and\nmajestic. Its cold aisles are sombre and mysterious, with tombs of\nbishops and knights in niches along the wall, where they lie with\nfolded hands and something of everlasting peace on their still faces.\nThe heart that shuts its secrets from the glare of sunlight, in these\nshadowy aisles unfolds them one by one, as in some mystic Presence,\nwith vague, dreamy thoughts of something higher, more satisfying, than\nthe outer world has yet given, or can give. The distant murmur of the\npriests at the altars, the twinkling lights, the tinkling bells, the\nbowed forms grouped here and there, the holy sculptures on the walls,\nall speak to the heart. The painted windows of the nave are high up in\nthe arches, which are now empurpled with the morning sun. Below, all\ndimness and groping for light; above, all clearness and the radiance\nof heaven! _Sursum corda!_\n\nThe _coro_, as in most Spanish cathedrals, is in the body of the\nchurch, and connected with the _Capilla Mayor_ by a railed passage.\nThe stalls are beautifully carved. Old choral books stand on the\nlecterns ready for service. The outer wall of the choir is covered\nwith sculptures of the Renaissance representing the great mysteries of\nreligion, of which we never tire. Though told in every church in\nChristendom, they always seem told in a new light, and strike us with\nnew force, as something too deep for mortal ever to fathom fully. They\nare the alphabet of the faith, which we repeat and combine in a\nthousand different ways in order to obtain some faint idea of God\u2019s\nmanifestations to us who see here but darkly.\n\nThese mysteries are continued in the magnificent retable of the time\nof Ferdinand and Isabella in the _Capilla Mayor_, where they are\nrichly painted on a gold ground by Berruguete and other famous artists\nof the day, and now glorious under the descending morning light. It is\nthe same sweet Rosary of Love that seems to have caught new lights,\nmore heavenly hues.\n\nThe interesting chapels around the apsis are lighted by small windows\nlike mere loop-holes cut through walls of enormous thickness. In the\nambulatory we come to the beautiful alabaster tomb of Alfonso de\nMadrigal, surnamed _El Tostado_, the tawny, from his complexion, and\n_El Abulense_, Abula being the Latin for Avila. He was a writer of\nsuch astonishing productiveness that he left behind him forty-eight\nvolumes in folio, amounting to sixty thousand pages. It is to be\nfeared we shall never get time to read them, at least in _this_ world.\nHe became so proverbial that Don Quixote mentions some book as large\nas all the works of _El Tostado_ combined, as if human imagination\ncould go no farther. Leigh Hunt speaks of some Spanish bishop as\nprobably writing his homilies in a room ninety feet long! He must have\nreferred to _El Tostado_. He is represented on his tomb sitting in a\nchair, pen in hand, and eyes half closed, as if collecting his\nthoughts or listening to the divine inspiration. His jewelled cope,\nembroidered with scenes of the Passion, is beautifully carved. Below\nhim are the Virtues in attendance, as in life, and above are scenes of\nOur Lord\u2019s infancy, which he loved. This tomb is one of the finest\nworks of Berruguete.\n\nFurther along we opened a door at a venture, and found ourselves in\nthe chapel of San Segundo, the first apostle of Avila, covered with\nfrescoes of his life. His crystal-covered shrine is in the centre,\nwith an altar on each of the four sides, behind open-work doors of\nwrought brass. The chapel was quiet and dim and solemn, with burning\nlamps and people at prayer. Then, by another happy turn, we came into\na large cloister with chapels and tombs, where the altar-boys were at\nplay in their red cassocks and short white tunics. The church bells\nnow began to ring, and they hurried away, leaving us alone to enjoy\nthe cloistral shades.\n\nWhen we went into the church again the service had been commenced, the\n_Capilla Mayor_ was hung with crimson and gold, candles were\ndistributed to the canons, who, in their purple robes, made the round\nof the church, the wax dripping on the tombstones that paved the\naisles, and the arches resonant with the dying strains of the aged\nSimeon: _Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine!_ For it was Candlemas-day.\n\nThe cathedral of San Salvador was begun in 1091, on the site of a\nformer church. The pope, at the request of Alonso VI., granted\nindulgences to all who would contribute to its erection. Contributions\nwere sent, not only from the different provinces of Spain, but from\nFrance and Italy. More than a thousand stone-cutters and carpenters\nwere employed under the architect Garcia de Estella, of Navarre, and\nthe building was completed in less than sixteen years.\n\nAfter breakfast we left the city walls and came out on the Square of\nSan Pedro, where women were filling their jars at the well in true\nOriental fashion, the air vocal with their gossip and laughter. Groups\nof peasant women had come up from the plains for a holiday, and were\nsauntering around the square or along the arcades in their gay stuff\ndresses, the skirts of which were generally drawn over their heads, as\nif to show the bright facings of another color. Yellow skirts were\nfaced with red peaked with green; red ones faced with green and\ntrimmed with yellow. When let down, they stood out, in their fulness,\nlike a farthingale, short enough to show their blue stockings. Their\nhair, in flat basket-braids, was looped up behind with gay pins. We\nsaw several just such glossy black plaits among the votive offerings\nin the oratory of St. Teresa\u2019s Nativity.\n\nWe stopped awhile in the church of San Pedro, of the thirteenth\ncentury\u2015\u2015like all of the churches of Avila, well worth visiting\u2015\u2015and\nthen kept on to the Dominican convent of St. Thomas, a mile distant,\nand quite in the country. This vast convent is still one of the finest\nmonuments about Avila, though deserted, half ruined, and covered with\nthe garment of sadness. It was here St. Teresa\u2019s brother Antonio\nretired from the world and died while in the novitiate. We visited\nseveral grass-grown cloisters with fine, broad arches; the lonely\ncells once inhabited by the friars, commanding a fine view over the\nrock-strewn moor and the Guadarrama Mountains beyond; the infirmary,\nwith a sunny gallery for invalids to walk in, and windows in the cells\nso arranged opposite each other that all the sick could from their\nbeds attend Mass said in the oratory at the end; the refectory, with\nstone tables and seats, and defaced paintings on the walls; the royal\napartments, looking into a cloister with sculptured arches, and\neverywhere the arrows and yoke, emblems of Ferdinand and Isabella; and\nthe broad stone staircase leading to the church where lies their only\nson Juan in his beautifully-sculptured Florentine tomb of alabaster,\nnow sadly mutilated. On one side of this fine church is a chapel with\nthe confessional once used by St. Teresa. It was here, on Assumption\nday, 1561, while attending Mass, and secretly deploring the offences\nshe had confessed here, she was ravished in spirit and received a\nsupernatural assurance that her sins were forgiven her. She was\nherself clothed in a garment of dazzling whiteness, and, as a pledge\nof the divine favor, a necklace of gold, to which was attached a\njewelled cross of unearthly brilliancy, was placed on her neck. There\nis a painting of this vision on one side of the chapel, as well as in\nseveral of the churches of Avila. Mary Most Pure, in all the freshness\nof youth, appears with St. Joseph, bearing the garment of purity and\nthe collar of wrought gold\u2015\u2015a sweet yoke of love she received just\nbefore she founded the convent of San Jos\u00e9.\n\nPedro Yba\u00f1ez, a distinguished Dominican, who combined sanctity with\ngreat acquirements, and has left several valuable religious works, was\na member of this house. He was one of St. Teresa\u2019s spiritual advisers,\nand the first to order her to write her life.\n\nWe were glad to learn that this convent has been purchased by the\nbishop of Avila, and is about to be restored to the Dominican Order.\n\nThe Jesuit college of San Gin\u00e8s, likewise among the things of the\npast, has some interesting associations. It was founded by St. Francis\nBorgia, and in it lived for a time the saintly Balthazar Alvarez, the\nconfessor _par excellence_ of St. Teresa, who said her soul owed more\nto him than to any one else in the world. She saw him one day at the\naltar crowned with light, symbolic of the fervor of his devotion. He\nwas a consummate master of the spiritual life, and the guide of\nseveral persons at Avila noted for their sanctity.\n\nOne day we walked entirely around the walls of Avila, and came about\nsunset to a terrace at the west, overlooking a vast plain towards\nEstramadura. The fertile Vega below, with the stream winding in long,\nsilvery links; the purple mist on the mountains that stood against the\ngolden sky; the snowy range farther to the left, rose-flushed in the\nsunset light, made the view truly enchanting. We could picture to\nourselves this plain when it was filled with contending hosts\u2015\u2015the\nMoslem with the floating crescent, the glittering ranks of Christian\nknights with the proudly streaming cross and the ensigns of Castile,\nthe peal of bugle and clash of arms, and perchance the bishop\ndescending with the clergy from his _palacio_ just above us to\nencourage and bless the defenders of the land.\n\nNow only a few mules were slowly moving across the plain with the\nproduce of peaceful labor, and the soft tinkle of the convent bells,\ncalling one to another at the hour of prayer, the only sounds to break\nthe melancholy silence.\n\nNear by is the church of Santiago, where the _caballeros_ of Avila\nused to make their _veill\u00e9e des armes_ before they were armed knights,\nand with what Christian sentiments may be seen from an address, as\nrelated by an old chronicle, made by Don Pelayo, Bishop of Oviedo, to\ntwo young candidates in this very church, after administering the Holy\nEucharist. It must be remembered this was at the end of the eleventh\nor beginning of the twelfth century, being in the reign of Alonso VI.,\nto whom the rebuilding of Avila was due:\n\n \u201cMy young lords, who are this day to be armed knights, do\n you comprehend thoroughly what knighthood is? Knighthood\n means nobility, and he who is truly noble will not for\n anything in the world do the least thing that is low or\n vile. Wherefore you are about to promise, in order to fulfil\n your obligations unfalteringly, to love God above all\n things; for he has created you and redeemed you at the price\n of his Blood and Passion. In the second place, you promise\n to live and die subject to his holy law, without denying it,\n either now or in time to come; and, moreover, to serve in\n all loyalty Don Alonso, your liege lord, and all other kings\n who may legitimately succeed him; to receive no reward from\n rich or noble, Moor or Christian, without the license of Don\n Alonso, your rightful sovereign. You promise, likewise, in\n whatever battles or engagements you take part, to suffer\n death rather than flee; that on your tongue truth shall\n always be found, for the lying man is an abomination to the\n Lord; that you will always be ready to fly to the assistance\n of the poor man who implores your aid and seeks protection,\n even to encounter those who may have done him injustice or\n outrage; that you be ready to protect all matrons or maidens\n who claim your succor, even to do battle for them, should\n the cause be just, no matter against what power, till you\n obtain complete redress for the wrong they may have endured.\n You promise, moreover, not to show yourselves lofty in your\n conversation, but, on the contrary, humble and considerate\n with all; to show reverence and honor to the aged; to offer\n no defiance, without cause, to any one in the world;\n finally, that you receive the Body of the Lord, having\n confessed your faults and transgressions, not only on the\n three Paschs of the year, but on the festivals of the\n glorious St. John the Baptist, St. James, St. Martin, and\n St. George.\u201d\n\nWhich the two young lords, who were the bishop\u2019s nephews, solemnly\nswore to perform. Whereupon they were dubbed knights by Count Raymond\nof Burgundy, after which they departed for Toledo to kiss the king\u2019s\nhand.\n\nNot far from the church of Santiago is the convent of Nuestra Se\u00f1ora\nde la Gracia on the very edge of the hill, inhabited by Augustinian\nnuns. The church stands on the site of an ancient mosque. The entrance\nis shaded by a portico with granite pillars. Our guide rang the bell\nat the convent door, saying: \u201c_Ave Maria Purissima!_\u201d \u201c_Sin peccado\nconcebida_,\u201d responded a mysterious voice within, as from an oracle.\nSt. Teresa attended school here, and several memorials of her are\nshown by the nuns. St. Thomas of Villanueva, the Almsgiver, who is\nsaid to have made his vows as an Augustinian friar the very day Luther\npublicly threw off the habit of the order, was for a time the director\nof the house, and often preached in the church, which we visited. It\nconsists of a single aisle, narrow and lofty, with the gilt retable\nover the altar, as in all the Spanish churches, and a tomb or two of\nsome Castilian noblemen at the side. The pulpit, in which saints have\npreached, is a mere circular rail against the wall, ascended by steps.\nWhen used it is hung with drapery. On the same side of the church is a\npicture of the young Teresa beside her teacher, Maria Brice\u00f1o, a nun\nof fervent piety, to whom the saint said she was indebted for her\nfirst spiritual light. This nun, who, it appears, conversed admirably\non religious subjects, told her pupil one day how in her youth she was\nso struck on reading the words of the Gospel, \u201cMany are called, but\nfew are chosen,\u201d that she resolved to embrace the monastic life; and\nshe dwelt on the rewards reserved for those who abandon all things for\nthe love of Christ\u2015\u2015a lesson not lost on the eager listener.\n\nAt the end of the church is a large grating, through which we looked\ninto the choir of the nuns, quiet and prayerful, with its books and\npictures and stalls. Two nuns, with sweet, contemplative faces, were\nat prayer, dressed in queer pointed hoods and white mantles over black\nhabits. At the sides of the communion wicket stood the angel of the\nAnnunciation and Raphael with his fish\u2015\u2015gilded statues of symbolic\nimport.\n\nOne of the most interesting places in Avila is the convent of San\nJos\u00e9, on the little Plaza de las Madres, the first house of the reform\nestablished by St. Teresa. The convent and high walls are all of\ngranite and prison-like in their severity of aspect, but we were\nreceived with a kindness by the inmates that convinced us there was\nnothing severe in the spirit within. It is true we found the doors\nmost inhospitably closed and locked, even those of the outer courts\ngenerally left open, and we were obliged to hunt up the chaplain, who\nlived in the vicinity, to come to our aid. We thought he would prove\nequally unsuccessful in obtaining entrance, for he rang repeatedly\n(giving three strokes each time to the bell, we noticed), and it was a\nfull quarter of an hour before any one concluded to answer so\nunwelcome a summons from the outer world. We began to suppose them all\nin the state of ecstasy, and the nun who at length made\u2015\u2015her\nappearance, we were going to say\u2015\u2015herself audible spoke to us from\nsome inaccessible depth in a voice absolutely beatific, as if she had\njust descended from the clouds. We never heard anything so calm and\nsweet and well modulated. Thanks to her, we saw several relics of St.\nTeresa, whom she invariably spoke of as \u201cOur holy Mother.\u201d She also\ngave us bags of almonds and filberts, and branches of laurel, from the\ntrees planted in the garden by the holy hands of their seraphic\nfoundress.\n\nThe church of this convent is said to be the first church ever erected\nin honor of St. Joseph. There were several chapels before, which bore\nhis name, in different parts of Europe\u2015\u2015for example, one at Santa\nMaria ad Martyres at Rome\u2015\u2015but no distinct church. St. Teresa was the\ngreat propagator of the devotion to St. Joseph, now so popular\nthroughout the world. Of the first eighteen monasteries of her reform,\nthirteen were placed under his invocation; and in all she inculcated\nthis devotion, and had his statue placed over one of the doors. She\nleft the devotion as a legacy to the order, which has never ceased to\nextend it. At the end of the eighteenth century there were one hundred\nand fifty churches of St. Joseph in the Carmelite Order alone. His\nstatue is over the door of the church at Avila, and beside him stands\nthe Child Jesus with a saw in his hand. \u201cFor is not this the\ncarpenter\u2019s son?\u201d\n\nThe church consists of a nave with round arches and six side chapels,\nthe severity of which is relieved by the paintings and inevitable gilt\nretables. A statue of St. Joseph stands over the altar. The grating of\nthe nuns\u2019 choir is on the gospel side, opposite which is a painting of\nSt. Teresa with pen in hand and the symbolic white dove at her ear.\n_Jesus_, _Maria_, _Jos\u00e9_ are successively carved on the key-stones of\nthe arches of the nave.\n\nThe first chapel next the epistle side of the altar contains the tomb\nof Lorenzo de Cepeda, St. Teresa\u2019s brother, who entered the army and\nwent to South America about the year 1540, where he became chief\ntreasurer of the province of Quito. Having lost his wife, a woman of\nrare merit (it is related she died in the habit of Nuestra Se\u00f1ora de\nla Merced), he returned to Spain with his children, after an absence\nof thirty four years, and established himself at a country-seat near\nAvila. He had a great veneration for his sister, and placed himself\nunder her spiritual direction. Not to be separated from her, even in\ndeath, he founded this chapel at San Jos\u00e9\u2019s, which he dedicated to his\npatron, San Lorenzo, as his burial-place. His tomb is at the left as\nyou enter, with the following inscription: \u201cOn the 26th of June, in\nthe year 1580, fell asleep in the Lord Lorenzo de Cepeda, brother of\nthe holy foundress of this house and all the barefooted Carmelites. He\nreposes in this chapel, which he erected.\u201d\n\nIn the same tomb lies his daughter Teresita, who entered a novice at\nSt. Joseph\u2019s at the age of thirteen and died young, an angel of\ninnocence and piety.\n\nAnother chapel was founded by Gaspar Daza, a holy priest of Avila, who\ngathered about him a circle of zealous clergymen devoted to works of\ncharity and the salvation of souls. His reverence for St. Teresa\ninduced him to build this chapel, which he dedicated to the Nativity\nof the Virgin, with a tomb in which he lies buried with his mother and\nsister. It was he who said the first Mass in the church, Aug. 24,\n1562, and placed the Blessed Sacrament in the tabernacle, after which\nhe gave the veil to four novices, among whom was Antonia de Hanao, a\nrelative of St. Teresa\u2019s, who attained to eminent piety under the\nguidance of St. Peter of Alcantara, and died prioress of the\nCarmelites of Malaga, where her memory is still held in great\nveneration. At the close of this ceremony St. Peter of Alcantara, of\nthe Order of St. Francis; Pedro Yba\u00f1ez, the holy Dominican, and the\ncelebrated Balthazar Alvarez, of the Society of Jesus, offered Masses\nof thanksgiving. What a reunion of saints! On that day\u2015\u2015the birthday\nof the discalced Carmelites\u2015\u2015St. Teresa laid aside her family name,\nand took that of Teresa de J\u00e9sus, by which she is now known throughout\nthe Christian world.\n\nAmong the early novices at San Jos\u00e9 was a niece of St. Teresa\u2019s, Maria\nde Ocampo, beautiful in person and gifted in mind, who, from the age\nof seventeen, resolved to be the bride of none but Christ. She became\none of the pillars of the order, and died prioress of the convent at\nValladolid, so venerated for her sanctity that Philip III. went to see\nher on her death-bed, and recommended himself and the kingdom of Spain\nto her prayers. Her remains are in a tomb over the grating of the\nchoir in the Carmelite convent at Valladolid, suspended, as it were,\nin the air, among other holy virgins who sleep in the Lord.\n\nAnother niece of St. Teresa\u2019s,[44] who belonged to one of the noblest\nfamilies of Avila, also entered the convent of San Jos\u00e9. Her father,\nAlonso Alvarez, was himself regarded as a saint. Maria was of rare\nbeauty, but, though left an orphan at an early age with a large\nfortune, she rejected all offers of marriage as beneath her, and\nfinally chose the higher life. All the nobility of Avila came to see\nher take the veil. Here her noble soul found its true sphere. She rose\nto a high degree of piety, and succeeded St. Teresa as prioress of the\nhouse.\n\nAnother chapel at San Jos\u00e9, that of St. Paul, at the right as you go\nin, was founded by Don Francisco de Salcedo, a gentleman of Avila, who\nwas a great friend of St. Teresa\u2019s, as well as his wife, a devout\nservant of God and given to good works. St. Teresa says he lived a\nlife of prayer, and in all the perfection of which his state admitted,\nfor forty years. For twenty years he regularly attended the\ntheological course at the convent of St. Thomas, then in great repute,\nand after his wife\u2019s death took holy orders. He greatly aided St.\nTeresa in her foundations, and accompanied her in her journeys. He\nlies buried in his chapel of St. Paul.\n\nNot far from St. Joseph\u2019s is the church of St. Emilian, in the tribune\nof which Maria Diaz, also a friend of St. Teresa\u2019s, spent the last\nforty years of her life in perpetual adoration of the Blessed\nSacrament, which she called her dear neighbor, never leaving her cell,\nexcepting to go to confession and communion at St. Gin\u00e8s; for she was\nunder the direction of Balthazar Alvarez. She had distributed all her\ngoods to the poor, and now lived on alms. The veil that covers the\ndivine Presence in the Sacrament of the Altar was rent asunder for\nher, and, when she communed, her happiness was so great that she\nwondered if heaven itself had anything more to offer. St. Teresa\nsaying one day how she longed to behold God, Maria, though eighty\nyears of age, and bowed down by grievous infirmities, replied that she\npreferred to prolong her exile on earth, that she might continue to\nsuffer. \u201cAs long as we remain in the world,\u201d she said, \u201cwe can give\nsomething to God by supporting our pains for his love; whereas in\nheaven nothing remains but to receive the reward for our sufferings.\u201d\nDying in the odor of sanctity, she was so venerated by the people that\nshe was buried in the choir of the church, at the foot of the very\ntabernacle to which her adoring eyes had been unceasingly turned for\nforty years.\n\nWe have mentioned, too briefly for our satisfaction, some of the\npersons, noted for their eminent piety, who made Avila, at least in\nthe sixteenth century, a city _de los Santos_. It is a disappointment\nnot to find here the tomb of her who is the crowning glory of the\nplace. The expectations of Lorenzo de Cepeda were not realized. He\ndoes not sleep in death beside his sainted sister. The remains of St.\nTeresa are at Alba de Tormes, where she died, in a shrine of jasper\nand silver given by Ferdinand VII. It stands over the high altar of\nthe Carmelite church, thirty feet above the pavement, where it can be\nseen from the choir of the nuns, and approached by means of an oratory\nbehind, where they go to pray. Her heart, pierced by the angel, is in\na reliquary below.\n\nWe left Avila with regret. Few places take such hold on the heart. For\nthose to whom life has nothing left to offer but long sufferance it\nseems the very place to live in. The last thing we did was to go to\nthe brow of the hill by San Vicente, and take a farewell look at the\nconvent of the Incarnation, where still so many\n\n \u201cWilling hearts wear quite away their earthly stains\u201d\n\nin one of the fairest, happiest of valleys. How long we might have\nlingered there we cannot say, had not the carriage come to hurry us to\nthe station. And so, taking up life\u2019s burden once more, which we\nseemed to have laid down in this City of the Saints, we went on our\npilgrim way, repeating the lines St. Teresa wrote in her breviary:\n\n \u201cNada te turbe, Let nothing disturb thee,\n Nada te espante, Let nothing affright thee;\n Todo se pasa. All passeth away.\n Dios no se muda. God alone changeth not.\n La pacienza Patience to all things\n Todo se alcanza, Reacheth, and he who\n Quien a Dios tiene, Fast by God holdeth,\n Nada le falta; To him naught is wanting;\n Solo Dios basta.\u201d Alone God sufficeth.\n\n\n [40] \u201cSome sing of Oliver, and some of Roldan:\n We sing of Zurraquin, the brave partisan.\u201d\n\n [41] \u201cSome sing of Roland, and others Oliver:\n We sing of Zurraquin, the brave cavalier.\u201d\n\n [42] See _Life of St. Teresa_.\n\n [43] The butchery, at the repeopling of Avila, was given to\n Benjamin, the Jew, and his sister. There seem to have been a\n good many Jews in the streets now called St. Dominic and St.\n Scholastica.\n\n [44] See _Life of St. Teresa_.\n\n\n\n\n ST. TERESA.\n\n \u201cTo suffer or to die.\u201d\n\n\n The air came laden with the balmy scent\n Of citron grove and orange; far beyond\n The cloister wall, like towering battlement,\n Sierra\u2019s frowning range rich colors donned\n From ling\u2019ring Day-Star\u2019s robe; and brilliant hues\n Floated like banners on palatial clouds.\n Light floods the river, parts its mist-like shrouds;\n Each ripple soft, prismatic gleams transfuse.\n Below Avila lay; its cross-lit spires\n Blended their even-chime with seraph lyres;\n O\u2019er mount and vale pealed out their call to prayer,\n And stole with joy upon the list\u2019ning air.\n\n Within the cloister\u2019s fragrant, bowery shade,\n Gemmed with Espa\u00f1a\u2019s blooms \u2019mid velvet lawns,\n Soft carols stirring leafy bough and glade,\n Teresa muses; on her chaste brow dawns\n A light celestial\u2015\u2015peace and hope and love.\n The wasted form, than bending flower more frail,\n Is draped in Carmel\u2019s saintly robe and veil.\n The pale, ethereal face is bowed; those eyes\n Whose gaze has revelled in the courts above,\n Now pearled with tears, are bent in mournful guise\n On image of the Crucified within\n Her fingers\u2019 slender clasp; in sacred trance\n Now rapt, its mysteries are revealed; dark sin\n In ghastly horror rises; now her glance\n On bleeding form, pierced brow, is fixed; once more\n Upon those wounded shoulders, drenched in gore,\n The cross hangs trembling; o\u2019er her soul,\n Transpierced with love, deep floods of anguish roll;\n And burning words her holy passion tell,\n Like fountain gushing from her heart\u2019s deep cell:\n\n \u201cO earth! break forth in groans; ease thou my pain!\n Ye rivers, ocean, weep! My Love is slain!\n My Jesus dies, and I\u2015\u2015\n I cannot die, but through this exile moan\n A stranger, midst of multitudes alone,\n And vainly seek to fly\n Where harps ten thousand wake the echoing sky;\n My solace here, to suffer or to die!\n\n \u201cO Jesus! long and wildly have I striven,\n By fast and penance this vile body driven\n To thy sweet yoke to yield;\n And agonies of death have seized this frame,\n Dark devils made of me their mock and shame,\n Thou, thou alone my shield.\n A bower of roses!\u2015\u2015looms so steep and high\n The path I strain, to suffer or to die!\n\n \u201cThou walk\u2019st before! O thorn-lined path and cross!\n A sceptred queen I walk, on beds of moss,\n Nor fear the dark, dark night.\n Love strains my sorrows to my heart with grasp\n Stronger than aught on earth, save God\u2019s dear clasp\n Of soul beloved. The height\n Will soon appear; the glory I descry:\n Strength, Lord, with thee I suffer or I die!\n\n \u201cAugment my woes! Let flesh and spirit share\n Each separate pang thou, Crucified, didst bear,\n Nor drop of comfort blend.\n Let death\u2019s stern anguish be my daily bread,\n Thy lance transfix my heart, thorns crown my head\u2015\u2015\n Pain, torture to the end;\n And while death\u2019s angel seals my glazing eye,\n Heart, soul shall yearn to suffer or to die!\u201d\n\n Great soul! be comforted: thy prayer is heard\n More huge and terrible than human word\n May utter, mortal heart conceive, the throng\n Of woes that haste from Calvary to greet\n Thy every step. Like Jesus, hate and wrong\n Shall make of thee their jest; as purest wheat\n Thou shalt be crushed, yet newer life shalt claim;\n Slander, the hydra-tongued, shall cloud thy name;\n Treason with thee break bread; toil, hunger, cold,\n Thy daily \u2019tendants far from these sweet bowers.\n A score of years thy sorrows still enfold,\n But myriad souls shall feast on thy dark hours\n Through centuries to come, and learn of thee\n The path to peace, and prayer\u2019s sweet mystery.\n The seraph waits with flaming lance to dart\n The fires of heaven within thy yearning heart,\n And up, far up the Mount of God will lead\n Thee face to face, as patriarch of old,\n With God; unveiled the Trinity shalt read,\n And its resplendent mysteries unfold\n To future doctors of the sacred lore.\n Then mount thy blood-stained path, heroic saint!\n While brave men stand aghast, strong hearts grow faint,\n Teresa\u2019s seraph-soul its plaint shall pour\n Unsated yet: \u201cMore suffering, Lord, yet more!\u201d\n M. S. P.\n\n\n\n\nSIX SUNNY MONTHS.\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF \u201cTHE HOUSE OF YORKE,\u201d \u201cGRAPES AND THORNS,\u201d ETC.\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nBIANCA\u2019S FESTA.\n\nBianca\u2019s birthday coming, they celebrated it by a little trip into the\ncountry. It was getting late for excursions, the weather being hot\neven for the last of May. But on the day before the proposed journey a\nfew ragged clouds, scudding now and then across the sky, promised\nrefreshment. Clouds never come to Rome for nothing; even the smallest\nfugitive mist is a herald; and the family, therefore, looked anxiously\nto see if they were to be kept at home the next day\u2015\u2015if the herald\nannounced a royal progress, short and splendid, or a long siege of\nrainy days.\n\nThey were sauntering, late in the afternoon, through a street of the\nSuburra, on one of those aimless walks that hit the mark of pleasure\nfar oftener than planned pleasure-seeking does, and, seeing at their\nleft a steep grade that ended in a stair climbing through light and\nshadow up the hillside, and going out under a dark arch into the light\nagain, they followed it without asking questions, and presently found\nthemselves in a quiet _piazza_ surrounded by churches and convents as\nsilent and, apparently, uninhabited as a desert. The most living thing\nwas a single lofty palm-tree that leaned out against the sky. A wall\nhid the base of it, where one would not have been surprised to have\nfound a lion sleeping.\n\nEntering the portico of the nearest church, they saw what might have\nbeen taken for two ancient, mossy statues, seated one at either side\nof the door, one representing a man as ragged and gray as Rip Van\nWinkle after his nap, the other a woman well fitted to be his\ncompanion. The statues stirred, however, at the sound of steps,\nextended their withered hands, and commenced a sort of gabbling\nappeal, in which nothing was distinguishable but the inevitable\n_qualche cosa_.\n\nInside the church, beside the beautiful Presence indicated by the\never-burning lamp, there was but one person, a gigantic man, all\nwhite, who sat leaning forward a little, with the fingers of his right\nhand tangled in his beard. They saw him gazing, almost glaring, at\nthem across the church as they seated themselves near the door after a\nshort adoration. The painted roof invited their eyes to glimpses of\nheaven, the tribune walls shone with the story of St. Peter liberated\nby an angel, and the antique columns told of pagan emperors whom they\nhad served before they were raised to hold a canopy over the head of\nthe King of kings; but through them all, becoming every moment more\nimportunate and terrible, the stare of those motionless, stony eyes\ndrew theirs with an uncomfortable fascination, and the figure seemed\nto lean more forward, as if about to stride toward them, and the\nfingers to move in the beard, as if longing to catch and toss them out\nof the church.\n\n\u201cHe appears to resent our not saluting him,\u201d Mr. Vane said. \u201cI do not\nneed an introduction. Suppose we go to him before he comes clattering\ndown the nave to us!\u201d\n\nThey rose, and, with a diffidence amounting almost to fear, went up\nthe aisle to pay their respects to Michael Angelo\u2019s _Moses_.\n\n\u201cO Mr. Vane!\u201d the Signora whispered, suddenly touching his arm, \u201cdoes\nhe look as if he went up the mountain to bring down Protestantism?\u201d\n\nShe said it impulsively, and was ashamed of herself the next moment.\nHe was not offended, however, but smiled slightly, and, feeling the\ntouch, drew her hand into his arm. \u201cHe doesn\u2019t look like a man who\nwould carry any sort of _ism_ about long.\u201d\n\nHe was looking at the _Moses_ as he spoke; but he felt the\ndissatisfaction which the lady at his side did not indicate by word or\nmotion, and added after a moment: \u201cIt must be owned that Protestantism\nhas reduced the stone tables to dust, and that your church is the only\none that has graven laws.\u201d\n\nShe did not venture to press him any farther. The question with him,\nthen, was evidently whether graven laws were necessary. He was not at\nall likely to write his faith in the dust of the sects.\n\n\u201cIt is the most uncomfortable marble person in Rome,\u201d she said of the\n_Moses_. \u201cI always have a feeling that it is never quite still; that\nhe has turned his face on being interrupted in something, as if he had\nbeen talking with God here alone, and were waiting for people to go\nand leave him to continue the conversation. He will watch us out the\ndoor, though. I wonder if he can see through the leathern curtain?\nCome, little girls, we are going.\u201d\n\nBianca had a rose in her belt, and, as the others walked slowly away,\nshe slipped across the church and threw it inside the railing before\nthe Blessed Sacrament, repeating from the Canticle of St. Francis of\nAssisi, which they had been reading with their Italian teacher the\nevening before:\n\n \u201cLaudate sia il mio Signor per la nostra\n Madre terra, la quale\n Ci sostenta, e nudrisce col produrre\n Tanta diversit\u00e0\n D\u2019erba, di fiori e frutti.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey speak of the Blessed Sacrament here as _Il Santissimo_,\u201d she\nheard the Signora say when she joined them at the door. \u201cIt is\nbeautiful; but I prefer the Spanish title of \u2018His Majesty.\u2019 One would\nlike to be able to ask, on entering a church, \u2018At which altar is His\nMajesty?\u2019 It sounds like a live faith. Isn\u2019t that palm beautiful? And\ndo you see the ghost of Lucretia Borgia up in her balcony there? That\nis, or was, her balcony. Dear me! what an uncanny afternoon it is. I\nquite long to get among common people.\u201d\n\nIn fact, a solid post of snow-white cloud showed like a motionless\nfigure over the balcony, changing neither shape nor position while\nthey looked at it. There was, evidently, something behind worth\nseeing, and they took a carriage to the Janiculum for a better view.\nWhen they reached the parapet of San Pietro in Montorio, they saw the\nhorizon beyond the city bound by a wonderful mountain-range\u2015\u2015not the\naccustomed Sabine Apennines and Monte Cimino; these had disappeared,\nand over their places rose a solid magnificence of cloud that made the\nearth and sky look unstable. Ruby peaks splintered here and there\nagainst the blue in sharp pinnacles, their sides cleft into gorges of\nfine gold, their bases wrapped about with the motionless smoke and\nflame of a petrified conflagration. Beneath all were rough masses of\nuneasy darkness, in which could be seen faintly the throb of a pulse\nof fire. The royal progress had begun, and promised to be a costly one\nto some. The poor farmers would have to pay, at least.\n\nThey leaned on the parapet, and took a new lesson in shape and color\nfrom the inexhaustible skies, and the Signora told them one of the\nmany legends of the Janiculum.\n\n\u201cIt is said that after the Flood Noe came here to live, held in high\nhonor, as we may well imagine, by his descendants. As time passed,\nafter his death, the truth became mixed with error, and the patriarch\nNoe became the god Janus, with two faces, because he had seen the old\nworld and the new. So all antique truth, left to human care, became\ncorrupted little by little. It was only when the Holy Spirit came down\nto stay on earth that truth could be preserved unadulterated.\n\u2018Teaching you all truth.\u2019 Am I preaching? Excuse me!\u201d\n\nTurning her face, as she spoke slowly and dreamily, she had found Mr.\nVane looking at her with a steady and grave regard which did not\nevade, but lingered an instant, when it met hers. She recollected that\nhe had not her faith, and thought he might be displeased a little at\nhaving alien doctrines so constantly held up before him.\n\nOn the contrary, he was admiring her fair, pale face, which the\nglowing west and a glowing thought were tinting with soft rose, and\nwas thinking he had never known a woman who so habitually lived in a\nhigh atmosphere, who so easily gathered about her the beauties of the\npast and the present, and who had so little gossip to talk. When she\ndescended to trifling things, it was to invest them with a charm that\nmade them worthy of notice as pretty and interesting trifles, but\nnever to elevate them to places they were not made for. Besides, he\nliked her way of talking\u2015\u2015a certain cool sweetness of manner, like the\nsweetness of a rose, that touched those who came near, but was not\nawakened by their presence, and would be as sweet were no one by to\nknow. He glanced at her again when she was again looking off\nthoughtfully into the west, and marked the light touch with gold the\nstrands of a braid that crowned her head under the violet wreath. She\nwas certainly a very lovely woman, he thought. Why had she never\nmarried?\n\nFor, though we call her Signora, the Vanes\u2019 _padrona_ was, in fact, a\n_signorina_.\n\n\u201cWell, what is it?\u201d she asked smilingly, turning again, aware of his\neyes. She was one of those persons who always feel the stress of\nanother mind brought to bear on them. \u201cYou should tell me what it is.\u201d\n\nThe two girls had gone to a little distance, and he ventured to put\nthe question.\n\n\u201cIt is an impertinence,\u201d he said hastily, \u201cbut I was wondering why you\nnever married. You are thirty-five years old, and have had time and\nopportunities. If you command me to ask no more, I shall not blame\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not an impertinence,\u201d she replied quite easily. \u201cThere is no\ntragedy hidden behind my \u2018maiden meditation.\u2019 The simple truth is that\nI have never had an offer from any one whom I could willingly or\npossibly promise to love, honor, and obey for my whole life, though I\nhave refused some with regret; and if I have known any person to whom\nI could have so devoted myself, no approach on his part and no\nconsciousness on mine have ever revealed the fact to me. My mind and\nlife were always full. My mother taught me to love books and nature,\nand said nothing about marriage. There is nothing like having plenty\nto think of. Are you satisfied?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerfectly,\u201d he replied, but seemed not altogether pleased. Perhaps he\nwould have found a less self-sufficing woman more interesting and\namiable. \u201cStill, I beg your pardon for a question which, after all, no\none should ask. One never knows what may have happened in a life.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is true,\u201d she replied. \u201cAnd it is true that the question might\nbe to some an embarrassing one to answer. It does not hurt me,\nhowever.\u201d\n\n\u201cPapa does not allow us to ask questions,\u201d Isabel said a little\ncomplainingly, having caught a few words of their talk. \u201cYou have no\nidea how sharply he will speak to us, or, at least, look at us, if he\nhears us asking the simplest question that can be at all personal. And\nyet people question us unmercifully. I think one might retort in\nself-defence.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow I wish you could have a larger number of pupils than these two,\nMr. Vane!\u201d the Signora sighed. \u201cI would like to send some of my lady\nfriends to school to you. The questions that some ladies, who consider\nthemselves well bred, will ask, are astonishing. Indeed, there is, I\nthink, more vulgarity in fine society than among any other class of\npeople in the world. Delicacy and refinement are flowers that need a\nlittle shade to keep their freshness. I have more than once been\nshocked to see, in a momentary revelation, how slight was the\ndifference of character between a bold, unscrupulous virago of the\nstreets, and some fine lady when an unpleasant excitement had\ndisturbed the thin polish of manner with which she was coated. Madame\nde Montespan\u2015\u2015not a model by any means, though\u2015\u2015relates that, when she\ncame to Paris to be trained for polite life, among the admonitions and\nprohibitions, one of the strongest was that she must not ask\nquestions. Not long ago, on thinking over a conversation I had with a\nlady whom I had known just three weeks, I found that these questions\nhad been propounded to me in the course of it: How old are you? Who\nvisits you? What is your income? Have you any money laid up? Have you\nsold your last story? To whom have you sold it? How much do they pay\nyou? Is it paid for? Of course the lady was fitting herself to speak\nwith authority of my affairs.\u201d\n\nThe Signora made an impatient motion of the shoulders, as if throwing\noff a disagreeable burden. \u201cHow did we fall into this miserable\nsubject? Let us walk about awhile and shake it off. We might go into\nthe church and say a little prayer for poor Beatrice Cenci, who is\nburied here. One glance at Piombo\u2019s _Scourging of Christ_, one thought\nof that girl\u2019s terrible tragedy, will scorch out these petty thoughts,\nif one breath of the Lord\u2019s presence should not blow them away.\u201d\n\nShe hurried up the steps and ran into the church, as one soiled and\ndusty with travel rushes into a bath. Coming out again, they strolled\nback into the gardens, and looked off over the green sea of the\nluxuriant Campagna, where St. Paul\u2019s Church floated like an ark, half\nswamped in verdure and flowers, and a glistening bend of the Tiber\nbound the fragrantly breathing groves like a girdle, the bridge across\nit a silver buckle. Beneath the wall that stopped their feet a grassy\nangle of the villa beyond was red with poppies growing on their tall\nstems in the shade. So everywhere in Italy the faithful soil\ncommemorates the blood of the martyrs that has been sprinkled over it,\na scarlet blossom for every precious drop, flowering century after\ncentury; to flower in centuries to come, till at last the scattered\ndust and dew shall draw together again into the new body, like\nscattered musical notes gathering into a song, and the glorified\nspirit shall catch and weld them into one for ever!\n\nLooking awhile, they turned silently back into the garden. The two\ngirls wandered among the flowers; Mr. Vane and the Signora walked\nsilently side by side. Now and then they stopped to admire a campanile\nof lilies growing around a stem higher than their heads, springing\nfrom the midst of a sheaf of leaves like swords. One of these leaves,\nfive feet long, perhaps, thrown aside by the gardener, lay in the\npath. It was milk-white and waxy, like a dead body, through its\nthickness of an inch or two. Long, purple thorns were set along its\nsides and at the point, and a faint tinge of gold color ran along the\ncentre of its blade. It was not a withered leaf, but a dead one, and\nstrong and beautiful in death.\n\nMr. Vane glanced over the bristling green point of the plant, and up\nthe airy stem where its white bells drooped tenderly. \u201cSo God guards\nhis saints,\u201d he said.\n\nIsabel came to them in some trepidation with her fingers full of small\nthorns. She had been stealing, she confessed. Seeing that, in all the\ncrowds of great, ugly cacti about, one only had blossomed, she had\nbeen smitten by a desire to possess that unique flower.\n\n\u201cI called up my reasoning powers, as people do when they want to\njustify themselves,\u201d she said, \u201cand I reasoned the matter out, till it\nbecame not only excusable but a virtue in me to take the flower. I\nspare you the process. If only you would pick the needles out of my\nfingers, papa! Isn\u2019t it a pretty blossom? It is a bell of golden\ncrystal with a diamond heart.\u201d\n\nWhen the tiny thorns were extracted and the young culprit properly\nreproved for her larceny, the clouds of the west had lost all their\ncolor but one lingering blush, and were beginning to catch the light\nof the moon, that was sailing through mid-air, as round as a bubble.\nThey went down the winding avenue on foot, sending the carriage to\nwait for them in the street below. The trees over their heads were\nfull of blossoms like little flies with black bodies and wide-spread,\nwhitish wings, and through the heaps of these blossoms that had fallen\nthey could see a green lizard slip now and then; the fountains plashed\nsoftly, lulling the day to sleep. Near the foot of the hill all the\nlower wall of one of the houses was hidden by skeins of brilliant,\ngold-colored silk, hung out to dry, perhaps, making a sort of sunshine\nin the shady street.\n\nIt was a lovely drive home through the _Ave Marias_ ringing all about,\nthrough the alternate gloom and light of narrow streets and open\n_piazze_, where they spoke no word, but only looked about them with\nperhaps the same feeling in all their minds:\n\n \u201cHow good is our life\u2015\u2015the mere living!\u201d\n\nNot only the beauty they had seen and their own personal contentment\npleased them; the richness and variety of the human element through\nwhich they passed gave them a sense of freedom, a fuller breath than\nthey were accustomed to draw in a crowd. It was not a throng of people\nground and smoothed into nearly the same habits and manners, but a\ngoing and coming and elbowing of individuals, many of whom retained\nthe angles of their characters and manners in all their original\nsharpness.\n\n\u201cThe moon will be full to-morrow in honor of your _festa_,\u201d Isabel\nsaid as they went into the house; \u201cand there is a prospect that the\nroads may be sprinkled.\u201d\n\nThe roads were sprinkled with a vengeance; for the delectable\nmountains of sunset came up in the small hours and broke over the city\nin a torrent. There had not been such a tempest in Rome for years. It\nwas impossible to sleep through it, and soon became impossible to lie\nin bed. Not all their closing of blinds and shutters could keep out\nthe ceaseless flashes, and the windows rattled with the loud bursts of\nthunder. The three ladies dressed and went into the little _sala_,\nwhere the Signora lighted two blessed candles and sprinkled holy\nwater, like the old-fashioned Catholic she was; and presently Mr. Vane\njoined them.\n\n\u201cI should have expected to hear more cultivated thunders here,\u201d he\nsaid. \u201cThese are Goths and Vandals.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak respectfully of those honest barbarians,\u201d exclaimed the\nSignora. \u201cThey were strong and brave, and some things they would not\ndo for gain. Do you recollect that Alaric\u2019s men, when they were\nsacking Rome, being told that certain vessels of silver and gold were\nsacred, belonging to the service of the church, took the treasure on\ntheir heads and carried it to St. Peter\u2019s, the Romans falling into the\nprocession, hymns mingling with their war-cries? Fancy Victor\nEmanuel\u2019s people making restitution! Fancy Signor Bonghi and his\nassociates marching in procession through the streets of Rome, bearing\non their heads the libraries they have stolen from religious houses to\nmake their grand library at the Roman College, which they have also\nstolen. Honor to the barbarians! There were things they respected.\nUgh! what a flash. And what about cultivated thunders, Mr. Vane?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you not know that there are thunders and thunders?\u201d he replied.\n\u201cSome roll like chariot-wheels from horizon to horizon, rattling and\ncrashing, to be sure, but following a track. Others go clumsily\ntumbling about, without rhyme or reason, and you feel they may break\nthrough the roof any minute.\u201d\n\nThe rain fell in torrents, and came running in through chinks of the\nwindows. The storm seemed to increase every moment. Bianca drew a\nfootstool to the Signora\u2019s side, and, seating herself on it, hid her\nface in her friend\u2019s lap. Isabel sought refuge with her father,\nholding his arm closely, and they all became silent. Talk seems\ntrivial in face of such a manifestation of the terrible strength of\nnature; and at night one is so much more impressed by a storm, all the\nlittle daylight securities falling off. They sat and waited, hoping\nthat each sharp burst might be the culminating one.\n\nWhile they waited, suddenly through the storm broke loudly three clear\nstrokes of a bell.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d cried Bianca, starting up.\n\n\u201c_Fulgura frango_,\u201d exclaimed the Signora triumphantly. Four strokes,\nfive, and one followed with the sweet and deliberate strength of the\ngreat bell, then the others joined and sang through the night like a\nband of angels.\n\n\u201cBrava, Maria Assunta!\u201d exclaimed the Signora. \u201cWhere is the storm,\nMr. Vane?\u201d\n\nHe did not answer. In fact, with the ceasing of the fifteen minutes\u2019\nringing the storm ceased, and there was left only a low growling of\nspent thunders about the horizon, and a flutter of pallid light now\nand then. It was only the next morning at the breakfast-table that Mr.\nVane thought to remark that the bell-ringer of the basilica must be a\npretty good meteorologist, for he knew just when to strike in after\nthe last great clap.\n\n\u201cIt was a most beautiful incident,\u201d Bianca said seriously. \u201cPlease do\nnot turn it into ridicule, papa!\u201d\n\nThey were just rising from the table, and, in speaking, the daughter\nput her arm around her father\u2019s shoulder and kissed him, as if she\nwould assure him of her loving respect in all that was human, even\nwhile reproving him from the height of a superior spiritual wisdom.\n\nThe father had been wont to receive these soft admonitions\naffectionately, indeed, but somewhat lightly. Lately, however, he had\ntaken them in a more serious manner. Perhaps the presence of the\nSignora, whose sentiments in such matters he could not regard as\nchildish, and whose displeasure he could not look upon with the\nnatural superiority of a father, put him a little more on his guard.\nHe glanced at her now, biting his lip; but she did not seem to have\nheard.\n\n\u201cMay not the effect bell-ringing has on tempests be accounted for on\nnatural principles?\u201d Isabel asked, with the air of one making a\nphilosophical discovery.\n\n\u201cMy dear Isabel, it is said that the miracles of Christ may be so\naccounted for,\u201d the Signora replied. \u201cBut who is to account for the\nnatural principles? We have no time to spare,\u201d she added brightly.\n\u201cThe train starts in fifteen minutes. Hurry, children!\u201d\n\nBut, brightly as she spoke, a slight cloud settled over her feelings\nafter this little incident. She was not displeased with Mr. Vane; for\nshe had learned that no real irreverence underlay these occasional\ngibes, and had observed that they grew more rare, and were rather the\neffect of habit than of intention. She was grateful to him, indeed,\nfor the delicacy and consideration he showed, and for the patience\nwith which he submitted himself to a Catholic atmosphere and mode of\nlife which did not touch his convictions, though it might not have\nbeen foreign to his tastes.\n\n\u201cWe are frequently as unjust to Protestants as they are to us,\u201d she\nconstantly said to her over-zealous friends. \u201cIf they are sincere in\ntheir disbelief, it would show a lack of principle in them to be\nover-indulgent and complacent to us. You must recollect that many a\nProtestant cannot help believing us guilty of something like, at\nleast, unconscious idolatry; cannot help having a sort of horror for\nsome of our ways. Besides, we must not claim merit to ourselves for\nhaving faith. \u2018_Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da\ngloriam._\u2019 Then, again, here is an inquiry worth making: Look about\namong your Catholic acquaintances, including yourself among them, and\nask, from your knowledge of them and of yourself, \u2018If the drama of\nsalvation were yet to be acted, and Christ were but just come on\nearth, poor, humble, and despised, how many of these people would\nfollow him? Would I follow him? What instance of a sacrifice of\nworldly advantages, a giving up of friends and happiness, a\nwillingness to be despised for God\u2019s sake, have I or any of these\ngiven?\u2019 It is easy, it is a little flattering, indeed, to one\u2019s\nvanity, and pleasing to one\u2019s imagination, to stand in very good\ncompany, among people many of whom are our superiors in rank and\nreputation, and have our opponents fire their poor little arrows at\nus. We feel ourselves very great heroes and heroines indeed, when, in\ntruth, we are no more than stage heroes, with tinsel crowns and tin\nswords, and would fly affrighted before a real trial. It is easy to\ntalk, and those who do the least talk the most and the most\npositively. Some of the noblest natures in the world are outside of\nthe fold, some of the meanest are inside. God\u2019s ways are not our ways,\nand we cannot disentangle these things. Only we should not take airs\nto ourselves. When I see the primitive ardor and nobleness of\nChristianity in a person, I hold that person as independent of\ncircumstances, and am sure that he would join the company of the\nfishermen to-day, if they were but just called. The others I do not\nwish to judge, except when they make foolish pretences.\u201d\n\nThe Signora had sometimes displeased some of her friends by talking in\nthis manner and pricking their vainglorious bubbles; and she\nconsistently felt that, according to his light, Mr. Vane was\nforbearing with his daughters and with her, and that they should show\nsome forbearance with him. She was, therefore, not displeased with him\nfor his unintentional mocking. Her cloud came from another direction.\nShe found herself changing a little, growing less evenly contented\nwith her life, alternating unpleasantly between moods of happiness and\ndepression. While she lived alone, receiving her friends for a few\nhours at a time, she had found her life tranquil and satisfying.\nSympathy and kind services were always at hand, and there was always\nthe equal or greater pleasure of sympathy and kind services demanded\nto make of friendship a double benefit. But the question had begun to\nglance now and then across her mind whether she had been altogether\nwise in taking this family into her house, having before her eyes the\nconstant spectacle of an affection and intimacy such as she had left\noutside her own experience, and had no desire to invite or admit, even\nwhile she felt its charm. She, quite deprived of all family ties, felt\nsometimes a loneliness which she had never before experienced, in\nwitnessing the affection of the father and his daughters; and, at the\nsame time that she saw them as enclosed in a magic circle from which\nshe was excluded, she looked forward with dread to the time when they\nshould leave her, with a new void in her life, and a serenity\npermanently disturbed, perhaps. There were little moments, short and\nsharp, when she could have sympathized with Faust casting aside with\npassionate contempt his worthless gifts and learning at sight of the\nsimple happiness of love and youth.\n\nBut these moments and moods were short and disconnected. She was\nscarcely aware of them, scarcely remembered that each, as it came, was\nnot the first, and her life flowed between them always pleasantly,\nsometimes joyfully. She was quite gay and happy when they ran down to\nthe carriage and hurried to the station.\n\nThe morning was delicious, everything washed clean and fresh by the\nplentiful shower. A light, pearly cloud covered the sky, veiling all\nwith a delicate softness that was to sunshine as contentment is to\njoy. Here and there a deep shadow slept on the landscape. Our little\nparty took possession of a first-class car, and seated, each at a\ncorner of it, were every moment calling attention to some new beauty.\nIsabel glanced with delight along the great aqueduct lines and the\npictures they framed, all blurred and swimming with the birds with\nwhich the stone arches were alive; Bianca watched the mountain, her\neyes full of poetical fancies; and Mr. Vane presently fell in love\nwith a square of solid green he espied in the midst of the bare\nCampagna, a little paradise, where the trees and flowers seemed to be\nbursting with luxuriance over the walls, and regarding with\nastonishment the dead country about them, that stretched off its low\nwaves and undulations in strong and stubborn contrast with that\nredundant spot.\n\n\u201cAladdin\u2019s lamp must have done it,\u201d he said; and after a moment added,\nhaving followed the subject a little in his own mind: \u201cI am inclined\nto think that one element of the picturesque must be inconsistency.\nAh! here are your white Campagna cattle we have heard so much about.\nAren\u2019t they of rather a bluish color?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut look and see what they are eating, papa,\u201d Bianca said. \u201cNo wonder\nit turns them blue.\u201d\n\nThe ground all about was deeply colored with blue flowers, in the\nmidst of which these large, white cattle wandered, feeding lazily, as\nif eating were a pleasure, not a necessity. They were like people\nreading poetry.\n\n\u201cWe do not often have such a day here,\u201d the Signora said, \u201cand to me\nthe clouds are a luxury. I own that I have sometimes grown weary of\nseeing that spotless blue overhead week after week, month after month,\neven. Clouds are tender, and give infinite lights and shades. The\nfirst winter I spent in Rome there were a hundred days in succession\nof windless, cloudless, golden weather, beginning in October, and\nlasting till after New Year\u2019s day. Then came a sweet three days\u2019 rain,\nwhich enchanted me. I went out twice a day in it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis reminds me,\u201d Isabel said, \u201cof our first visit to the White\nMountains. We went there under the \u2018rainy Hyades,\u2019 apparently; for we\nhadn\u2019t seen sunshine for a week. When we reached Lancaster, at\nevening, the fog touched our faces like a wet flannel, and there was a\nfine, thick rain in the morning when I awoke. About nine o\u2019clock there\nwas a brightening, and I looked up and saw a blue spot. The clouds\nmelted away from it, still raining, and sunbeams shot across, but none\ncame through. First I saw a green plain with a river winding through\nit, and countless little pools of water, everything a brilliant green\nand silver. A few trees stood about knee-deep in grass and yellow\ngrain. And then, all at once, down through the rain of water came a\nrain of sunshine; and, lastly, the curtains parted, and there were the\nmountains! They are a great deal more solemn looking and impressive\nthan these,\u201d she said, with a depreciatory glance toward the Alban\nMountains. \u201cOn the whole, I think the scene was finer and more\nbrilliant.\u201d\n\nAs if in answer to her criticism, a slim, swift sunbeam pierced\nsuddenly the soft flecks of mist overhead, shot across the shadowed\nworld, and dropped into Rome. Out blazed the marvellous dome, all\ngolden in that light, the faint line of its distant colonnades started\ninto vivid clearness with all their fine-wrought arches, and for a\nmoment the city shone like a picture of a city seen by a magic-lantern\nin a dark room.\n\n\u201cVery true!\u201d the young woman replied quite coolly, as if she had been\nspoken to. \u201cWe have no such city, no such towns and villages and\nvillas set on the mountainside; but we are young and fresh and strong,\nand we are brave, which you are not. Your past, and the ruins left of\nit, are all you can boast of. We have a present and a future. And\nafter all,\u201d she said, turning to her audience, who were smilingly\nlistening to this perfectly serious address, \u201cit is ungrateful of the\nsun to take the part of Italy so, when we welcome him into our houses,\nand they shut him out. Why, the windows of the Holy Father\u2019s rooms at\nthe Vatican are half walled up.\u201d\n\n\u201cMaybe the sun doesn\u2019t consider it such a privilege to come into our\nhouses,\u201d her father suggested.\n\n\u201cAnd as for Rome,\u201d the young woman went on, \u201cto me it seems only the\nskull of a dead Italy, and the Romans the worms crawling in and out.\nBut there! I won\u2019t scold to-day. How lovely everything is!\u201d\n\nThe yellow-green vineyards and the blue-green canebrakes came in\nsight, the olive-orchards rolled their smoke-like verdure up the\nhills, and at length the cars slid between the rose-trees of the\nFrascati station, and the crowd of passengers poured out and hurried\nup the stairs to secure carriages to take them to the town. The family\n_Ottant\u2019-Otto_, finding themselves in a garden, did not make haste to\nleave it, but stayed to gather each a nosegay, nobody interfering.\nMore than one, indeed, of the passengers paused long enough to snatch\na rosebud in passing.\n\nGoing up then to the station-yard, they found it quite deserted,\nexcept for the carriage that had been sent for them, and another drawn\nby a tandem of beautiful white horses, in whose ears their owner, one\nof the young princes living near the town, was fastening the roses he\nhad just gathered below. The creatures seemed as vain of themselves as\nhe evidently was proud of them, and held their heads quite still to be\nadorned, tossing their tails instead, which had been cut short, and\ntied round with a gay scarlet band.\n\nEvery traveller knows that Frascati is built up the sides of the\nTusculan hills, looking toward Rome, the railway station on a level\nwith the Campagna, the town rising above with its countless\nstreet-stairs, and, still above, the magnificent villas over which\nlook the ruins of ancient Tusculum. On one of the lower streets of the\ntown, in Palazzo Simonetti, lived a friend of the Signora, and there\nrooms had been provided for the family, and every preparation made for\ntheir comfort. They found a second breakfast awaiting them, laid out\nin a room looking up to one of the loveliest nooks in the world\u2015\u2015the\nlittle _piazza_ of the _duomo vecchio_, with its great arched doorway,\nand exquisite fountain overshadowed by a weeping willow. If it had\nbeen a common meal, they would have declined it; but it was a little\nfeast for the eyes rather: a dish of long, slim strawberries from\nNemi, where strawberries grow every month in the year by the shores of\nthe beautiful lake, in a soil that has not yet forgotten that it once\nthrobbed with volcanic fires; tiny rolls, ring-shaped and not much too\nlarge for a finger-ring, and golden shells of butter; all these laid\non fresh vine-leaves and surrounded by pomegranate blossoms that shone\nlike fire in the shaded room. The coffee-cups were after-dinner cups,\nand so small that no one need decline on the score of having already\ntaken coffee; and there was no sign of cream, only a few lumps of\nsugar, white and shining as snow-crust.\n\n\u201cIt is frugal, dainty, and irresistible,\u201d Mr. Vane said. \u201cLet us\naccept by all means.\u201d\n\nThey were going up to Tusculum, and, as the day was advancing, set off\nafter a few minutes, going on foot. They had preferred that way, being\ngood walkers, and having, moreover, a unanimous disinclination to see\nthemselves on donkeys.\n\n\u201cA gentleman on a donkey is less a gentleman than the donkey,\u201d Mr.\nVane said. \u201cI would walk a hundred miles sooner than ride one mile on\na beast which has such short legs and such long ears. The atmosphere\nof the ridiculous which they carry with them is of a circumference to\ninclude the tallest sort of man. Besides, they have an uncomfortable\nway of sitting down suddenly, if they only feel a fly, and that hurts\nthe self-love of the rider, if it doesn\u2019t break his bones.\u201d\n\n\u201cPoor little patient wretches! how they have to suffer,\u201d said the\nSignora. \u201cEven their outcry, while the most pitiful sound in the\nworld, a very sob of despairing pain, is the height of the ridiculous.\nIf you don\u2019t cry hearing it, you must laugh, unless, indeed, you\nshould be angry. For they sometimes make a \u2018situation\u2019 by an\ninopportune bray, as a few weeks ago at the Arcadia. The Academy was\nholding an _adunanza_ at Palazzo Altemps, and, as the day was quite\nwarm and the audience large, the windows into the back court were\nopened. The prose had been read, and a pretty, graceful poetess, the\nCountess G\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015, had recited one of her best poems, when a fine-looking\nmonsignore rose to favor us with a sonnet. He writes and recites\nenthusiastically, and we prepared to listen with pleasure. He began,\nand, after the first line, a donkey in the court struck in with the\nloudest bray I ever heard. Monsignore continued, perfectly inaudible,\nand the donkey continued, obstreperously audible. A faint ripple of a\nsmile touched the faces least able to control themselves. Monsignore\nwent on with admirable perseverance, but with a somewhat heightened\ncolor. A sonnet has but fourteen lines, and the bray had thirteen.\nThey closed simultaneously. Monsignore sat down; I don\u2019t know what the\ndonkey did. One only had been visible, as the other only had been\naudible. The audience applauded with great warmth and politeness. \u2018Who\nare they applauding,\u2019 asked my companion of me\u2015\u2015\u2018the one they have\nheard, or the one they have not heard?\u2019 If it had been my sonnet, I\nshould instantly have gone out, bought that donkey, and hired somebody\nto throw him into the Tiber.\u201d\n\n\u201cHere we are at the great _piazza_, and here is the cathedral. See how\nthe people in the shops and fruit-stands water their flowers!\u201d\n\nIn fact, all the rim of the great fountain-basin was set round with a\nrow of flower-pots containing plants that were dripping in the spray\nof the falling cascades. Just out of reach of the spray were two fruit\nshops large enough to contain the day\u2019s store and the chair of the\nperson who sold it. Temporary pipes from the fountain conducted water\nto the counters, where a tiny fountain tossed its borrowed jet,\nconstantly renewed from the cool cascade, and constantly returning to\nthe basin.\n\n\u201cWe must take _excelsior_ for our motto,\u201d the Signora said to the two\ngirls, who wanted to stop and admire everything they saw. \u201cWe are for\nthe mountain-height now. When we return, you may like to dress up with\nflowers two shrines on the road. I always do it when I come this way.\u201d\n\nThey climbed the steep and rocky lane between high walls, passed on\nthe one side the house where Cardinal Baronius wrote his famous\n_Annals_, which had an interest too dry to fascinate the two young\nladies; passed the wide iron gate of a villa to left, and another to\nright, giving only a glance at the paradises within; passed the large\npainting of the Madonna embowered in trees at the foot of the\nCappucini Avenue; passed under the stone portal, and the rod of\nverdant shadow almost as solid, that formed the entrance to Villa\nTuscolana, ravished now and then by glimpses of the magnificent\ndistance; on into the lovely wood-road, the ancient _Via Tusculana_;\nand presently there they were at last in the birthplace of Cato, the\nair-hung city that broke the pride of Rome, and that, conquered at\nlast, died in its defeat, and remained for ever a ruin.\n\nNot a word was spoken when they reached the summit, and stood gazing\non what is, probably, the most magnificent view in the world. Only\nafter a while, when the three new-comers began to move and come out of\ntheir first trance of admiration, the Signora named some of the chief\npoints in the landscape and in the ruins. The old historical scenes\nstarted up, the old marvellous stories rushed back to their memories,\nthe mountains crowded up as witnesses, and the towns, with all their\nteeming life and countless voices of the present hushed by distance,\nbecame voluble with voices and startling with life of the past.\n\nAfter a while they seated themselves in the shade of a tree, facing\nthe west, and silently thought, or dreamed, or merely looked, as their\nmood might be. Their glances shot across the bosky heights that\nclimbed to their feet, and across the wide Campagna, to where Rome lay\nlike a heap of lilies thrown on a green carpet, and the glittering\nsickle of the distant sea curved round the world.\n\nDay deepened about them in waves. They could almost feel each wave\nflow over them as the sun mounted, touching degree after degree of the\nburning blue, as a hand touches octaves up an organ. The birds sang\nless, and the cicali more, and the plants sighed forth all their\nperfume.\n\nIsabel slipped off her shoes, and set her white-stockinged feet on a\ntiny laurel-bush, that bent kindly under them without breaking, making\na soft and fragrant cushion. All took off their hats, and drank in the\nfaint wind that was fresh, even at noon.\n\n\u201cThe first time I came here,\u201d the Signora said after a while, \u201cwas on\nthe _festa_ of SS. Roch and Sebastian, in the heat of late summertime.\nThat is a great day for Frascati, for these two saints are their\nprotectors against pestilence, which has never visited the city. When,\nin \u201969, the cholera dropped one night on Albano, just round the\nmountain there a few miles, and struck people dead almost like\nlightning, and killed them on the road as they fled to other towns, so\nthat many died, perhaps, from fear and horror, having no other\nillness, none who reached Frascati in health died. The nobility died\nas well as the low, and the cardinal bishop died at his post taking\ncare of his people. Whole families came to Frascati, the people told\nme, flying by night along the dark, lonely road, some half-starving;\nfor all the bakers were dead, and there was no bread except what was\nsent from Rome. The saints they trusted did not refuse to help them.\nIn Frascati they found safety. If any died there, certainly none\nsickened there. So, of course, the saints were more honored than ever.\nI sat here and heard the bells all ringing at noon, and the guns\nfiring salutes, and saw the lovely blue wreaths of smoke curl away\nover the roofs after each salvo. In Italy they do not praise God\nsolely with the organ, but with the timbrel and the lute. Anything\nthat expresses joy and triumph expresses religious joy and triumph,\nand the artillery and military bands come out with the candles and the\ncrucifix to honor the saint as well as the warrior. Then in the\nevening there was the grand procession, clergy, church choirs,\nmilitary bands, crucifixes, banners, women dressed in the ancient\ncostume of the town, and the bells all ringing, the guns all booming,\nand the route of the procession strewn with fragrant green. The\nevening deepened as they marched, and their candles, scarcely visible\nat first, grew brighter as they wound about the steep streets and the\nilluminated piazzas. All the houses had colored lamps out of their\nwindows, and there were fireworks. But my noon up here impressed me\nmost. My two guides, trusty men, and my only companions, sat\ncontentedly in the shade playing _Morra_ after their frugal bread and\nwine. Sitting with my back to them, only faintly hearing their voices\nas they called the numbers, I could imagine that they were Achilles\nand Ajax, whom you can see on an ancient Etruscan vase in the Vatican\nplaying the same game. The present was quite withdrawn from me. I felt\nlike _Annus Mundi_ looking down on _Annus Domini_, and seeing the\nwhole of it, too. I could have stayed all day, but that hunger\nadmonished me; for I had not been so provident as my guides, nor as I\nhave been to-day. Going down, however, just below the Capuchin\nconvent, I saw a man on a donkey coming up, with a large basket slung\nat each side of the saddle in front of him. No one could doubt what\nwas under those cool vine-leaves. He was carrying fresh figs up to the\nVilla Tuscolana, where some college was making their _villigiatura_. I\nshowed him a few soldi, and he stopped and let me lift the leaves\nmyself. There they lay with soft cheek pressed to cheek, large, black\nfigs as sweet as honey. The very skins of them would have sweetened\nyour tea. Where we stood a little path that looked like a dry\nrivulet-bed led off under the wall of the convent grounds. When I\nasked where it went, they answered, \u2018To the Madonna.\u2019 We will go there\non our way down. Meantime, has Isabel nothing hospitable to say to\nus?\u201d\n\nMiss Vane displayed immediately the luncheon she had been detailed to\nprepare, a bottle of Orvieto, only less delicate because richer than\nchampagne, a basket of _cianbelli_, and lastly a box. \u201cIn the name of\nthe prophet, figs!\u201d she said, opening it. \u201cThey are dried, it is true;\nbut then they are from Smyrna.\u201d\n\nThey drank _felicissima festa_ to Bianca, drank to the past and the\npresent, to all the world; and Mr. Vane, when their little feast was\nended, slipped a beautiful ring on his younger daughter\u2019s finger. \u201cTo\nremember Tusculum by, my dear,\u201d he said; and, looking at her\nwistfully, seeming to miss some light-heartedness even in her smiles,\nhe added: \u201cIs there anything you lack, child?\u201d\n\nShe dropped her face to his arm only in time to hide a blush that\ncovered it. \u201cWhat could I lack?\u201d she asked.\n\nBut a few minutes afterward, while the others recalled historical\nevents connected with the place, and the Signora pointed out the\ncities and mountains by name, the young girl walked away to the Roman\nside, and stood looking off with longing eyes toward the west. She\nlacked a voice, a glance, and a smile too dear to lose, and her heart\ncried out for them. She was not unhappy, for she trusted in God, and\nin the friend whose unspoken affection absence and estrangement had\nonly strengthened her faith in; but she wanted to see him, or, at\nleast, to know how he fared. It seemed to her at that moment that if\nshe should look off toward that part of the world where he must be,\nfix her thoughts on him and call him, he would hear her and come. She\ncalled him, her tender whisper sending his name out through all the\ncrowding ghosts of antiquity, past pope and king and ambassador, poet\nand orator, armies thrust back and armies triumphant\u2015\u2015the little\nwhisper winged and heralded by a power older and more potent than\nTusculum or the mountain whereon its ruins lie.\n\nThey went down the steep way again, gathering all the flowers they\ncould find, and, when they reached the shrine at the turn of the\nCappucini road, stuck the screen so full of pink, white, and purple\nblossoms that the faces of Our Lady and the Child could only just be\ndiscerned peeping out. Then they turned into the pebbly path under the\nCappucini wall, where the woods and briers on one side, and the wall\non the other, left them room only to walk in Indian file; came out on\nthe height above beautiful Villa Lancilotti, with another burst of the\nCampagna before their eyes, and the mountains with their coronets of\ntowns still visible at the northeast over the Borghese Avenue and the\nsolid pile of Mondragone.\n\nHere, set so high on the wall that it had to be reached by two or\nthree stone steps, was the picture of the Madonna, looking off from\nits almost inaccessible height over the surrounding country. It was\nvisible from the villas below, and many a faithful soul far away had\nbreathed a prayer to Mary at sight of it, though nothing was visible\nto him but the curve of high, white wall over the trees, and the\nsquare frame of the picture. Now and then a devout soul came through\nthe lonely and thorny path to the very foot of the shrine, and left a\nprayer and a flower there.\n\nThe others gave their flowers to Bianca, who climbed the steps, and\nset a border of bloom inside the frame, and pushed a flower through\nthe wires to touch the Madonna\u2019s hand, and set a little ring of yellow\nblossoms where it might look like a crown.\n\nAs she stood on that height, visible as a speck only if one had looked\nup from the villa, smiling to herself happily while she performed her\nsweet and unaccustomed task, down in the town below, a speck like\nherself, stood a man leaning against the eagle-crested arch of the\nBorghese Villa gate, and watching her through a glass. He saw the\nslight, graceful form, whose every motion was so well known to him;\nsaw the ribbon flutter in her uncovered hair, the little gray mantle\ndropped off the gray dress into the hands of the group at the foot of\nthe steps; saw the arms raised to fix flower after flower; finally,\nwhen she turned to come down, fancied that he saw her smile and blush\nof pleasure, and, conquered by his imagination, dropped the glass and\nheld out his arms, for it seemed that she was stepping down to him.\n\nThe party went home tired and satisfied, and did not go out again that\nday. It was pleasure enough to sit in the westward windows as the\nafternoon waned and watch the sun go down, and see how the mist that\nfor ever lies over the Campagna caught his light till, when he burned\non the horizon in one tangle of radiating gold, the whole wide space\nlooked as if a steady rainbow had been straightened and drawn across\nit, every color in its order, glowing stratum upon stratum pressed\nover sea and city and vineyard, blurring all with a splendid haze,\ntill the earth was brighter than even the cloudless sky.\n\n\u201cIt is so beautiful that even the stars come out before their time to\nlook,\u201d the Signora said. \u201cYour Madonna on the wall can see it too,\nBianca. But as for the poor Madonna in her nest of trees, she can see\nnothing but green and flowers.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wonder why I prefer the Madonna of the wall?\u201d asked Bianca\ndreamily. \u201cI feel happy thinking of it.\u201d\n\nTO BE CONTINUED.\n\n\n\n\nTEXT-BOOKS IN CATHOLIC COLLEGES.\n\n\nAfter many advances on the part of editors and correspondents towards\napproaching this question in a _tangible_ form, the Rev. Dr. Engbers,\na professor of the Seminary of Mount St. Mary\u2019s of the West,\nCincinnati, Ohio, has been the first to take up the subject in\nearnest. Often have we heard men, admirably adapted to handle this\nquestion, express the wish that some one would come forward and\npropose a system of improvement: we need better books, we are at the\nmercy of non-Catholic compilers, in every department of learning,\nexcept divinity. \u201cWell, why do you not set to work and give us such\ntext-books as can be safely adopted in _our_ schools?\u2015\u2015books of\nhistory, sacred, ecclesiastical, secular; books of mental or rational\nand natural philosophy; treatises on the philosophy of religion; books\nof geography, sadly wanted to let our boys know how wide the Catholic\nworld is; then grammars; then Greek and Latin text-books\u2015\u2015all and each\nof them fit to be placed in the hands of Catholic young men and women,\nfor the salvation of whose souls some one will be called to an\naccount, etc. etc.\u201d \u201cOh! you see, I cannot tax my time to such an\nextent; I cannot afford it. Then do you think I can face the apathy,\nperhaps the superciliousness, of those who should encourage, but will\nbe sure to sneer at me and pooh-pooh me down? No, no; I cannot do it.\u201d\nTime and again have we heard such remarks. But, luckily, it seems as\nif at this propitious moment _rerum nascitur ordo_. All praise to the\nRev. Dr. Engbers! Not only has he raised his voice and uttered words\nexpressive of a long, painful experience, and resolutely cried out\nthat something must be done, but has actually addressed himself to the\nwork, and has broken ground on a road whereon we can follow him,\nwhether pulling with him or not. That we need _text-books_ for _our_\nschools is admitted by all who give a thought to the importance of a\nproper training in Catholic schools\u2015\u2015that training which should\ndistinguish the Catholic citizen from all others. There is no doubt\nbut a judicious training in a properly-conducted Catholic college will\nstamp the pupil with a character we may dare to call _indelible_.\n\nThere must needs be a character imprinted on the mind of the graduate,\nwhether he goes forth from the halls of his Alma Mater as a literary\nman or a philosopher, a scientist or a professional man. We cannot\nrefrain from transcribing the beautiful sentiments uttered by the Hon.\nGeorge W. Paschal, in his annual address before the Law Department of\nthe University of Georgetown, on the 3d of June, 1875:\n\n \u201cYou go forth from an institution long honored for its\n learning, its high moral character, its noble charities,\n which have been bestowed in the best possible way\u2015\u2015mental\n enlightenment, and its watchful sympathy for its learned\n children spread all over the land. The fathers of that\n institution expect much from you, and they will be ever\n ready to accord to you every possible encouragement. Your\n immediate instructors in your profession cannot fail to feel\n for you the deepest interest.\u201d\n\nSurely the gist of the above is that the graduates who \u201cstand upon the\nthreshold of their profession, holding passes to enter the great\narena\u201d\u2015\u2015as Mr. Daly has so happily expressed it in his valedictory on\nthe same occasion\u2015\u2015must bear imprinted on their brows the parting kiss\nof their Alma Mater.\n\nNow, if _bonum ex integr\u00e2 caus\u00e2, malum ex quocumque defectu_,\neverything in a collegiate course must tend to give the graduate a\nCatholic individuality in the world of science and of letters.\n\nAnd here it is that we cannot fail to admire the great wisdom of the\nHoly Father, who, when the question of classics in the Catholic\nschools began to be mooted, _ex professo_ and in earnest, would not\nsanction a total and blind exclusion of the pagan classics\u2015\u2015for that\nwould be _obscurantism_\u2015\u2015but advised the use of the classics, with a\n_proviso_ that the rich wells of Christian classicism should not be\npassed by.\n\nThen it cannot be gainsaid that the use of pagan classics is necessary\nin the curriculum of belles-lettres, just as, if we may be allowed the\ncomparison, the study of the sacred books is indispensable to the\nstudent of divinity; although even in Holy Writ there are passages\nwhich should not be wantonly read, and much less commented upon.\n\nAnd here we must differ from the admirable letter of Dr. Engbers, who\ncertainly is at home on the subject and makes some excellent points.\nHe avers that it is neither possible nor necessary \u201cto prepare\nCatholic books for the whole extent of a college education.\u201d\n\nFor brevity\u2019s sake we shall not give his reasons, but shall limit\nourselves to our own views on the subject.\n\nIn the first place, it _is_ necessary to prepare text-books of the\nclassics for our schools. For, surely, we cannot trust to the\nscholar\u2019s hand Horace, or Ovid, or even Virgil, as they came from\ntheir authors; and this on the score of morality. Secondly, we have no\nhesitation in saying that we do not possess as yet a single Latin\nclassic (to speak of Latin alone) so prepared to meet all the\nrequirements of the youthful student. We may almost challenge\ncontradiction when we assert that, in all such editions as are\nprepared for American schools, the passages really difficult are\nskipped over. True, it is many years since we had an opportunity of\nexamining such works thoroughly; but from what we knew then, and have\nlooked into lately, we find no reason for a change of opinion. The\nwork of such editions is perfunctorily done. The commentators,\nannotators, or whatsoever other name they may go by, seem to have only\naimed at doing a certain amount of work somewhat _\u00e0 la_ penny-a-liner;\nbut nothing seems to be done _con amore_, and much less according to\nthorough knowledge. Let our readers point to one annotator or editor\nof any poet adopted in American schools who is truly \u00e6sthetic in his\nlabors.\n\nClassics must, then, be prepared. Dr. Engbers avers that we can safely\nuse what we have, no matter by whom they have been prepared; and in\nthis we must willingly yield to his judgment, because it would be\ntemerity in us, who are not a professor and have so far led a life of\nquite the reverse of classical application, to make an issue with him.\nBut we must be allowed to differ from him in that \u201cwe have not the\nmeans to provide for all, and our educators are unable to satisfy the\nwants for the whole college course.\u201d\n\nLet us bear in mind that we limit our disquisition to the Latin\nclassics for the present. What we say about them will be equally\napplicable to the Greek, as well as to the authors of all nations.\n\nIt seems to us abundantly easy to prepare books for this department.\nLet a certain number of colleges, schools, and seminaries join\ntogether, and through their faculties make choice of a competent\nscholar. Set him apart for one year for the purpose of preparing a\nneat, cheap _school_ edition of the Latin classics _for our Catholic\nschools_. He must limit himself to the _\u00c6tas aurea_, giving some of\nthose authors in their entirety, such as Nepos; some with a little\npruning, such as the _\u00c6neid_; others, again, _summo libandi calamo_;\nwhile of Cicero and Livy we would advise only selections for a\nbeginning. Of Cicero, _e.g._, give us a few letters _Ad Familiares_,\nhis _De Oratore_, six Orations, _Somnium Scipionis_, _De Officiis_,\nand _De Senectute_. From what we are going to say it will be evident\nthat no more will be necessary at first. Teach the above well, _et\nsatis superque satis_!\n\nExclude from your classes the cramming system. Prof. Cram is the bane,\nthe evil genius of our classical halls. Supporters of the \u201cforty lines\na day\u201d rule, listen! It was our good fortune to learn the classics in\na Jesuit college. We were in rhetoric. Our professor gave Monday and\nWednesday afternoons to Virgil, Tuesday to Homer, and Friday to\nHorace. Of Virgil we read book vi., and of Horace the third book of\nOdes\u2015\u2015that is, what we _did_ read of them. The professor was a perfect\nscholar, an orator, a poet, as inflammable as petroleum, and as\nsensitive as the \u201ctouch-me-not\u201d plant, with a mind the quickest we\never knew, and a heart most affectionate, besides being truly a man of\nGod. Well, the session had entered its fourth month, and we had gone\nthrough about three hundred verses of Virgil, while from Horace we\nwere just learning not _magna modis tenuare parvis_. One afternoon the\nrector suddenly put in an appearance with some of the _patrassi_. As\nthey had taken their seats, the former asked what portions of the\nLatin classics we had been reading. \u201cCicero and Livy of the prose,\nHorace and Virgil of the poets.\u201d \u201cBut what part?\u201d quoth he. \u201cAny\npart,\u201d replied the master. The rector looked puzzled; the boys\u2015\u2015well,\nwe do not know, for we had no looking-glass, nor did we look at one\nanother\u2015\u2015but perfectly astounded at the coolness of the teacher. One\nthing, however, all who have survived will remember: the strange\nfeeling that seized us; for \u201cWas he going to make a fool of every one\nof his boys?\u201d We were eleven in the class. It was a small college, in\na provincial town, that has given some very great men to the world,\nbut of which Lord Byron did not sing enthusiastically. There we were:\non the pillory, in the stocks, billeted for better for worse, for\n\u201cwhat not?\u201d The rector, with ill-disguised impatience, called for one\nof the boys, and, opening Virgil at random, chanced on the very death\nof Turnus. The poor boy, pale and trembling, began to read, and on he\nwent, while the relentless questioner seemed carried away by the\nbeauty of the passage, unconscious of the torture to which he had\ndoomed the unlucky pupil. But, no; we take the word back: because as\nhe was advancing he seemed to become more self-possessed, and so much\nso that at the end he described the last victim of the Lavinian\nstruggle with uncommon pathos, until, with a hoarse sound of his\nvoice, he launched the soul of the upstart _sub umbras_, just as the\nteacher would himself have read to us a parallel passage. It was\nevident that, although he had never before read those lines, he had\ncaught their spirit, and the recitation ended perfectly. Then, as he\nwas requested to render the whole passage into vernacular, with a\nfluent diction, choice words, and not once faltering, he acquitted\nhimself with universal applause. One or two more boys were called up,\nand the visitors took their leave much pleased.\n\nThen it was our turn to ask the master why he had done that. \u201cWell,\nboys,\u201d said he, \u201cI expected it all along. You see it now. How many\ntimes you have wondered at my keeping you so long on perhaps only\nthree or four lines a whole afternoon! Now you understand. We have not\nread Virgil, but we have studied Latin poetry, and you have learned\nit. In future we shall skim the poets here and there, as I may choose,\nand at the final exhibition you shall be ready to read to the\nauditorium any part of the Greek and Latin authors the audience may\nthink fit to call for.\u201d And so we did, and did it well.\n\nOnce, being on a school committee, we asked the master of the\nhigh-school\u2015\u2015and a learned man he was\u2015\u2015why he hurried through so many\nlines. \u201cI cannot help it,\u201d said he; \u201cthey must have read so many lines\n[_sic_] when they present themselves for examination at Harvard\u201d! Nor\nshall we omit here to note that young men have failed in their\nexaminations to enter Harvard because, in sooth, they could not get\nthrough _the recitation_. Prof. Agassiz himself told us that one of\nhis favorite students (whom we knew well) failed because he could not\nrepeat _verbatim_ a certain portion of a treatise on some point of\nnatural philosophy. However, the good professor insisted on the youth\nbeing examined as to the sense, and not, parrot-like, repeating\nsentence after sentence, and the candidate carried the palm.\n\nThis \u201crecitation\u201d system, the \u201cforty lines\u201d routine, is a curse. We\nare sure professors will bear us out in our assertion. Dr. Becker, in\nhis excellent article in the _American Catholic Quarterly_, deals with\nthis matter in a very luminous style. What use, then, of so many\nauthors, or of the whole of any one of them, for a text-book? _Non\nmulta sed multum, and multum in parvo._ The bee does not draw all that\nis garnered in the chalice, but just that much which is necessary to\nmake the honey. No wonder that so few are endowed with the _nescio quo\nsapore vernaculo_, as Cicero would call it. We have treasured for the\nlast three-and-forty years the paper on which we copied the\ndescription of the war-horse, as rendered by our professor of\nrhetoric, who gave two lectures on it, bringing in and commenting on\nparallel descriptions in prose and verse. Nearly half a century has\npassed away, and those two charming afternoons in that old class-room\nare yet fresh in our remembrance.\n\nIf some prelates have gone so far as to exclude profane classics from\nthe schools in their seminaries altogether, the Holy Father, on the\nother hand, does not approve of such indiscriminate ostracism; nay, he\nrecommends that a judicious adoption be made of the pagan classics, at\nthe same time bringing before the Catholic student the great patterns\nof sacred writings which have been preserved for us from the Greek and\nLatin fathers. Surely only a senseless man would withhold from the\n\u201cgolden-mouthed John\u201d that meed of praise which is allowed to the\nAthenian Demosthenes. Are they not both noble patterns on which the\nyouthful aspirant to forensic or ecclesiastical eloquence should form\nhimself?\n\nAnd here it is that the necessity of preparing _Catholic text-books_\nbecomes self-evident. Outsiders cannot furnish us with the materials\nwe need for a thorough and wholesome Catholic training\u2015\u2015even more\nimportant, in our estimation, when we take into consideration that\nsuch works _in extenso_ are too costly and far beyond the means of the\naverage of scholars. Hence if we are really in earnest in our desire\nof having perfect Catholic schools, such books must needs be prepared.\n\nAfter we have carefully prepared proper editions of the pagan\nclassics, _\u00c6tatis aure\u00e6_, for our schools, what else have we to do to\nfurnish our arsenal with a well-appointed complement? We must look\nabout for a choice of the best Christian Latin classics. As for\nChristian Latin poets of antiquity, the choice will be less difficult,\nbecause there is not an embarrassing wealth of them, yet enough to\nlearn how to convey the holiest ideas in the phraseology of Parnassus,\nhow to sing the praises of Our Lady with the rhythm of the Muses.\n\nIt is well known that a new departure is about to take place, nay, has\ntaken place, in the Catholic schools of Europe. The great patristic\npatterns of oratory and poetry will in future be held before the\nCatholic student for his imitation and improvement.\n\nThe movement inside the Catholic world has become known, because there\nis no mystery about it, and the Catholic Church, faithful to her\nFounder\u2019s example, does and says everything \u201copenly.\u201d The debate on\nthe classics is over, and every one is satisfied of the necessity of\nthe new arrangement. Outside the church some one stood on tiptoe,\n_arrectis auribus_; all at once a clapping of hands\u2015\u2015_presto!_ The\nchance is caught, the opportunity improved. We have used pagan\nclassics in our schools as they came from a non-Catholic press, and\n_we felt safe in adopting them_! Moreover, it has been, so far, next\nto impossible to detail any one, chosen from our bands, to prepare new\nsets. Now a plan seems to be maturing, and a line drawn, following\nwhich one will know how to work; and it is on this line that the\nwriter is adding his feeble efforts to aid a great cause.\n\nBut what of the Christian classics? _Obstupescite, c\u0153li!_ Harper &\nBrothers have come to the rescue. To them, then, we must suppliantly\nlook for help to open this avenue of Christian civilization\u2015\u2015the\nblended instruction, in our schools, of pagan and Christian training\nin belles-lettres!\n\n\u201c_Latin Hymns, with English Notes._ For use in schools and colleges.\nNew York: Harper & Bros., Publishers, Franklin Square. 1875. Pp. 333.\n12mo, tinted paper, $1 75.\u201d\n\nThe book is to be the first of a series of what may be called sacred\nclassics. The second of the series, already printed, is _The\nEcclesiastical History of Eusebius_; it will be followed by Tertullian\nand Athanagoras (surely a worse choice as regards style could not be\nmade), both in press. Then, \u201c_should the series be welcomed_, it will\nbe continued with volumes of Augustine, and Cyprian, and Lactantius,\nand Justin Martyr, and Chrysostom, and others; in number sufficient\nfor a complete college course.\u201d\n\nFrom a notice intended to usher the whole series before the public we\nlearn that \u201cfor many centuries, down to what is called the pagan\nRenaissance, they [the writings of early Christians] were the common\nlinguistic study of educated Christians.\u201d A startling disclosure to\nus. For the future, pagan classics are to be eliminated. Is it not\nevident that the industrious editors have taken the clue from us?\u2015\u2015at\nleast for a part of their programme; for they push matters too far.\n\nBut here is the mishap. If we have to judge by the first book, their\nworks will be unavailable, their labor bootless. Dr. Parsons closes\nhis admirable translation of Dante\u2019s _Inferno_ (albeit with a little\nprofanity, which we are willing to forgive, considering the subject\nand its worth) with those imploring words, _Tantus labor non sit\ncassus!_ Mr. March will find them at page 155 of his book. He may as\nwell appropriate them to himself, with a little suppression, however;\nnor should he scruple to alter the text, seeing that he has taken\nother unwarrantable liberties with the ancient fathers. What right has\nhe to mutilate Prudentius\u2019 beautiful hymn _De Miraculis Christi_, and\nof thirty-eight stanzas give us only eight, therewith composing, as it\nwere, a hymn of his own, and entitling it _De Nativitate Christi_?\nWithout entering into other damaging details, we assure the projectors\nof this new enterprise that they have undertaken a faithless job.\nCatholic teachers cannot adopt their books. For, surely, we are not\ngoing to make our youth buy publications which tell us, _e.g._, that\nthe hymn _Stabat Mater_ is \u201csimple Mariolatry,\u201d to say nothing of\nother notes equally insulting, especially when we come to the\nhistorical department. Nor can it be said that they give proof either\nof knowledge or of taste when they choose Eusebius for the very first\nsample of patristic classicism. Ah! _sutor, sutor!_\n\nBut enough. We have dwelt on this new departure of Protestant zeal for\nthe study of the fathers, to give an additional proof in favor of our\nopinion as to how far we can trust non-Catholic text-books. Even the\nmost superficial reader will at once discover that we only take up\nside questions, and our remarks and arguments do not in the least\nclash with the argument and judgment of Dr. Engbers, with whom we\nagree in the main. We only assert that it would be better were we to\nstrain every nerve in preparing text-books of our own, whilst we also\nbelieve it would not be so very difficult to attain the\nlong-wished-for result. It will take some time, it will require\nsacrifices, yet the object can be accomplished. A beginning has been\nmade already in two American Catholic colleges. Nor should we forget\nthat none but Catholics can be competent to perform such a work. The\nfathers are _our_ property; and the same divine Spirit that illumined\ntheir minds will not fail to guide the pens of those who, in obedience\nto authority, undertake this work.\n\nAs for the Christian authors, the difficulty is in the choice, as Dr.\nEngbers points out. For the sake of brevity we limit ourselves to the\nLatin fathers.\n\nFrom the works of St. Augustine (a mine of great wealth) might be\ncompiled a series of selections which, put together with some from the\nCiceronian Jerome and a few others, would furnish an anthology of\nspecimens of eloquence, whether sacred, historical, or descriptive,\nthat could not be surpassed. A judicious _spicilegium_ from the _Acta\nMartyrum_ and the liturgies of the first ages should form the\nintroductory portion. This first volume would be characteristic. We\nwould suggest that it were so prepared as at once to rivet the\nattention of the scholar and enamor him with the beauties of apostolic\nliterature.\n\nDr. Engbers is very anxious\u2015\u2015and justly so, when we consider our\nneeds\u2015\u2015that something were done to supply our schools with works of\n\u201chistory, natural science, and geography.\u201d Indeed, it is high time\nthat we had a supply of such works. But here many will ask: \u201cHave we\nresources in our own Catholic community on which to depend for such\nworks?\u201d Most assuredly we have. For, to quote only a few, is not\nProfessor James Hall, of Albany, a Catholic? Indeed he is, and one of\nthe first men in the department of natural history, acknowledged as\nsuch by all the eminent societies of the European continent.\n\nAnd who is superior to S. S. Haldeman, of Pennsylvania? And is he not\n\u201cone of ours\u201d? The fact is, we do not know our own resources. Here we\nhave two men, inferior to none in their own departments of learning,\nand they are totally ignored by the Catholic body, to which they\nnevertheless belong! Indeed, John Gilmary Shea, another of our best\nmen, has touched a sad chord in his article in the first number of the\nnew _Catholic Quarterly_. We have allowed our best opportunities to\nslip by unnoticed, and may God grant it is not too late to begin the\nseemingly herculean task before us!\n\nWe have written under the inspiration and after the guidance of the\nwell-known wishes, nay, commands, of our Holy Father. He insists upon\neducation being made more Christian. His Holiness does not exclude the\npagan authors; he wishes them to be so presented to our youth that no\nharm may result therefrom to the morals of the student; and we have no\ndoubt that the programme we have only sketched will meet with the\napproval of all who are interested in the matter, and who will give us\nthe credit of having most faithfully adhered to our Holy Father\u2019s\nadmonition.\n\nNor will the reader charge us with presumption if we dare to quote the\nwords of our great Pope, with the pardonable assurance that no more\nfitting close could be given to our paper.\n\nMonseigneur Bishop of Calvi and Teano, in the kingdom of Naples, now a\ncardinal, is a most determined advocate of the needed reform, and\njustly claims the merit of having been the first to inaugurate it in\nItaly. In a letter to him Pius IX. sets down the importance of the\nmovement, and distinctly places the limits within which it should be\nconfined in order to attain complete success.\n\n \u201cR. P. D. D\u2019AVANZO, Episcopo Calven, Theanen.[45]\n\n \u201cPIUS P.P. IX., _Venerabilis Frater, Salutem et Apostolicam\n Benedictionem_.\n\n \u201cQuo libentius ab orbe Catholico indicti a Nobis Jubil\u00e6i\n beneficium fuit exceptum, Venerabilis Frater, eo uberiorem\n inde fructum expectandum esse confidimus, divina favente\n clementia. Grati propterea sensus animi, quos hac de causa\n prodis, iucunde excipimus, Deoque exhibemus, ut emolumentum\n l\u00e6titi\u00e6 a te concept\u00e6 respondens di\u0153cesibus tuis concedere\n velit. Acceptissimam autem habemus eruditam epistolam a te\n concinnatam de mixta latin\u00e6 lingu\u00e6 institutione. Scitissime\n namque ab ipsa vindicatur decus christian\u00e6 latinitatis, quam\n multi corruptionis insimularunt veteris sermonis; dum patet,\n linguam, utpote mentis, morum, usuum publicorum\n enunciationem, necessario novam induere debuisse formam post\n invectam a Christo legem, qu\u00e6 sicuti consortium humanum\n extulerat et retinxerat ad spiritualia, sic indigebat nova\n eloquii indole ab eo discreta, quod societatis carnalis,\n fluxis tantum addict\u00e6 rebus, ingenium diu retulerat. Cui\n quidem observationi sponte suffragata sunt recensita a te\n solerter monumenta singulorum Ecclesi\u00e6 s\u00e6culorum; qu\u00e6 dum\n exordia nov\u00e6 form\u00e6 subjecerunt oculis, ejusque progressum et\n pr\u00e6stantiam, simul docuerunt constanter in more fuisse\n positum Ecclesi\u00e6, juventutem latina erudire lingua per\n mixtam sacrorum et classicorum auctorum lectionem. Qu\u00e6 sane\n lucubratio tua cum diremptam iam disceptationem clariore\n luce perfuderit, efficacius etiam suadebit institutoribus\n adolescenti\u00e6, utrorumque scriptorum opera in eius usum esse\n adhibenda. Hunc Nos labori tuo successum ominamur; et\n interim divini favoris auspicem et pr\u00e6cipu\u00e6 nostr\u00e6\n benevolenti\u00e6 testem tibi, Venerabilis Frater, universoque\n Clero et populo tuo Benedictionem Apostolicam peramanter\n impertimus.\n\n \u201cDatum Rom\u00e6 apud S. Petrum die 1 Aprilis anno 1875,\n Pontificatus Nostri anno Vigesimonono.\n\n \u201cPIUS PP. IX.\u201d\n\nThis very letter is an instance of the results to which a thorough and\njudicious mixed Latin classical education will lead the student of\nLatinity\u2015\u2015the resources of the pagan Latin made classically available\neven to him who is secretary to the Pope _ab epistolis Latinis_, to\nwhich post are appointed those who, with other proper qualifications,\nare good Latin scholars. Some of these letters, especially those\nissued under the pontificates of Benedict XIV. and Pius VI. and VII.,\nare truly Ciceronian in style and language.\n\nWe call the closest attention of such of our readers as are not\nacquainted with Latin to the following translation of the above most\nimportant document:\n\n\n \u201cTo the REV. FATHER BARTHOLOMEW D\u2019AVANZO, Bishop of Calvi\n and Teano.\n\n \u201cPIUS IX., Pope.\n\n \u201cVenerable Brother, health and Apostolic Benediction: In\n proportion, Venerable Brother, to the eager good-will with\n which our proclamation of the Jubilee has been received by\n the Catholic world, is the harvest of good results we expect\n therefrom under favor of divine mercy. Heartily, therefore,\n do we welcome the sentiments of gratitude which you express,\n and offer them to God, that he may vouchsafe to your\n dioceses a share in your joy. Most seasonable, moreover, do\n we account the learned letter you have written on the mixed\n teaching of the Latin language. For with great erudition\n have you therein vindicated the honor of Christian Latinity,\n which many have charged with being a corruption of the\n ancient tongue; whereas it is clear that speech, as the\n expression of ideas, manners, and public usages, must\n necessarily have assumed a new garb after the law introduced\n by Christ\u2015\u2015a law which, while it elevated human intercourse,\n and refashioned it to spiritual requirements, needed a new\n form of conversation, distinct from that which had so long\n reflected the bent of a carnal society swayed only by\n transitory things. And truly the monuments you have\n skilfully gathered from the several ages of the church\n afford a self-evident proof of our assertion; for, while\n they lay before the eyes of the reader the beginnings of the\n new form, its progress and importance, they also aver it to\n have been an established practice in the church to train\n youth in the Latin tongue by a mixed reading of sacred with\n classic authors. And assuredly this your dissertation, in\n throwing greater light on a question already well\n ventilated, will the more effectually urge upon the\n instructors of youth the advisability of calling to their\n aid the works of authors of both kinds. Such is the result\n we predict for your labors; and in the meanwhile, as a\n pledge of divine favor and a token of our own good-will, we\n most affectionately bestow upon yourself, Venerable Brother,\n and upon all your clergy and people, the Apostolic\n Benediction.\n\n \u201cGiven at Rome, at St. Peter\u2019s, on the 1st of April, in the\n year 1875, the twenty-ninth of our pontificate.\u201d\n\n \u201cPIUS PP. IX.\u201d\n\nAnd thus _Roma locuta est_!\n\n\n [45] _Acta Sanct\u00e6 Sedis_, vol. viii. p. 560.\n\n\n\n\nFLYWHEEL BOB.\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF \u201cROMANCE OF CHARTER OAK,\u201d \u201cPRIDE OF LEXINGTON,\u201d ETC., ETC.\n\nDown in a dismal cellar, so poorly lighted, indeed, that you could\nscarce distinguish his tiny figure when it came into the world, Bob\nwas born. Our little hero began life where we all must end\nit\u2015\u2015underground; and certainly many a burial-vault might have seemed a\nless grimy, gloomy home than his. But Bob\u2019s wretchedness being coeval\nwith his birth, he never knew what it was to be otherwise than\nwretched. He cried and crowed pretty much like other infants, and his\nmother declared he was the finest child ever born in this cellar.\n\u201cAnd, O darling!\u201d she sighed more than once, while he snugged to her\nbosom\u2015\u2015\u201cO darling! if you could stay always what you are.\u201d It was easy\nto feed him, easy to care for him, now. How would he fare along the\nrugged road winding through the misty future?\n\nNothing looked so beautiful to his baby eyes as the golden streak\nacross the floor which appeared once a day for a few minutes; and as\nsoon as he was able to creep he moved towards it and tried to catch\nit, and wondered very much when the streak faded away.\n\nBob\u2019s only playmate was a poodle dog, who loved the sunshine too, and\nwas able at first to get more of it than he; and the child always\nwhimpered when Pin left him to go bask on the sidewalk. But by and by,\nwhen he grew older, he followed his dumb friend up the steps, and\nwould sit for hours beside him; and the dog was very fond of his\nlittle master, if we may judge by the constant wagging of his bushy\ntail.\n\nWhen Bob was four years old his mother died. This was too young an age\nfor him to comprehend what had happened. It surprised him a little\nwhen they carried the body away; and when she breathed her last words:\n\u201cI am going, dear one; I wish I could take you with me,\u201d he answered:\n\u201cGoing where, mammy?\u201d \u201cWhen is mammy coming home?\u201d he asked of several\npersons who lodged in the cellar with him, and stayed awake the first\nnight a whole hour waiting for her to return. But ere long Bob ceased\nto think about his mother, and in the course of a month \u2019twas as if\nshe had never been; there was rather more space in the underground\nchamber than before, and now he had all the blanket to himself.\n\nThus we see that the boy began early the battle of life. When he felt\nhungry, he would enter a baker\u2019s shop near by, and stretch forth his\npuny hand; and sometimes he was given a morsel of bread, and sometimes\nhe was not. But Bob was too spirited to lie down and starve. So, when\nthe baker shook his head, saying, \u201cYou come here too often,\u201d he\nwatched a chance and stole peanuts from the stand on the corner. The\nTen Commandments did not trouble him in the least; for he had never\nheard of them. Bob only knew that there was a day in the week when the\nbaker looked more solemn than on other days, and when the streets were\nless crowded.\n\nThe one thing in the world Bob cherished was Pin. And the feeling was\nmutual; for not seldom, when the dog discovered a bone or crust of\nbread among the rubbish-heaps, he would let himself be deprived of the\ntreasure without even a growl. Then, when Christmas came round, Bob\nand the poodle would stand by the shop-windows and admire the toys\ntogether; and the child would talk to his pet, and tell him that this\nwas a doll and that a Noe\u2019s ark. Once he managed to possess himself of\na toy which a lady let drop on the side-walk. But he did not keep it\nlong; for another urchin offered him a dime for it, which Bob\naccepted, then forthwith turned the money into gingerbread, which he\nshared with Pin.\n\nSuch was the orphan\u2019s childhood. He was only one vagrant amid\nthousands of others. In the great beehive of humanity his faint buzz\nwas unheard, and he was crowded out of sight by the swarm of other\nbees. Still, there he was, a member of the hive; moving about and\nstruggling for existence; using his sting when he needed it, and\ngetting what honey he could. When the boy was in his seventh year, a\nmisfortune befell him which really smote his heart\u2015\u2015the poodle\ndisappeared. And now, for the first time in his life, Bob shed tears.\nHe inquired of everybody in the tenement-house if they had seen him;\nhe put the same query to nearly every inhabitant of Mott Street. But\nall smiled as they answered: \u201cIn a big city like New York a lost dog\nis like a needle in a haystack.\u201d Many a day did Bob pass seeking his\nfriend. He wandered to alleys and squares where he had never been\nbefore, calling out, \u201cPin! Pin!\u201d but no Pin came. Then, when night\narrived and he lay down alone in his blanket, he felt lonely indeed.\nPoor child! It was hard to lose the only creature on earth that he\nloved\u2015\u2015the only creature on earth, too, that loved him. \u201cI\u2019ll never\nforget you,\u201d he sighed\u2015\u2015\u201cnever forget you.\u201d And sometimes, when\nanother dog would wag his tail and try to make friends, Bob would\nshake his head and say: \u201cNo, no, you\u2019re not my lost Pin.\u201d\n\nIt took a twelvemonth to become reconciled to this misfortune. But\nTime has broad wings, and on them Time bore away Bob\u2019s grief, as it\nbears away all our griefs; otherwise, one sorrow would not be able to\nmake room for another sorrow, and we should sink down and die beneath\nour accumulated burdens.\n\nWe have styled Bob a vagrant. Here we take the name back, if aught of\nbad be implied in it. It was not his fault that he was born in a\ncellar; and if he stole peanuts and other things, \u2019twas only when\nhunger drove him to it. Doubtless, had he first seen the light in\nFifth Avenue, he would have known ere this how to spell and say his\nprayers; might have gone, perhaps, to many a children\u2019s party, with\nkid gloves on his delicate hands and a perfumed handkerchief for his\nsensitive little nose. But Bob was not born in Fifth Avenue. He wore\nbarely clothes enough to cover his nakedness. His feet, like his\nhands, had never known covering of any sort; they were used to the mud\nand the snow, and once a string of red drops along the icy pavement\nhelped to track him to his den after he had been committing a theft.\nIn this case, however, the blood which flowed from his poor foot\nproved a blessing in disguise, for Bob spent the coldest of the winter\nmonths in the lock-up: clean straw, a dry floor, regular meals\u2015\u2015what a\nhappy month!\n\nAs for not being able to read\u2015\u2015why, if a boy in such ragged raiment as\nhis were to show himself at a public school, other boys would jeer at\nhim, and the pedagogue eye him askance.\n\nBut Bob proved the metal that was in him by taking, when he was just\neight years of age, a place in a factory. \u201cYes,\u201d he said to the man\nwho brought him there, \u201cI\u2019d rather work than be idle.\u201d\n\nIt were difficult to describe his look of wonder when he first entered\nthe vast building. There seemed to be no end of people\u2015\u2015old men, young\nmen, and children like himself, all silent and busy. Around them,\nabove them, on every side of them, huge belts of leather, and rods of\niron, and wheels and cog-wheels were whirring, darting in and out of\nholes, clearing this fellow\u2019s head by a few inches, grazing that one\u2019s\nback so close that, if he chanced to faint or drop asleep, off in an\neye\u2019s twinkle the machinery would whirl him, rags, bones, and flesh\nmaking one ghastly pulp together. And the air was full of a loud,\nmournful hum, like ten thousand sighs and groans. Presently Bob sat\ndown on a bench; then, like a good boy, tried to perform the task set\nfor him. But he could only stare at the big flywheel right in front of\nhim and close by; and so fixed and prolonged was his gaze that, by\ncommon consent, the operatives christened him Flywheel Bob. Next day,\nhowever, he began work in earnest, and it was not long ere he became\nthe best worker of them all.\n\nWhen Bob was an infant, we remember, he used to creep toward the\nsun-streak on the cellar floor, and cry when it faded away.\n\nNow, although the building where he toiled twelve hours a day was\ngloomy and depressing, and the sunshine a godsend to the spirits, the\nboy never lifted his eyes for a single moment when it shimmered\nthrough the sooty windows. At his age one grows apace; one is likewise\ntender and easily moulded into well-nigh any shape.\n\nSo, like as the insect, emerging from the chrysalis, takes the color\nof the leaf or bark to which it clings, Bob grew more and more like\nunto the soulless machinery humming round him. If whispered to, he\nmade no response. When toward evening his poor back would feel weary,\nno look of impatience revealed itself on his countenance. If ever he\nheaved a sigh, no ears heard it, not even his own; and the foreman\ndeclared that he was a model boy for all the other boys to imitate\u2015\u2015so\nsilent, so industrious, so heartily co-operating with the wheels and\ncog-wheels, boiler, valves, and steam; in fact, he was the most\nvaluable piece in the whole complicated machinery.\n\nBob was really a study. There are children who look forward to happy\ndays to come; who often, too, throw their mind\u2019s eye backward on the\nChristmas last gone by. This Bob never did. His past had no Santa\nClaus, his present had none, his future had none. It were difficult to\nsay what life did appear to him, as day after day he bent over his\ntask. Mayhap he never indulged in thoughts about himself\u2015\u2015what he had\nbeen, what he was, what he might become. Certainly, if we may judge by\nthe vacant, leaden look into which his features ere long crystallized,\nBob was indeed what the foreman said\u2015\u2015a bit of the machinery. And more\nand more akin to it he grew as time rolled by. Bob had never beheld it\nexcept in motion; and on Sundays, when he was forced to remain idle,\nhis arm would ever and anon start off on a wild, crazy whirl; round\nand round and round it would go; whereupon the other children would\nlaugh and shout: \u201cHi! ho! Look at Flywheel Bob!\u201d\n\nThe child\u2019s fame spread. In the course of time Richard Goodman, the\nowner of the factory, heard of him. This gentleman, be it known, was\nsubject to the gout; at least, he gave it that name, which sounded\nbetter than rheumatism, for it smacked of family, of gentle birth;\nthough, verily, if such an ailment might be communicated through a\nproboscis, there was not enough old Madeira in his veins to have given\na mosquito the gout.\n\nWhen thus laid up, Mr. Goodman was wont to send for his superintendent\nto inquire how business was getting on; and it was upon one of these\noccasions that he first heard of Bob. Although not a person given to\nenthusiasm, not even when expressing himself on the subject of\nmoney\u2015\u2015money, which lay like a little gold worm in the core of his\nheart\u2015\u2015he became so excited when he was told about the model child,\nwho never smiled, who never sulked, who never asked for higher wages,\nthat the foreman felt a little alarm; for he had never seen his\nemployer\u2019s eyes glisten as they did now, and even the pain in his left\nknee did not prevent Mr. Goodman from rising up out of the easy-chair\nto give vent to his emotion. \u201cBelieve me,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cthis child\nis the beginning of a new race of children. Believe me, when our\nfactories are filled by workers like him, then we\u2019ll have no more\nstrikes; strikes will be extinguished for ever!\u201d Here Mr. Goodman sank\ndown again in the chair, then, pulling out a silk handkerchief, wiped\nhis forehead. But presently his brow contracted. \u201cThere is some talk,\u201d\nhe continued, \u201cof introducing a bill in the legislature to exclude all\nchildren from factories under ten years of age. Would such a bill\nexclude my model boy?\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t say whether it would,\u201d replied the manager. \u201cBob may be ten,\nor a little under, or a little over. I don\u2019t think he\u2019ll change much\nfrom what he is, not if he lives fifty years. His face looks just like\nsomething that has been hammered into a certain shape that it can\u2019t\nget out of.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd they talk, too, of limiting the hours of work to ten per day for\nchildren between ten and sixteen years,\u201d went on Mr. Goodman, still\nfrowning; \u201cand, what\u2019s more, the bill requires three months\u2019\nday-schooling or six months\u2019 night-schooling. I declare, if this bill\nbecomes a law, I\u2019ll retire from business. The public has no right to\ninterfere with my employment of labor. It is sheer tyranny.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, it would throw labor considerably out of gear,\u201d remarked the\nsuperintendent; \u201cfor there are a hundred thousand children employed in\nthe shops and factories of this city and suburbs.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, no; the bill sha\u2019n\u2019t pass!\u201d exclaimed Mr. Goodman, thumping his\nfist on the table. \u201cWhy, what\u2019s the use of a lobby, if such a bill can\ngo through?\u201d\n\nHere the foreman smiled, whereupon his employer gave a responsive\nsmile; then pulling the bell, \u201cNow,\u201d said the latter, \u201clet us drink\nthe model boy\u2019s health.\u201d In a few minutes there appeared a decanter of\nsherry. \u201cHere\u2019s to Flywheel Bob!\u201d cried Mr. Goodman, holding up his\nglass.\n\n\u201cTo Flywheel Bob!\u201d repeated the other; and they both tossed off the\nwine.\n\n\u201cFlywheel Bob! Why, what a funny name!\u201d spoke a low, silvery voice\nclose by. Mr. Goodman turned hastily round, and there, at the\nthreshold of the study, stood a little girl, with a decidedly pert\nair, and a pair of lustrous black eyes fixed full upon him; they\nseemed to say: \u201cI know you told me not to enter here, yet here I am.\u201d\nA profusion of ringlets rippled down her shoulders, and on one of her\nslender fingers glittered a gold ring.\n\n\u201cDaisy, you have disobeyed me,\u201d said her father, trying to appear\nstern; \u201cand, what is more, you glide about like a cat.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo I?\u201d said Daisy, smiling. \u201cWell, pa, tell me who Flywheel Bob is;\nthen I\u2019ll go away.\u201d\n\n\u201cSomething down at my factory\u2015\u2015a little toy making pennies for you.\nThere, now, retire, darling, retire.\u201d\n\n\u201cA little toy? Then give me Flywheel Bob; I want a new plaything,\u201d\npursued the child, quite heedless of the command to withdraw.\n\n\u201cWell, I\u2019d like to know how many toys you want?\u201d said Mr. Goodman\nimpatiently. \u201cYou\u2019ve had dear knows how many dolls since Christmas.\u201d\n\n\u201cNine, pa.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd pray, what has become of them all, miss?\u201d\n\n\u201cGiven away to girls who didn\u2019t get any from Santa Claus.\u201d\n\n\u201cI declare! she\u2019s her poor dear mother over again,\u201d sighed the\nwidower. \u201cMargaret would give away her very shoes and stockings to the\npoor.\u201d\n\nThe sigh had barely escaped his lips when the foreman burst into a\nlaugh, and presently Mr. Goodman laughed too; for, lo! peeping from\nbehind the girl\u2019s silk frock was the woolly head of a poodle. In his\nmouth was a doll with one arm broken off, hair done up in curls like\nDaisy\u2019s, and a bit of yellow worsted twined around one of the fingers\nto take the place of a ring. \u201cHumph! I don\u2019t wonder you\u2019ve had nine\ndolls in five months,\u201d ejaculated Mr. Goodman after he had done\nlaughing. \u201cRover, it seems, plays with them too; then tears them up.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, pa, he is tired of dolls now, and wants Flywheel Bob; and so do\nI.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish I hadn\u2019t mentioned the boy\u2019s name,\u201d murmured Mr. Goodman. Then\naloud: \u201cDaisy dear, I am going out for a drive by and by; which way\nshall we go? To the Park?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; to Tiffany\u2019s to have my ears pierced.\u201d At this he burst into\nanother laugh.\n\n\u201cWhy, pa, I\u2019m almost ten, and old enough for earrings,\u201d added Daisy,\ntossing her head and making the pretty ringlets fly about in all\ndirections.\n\n\u201cWell, well, darling; then we will go to Tiffany\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd afterwards, pa, we\u2019ll get Flywheel Bob.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! hush, my love. You cannot have him.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Him!_ Is he a little boy, pa?\u201d Mr. Goodman did not answer. \u201cWell,\nwhatever Flywheel Bob is,\u201d she continued, \u201cI want a new plaything.\nThis doll Rover broke all by accident. And I scolded you hard; didn\u2019t\nI, Rover?\u201d Here she patted the dog\u2019s head. \u201cBut, pa, he sha\u2019n\u2019t hurt\nFlywheel Bob.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well, we\u2019ll drive out in half an hour,\u201d said her parent, who\nwould fain have got the notion of Flywheel Bob out of his child\u2019s\nhead, yet feared it might stick there.\n\n\u201cIn half an hour,\u201d repeated Daisy, feeling the tips of her ears, while\nher eyes sparkled like the jewels which were shortly to adorn them.\nThen, going to the bell, she gave a ring. Mr. Goodman, of course,\nimagined that it was to order the carriage. But when the domestic\nappeared, Daisy quietly said: \u201cJane, I wish the boned turkey brought\nhere.\u201d No use to protest\u2015\u2015to tell the child that this room was his own\nprivate business room, and not the place for luncheon.\n\nIn the boned turkey was brought, despite Mr. Goodman\u2019s sighs. But it\nwas well-nigh more than he could endure when presently, after carving\noff three slices, she bade Rover sit up and beg.\n\nIn an instant the poodle let the doll drop, then, balancing himself on\nhis haunches, gravely opened his mouth. \u201cHe never eats anything except\nboned turkey,\u201d observed Daisy in answer to her father\u2019s look of\ndispleasure. \u201cBones are bad for his teeth.\u201d Then, while her pet was\ndevouring the dainty morsels: \u201cPa,\u201d she went on, \u201cyou haven\u2019t yet\nadmired Rover\u2019s blue ribbon.\u201d\n\n\u201cUmph! he certainly doesn\u2019t look at all like the creature he was when\nyou bought him three years ago,\u201d answered Mr. Goodman.\n\n\u201cWell, pa, this summer I will not go to the White Mountains.\nRemember!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d inquired Mr. Goodman, who failed to discern any possible\nconnection between the poodle and this charming summer resort.\n\n\u201cBecause I want surf-bathing for Rover. I love to throw your cane into\nthe big waves, then see him rush after it and jump up and down in the\nfoam. This season we must go to Long Branch.\u201d Her father made no\nresponse, but turned to address a parting word to the superintendent,\nwho presently took leave, highly amused by the child\u2019s bold, pert\nspeeches.\n\n\u201cNow, Daisy, for our drive,\u201d said Mr. Goodman, rising stiffly out of\nthe arm-chair.\n\nBut he had only got as far as the door when another visitor was\nannounced. It proved to be a member of the Society for the Prevention\nof Cruelty to Animals\u2015\u2015a society which has already done much good, and\nwhose greatest enemy is the ill-judged zeal of some of its own\nmembers.\n\n\u201cWhat on earth can he want?\u201d thought Mr. Goodman, motioning to the\ngentleman to take a seat.\n\n\u201cI am come, sir,\u201d began the latter, \u201cto inquire whether you would\naccept the position of president of our society? We have much to\ncontend with, and gentlemen like yourself\u2015\u2015gentlemen of wealth and\ninfluence in the community\u2015\u2015are needed to assist us.\u201d\n\nMr. Goodman, who in reality cared not a rush how animals were treated,\nyet was ambitious to be known as a citizen of influence, bowed and\nreplied: \u201cI feel highly honored, sir, and am willing to become your\npresident.\u201d Then, filling anew the wine-glasses, he called out:\n\n\u201cHere is success and prosperity to\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\n\u201cFlywheel Bob,\u201d interrupted Daisy. \u201cFor, pa, he is a little boy, isn\u2019t\nhe? A little boy making pennies?\u201d\n\nMr. Goodman frowned, while the child laughed and Rover barked. But\npresently the toast to the society was duly honored, after which the\nvisitor proceeded to speak of several cruel sports which he hoped\nwould soon be put a stop to. \u201cTurkey-matches on Thanksgiving day must\nbe legislated against, Mr. President.\u201d Mr. President bowed and waved\nhis hand. \u201cAnd there is talk, sir, of introducing fox-chases, as in\nEngland. This sport must likewise be prevented by law.\u201d Another bow\nand wave of the hand.\n\n\u201cWell, pa, you sha\u2019n\u2019t stop me killing flies; for flies plague Rover,\u201d\nput in Daisy, with a malicious twinkle in her eye.\n\nAgain the poodle barked. Then, clapping her hands, off she flew to get\nher hat and gloves, leaving the gentlemen smiling at this childish\nremark.\n\n\u201cMy darling,\u201d said Mr. Goodman a quarter of an hour later, as they\nwere driving down Fifth Avenue together\u2015\u2015\u201cmy darling, I have been\nplaced at the head of another society\u2015\u2015a society to prevent cruelty to\nanimals.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am glad,\u201d replied Daisy, looking up in his face. \u201cEverybody likes\nyou, pa; don\u2019t they?\u201d\n\nDaisy, let us here observe, was the rich man\u2019s only child. His wife\nwas dead; but whenever he gazed upon the little fairy at this moment\nseated beside him, he seemed to behold his dear Margaret anew: the\nsame black eyes, the same wilful, imperious, yet withal tenderly\naffectionate ways. No wonder that Richard Goodman idolized his\ndaughter. To no other living being did he unbend, did his heart ever\nquicken.\n\nBut to Daisy he did unbend. He loved to caress her, to talk to her,\ntoo, about matters and things which she could hardly understand. And\nshe would always listen and appear very pleased and interested. Search\nthe whole city of New York, and you would not have found another of\nher age with so much tact when she chose to play the little lady, nor\na better child, either, considering how thoroughly she had been\nspoilt. If Daisy was a tyrant, she was a very loving one indeed, and\nnone knew this better than her father and the poodle, who is now\nperched on the front cushion of the barouche, looking scornfully down\nat the curs whom he passes, and saying to himself: \u201cWhat a lucky dog I\nam!\u201d\n\n\u201cI am sure the Society to prevent Cruelty to Animals will do good,\u201d\nobserved Daisy, after holding up her finger a moment and telling Rover\nto sit straight. \u201cBut, pa, is Flywheel Bob an animal or a toy? Or is\nhe really a little boy, as I guessed awhile ago?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere it comes again,\u201d murmured Mr. Goodman. Then, with a slight\ngesture of impatience, he answered: \u201cA boy, my love, a boy.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, what a funny name, pa! Oh! I\u2019m glad we\u2019re going to see him.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, dear, we are going to Tiffany\u2019s\u2015\u2015to Tiffany\u2019s, in order to have\nyour darling ears pierced and elegant earrings put in them.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know it, pa, but I ordered James to drive first to the factory.\u201d\n\nNo use to protest. The coachman drove whither he was bidden. But not a\nlittle surprised was he, when they arrived, to see his young mistress\nalight instead of his master.\n\n\u201cI am too lame with gout to accompany her,\u201d whispered Mr. Goodman to\nthe foreman, who presently made his appearance. \u201cIt is an odd whim of\nhers. Don\u2019t keep her long, and take great care about the machinery.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll be back soon, pa,\u201d said Daisy\u2015\u2015\u201cvery soon.\u201d With this she and\nRover entered the big, cheerless edifice, which towered like a giant\nhigh above all the surrounding houses.\n\n\u201cNow, Miss Goodman, keep close to me and walk carefully,\u201d said her\nguide.\n\n\u201cLet me hold your hand,\u201d said the child, who already began to feel\nexcited as the first piece of machinery came in view. Then, pausing at\nthe threshold of floor number one, \u201cOh! what a noise,\u201d she cried, \u201cand\nwhat a host of people! Which one is Flywheel Bob?\u201d\n\n\u201cYonder he sits, miss,\u201d replied the superintendent, pointing to the\ncurved figure of a boy\u2015\u2015we might better say child; for, in the two and\na half years since we last met him, Bob has hardly grown a quarter of\nan inch. \u201cWhy doesn\u2019t he sit straight?\u201d asked Daisy, approaching him.\n\n\u201cBecause, miss, Bob minds his task.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, he does indeed; for he hasn\u2019t looked at me once, while all the\nrest are staring.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are the first young lady that has ever honored us by a visit,\u201d\nanswered the foreman.\n\n\u201cAm I?\u201d exclaimed Daisy, not a little gratified to have so many eyes\nfastened upon her. At children\u2019s parties, pretty as she was, she had\nrivals; here there were none. And now, as she moved daintily along,\nwith her glossy curls swaying to and fro, and her sleeves not quite\nhiding the gold bracelets on her snowy wrists, she formed indeed a\nbewitching picture. Presently they arrived beside Flywheel Bob; then\nDaisy stopped and surveyed him attentively, wondering why he still\nrefused to notice her. \u201cHow queerly he behaves!\u201d she said inwardly,\n\u201cand how pale he is! I wonder what he gets to eat? His fingers are\nlike spiders\u2019 claws. I\u2019d rather be Rover than Bob.\u201d While she thus\nsoliloquized the poodle kept snuffing at the boy\u2019s legs, and his tail,\nwhich at first had evinced no sign of emotion, was now wagging slowly\nfrom side to side, like as one who moves with doubt and deliberation.\nMayhap strange thoughts were flitting through Rover\u2019s head at this\nmoment. Perchance dim memories were being awakened of a damp abode\nunderground; of a baby twisting knots in his shaggy coat; of hard\ntimes, when a half-picked bone was a feast. Who knows? But while the\ndog poked his nose against the boy\u2019s ragged trowsers, while his tail\nwagged faster and faster, while his mistress said to herself: \u201cI\u2019ll\ntell pa about poor Bob, and he shall come to Long Branch with us,\u201d the\nobject of her pity continued as unmoved by the attention bestowed on\nhim as if he had been that metal rod flashing back and forth in yon\ncylinder.\n\n\u201cHow many hours does Bob work?\u201d inquired Daisy, moving away and\ndrawing Rover along by the ear; for Rover seemed unwilling to depart.\n\n\u201cTwelve, miss,\u201d replied the foreman.\n\n\u201cTwelve!\u201d repeated Daisy, lifting her eyebrows. \u201cDoes he really? Why,\nI don\u2019t work two. My governess likes to drive in the Park, and so do\nI; and we think two hours long enough.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I have seen him, pa,\u201d said Daisy a few minutes later, as she\nand her father were driving away.\n\n\u201cHave you? Humph! then I suppose we may now go to Tiffany\u2019s,\u201d rejoined\nMr. Goodman somewhat petulantly.\n\n\u201cAnd, pa, Flywheel Bob isn\u2019t a bit like any other boy I have ever\nseen. Why, he is all doubled up; his bony fingers move quick, quick,\never so quick; his eyes keep always staring at his fingers, and\u201d\u2015\u2015here\nan expression of awe shadowed the child\u2019s bright face a moment\u2015\u2015\u201cand\nreally, pa, I thought he said \u2018hiss-s-s\u2019 when the steam-pipe hissed.\u201d\n\n\u201cHumph!\u201d ejaculated the manufacturer. Then, after a pause: \u201cWell, now,\nmy dear, let us talk about something else\u2015\u2015about your earrings; which\nshall they be, pearls or diamonds?\u201d\n\n\u201cDiamonds, pa, for they shine prettier.\u201d Then clapping her hands: \u201cOh!\nwouldn\u2019t it surprise Bob if I gave him a holiday? He is making pennies\nfor me, isn\u2019t he? You said so this morning. Well, pa, I have pennies\nenough, so Bob shall play awhile; he shall come to Long Branch.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy daughter, do not be silly,\u201d said Mr. Goodman.\n\n\u201cSilly! Why, pa, if Rover likes surf-bathing, I\u2019m sure Flywheel Bob\u2019ll\nlike it too.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is too good a boy to idle away his time, my love.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, but, pa, I heard you say that bathing was so healthy; and Bob\ndoesn\u2019t look healthy.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank heavens! here we are at Tiffany\u2019s,\u201d muttered Mr. Goodman when\npresently the carriage came to a stop. But before his daughter\ndescended he took her hand and said: \u201cDaisy, you love me, do you not?\u201d\n\n\u201cLove you, pa? Of course I do.\u201d And to prove it the child pressed her\nlips to his cheek.\n\n\u201cThen, dearest, please not to speak any more about Flywheel Bob;\notherwise your governess will think you are crazy, and so will\neverybody else who hears you.\u201d\n\n\u201cCrazy!\u201d cried Daisy, opening her eyes ever so wide. Then turning up\nher little, saucy nose: \u201cWell, pa, I don\u2019t care what Mam\u2019selle\nthinks!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you care about what I think?\u201d said Mr. Goodman, still retaining\nher hand; for she seemed ready to fly away.\n\n\u201cOh! indeed I do.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen I request you not to mention Flywheel Bob any more.\u201d\n\n\u201cReally?\u201d And Daisy gazed earnestly in his face, while astonishment,\nanger, love, made her own sweet countenance for one moment a terrible\nbattle-field. It was all she spoke; in another moment she and Rover\nwere within the splendid marble store.\n\nAs soon as she was gone Mr. Goodman drew a long breath. Yet he could\nnot bear to be without his daughter, even for ever so short a time;\nand now she was scarcely out of sight when he felt tempted to hobble\nafter her. He worshipped Daisy. But who did not? She was the life of\nhis home. Without her it would have been sombre indeed; for No. \u2015\u2015\nFifth Avenue was a very large mansion, and no other young person was\nin it besides herself. But Daisy made racket enough for six, despite\nher French governess, who would exclaim fifty times a day:\n\u201cMademoiselle Marguerite, vous vous comportez comme une bourgeoise.\u201d\nIf an organ-grinder passed under the window, the window was thrown\nopen in a trice, and down poured a handful of coppers; and happy was\nthe monkey who climbed up to that window-sill, for the child would\nstuff his red cap with sugar and raisins, and send him off grinning as\nhe had never grinned before.\n\n\u201cO darling! do hurry back,\u201d murmured Mr. Goodman, while he waited in\nthe carriage, longing for her to reappear. At length she came, and the\nmoment she was beside him again he gave her an embrace; then the rich\nman drove home, feeling very, very happy.\n\nBut not so Daisy. And this afternoon she stood a whole hour by the\nwindow, looking silently out. In vain the itinerant minstrel played\nhis finest tunes; she seemed deaf to the music. Rover, too, looked\nmoody and not once wagged his tail; nor when dinner-time came would he\ntouch a mouthful of anything\u2015\u2015which, however, did not surprise the\ngoverness, who observed: \u201cMa foi! l\u2019animal ne fait que manger.\u201d But\nwhen a whole week elapsed, and Daisy still remained pensive, her\nfather said: \u201cYou need change of air, my love; so get your things\nready. To-morrow we\u2019ll be off for Long Branch.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo soon!\u201d exclaimed Daisy. It was only the first of June.\n\n\u201cWhy, my pet, don\u2019t you long to throw my cane into the waves, to see\nRover swim after it?\u201d Then, as she made no response, \u201cDaisy,\u201d he went\non, \u201cwhy do you not laugh and sing and be like you used to be? Tell me\nwhat is the matter.\u201d\n\nWithout answering, Daisy looked down at the poodle, who turned his\neyes up at her and faintly moved his tail.\n\n\u201cYes, yes; I see you need a change,\u201d continued Mr. Goodman. \u201cSo\nto-morrow we\u2019ll be off for the seaside. There I know you will laugh\nand be happy.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs Flywheel Bob happy?\u201d murmured the child under her breath.\n\n\u201cA little louder, dear one, a little louder. I didn\u2019t catch those last\nwords.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou asked me, pa, not to speak of Flywheel Bob to you; so I only\nspoke about him to myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I do declare!\u201d exclaimed Mr. Goodman in a tone of utter\namazement; then, after staring at her for nearly a minute, he rose up\nand passed into his private room, thinking what a very odd being Daisy\nwas. \u201cShe is her poor, dear mother over again,\u201d he muttered. \u201cI never\ncould quite understand Margaret, and now I cannot understand Daisy.\u201d\n\nMr. Goodman had not been long in his study when a visitor was\nannounced. The one who presently made his appearance was as unlike the\nbenevolent and scrupulous gentleman who came here once to beg the\nmanufacturer to become president of the Society for the Prevention of\nCruelty to Animals\u2015\u2015as unlike him, we repeat, as a man could possibly\nbe.\n\nThis man\u2019s name was Fox; and verily there was something of his\nnamesake about him. Explain it as we may, we do occasionally meet with\nhuman beings bearing a mysterious resemblance to some one of the lower\nanimals; and if Mr. Fox could only have dwindled in size, then dropped\non his hands and knees, we should have fired at him without a doubt,\nhad we discovered him near our hen-roost of a moonlight night.\n\n\u201cGlad to see you, Mr. Fox,\u201d said Mr. Goodman, motioning to him to be\nseated. \u201cI sent for you to talk about important business.\u201d\n\n\u201cAt your service, sir,\u201d replied the other, with a twinkle in his gray\neye which pleased Daisy\u2019s father; for it seemed to say, \u201cI am ready\nfor any kind of business.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery good,\u201d said Mr. Goodman; then, after tapping his fingers a\nmoment on the table: \u201cNow, Mr. Fox, I would like you to proceed at\nonce to Albany. Can you go?\u201d\n\nMr. Fox nodded.\n\n\u201cVery good. And when you are there, sir, I wish you to exert yourself\nto the utmost to prevent the passage of a bill known as \u2018The Bill for\nthe protection of factory children.\u2019\u201d\n\nHere Mr. Fox blew his nose, which action caused his cunning eyes to\nsparkle more brightly. Then, having returned the handkerchief to his\npocket, \u201cMr. Goodman,\u201d he observed, \u201cof course you are aware that it\ntakes powder to shoot robins. Now, how much, sir, do you allow for\nthis bird?\u201d\n\nMr. Goodman smiled; then, after writing something on a slip of paper,\nheld it up before him.\n\n\u201cHumph!\u201d ejaculated Mr. Fox. \u201cThat sum may do\u2015\u2015it may. But you must\nknow, sir, that this legislature is not like the last one. This\nlegislature\u201d\u2015\u2015here Mr. Fox himself smiled\u2015\u2015\u201cis affected with a rare\ncomplaint, which we gentlemen of the lobby facetiously call\n\u2018Ten-Commandment fever\u2019; and the weaker a man is with this complaint,\nthe more it takes to operate on him.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen make it this.\u201d And Mr. Goodman held up another slip with other\nfigures marked on it.\n\n\u201cWell, yes, I guess that\u2019ll cure the worst case,\u201d said Mr. Fox,\ngrinning.\n\n\u201cGood!\u201d exclaimed Daisy\u2019s father. \u201cThen, sir, let us dismiss the\nsubject and talk about something else\u2015\u2015about a bill introduced by the\nSociety for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, of which society I\nam president. It relates to chasing foxes.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd this bill you _don\u2019t_ want killed?\u201d said Mr. Fox.\n\n\u201cPrecisely.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, sir, how much are you willing to spend for that purpose?\u201d\n\nAgain Mr. Goodman held up a piece of paper.\n\n\u201cWhy, my stars!\u201d cried the lobby-member, after glancing at the\nfigures\u2015\u2015\u201cmy stars! isn\u2019t it as important a bill as the other?\u201d\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t alter my figures,\u201d replied Mr. Goodman.\n\n\u201cBut remember, sir, you are president of the So\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t alter my figures,\u201d repeated Mr. Goodman, interrupting him.\n\n\u201cThen, sir, you cannot count on a law to prevent people running after\nfoxes,\u201d answered Mr. Fox dryly; but presently, shrugging his\nshoulders, \u201cHowever, as much as can be accomplished with that small\nsum of money, I will accomplish.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t doubt it,\u201d observed Mr. Goodman; then, turning toward the\ntable, \u201cAnd now, sir, suppose we drink a glass of wine, after which\nyou will proceed to Albany.\u201d\n\nAccordingly, to Albany Mr. Fox went, while Richard Goodman and his\ndaughter took wing for Long Branch.\n\nBut, strange to relate, the change of air did not work the beneficial\neffects which her father had expected. There was evidently something\nthe matter with Daisy. She had grown thoughtful beyond her years, and\nwould ever and anon sit down on the beach, and, with Rover\u2019s head\nresting on her lap, gaze out over the blue waters without opening her\nlips for perhaps a whole hour.\n\n\u201cWhat can ail my darling child?\u201d Mr. Goodman often asked himself\nduring these pensive moods. Then he consulted three physicians who\nhappened to be taking a holiday at the Branch; one of whom recommended\niron, another cod-liver oil, while the third doctor said: \u201cFresh milk,\nsir, fresh milk.\u201d\n\nWhile he was thus worried about Daisy, the torrid, sunstroke heat of\nsummer flamed down upon the city, and more and more people followed\nhis example and fled to Newport and the White Mountains, to Saratoga\nand Long Branch. But those who went away were as a drop in the ocean\nto those who remained behind. The toilers are ever legion. We see them\nnot, yet they are always near, toiling, toiling; and our refinement,\nour luxury, our happiness, are too often the fruit of their misery.\nThe deeper the miner delves in the mine, the higher towers the castle\nof Mammon. So in these sultry dog-days Flywheel Bob\u2019s spider fingers\nwere at work for Richard Goodman\u2019s benefit, as deftly as in the depths\nof winter\u2015\u2015no holiday for those poor fingers. Yet not even a sigh does\nBob heave, and he cares less now for the blessed sunshine than he did\nin his baby days, when it painted a golden streak on the cellar floor.\nO foolish boy! why didst thou not go with thy mother? There was room\nenough in the pine box to have held ye both, and in Potter\u2019s field thy\nweary body would have found rest long ago.\n\nBut Bob, instead of dying, lived; and now behold him, in his eleventh\nyear, in the heart of this big factory, the biggest in the metropolis,\nand the clatter and din of it are his very life. Oh! show him not a\nrose, Daisy dear. Keep far from his ears the song of the birds! Let\nhim be, let him be where he is! And O wheels and cogwheels, and all ye\nother pieces of machinery! whatever name ye go by, keep on turning and\nrumbling and groaning; for Flywheel Bob believes with all his heart\nand soul that he is one with you, that ye are a portion of himself.\nBreak not his mad illusion! \u2019Tis the only one he has ever enjoyed. And\non the machinery went\u2015\u2015on, on, on, all through June, July, August,\nearning never so much money before; and the millionaire to whom it\nbelonged would have passed never so happy a summer (for his manager\nwrote him most cheering reports), if only Daisy had been well and\ncheerful.\n\nIt was the 1st of September when Mr. Goodman returned to New York\u2015\u2015the\n1st of September; a memorable day it was to be.\n\nHardly had he crossed the threshold of his city home when he received\na message which caused him to go with all haste to the factory. What\nhad happened? The machinery had broken down, come to a sudden dead\npause; and the moment\u2019s stillness which followed was not unlike the\nstillness of the death-chamber\u2015\u2015just after the vital spark has fled,\nand when the mourners can hear their own hearts beating. Then came a\npiercing, agonizing cry; up, up from floor to floor it shrilled. And\nlo! Flywheel Bob had become a raving maniac, and far out in the street\nhis voice could be heard: \u201cDon\u2019t let the machine stop! Don\u2019t let the\nmachine stop! Oh! don\u2019t, oh! don\u2019t. Keep me going! keep me going!\u201d\nImmediately the other operatives crowded about him; a few laughed,\nmany looked awe-stricken, while one stalwart fellow tried to prevent\nhis arms from swinging round like the wheel which had been in motion\nnear him so long. But this was not easy to do, and the mad boy\ncontinued to scream: \u201cKeep me going, keep me going, keep me going!\u201d\nuntil finally he sank down from utter exhaustion. Then they carried\nhim away to his underground home, the same dusky chamber where he was\nborn, and left him.\n\nBut ere long the place was thronged with curious people, drawn thither\nby his cries, and who made sport of his crazy talk; for Bob told them\nthat he was a flywheel, and it was dangerous to approach him. Then\nthey lit some bits of candle, and formed a ring about him, so as to\ngive his arms full space to swing. And now, while his wild, impish\nfigure went spinning round and hissing amid the circle of flickering\nlights, it was well-nigh impossible to believe that he was the same\nbeing who eleven years before had crept and crowed and toddled about\nin this very spot, a happy babe, with Pin and a sunbeam to play with.\n\nIt was verging towards evening when Mr. Goodman received the message\nalluded to above; and Daisy, after wondering a little what could have\ncalled her father away at this hour, determined to sally forth and\nenjoy a stroll in the avenue with Rover. Her governess had a headache\nand could not accompany her; but this did not matter, for the child\nwas ten years old and not afraid to go by herself. Accordingly, out\nshe went. But, to her surprise, when she reached the sidewalk her pet\nrefused to follow. He stood quite still, and you might have fancied\nthat he was revolving some project in his noddle. \u201cCome, come!\u201d said\nDaisy impatiently. But the dog stirred not an inch, nor even wagged\nhis tail. And now happened something very interesting indeed. Rover\npresently did move, but not in the direction which his young mistress\nwished\u2015\u2015up towards the Park\u2015\u2015but down the avenue. Nor would he halt\nwhen she bade him, and only once did he glance back at her. \u201cWell,\nwell, I\u2019ll follow him,\u201d said Daisy. \u201cHe likes Madison Square; perhaps\nhe is going there.\u201d\n\nShe was mistaken, however. Past the Square the poodle went, then down\nBroadway, and on, on, to Daisy\u2019s astonishment and grief, who kept\nimploring him to stop; and once she caught his ear and tried to hold\nhim back, but he broke loose, then proceeded at a brisker pace than\nbefore, so that it was necessary almost to run in order to keep up\nwith him. By and by the child really grew alarmed; for she found\nherself no longer in Broadway, but in a much narrower street, where\nevery other house had a hillock of rubbish in front of it, and where\nthe stoops and sidewalks were crowded with sickly-looking children in\nmiserable garments, and who made big eyes at her as she went by. The\ncurs, too, yelped at Rover, as if he had no business to be among them;\nand one mangy beast tried to tear off his pretty blue ribbon. But,\nalbeit no coward, Rover paused not to fight; steadily on he trotted,\nuntil at length he dived down a flight of rickety steps. Daisy had to\nfollow, for she durst not leave him now; she seemed to be miles away\nfrom her beautiful home on Murray Hill, and there was no choice left,\nsave to trust to her pet to guide her back when he felt inclined.\n\nBut it was not easy to penetrate into the cavern-like domicile whither\nthe stairway led; for it was very full of people. The dog, however,\nmanaged to squeeze through them; and Daisy, who was clinging to his\nshaggy coat, presently found herself in an open space lit up by half a\ndozen tapers, and in the middle of the ring a boy was yelling and\nswinging his arms around with terrific velocity, and the boy looked\nvery like Flywheel Bob.\n\n\u201cHi! ho! Here\u2019s a fairy, Bob\u2015\u2015a fairy!\u201d cried a voice, as Daisy\nemerged from the crowd and stood trembling before him. \u201cIt\u2019s\nCinderella,\u201d shouted another. \u201cIsn\u2019t she a beauty!\u201d exclaimed a third\nvoice.\n\nWhile they were passing these remarks upon the child, Rover was\nyelping and frisking about as she had never seen him do before; he\nseemed perfectly wild with delight. But the one whom the poodle\nrecognized and loved knew him not.\n\n\u201cO Bob! Bob!\u201d cried Daisy presently, stretching forth her hands in an\nimploring manner, \u201cdon\u2019t kill my Rover! Don\u2019t, don\u2019t!\u201d\n\nThere was indeed cause for alarm. The mad boy had suddenly ceased his\nfrantic motions and clutched her pet by the throat, as if to choke\nhim. Yet, although in dire peril of his life, Rover wagged his tail,\nand somebody shouted: \u201cBully dog! He\u2019ll die game!\u201d\n\n\u201cCome away, come away quick!\u201d said a man, jerking Daisy back by the\narm. Then three or four other men flew to the rescue of the poodle,\nand not without some difficulty unbent Bob\u2019s fingers from their iron\ngrip; after which, still wagging his poor tail, Rover was driven out\nof the room after his mistress.\n\nOh! it seemed like heaven to Daisy when she found herself once more in\nthe open air. But what she had heard and witnessed in the horrible\nplace which she had just quitted wrought too powerfully on her nerves,\nand now the child burst into hysterical sobs. While Daisy wept,\nsomebody\u2015\u2015she hardly knew whether it was a man or woman\u2015\u2015fondled her\nand tried to soothe her, and at the same time slipped off her ring,\nearrings, and bracelets. The tender thief was in the very nick of\ntime; for in less than five minutes, to Daisy\u2019s unutterable joy, who\nshould appear but her father, accompanied by a policeman and the\nsuperintendent of the factory. \u201cO my daughter! my daughter! how came\nyou here?\u201d cried Mr. Goodman, starting when he discovered her. \u201cHave\nyou lost your senses too?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no, no, pa,\u201d answered Daisy, springing into his arms. \u201cRover\nbrought me here.\u201d\n\nThen after a brief silence, during which her father kissed the tears\noff her cheek: \u201cAnd, pa,\u201d she added, \u201cI have seen Flywheel Bob, and do\nyou know I think they have been doing something to him; for he acts so\nvery strangely. Poor, poor Bob!\u201d\n\nWhile she was speaking the object of her commiseration was carried up\nthe steps. Happily, he was tired out by his crazy capers and was now\nquite calm, nor uttered a word as they laid him on the sidewalk.\n\n\u201cDear Bob, what is the matter? What have they done to you?\u201d said\nDaisy, bending tenderly over him. Bob did not answer, but his eyes\nrolled about and gleamed brighter than her lost diamonds.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t disturb him, darling. He is going to the hospital, where he\nwill soon be well again,\u201d said Mr. Goodman.\n\n\u201cWell, pa, he sha\u2019n\u2019t go back to that horrid factory,\u201d answered Daisy;\n\u201cand, what\u2019s more, now that he is ill, he sha\u2019n\u2019t go anywhere except\nto my house.\u201d\n\n\u201cDarling, don\u2019t be silly,\u201d said Mr. Goodman, dropping his voice. \u201cHow\ncould a little lady like you wish to have him in your house?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, pa, Bob is ill; look at the foam on his lips. Yes, I\u2019m sure he\nis ill, and I wish to nurse him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, my child, you cannot have him; therefore speak no more about\nit,\u201d replied Mr. Goodman, who felt not a little annoyed at the turn\nthings were taking.\n\n\u201cThen, pa, I\u2019ll go to the hospital too, and nurse him there; upon my\nword I will.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, you sha\u2019n\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I will. O father!\u201d Here the child again burst into sobs, while\nthe crowd looked on in wonder and admiration, and one man whispered:\n\u201cWhat a game thing she is!\u201d\n\nThree days have gone by since Daisy\u2019s noble triumph, and now, on a\nsoft, luxurious couch in an elegant apartment, lies Flywheel Bob,\nwhile by the bedside watches his devoted little nurse. The boy\u2019s\nreason has just returned, but he can hardly move or speak.\n\n\u201cO Bob! don\u2019t die,\u201d said Daisy, taking one of his cold,\ndeath-moistened hands in hers. \u201cYou sha\u2019n\u2019t work anymore. Don\u2019t, don\u2019t\ndie!\u201d The physician has told her that death is approaching.\n\n\u201cWhere am I?\u201d inquired Bob in a faint, scarce audible whisper, and\nturning his hollow, bewildered eyes on the child.\n\n\u201cYou are here, Bob, in my home, and nobody shall put you out of it;\nand when you get well, you shall have a long, long holiday.\u201d\n\nThe boy did not seem to understand; at least, his eyes went roving\nstrangely round the room, and he murmured the word \u201cPin.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean, dear Bob?\u201d asked Daisy.\n\n\u201cPin,\u201d he repeated\u2015\u2015 \u201cmy lost Pin.\u201d\n\nHere the door of the chamber was pushed gently open and Rover thrust\nhis head in. The dog had been thrice ordered out for whining and\nmoaning, and Daisy was about to order him away a fourth time, when Bob\nlooked in the direction of the door. Quick the poodle bounded forward,\nand as he bounded Flywheel Bob rose up in the bed, and cried in a\nvoice which startled Daisy, it was so loud and thrilling: \u201cO Pin! Pin!\nPin!\u201d In another moment his arms were twined round the creature\u2019s\nneck; then he bowed down his head.\n\nBob spoke not again\u2015\u2015Bob never spoke again and when Daisy at length\ndiscovered that he was dead, she wept as if her heart would break.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\u201cFather, I think poor Bob would not have died, if you had let me have\nhim sooner,\u201d said Daisy the evening of the funeral.\n\n\u201cAlas! my child, I believe what you say is too true,\u201d replied Mr.\nGoodman. \u201cBut his death has already caused me suffering enough; do let\nme try and forget it. I promise there shall be no more Flywheel Bobs\nin my factory.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! yes, pa; give them plenty of holidays. Why, Rover, I think, is\nhappier than many of those poor people.\u201d Then, patting the dog\u2019s head:\n\u201cAnd, pa, I am going now to call Rover Pin; for I am sure that was his\nold name.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps it was, darling,\u201d said Mr. Goodman, fondling with her\nringlets. Then, with a smile, he added: \u201cDaisy, do you know both Mr.\nFox and my superintendent believe that I am gone mad!\u201d\n\n\u201cMad? Why, pa?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause I have sworn to undo all I have done. Ay, I mean to try my\nbest to be elected president of another society\u2015\u2015the Society for the\nPrevention of Cruelty to Children; and I will try to make them all\nhappy.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! yes, yes, as happy as Pin is,\u201d said Daisy, laughing. \u201cWhy, pa, I\nonly work two hours a day, and Mam\u2019selle is always pleased with me.\u201d\nThen, her cherub face growing serious again: \u201cAnd now,\u201d she added, \u201cI\nmust have a pretty tombstone placed on Bob\u2019s grave, and I will pay for\nit all myself out of my own money.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you enough, darling?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, if I haven\u2019t, pa, you\u2019ll give me more money; for I wish to pay\nfor it all, all myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo you shall, my love,\u201d said Mr. Goodman, smiling. \u201cBut what kind of\na monument is it to be?\u201d\n\n\u201cA white marble cross, pa. Then I\u2019ll often go and hang wreaths upon\nit\u2015\u2015wreaths of beautiful flowers; for I never, never, never will\nforget Flywheel Bob.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE PONTIFICAL VESTMENTS OF EGYPT AND ISRAEL.\n\nMuch discussion has arisen among commentators and arch\u00e6ologists with\nregard to the sacred vestments of the Jewish high-priest and the\nLevites; and yet it does not appear to have hitherto occurred to them\nto refer to the only sources whence additional and authentic\ninformation respecting these vestments can be obtained\u2015\u2015namely, the\nmonuments of ancient Egypt.\n\nAge after age have repeated attempts been made to remake the vestments\nof the Hebrew priesthood solely from the descriptions given in the\nPentateuch; but hitherto the words of Moses have been subjected to the\nmost discordant interpretations. In a book by the Abb\u00e9 Ancessi,\nentitled _Egypt and Moses_,[46] the first part only of which has as\nyet appeared, we at last obtain a lucid idea of the Mosaical\ndirections, the very vagueness of which testifies that the great\nLawgiver is speaking of things already familiar to those whom he\naddresses. So much in this work is new, and so much is suggestive of\nwhat farther discoveries may bring to light, that we shall, with the\nkind permission of the learned author, make free use of it in the\npresent notice.\n\nAt the very epoch to which chronologists are wont to refer the origin\nof the human race we find on the borders of the Nile an already\npowerful nation. Most of the peoples whose names were in after-times\nto be renowned in history were then tribes of mere barbarians,\ndwelling in the depths of forests, in caverns, or on the islets of the\nlakes, their weapons rude flint-headed axes and arrows, and their\nornaments the teeth of the wild beasts they had slain in the chase, a\nfew amber beads or rings of cardium, threaded on tendons dried in the\nsun.\n\nAt this time the nobles of Egypt inhabited sumptuous palaces, wore\nnecklaces of gold adorned with brilliant enamels, and hung from their\ngirdles _lamin\u00e6_ of bronze, damascened in gold with marvellous\ndelicacy.[47] Already during a long period had the Egyptians depicted\ntheir annals, their symbolism, and their daily life and surroundings\non the massive pages of stone which fill the museums of two of the\ngreatest capitals of modern Europe, and on the rolls of linen and\npapyrus which enfold their mummies in the depth of those _Eternal\nAbodes_[48] whose sleep of ages has been disturbed by our unsparing\nhands. The bold chisel of the Egyptian sculptors carved from the\nhardest rock these statues of strange aspect, these grave and tranquil\ncountenances of the sovereigns contemporary with Abraham or Moses,\nwhich, after long centuries, passed in their own unchanging and\nconservative clime, we find amongst us, under our own changeful skies,\nand amid the noise and unrepose of our modern existence.\n\nThe deciphering of inscriptions has given an insight into the history\nof Egypt, and \u201cthere are,\u201d as M. Ancessi observes, \u201ckings of the\nmiddle ages who are less known to us than these Pharaos of every\ndynasty,\u201d who, by way of relaxation from the long, funereal labors in\nthe building of the Pyramids imposed upon each prince by the belief\nand traditions of his ancestors, would ravage Africa or Asia; then,\nreturning from these expeditions, exchange the fatigues of arms for\nthe pleasures of the chase. In the desert or on Mount Sinai we find\nthem hunting the lion and the gazelle, after having carried their\nthank-offerings to the temples of Memphis or of Thebes.\n\nThus we find in remote ages the fame of Egypt reaching to distant\nregions, besides exercising an immense influence on neighboring\nnations. It was what, later on, Athens became, and after Athens\nRome\u2015\u2015an object of wonder, interest, and envy for its power, its\nwealth, and splendor.\n\nSuch were the position and influence of Egypt when the family of\nshepherds which was one day to become the Hebrew nation wandered in\nthe valley of the Jordan and on the plains of Palestine\u2015\u2015that family\nto whom those pastures, streams, and mountain gorges were already\npeopled with precious memories, and who were farther bound to the land\nby the promises of God and their own most cherished hopes. Too feeble\nthen to overcome the races of Amalec and Chanaan, it was needful that\nthis tribe should be for a time withdrawn into a country in which they\nwould forget their nomadic habits and become habituated to the settled\nlife of civilized nations; in which, moreover, they would be\ndisciplined and strengthened, and where their numbers would increase,\nuntil the time appointed should arrive when God would deliver into\ntheir hands the country so repeatedly promised to their race. This\ntime being come, he had recourse, if one may say so, to a touching\nstratagem, and drew the sons of Jacob into the land of the Pharaos by\nplacing Joseph on the steps of the throne.\n\nDuring the gradual transformation of a wandering tribe into a settled\npeople, another process, no less slow and difficult, was also\npreparing them for the future to which they were destined.\n\nOn the arrival of the patriarch Jacob in the fertile plains of the\nDelta the great and powerful of that day hastened to meet him with\nroyal magnificence. These shepherds, accustomed only to the shelter of\nthe tents which they carried away at will on their beasts of burden,\nfound themselves face to face with palaces and temples of which the\nvery ruins strike us with amazement.\n\nAnd farther, what marvels were in store for the strangers in the\nvarious arts of civilization carried on in the cities of Mizraim,\nwhere painting and music flourished, where gravers and goldsmiths\nproduced their excellent works, where unceasingly resounded the\nhammers of those who wrought in wood and stone, and the hum of a\nthousand looms, weaving those wondrous tissues[49] famous alike in the\ntime of Solomon, of Ezechiel, and of Pliny\u2015\u2015the \u201cfine linen of Egypt.\u201d\n\nThe sight of all this must have vividly struck the imagination of the\nstrangers; nevertheless, the prejudices and antipathies of race which\nspeedily declared themselves, doubtless on the occasion of changes on\nthe throne, would have kept them aloof from sharing in the pursuits by\nwhich they were surrounded, had not their new masters forced them away\nfrom tending their flocks and herds in the land of Goshen, and\nscattered them in the cities, mingling them with the Egyptian people.\n\nThey now found themselves compelled to make brick, hew stone, and\nhandle the workman\u2019s hammer; to build, to cultivate the ground, and,\nin spite of any hereditary repugnance which might exist, to suffer\nthemselves to be initiated into the arts and manufactures of ancient\nEgypt.\n\nThat which at first was only submitted to under coercion soon grew\ninto the habits, tastes, and customs of the Israelites. They had\nentered upon a new phase of their existence, thence to issue, after a\nperiod of four hundred years, transformed into a people ripe for a\nconstitution, laws, government, and national worship. A man alone was\nwanting to them, and this man God provided. When Moses arose amongst\nthem, they were familiar with all the secrets of Egyptian art and\nmanufacture. But it was not only by the formation of skilful craftsmen\nthat the influence of this mighty nation made itself felt. It\npenetrated the whole of their daily life; and this indelible\nimpression was not effaced when Israel had traversed a career of\nwell-nigh twenty centuries. After the fall of Jerusalem and the\ndispersion of the Jewish people, it still attracted the attention of\nhistorians and thoughtful men.\n\nIt did not even occur to those not well acquainted with the customs of\nthe Hebrews and of ancient Egypt, such as Tacitus, to separate the\nnames of the two peoples, which were included by them in one and the\nsame judgment, meriting in their eyes the same reproaches and together\nsharing the scanty praise which their new masters allowed at times to\nfall from their disdainful lips.\n\nBut there were others, more attentive and better informed, who entered\nmore deeply into the study and comparison of the two races\u2015\u2015to name\nonly Tertullian, Origen, St. Jerome, and St. Augustine. Eusebius had\nbeen attracted by the problem, as is proved by the few almost\nparenthetical lines in his great work, _The Preparation of the\nGospel_, where he says: \u201cDuring their sojourn in Egypt the Israelites\nadopted so completely the habits and customs of the Egyptians that\nthere was no longer any apparent difference in the manner of life of\nthe two peoples.\u201d[50]\n\nNearer to our own time the learned Kircher devoted long years to\nsearching out those points of resemblance which could not at that time\nbe studied by the light of original documents. The severest censors\nwould be disarmed by the telling, though somewhat barbaric, form in\nwhich he has presented the true relationship existing between the\nMosaic and Egyptian constitutions: \u201cHebr\u00e6i tantam habent ad ritus,\nsacrificia, c\u00e6remonias, sacrasque disciplinas \u00c6gyptiorum affinitatem,\nut vel \u00c6gyptios hebra\u00efzantes, vel Hebr\u00e6os \u00e6gyptizantes fuisse, mihi\nplane persuadeam.\u201d[51]\n\nKircher is right. These men of Asiatic race, born at Memphis, Tanis,\nor Ramses, were practically Egyptians, and had forgotten their ancient\nhabits, their pastoral life, and the land where the ashes of Abraham,\nIsaac, and Jacob were awaiting them. They had grown up and lived\namongst a people whose tongue they had learned,[52] whose toils they\nshared, and whose gods they worshipped.[53] The children of Jacob\ncould only be distinguished by the aquiline nose and slight beard from\nthe brickmakers and masons of the country, as we see them frequently\nrepresented in the monuments of this epoch.\n\nMoses, who was to become their lawgiver, was a learned and\naccomplished Egyptian in everything but the fact of race. Early\nseparated from his family and countrymen, he had grown up at the court\nof Pharao, among the near attendants and favorites of the king, and\nwas \u201cinstructed in all the wisdom of the Egyptians.\u201d[54] He had beheld\nthe statues of the gods borne in the long processions, and had entered\nthe now silent temples of Memphis; he had looked upon the arks whereon\nwere portrayed the divine symbols, hidden under the guarding wings of\nmysterious genii;[55] and he had been present when the king, who was\nalso sovereign pontiff, removed on solemn occasions the seals of clay\nfrom this sombre abode where, veiled in mystery, dwelt the name and\nthe glory of God.\n\nInto this inner sanctuary, the Egyptian Holy of Holies, the pontiff\nalone entered, but Moses could behold him from afar, when he burnt the\nincense before the veiled ark, where, concealing itself from mortal\nsight, dwelt the invisible majesty of Ra, \u201cCreator and lord of the\nworld.\u201d\n\nMany a time must Moses have been present when the Pharao arrayed\nhimself in the sacerdotal vestments\u2015\u2015the long linen tunic and the\nbright, engirdling ephod. With his own hands he may have tied the\ncords of the sacred tiara upon the monarch\u2019s head, and clasped on his\nshoulders the golden chains of the pectoral. With the colleges of the\npriests he had chanted the hymns and litanies it was customary to sing\nin procession around the sanctuaries during the octaves and on the\nvigils of great solemnities. He was familiar with the legislative and\nmoral code of the Egyptians, and all the ancient traditions of their\nrace. And after he had crossed the frontier and the Red Sea, all these\nthings could not disappear from his remembrance; in fact, they were\nintended to live in the constitution, laws, and religious ceremonial\nof the Israelites, but purified and freed from the corrupt elements of\nEgyptian mythology.\n\nTo show this in detail is the object of M. Ancessi\u2019s interesting work,\nin which, with minute care and research, he proceeds, in the first\nplace, to consider the material portion of the worship\u2015\u2015the sacerdotal\ngarments, the ark, the altars, and the sacrifices\u2015\u2015with the intention\nlater of approaching the moral code, and, lastly, the literature of\nthe two peoples.\n\nThe first of the sacerdotal garments described by Moses is the\n_ephod_. This vestment, conspicuous for its richness, was woven of\nthreads of brilliant colors and adorned with precious stones set in\ngold. But it owed its peculiar excellence to the pectoral with the\nUrim and Thummim, that mysterious organ of the divine oracles which\nmanifested God\u2019s care over his people by a perpetual miracle.[56]\n\nTradition makes frequent mention of this marvellous vestment. After\nthe ruin of the Temple, Oriental writers gave free scope to their\nimagination and to the influence of family reminiscences in their\ndescriptions of the ephod. We must not, however, take these as guides\nby any means trustworthy, but endeavor to arrive at the exact meaning\nof the Mosaic description,[57] as this, though brief and obscure,\nsuffices to enable us to recognize the representations of the vestment\nwhich come to us from those remote ages.\n\nReferring to the Vulgate, we find as follows: \u201cFacient autem\nsuperhumerale [ephod] de auro et hyacintho et purpura, coccoque bis\ntincto, et bysso retorta, opere polymito.\u201d[58] And farther on:\n\u201cInciditque bracteas aureas, et extenuavit in fila, ut possint\ntorqueri cum priorum colorum subtegmine.\u201d[59]\n\nThis gives us the tissue of which the ephod was made\u2015\u2015namely, a rich\nstuff of fine linen, composed of threads of blue, purple, and scarlet\nworked in with filaments of gold. So far there is no difficulty.[60]\nIn the following verses Moses describes its form, and his words are:\n\u201cDuo humeralia juncta erunt ei ad ejus duas extremitates et\njungetur\u201d\u2015\u2015that is to say, literally: \u201cTwo joined shoulder-bands shall\nbe fixed to the ephod at its two extremities, and thus it shall be\nfastened.\u201d\n\nNow, if we compare with this the drawings representing the gods or\nkings of Egypt in their richest apparel, our attention is at once\nattracted by a broad belt of precious material and brilliant colors\nwhich encircles the body from the waist upwards to a little below the\narms, and is upheld by two narrow bands, one passing over each\nshoulder, and joined together at the top, their lower extremities\nbeing sewn to the vestment before and behind. These are clearly the\ntwo _humeralia_ spoken of by Moses.\n\nIn the Egyptian paintings we notice that the buttons by which the\nbands are fastened together on the shoulders are precious stones in a\ngold setting, and fixed, not on the top, but a little lower down\ntowards the front, and at the exact place where Moses directs two gems\nto be placed, each on a disc of gold.\n\nWe know from Josephus that in the vesture of the high-priest these two\nuncut stones joined the shoulder-bands of the ephod together;[61] the\nparallel is therefore complete. Indeed, if we may believe Dom Calmet,\na reminiscence of ancient Egypt is to be found even in the form of the\nhooks affixed to the two precious stones. These hooks, he tells us,\nhad the form of an asp biting into the loop or eye of the opposite\nshoulder-band: \u201cDicunt Gr\u00e6ci uncum illum exhibuisse formam aspidis\nadmordentis oram hujus hiatus.\u201d[62] The head of the asp is a favorite\nobject in Egyptian decoration.[63] This detail, however, is not\ninsisted on, but merely mentioned in passing, as we find no allusion\nto it in the Pentateuch, nor is it based upon a tradition of\nascertained authority.\n\nWe read further: \u201cAnd thou shalt take two onyx stones, and shalt grave\non them the names of the children of Israel: six names on one stone,\nand the other six on the other, according to the order of their birth.\nWith the work of an engraver and a jeweller thou shalt engrave them\nwith the names of the children of Israel, set in gold and compassed\nabout: _and thou shalt put them on both sides of the ephod_, a\nmemorial of the children of Israel. And Aaron shall bear their names\nbefore the Lord upon both shoulders, for a remembrance.\u201d[64]\n\nOur European museums, and more so still that of Boulaq, near Cairo,\npossess a large number of gems of every form, engraven with mystic\ninscriptions or the names of the members of a noble family. The exact\ndestination of many of these stones is often unknown, and it is\nprobable that some of them have belonged to sacerdotal garments, or\nmay have adorned the shoulder-bands we are considering. In any case,\nwe know not only that the Egyptians engraved precious stones with\nmarvellous skill, but also that they were in the habit of dedicating,\nas _ex voto_, gems bearing the names of a whole family, to render each\nof its members always present to the remembrance of the gods. Thus\nmany of the stones now in the Louvre were offered by princely houses\nto the gods whose protection they sought to secure.[65]\n\nMoses, by the command of God, adopted this idea in composing the\nvestments of Aaron, placing on the shoulders of the high-priest two\nprecious stones, upon which were engraven the names of the twelve\ntribes of Israel; expressing under this graceful symbolism the office\nand character of the priesthood. He thus reminded his people that the\npriest is a mediator between God and men, and that he presents himself\nbefore JEHOVAH in the name and on behalf of this people, whose whole\nweight, so to speak, he seems to bear upon his shoulders.\n\n\u201cThe ephod,\u201d says Josephus, \u201cis a cubit in width, and leaves the\nmiddle of the chest open.\u201d[66] These words have been a great\nperplexity to the learned, but are easily explained when we look at\nthe Egyptian vestment, which is not more than a cubit in width, and\nleaves open the middle of the chest in the space between the two\nshoulder-bands and the upper edge of the corselet. \u201cIt is there,\u201d adds\nJosephus, \u201cthat the pectoral is placed.\u201d This was a span square, of\nthe same fabric as the ephod, enriched with precious stones, and\ncalled \u03b5\u03c3\u03c3\u03ae\u03bd\u03b7\u03c2, (essenes), which signifies also \u03bb\u03cc\u03b3\u03b9\u03bf\u03bd, _oracle_. This\nexactly filled up the space left bare by the ephod. It would be\ndifficult to give a more accurate description of the Egyptian\nvestment. In the eighth verse of the twenty-eighth chapter of Exodus\nwe read: \u201c_And the belt of the ephod, which passes over it, shall be\nof the same stuff._\u201d\n\nIn the Egyptian paintings the lower edge of the ephod is encircled by\na girdle usually made of the same material as the corselet itself. The\nresemblance in every particular between the Hebrew and the Egyptian\nephod is, in fact, perfect.\n\nWe must now proceed more fully to consider the pectoral, the\nimportance of which renders it worthy of very careful study.\n\n \u201cAnd thou shalt make the rational of judgment,\u201d[67] the Lord\n God commands Moses, \u201cwith embroidered work of divers colors,\n according to the workmanship of the ephod, of gold, violet,\n and purple, and scarlet twice dyed, and fine twisted linen.\n It shall be four-square and doubled: it shall be the measure\n of a span both in length and breadth. And thou shalt set in\n it four rows of stones: in the first row shall be a sardius\n stone, a topaz, and an emerald; in the second a carbuncle, a\n sapphire, and a jasper; in the third a ligurius, an agate,\n and an amethyst; in the fourth a chrysolite, an onyx, and a\n beryl. They shall be set in gold by their rows. And they\n shall have the names of the children of Israel: with twelve\n names shall they be engraved, each stone with the name of\n one according to the twelve tribes.\u2026 And Aaron shall bear\n the names of the children of Israel in the rational of\n judgment upon his breast, when he shall enter into the\n sanctuary, a memorial before the Lord for ever.\u201d\n\nThis passage has been compared by commentators with the following from\nElian: \u201cAmong the Egyptians, from the remotest ages, the priests were\nalso the judges; the senior being chief, and judge over all the rest.\nIt was required of him that he should be the most just and upright of\nmen. He wore suspended from his neck an image made of sapphire, and\nwhich was called TRUTH.\u201d[68]\n\nAnd Diodorus Siculus, respecting the same symbol, writes as follows:\n\u201cThe chief of the judges of Egypt wore round his neck, suspended from\na chain of gold, a symbol made of precious stones, and called _Truth_.\nUntil the judge had put on this image no discussion began.\u201d[69]\n\nIn examining the Egyptian monuments we find that the personages who\nare represented wearing the vestment corresponding to that which, by\nMoses, is designated the ephod, usually also wear upon the breast a\nsquare ornament adorned with precious stones. It is placed between the\nshoulder-bands, and rests, as it were, on the upper edge of the ephod,\nits position exactly corresponding to that of the pectoral of Aaron.\n\nThe museums of Boulaq and the Louvre possess pectorals of rare beauty.\nThat of Boulaq was sent to Paris, with the other jewels of Queen Aa\nHotep, to the Exhibition of 1867. It is a _chef-d\u2019\u0153uvre_ of ancient\njewelry. The frame, which is almost square, encloses a mythological\nscene much in favor with the Egyptians. King Amosis is standing in a\nbark of lapis lazuli and enamel, while two divinities pour upon his\nhead the waters of purification.[70]\n\nThis pectoral, which belonged to the mother of Amosis, is worthy of\nparticular notice, not only because of its admirable workmanship, but\nalso because its date is known to us as being to a certainty anterior\nto Moses.\n\nIn the pectoral of Aaron the precious stones were attached to the rich\nstuff which formed the foundation by little rings of fine gold,\ninstead of being held in place by small plates of gold, as they\nusually are in the Egyptian pectorals. There is, however, in the\nmuseum at Boulaq, a splendid necklace, the arrangement of which proves\nthat if the idea of the pectoral is Egyptian, so also is the manner of\nits workmanship. This necklace is composed of a multiplicity of tiny\nobjects, garlands, twisted knots, four-petalled flowers, lions,\nantelopes, hawks, vultures, and winged vipers, etc., all of which are\narranged so as to lie in parallel curves on the breast of the wearer.\n_Now, each one of these objects_ forms a piece apart, quite separate\nfrom the others, and is sewn to the stuff serving for a foundation by\nminute rings fastened behind each. It seems to have been by a similar\narrangement that the precious stones were attached to, or, to speak in\nmore exact accordance with the meaning of the Hebrew, _embedded_ in,\nthe pectoral of Aaron.\n\nWith regard to the word _caphul\u2015\u2015duplicatum_: \u201cit shall be square and\n_doubled_ [or double]\u201d\u2015\u2015it is, with our present knowledge, impossible\nto say whether Moses intended to direct that the ornamentation of the\n_back_ of the pectoral was not to be neglected, or that the stuff was\nto be doubled, so as the better to support the weight of the precious\nstones.\n\nSome of these stones it is now difficult to identify; but we cannot\nleave this part of the subject without giving an abridged quotation\nfrom the ingenious work of M. de Charancey, _Actes de la Soci\u00e9t\u00e9\nphilologique_, v. iii. No. 5: \u201c_De quelques Id\u00e9es symboliques_,\u201d etc.\n\nAccording to M. de Charancey, the twelve stones of the pectoral ought\nto be divided into two series,[71] the first of seven stones,\nanswering, in accordance with Judaic symbolism, to the celestial\nspheres and the seven planets; while the second, of five stones,\nrelated to the terrestrial sphere, to the five regions of space,\nincluding the central point; the whole creation being gathered up, as\nit were, into this microcosm, resplendent with the wisdom and goodness\nof God in the oracles of the urim and thummim.\n\nIt is in any case certain that the church, in her liturgy, makes\noccasional allusion to this symbolism; as, for instance, in the second\nresponse for the Tuesday following the third Sunday after Easter we\nfind: \u201cIn diademate capitis Aaron magnificentia Domini sculpta erat.\u2026\nIn veste poderis quam habebat totus erat orbis terrarum et parentum\nmagnalia in quatuor ordinibus lapidum sculpta erant\u201d (_Brev.\nRomanum_).\n\nThe Egyptian pectorals, being usually made with a ground-work of\nmetal, were simply suspended from a gold chain which passed round the\nneck; but the foundation of the Aaronic pectoral, being of woven\nmaterial, needed a different kind of support to keep it stretched out\nand in place. We accordingly find exact directions given that to each\nof the two upper corners should be fastened a ring of pure gold, and\nto each ring a chain, the other end of which should be fixed to one of\nthe gems on the shoulders. These gems are also directed to be placed,\nnot on the top of the shoulders, but a little lower and towards the\nfront, exactly as we see them in the sculptures and paintings of\nEgypt. To the lower corners of the pectoral rings were also attached,\nand again at the joining, in front, of the bands with the ephod, while\na violet-colored fillet passed through the two on the right, and tied,\nand another similarly through the two on the left. The directions\n(Exod. xxviii. 13, 14, 23, 25) are so explicit as to give evidence\nthat we have here some departure from the well-known arrangements with\nwhich the Israelites were familiar.\n\nWe must now consider the question of the urim and thummim, celebrated\nfor its inextricable difficulties; but as no authoritative document\nhas as yet given the solution of this problem, it is impossible to\nexplain it with certainty. It would be useless to take up the reader\u2019s\ntime with all the opinions of the learned upon this subject,\nespecially as they are for the most part as unsatisfactory as they are\ndiverse. The hypothesis advanced by the Abb\u00e9 Ancessi appears to rest\nupon the most reasonable foundation. We give it in his own words:\n\n \u201cWithout entering into lengthy philological discussions, it\n is easy to show that the word _urim_ must have originally\n signified _light_. This is the sense of _aor_, to sparkle,\n to shine; it is the sense of _iara_, which has a\n relationship with _iara_ to see, and with the analogous root\n of the Indo-Germanic languages from which come _ordo_,\n _orior_, _Iris_, _Jour_, _Giorno_, etc., etc. In Egyptian we\n also find this radical in the name of _Horus_, the Shining\n One, the Morning Sun. With this root again is connected\n _iara_, the river, the sparkling, and in Hebrew _nahar_,[72]\n which has the same sense.\n\n \u201cBesides, the meaning of the word _urim_ is scarcely\n contested, and it is generally admitted that its original\n signification is _lights_, or _beams_.\n\n \u201cThe word thummim has been less easy to interpret.\n\n \u201cThe Egyptian radical _tum_ signifies to be shut up, veiled,\n hidden, dark, obscure. This meaning reappears in the\n triliterate form of the Semitic _Tamam_.[73]\n\n \u201cAs from the radical _aor_ the Egyptians had made the god of\n _light_, so from the radical _tum_ they made the name of the\n hidden god, the god veiled in darkness and obscurity, who\n had not manifested himself in the bright vesture of\n creation\u2015\u2015the god Tum, hidden in the silence and darkness of\n eternity, in opposition or contrast to Horus, the god of the\n morning of creation, shining in the sunbeams, and glittering\n in the bright gems of the midnight skies.\n\n \u201cThus, according to the etymology of these words, we have in\n the _urim_ the lights, beams, or rays, and in the _thummim_\n the obscurities and shadows, which doubtless passed over the\n face of the pectoral.\u2026 The high-priest grouped the luminous\n signs according to a system which remained one of the\n mysteries of the tabernacle. This key alone could give the\n interpretation of the will of JEHOVAH, and this may explain\n the curious episode in the time of the Judges to which\n allusion has already been made, when we find one of the\n tribes of Israel hire a Levite to place the ephod and\n interpret its oracles.\u201d\n\nWhat rule was followed in interpreting the answers\u2015\u2015whether it was\nformed by grouping all the luminous letters, or only that one which\nwas brightest in the name of each tribe\u2015\u2015we know not. We do not even\nknow whether the foregoing explanation is the true one, although we\nmay safely allow that it answers to all the requirements of the\nScriptural texts, as well as to the indications of tradition. It is\nthus that Josephus explains the manner in which the oracles were given\nby the \u201crational of judgment,\u201d and well-nigh the whole of Jewish and\nChristian tradition follows in his steps.\n\nSome have found a difficulty in the thirtieth verse of Exodus xxviii.:\n\u201cThou shalt place on the pectoral of judgment the urim and the\nthummim,[74] which shall be upon the heart of Aaron when he shall come\nbefore the Eternal.\u201d But this text opposes no serious difficulty, as\nit is evident that Moses here speaks of the twelve stones. Besides, he\nis merely returning upon his subject at the end of a description (as\nis so frequently the case in the Pentateuch), as if to give a short\nsummary of what he had previously been saying.\n\nWe have now, as briefly as may be, to consider the remaining\n\u201cornaments of glory\u201d exclusively appropriated to the high-priest. The\n_tiara_, which Moses calls _Menizophet_, is evidently too well known\nto those whom he is addressing to need description. We, however, have\nunfortunately no means of forming from this word any precise idea of\nits form, and are able only to indicate some of its adjuncts.\n\nThe Israelites were familiar with the symbols and rich ornaments which\nin Egypt characterized the head-dress of the deities and kings; each\ngod and goddess wearing on the head a particular sign indicative of\nhis or her attributes or functions, and consecrated by a long\ntradition. Among these symbols that of most frequent occurrence is the\nserpent _Ur\u00e6us_, which encircles with its coils the heads of kings,\nraising broad, inflated chest over the middle of the forehead. The\nUr\u00e6us, by some capricious association, signified the only true and\neternal king, of whom all earthly monarchs are but the image and\nrepresentative incarnation. At the time the Hebrews were in Egypt the\nform of this serpent had been gradually modified into that of the\n_fleur-de-lys_, which we so often find carved on the brow of kings and\nsphinxes, springing from a fillet at the border of the head-attire.\nInstead of passing round the head, this fillet is only visible on the\nforehead, disappearing over the ears in the folds of a kind of veil.\n\nNow, Moses is directed to place upon the forehead of Aaron a band of\ngold engraven with the name of the Most Holy.\n\nHe gives to the high-priest not only an ornament analogous to that\nworn by the Egyptian kings\u2015\u2015that is to say, the chiefs of the\npriesthood and the representatives of the Deity\u2015\u2015but he preserves also\nthe same symbolical idea which it had for the people of Egypt.\n\nNo created thing could either represent or even symbolize JEHOVAH;\nnothing but the most holy name itself could remind them of the\nuncreated Essence, who, being pure spirit, has no form. Hence the\ngreat importance of the name of Jehovah\u2015\u2015or, more exactly, YAHVEH\u2015\u2015in\nthe history of Israel. The name of Him who dwelt in the most holy\nplace, whose glory shone above the mercy-seat\u2015\u2015this name alone, with\nthe ascription of sanctity, was engraven on the golden fillet on the\nbrow of his high-priest.[75]\n\n\u201cAnd the band shall be always upon his forehead, that the Lord may be\nwell pleased with him.\u201d\n\nThis idea of the abiding of God on the head of the pontiff-kings was\none very familiar to the Egyptians, and has been expressed by them in\na variety of ways. For example, we find the \u201c_divine Horus_\u201d forming\nwith his wings a graceful ornament on the head-attire of some of the\nstatues of the Pharaos, or again spreading his wings upon them to\ncommunicate the divine life.\n\nThe sign of the God of Israel was placed on the forehead of the\nhigh-priest, as if to overshadow him with his majesty, and to give\nmerit and value to his offerings; supplying what was lacking to the\nperfection of the sacrifice by enveloping him who offered it with his\nown glory.\n\nUnder the ephod was worn the long _tunic_, called in Hebrew _Mehil_,\nthe most noticeable part of which is its fringe, composed of little\nbells of gold alternating with colored pomegranates. The description\ngiven by Moses (Exod. xxviii. 31, 34) is very simple: \u201cAnd thou shalt\nmake the tunic of the ephod all of violet; in the midst whereof above\nshall be a hole for the head, and a border round about it woven, as is\nwont to be made in the outmost part of garments, that it may not\neasily be broken. And beneath, at the feet of the same tunic, round\nabout, thou shalt make as it were pomegranates, of violet, and purple,\nand scarlet twice-dyed, with little bells between: so that there shall\nbe a golden bell and a pomegranate, and again a golden bell and a\npomegranate.\u201d\n\nThe _Mehil_ was not only the counterpart of an Egyptian vestment worn\nby the Pharaos, and which we see represented with a broad hem round\nthe neck, but we find upon it the same ornaments as those mentioned in\nExodus\u2015\u2015namely, acorns or tassels of colored threads alternating with\npendants of gold.[76] There are in the Louvre some pomegranates of\nenamelled porcelain, furnished with a ring by which to hang, and which\nhave evidently formed part of the border of a garment or a very large\nnecklace. We find there blue, yellow, red, and white ones, of a shape\nthat might have been run in the very mould of those which adorned the\nvestments of Aaron. Others, again, are made in the form of an olive,\nencased in a sort of network of colored threads. Nor are the little\ngolden bells wanting. Some of those which have come down to us are of\nvery pleasing and varied design.\n\nIt must not be forgotten that there was, in the ornamentation of the\nperiod we are considering, a singular admixture of Assyrian with\nEgyptian forms. Assyrian garments were also bordered with heavy\nfringes, the tassels of which sometimes take the form of pomegranates.\nMoses must have seen at the palace of the Pharaos, as ambassadors, as\ntributaries, or as captives, some of those Eastern princes whose\nmajestic countenances and kingly garments long ages have preserved to\nus on the sculptured blocks of the palaces of Babylon and Ninive.\n\nIn a fragment of a Coptic translation of the _Acts of the Council of\nNic\u00e6a_, which has lately been discovered by M. Revillout among the\nOriental MSS. of the Museum of Turin, the fathers of the holy council\ngive the following advice to a young man just entering into life: \u201cMy\nson, avoid a woman who loves gay clothing; for _displays of rings and\nlittle bells_[77] are but her signals of wantonness.\u201d[78] The piety of\nthe middle ages brought back these ornaments to their ancient and\nsacred uses. The memory of Aaron\u2019s vestments gave the idea of\nfastening long borders of little bells to the edges of sacerdotal\ngarments.[79]\n\nClaude Quitton, librarian of Clairvaux, passing by the Ch\u00e2teau de\nLarrey in Burgundy, the 5th and 6th of September, 1744, saw there\ncertain rich vestments, among others a chasuble, closed everywhere,\nsave at the top to pass the head through, and having little bells\n(_grelots_) hanging all round its lower edge or border.\n\nThus through a long series of ages this custom of adorning vestments\nwith bells has come, almost without a break, down to these latter\ncenturies.\n\nThe other vestments of the high-priest were common also to the\nLevites, and, as well as the striking analogies between the Egyptian\nand Mosaic manner of offering sacrifice, may furnish matter for\nconsideration at some future time. Meanwhile, we will close the\npresent notice with the appropriate words of St. John Chrysostom:\n\u201cDeus ad errantium salutem his se coli passus est quibus d\u0153monas\ngentiles colebant aliquantulum ilia in melius inflectens\u201d\u2015\u2015\u201cGod, for\nthe salvation of the erring, suffered himself to be honored in those\nthings which had served in the worship of idols, modifying them in\nsome measure for the better.\u201d And, continues this great doctor, God,\nby thus introducing into his temple all that was richest in the\nvestments of the Egyptians, all that was most solemn in their\nsanctuaries, most elevated in their symbolism, and most impressive in\ntheir ceremonies, willed that his people should feel no regret, and\nexperience no want or void, in their worship of him, when, amid the\nnew ceremonial, they should call to mind that which they had seen in\nEgypt: \u201cNe unquam postea \u00c6gyptiorum aut eorum qu\u00e6 apud \u00c6gyptios\nfuerant experti cupiditate tangerentur.\u201d It was not only fitting but\nalso necessary that the worship of the Lord JEHOVAH should not in any\npoint appear inferior to that of idols; for the unspiritually-minded\nnation of whom Moses was the leader was incapable of appreciating the\ngreatness and majesty of God, except in some proportion to the\nsplendor of his worship.\n\n\n [46] _L\u2019Egypte et Mo\u00efse._ Premi\u00e8re Partie. Par l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Victor\n Ancessi. Paris: Leroux, Editeur, 28 Rue Bonaparte.\n\n [47] The secret of this art was only recovered by the\n engravers of Damascus in the time of the caliphs.\n\n [48] The name given by the Egyptians to their tombs.\n\n [49] See Prov. vii. 16: \u201cIntexui funibus lectulum meum,\n stravi tapetibus pictis ex \u00c6gypto\u201d; Ezech. xxvii. 7; Pliny,\n _Nat. Hist._, xix. 2.\n\n [50] Euseb., _Evang. Prep._, 1. vii. c. viii.; _Pat. Grec._,\n 1. xxi. p. 530.\n\n [51] \u201cThe Hebrews have so much affinity with the rites,\n sacrifices, ceremonies, and sacred customs of the Egyptians\n that I am fully persuaded we have before us either\n Hebraizing Egyptians or Egyptizing Hebrews.\u201d\n\n [52] Exod. xii.\n\n [53] The Apis of gold, worshipped by the Israelites in the\n desert.\n\n [54] Acts vii. 22.\n\n [55] See in Sir J. G. Wilkinson\u2019s work, _A Popular Account\n of the Ancient Egyptians_, vol. i. pp. 267 and 270, two\n arks, covered with the symbols of divinity. The long wings\n of the genii are there represented as veiling the face of\n Ammon Ra and Ra Keper\u2015\u2015the _Creator-God_ and the _Hidden\n God_. The two genii are face to face, and veil the divine\n mystery with their wings, like the cherubim over the Ark of\n the Covenant.\n\n [56] The following episode in the life of David shows the\n importance and purpose of the ephod in Israel: \u201cNow when\n David understood that Saul secretly prepared evil against\n him, he said to Abiathar the priest: Bring hither the ephod.\n And David said: O Lord God of Israel, thy servant hath heard\n a report that Saul designeth to come to Ceila, to destroy\n the city for my sake: will the men of Ceila deliver me into\n his hands? and will Saul come down as thy servant hath\n heard? O Lord God of Israel, tell thy servant. And the Lord\n said: He will come down. And David said: Will the men of\n Ceila deliver me, and my men, into the hands of Saul? And\n the Lord said: They will deliver thee up.\u201d\u2015\u20151 Kings xxiii.\n 9. See also 1 Kings xxx. 7, 8. Thus God answered by the\n ephod.\n\n [57] We find the following, for example, in Suidas, under\n the word _ephod_: \u201c_Ephod_ signifies in Hebrew _science_ and\n _redemption_. In the middle of this vestment there was, as\n it were, a star of gold, and on its sides two emeralds;\n between the two emeralds a _diamond_. The priest consulted\n God by these stones. If Jehovah were favorable to the\n projects of Israel, the diamond flashed forth light; if they\n were displeasing to him, it remained in its natural state;\n and if he were about to strike his people by war, it became\n the color of blood; or by pestilence, it turned black.\u201d\n (Suidas is here commenting upon Josephus.) _Ant. Jud._ i.\n iii. c. 8, n. 9.\n\n [58] Exod. xxviii. 6: \u201cAnd they shall make the ephod of\n gold, and violet, and purple, and scarlet twice-dyed, and\n fine twisted linen, embroidered with divers colors.\u201d\n\n [59] Exod. xxxix. 3: \u201cAnd he cut thin plates of gold, and\n drew them small into threads, that they might be twisted\n with the woof of the aforesaid color.\u201d (Douai).\n\n [60] Neither St. Jerome nor the LXX. are successful in\n conveying any clear idea of the vestment.\n\n [61] \u201cIn utroque humero, singuli sardonyches, auro inclusi,\n _fibularum vice_ epomidem adnectunt\u201d\u2015\u2015_Antiq._, lib. iii. c.\n vii.\n\n [62] Calmet, Commentary upon Exodus, chap. xxviii. v. 11,\n Edit. of Mansi.\n\n [63] The exquisite chain of gold found in the tomb of Queen\n Aa Hotep is terminated by two hooks shaped like the head of\n the asp. Many very similar ones are to be seen among the\n Egyptian antiquities in the Louvre and in the British\n Museum. The eyes of the serpent, enamelled in blue and\n black, have a striking effect.\n\n [64] Exod. xxviii. 9-12.\n\n [65] Glass case No. 4, in the _Salle Historique du Mus\u00e9e\n Egyptien_ at the Louvre, contains jewels found in the tomb\n of an Apis, and dedicated by a powerful prince. Some of the\n most beautiful objects in the collection are contemporary\n with Moses. See _Notice du Mus\u00e9e Egyptien_, by M. Roug\u00e9, p.\n 64.\n\n [66] _Ant. Jud._, lib. iii. c. 7, n. 5.\n\n [67] Exod. xxviii. 15-22, 29.\n\n [68] Elian. _Hist. Div._, lib. xiv. c. 34.\n\n [69] Diod. Sic., lib. i. c. 75.\n\n [70] \u201cThe workmanship of this little gem,\u201d says M. Mariette,\n \u201cis exceptionally admirable. The ground of the figures is\n cut in open-work. The figures themselves are designed in\n gold outlines, into which are introduced small cuttings of\n precious stones; carnelian, turquois, lapis lazuli,\n something resembling green feldspar, are introduced so as to\n form a sort of mosaic, in which each color is separated from\n its surrounding ones by a bright thread of gold; the effect\n of the whole being exceedingly rich and harmonious.\u201d The\n fineness and precision of the work on the back of this\n pectoral is as remarkable as that on the front.\u2015\u2015_Notice sur\n les principaux monuments du Mus\u00e9e de Boulaq_, par M.\n Mariette, p. 262.\n\n [71] A traditional symbolism attached the greatest\n importance to this division of the twelve tribes and the\n twelve stones into two unequal numbers. The prophecy of\n Jacob is divided into two parts by the exclamation into\n which he breaks forth after the name of the seventh\n patriarch: \u201cI will look for thy salvation, O LORD\u201d (Gen.\n xlix. 14). Ezechiel also, in the last chapter of his\n prophecy, interrupts his narrative after the mention of the\n seventh tribe by the description of the temple, and then\n resumes his enumeration of the territories.\n\n [72] With regard to the N pre-formative, see M. Ancessi\u2019s\n _Etudes sur la Grammaire compar\u00e9e des Langues de Sem et de\n Cham_\u2015\u2015the S causative, and the subject N. Paris:\n Maisonneuve.\n\n [73] On the formation of trihterate radicals see, in the\n above _Etudes_, \u201cthe fundamental law of the triliterate\n formation.\u201d\n\n [74] In the Douai version translated \u201cdoctrine and truth.\u201d\n\n [75] \u201cThou shalt make a plate of purest gold, wherein thou\n shalt grave with engraver\u2019s work, HOLINESS TO THE LORD. Thou\n shalt tie it with a violet fillet, and it shall be upon the\n borders of the mitre, over the forehead of the\n high-priest.\u201d\u2015\u2015Exod. xxviii. 36-38. The description given by\n Josephus of the crown of the high priest would lead to the\n supposition that the fillet of Aaron did not always preserve\n its primitive simplicity. Speaking of a section of a diadem\n ornamented with the cups of flowers, which passed round the\n back of the head and reached to the temples, he adds,\n however, that in front there was only the golden band\n engraven with the name of Jehovah. The course of ages,\n broken by captivity and troubles, as well as successive\n influences, first Assyrian and afterwards Greek, may have\n occasioned some modification in the form of the sacred\n vestments of the Temple; and thus it is not surprising that\n the descriptions of Josephus sometimes vary from the Mosaic\n texts.\n\n [76] See Wilkinson, vol. ii. ch. ix. p. 32.\n\n [77] _Holk et Schiikil._\n\n [78] _Concile de Nic\u00e9e d\u2019apr\u00e8s les textes Coptes._ Par E.\n Revillout. _Journal Asiatique_, Fev.-Mars, 1873.\n\n [79] In a valuable MS. preserved in the library of Tournus\n we read: \u201cIn aurifedo sancti Filiberti sunt xlix.\n tintinnabula: inter stolam nigram et manipulum, xxi.; inter\n stolam rubram et manipulum, xx.; in candida vero cum\n manipulo, xxviii.; manipulus unus restat, ubi sunt tredecim\n baltei cum quinquaginta tintinnabulis.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nLETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.\n\nFROM THE FRENCH.\n\n\nORLEANS, Feb. 15, 1868.\n\nDear, sweet Kate, I have seen Sainte-Croix again, and now I write to\nyou. The general installation has scarcely begun; great agitation and\nnoise in all directions. Everybody is surprised to see me so soon\nsettled down and quiet, but Marianne and Antoine are of a fairy-like\nagility. Ren\u00e9 is busy; Marcella still asleep, having watched till very\nlate by her little Anna, who was rather feverish.\n\nTh\u00e9r\u00e8se and Madeleine will regularly attend catechism at Sainte-Croix\nduring some weeks, unless their mother consents to their speedy\ndeparture. This good and amiable Berthe has promised the superior of\n\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 to send her daughters to her for a year at the time of their\nFirst Communion; now she hesitates, and none of us, to say the truth,\npersuades her to send them\u2015\u2015they are so gentle and sweet, so truly two\nin one.\n\nThis is but a sign of life, dear sister. Good-by for the present.\n\n\nFEBRUARY 17.\n\nMy good paralytic showed much pleasure at seeing me again. It is\narranged that Marcella and I are to go to her by turns, and Gertrude,\nwho ardently desires some active occupation, claims her share of\n_presents of poor_. Not a minute is wasted here, dear Kate. We are\nkeeping the twins, not wishing to place them under any external\ninfluence; and although Arthur has entered at the Jesuits\u2019, the good\n_abb\u00e9_ has consented to remain _permanently_ the guest of Mme. de\nT\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015, as preceptor to these lovable children, whom he finds so\nattractive. Marcella is giving them lessons in Italian. How _learned_\nthey are already! Every month, in accordance with Adrien\u2019s decision,\nthere are solemn examinations. The delicate little Anna studies with\nzeal, finding herself very ignorant by the side of the twins.\n\nI have knelt again before Notre Dame des Miracles, and have done the\nhonors of Recouvrance to our fair Roman. Did I tell you that Margaret\nis a little jealous? \u201cKeep me at least a tiny little corner in your\nheart, which I see invaded from so many quarters.\u201d Her happiness has\nundergone no alteration; she is expecting and wishing for me.\u2026\n\nRead _Emilia Paula_, a story of the Catacombs. Mgr. La Carri\u00e8re,\nformerly Bishop of Guadaloupe, will preach the Lent, and Mgr.\nDupanloup will speak in the _r\u00e9unions_ of the Christian Mothers. It is\nalso said, though it is not very likely, that the great bishop will\nthis year deliver the panegyric of Joan of Arc.\n\nMarcella is in a state of enthusiasm. Her heart opens out in the warm\natmosphere created for her by our friendship. Anna is well\u2015\u2015still a\nlittle shy; the delicate temperament of the dear orphan having for so\nlong kept her at a distance from anything like noisy play. Margu\u00e9rite\nand Alix teach her her lessons. What pretty subjects for my brush!\n\nWe all communicated this morning, the anniversary of Mme. de T\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2019s\nmarriage. O my God! what can the soul render to thee to whom thou\ngivest thyself? Oh! how I pity those who know thee not, who never\nreceive thee as their Guest, who never weep at thy feet like Magdalen,\nwho return not to thee like the prodigal, who lean not upon thy heart\nlike St. John. Oh! with the divine and fiery beams of thy bright dawn\nilluminate this earth, wherein the evil fights against the good.\n\nStill more deaths, dear Kate. See what Isa writes to me: \u201cMy\ngrandfather suffers continually more and more from fearful pain and\nextreme weakness. His patience and resignation are admirable. We pray\ntogether; I read him the _Imitation_; the _Sick Man\u2019s Day_, by Ozanam,\nwhich Lizzy has translated for me, since your friendly kindness made\nme acquainted with Eug\u00e9nie de Gu\u00e9rin; also a book most effectually\nconsoling, and to which my grandfather listens with tears. We make\nNovenas. He has received the \u2018Bread of the strong,\u2019 and the help of\nHeaven cannot fail this manly soul, who has passed through life so\nnobly.\u201d Jenny has lost her sister-in-law\u2015\u2015another house disorganized\nand without its soul. The little nephew is given to the two sisters,\nwho are going to bring him up and educate him; and Jenny, who had a\nhorror of Latin, is going to learn it in order to lessen its\ndifficulties to the pretty darling.\n\nMother St. Andr\u00e9 is in heaven. It makes my heart bleed to think of the\ngrief of Mother St. Maurice. It is so cruel a sorrow to lose one\u2019s\nmother, and _such_ a mother\u2015\u2015an exceptionally holy soul, friend of the\nsaintly foundress, destined by Providence to such great things; who\nhas known the brightest joys and the most deadly sorrows, seeing her\nchildren die after she had given them up to God. What holy joy\ngladdened her soul on that day when, herself a religious, she beheld\nher two daughters clothed in the livery of Christ, and her son, her\nthird treasure, the third pearl in her maternal crown, a priest! What\na family of chosen ones, and what sorrows! Oh! when this mother, at\nthe same time austere and tender, was called upon to close her\nchildren\u2019s eyes, were there not, side by side with the feelings of the\nChristian and the saint, those also of the wife and mother? Dear Kate,\nI can understand that a religious loves more deeply than other women.\nThe love of God, sanctifying her affections and rendering them almost\ndivine, communicates to them something of the infinite, which is not\nbroken without indescribable suffering.\n\nI am writing to Mother St. Maurice. How much I pray God that He may\nconsole her\u2015\u2015he, the Comforter above all others, who alone touches our\nwounds without wounding us still more!\n\nRen\u00e9 is sending you a volume. The affection of all those who love you\nwould fill many. May all good angels of holy affections protect you,\ndear Kate!\n\n\nFEBRUARY 26, 1868.\n\nBehold me with ashes on my brow\u2015\u2015ashes placed there by the great\nbishop. \u201c_Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris._\u201d\nBut, O my soul! it is but the envelope of flesh and clay which must\nreturn to dust. The immaterial being escapes the corruption of the\ngrave; my soul, come from God, must ascend again to him.\n\nYesterday the dressed-up figures going about the streets were anything\nbut attractive, but there were others elsewhere at which the angels\nwould smile. M. l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Baunard, director of the _cat\u00e9chisme_ of\nSainte-Croix, a few days ago organized a lottery, with the produce of\nwhich some little girls, disguised as scullions, gave yesterday an\nexcellent dinner to the old people of the Little Sisters of the Poor.\nThis feast of charity was a charming idea, bringing together under the\neye and the blessing of God smiling and happy childhood with suffering\nand afflicted decrepitude\u2015\u2015poverty and riches, two sisters in the\ngreat Catholic communion. And the twins were not there! Our good\n_cur\u00e9_ in Brittany requested _as a favor_ that they might make their\nFirst Communion in his church. The good _abb\u00e9_ is preparing them for\nit, and the ceremony is fixed for the 2d of July, the Feast of the\n_Magnificat_.\n\nWe are all in deep mourning for my Aunt de K\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015, and neither visit\nnor receive company this winter; thus we shall have more leisure for\nour different works. Adrien and Raoul were present at the funeral. My\nmother feels this death very much.\n\nBought a pamphlet by the great bishop. It is admirable\u2015\u2015worthy of\nBossuet. What a portrait of the Christian Frenchwoman! What vehement\nand sublime indignation against those who would make this noble type\ndisappear from _our_ France! What nobility of soul! Oh! if all\nfathers, if all mothers, heard these accents, which proceed from a\nmore than paternal heart, how they would reflect upon themselves, and\nlong to become worthy of the mission entrusted to them by Providence.\nPoor France! what will become of her? I was glad to hear one of the\n_vicaires_ of Sainte-Croix, M. Berthaud, in speaking of the horoscope\nof the impious against religion, say: \u201cProphecy for prophecy. I prefer\nto believe the words of the Count de Maistre, the noble genius who saw\nso deeply and so far into the events of the present time, and who said\nfifty years ago: \u2018In a hundred years France will be wholly Christian,\nGermany will be Catholic, England will be Catholic; all the peoples of\nEurope will go into the basilica of St. Sophia at Constantinople to\nsing a _Te Deum_ of thanksgiving.\u2019\u201d God grant it may be so! Lizzy\nannounces to me the mourning of Isa, who is not well enough to write\nto me. \u201cThere is a yoke upon all the children of Adam.\u201d These words of\nHoly Scripture often come into my mind as I see all around me darkened\nby mourning. _Spes unica!_ Hope remains, and the love of God shows\nheaven open. Dear sister of my life, this letter, begun yesterday, is\nto contain yet a third funereal announcement: Nelly has been suddenly\nsummoned from this world. I know how much you loved her. Thus this\ntime of penitence opens for us. Dead!\u2015\u2015Nelly, in her spring-time, her\ngrace, her youth; dead, after a long and holy prayer, which had\npreceded a walk with Madame D\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015.\n\nImagine the distress of this poor mother, roused from her sleep by the\ncry: \u201cMother, I think I am dying!\u201d Mme. D\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 rushes, terrified, into\nNelly\u2019s room; her child embraces her with only these words: \u201cAdieu\u2015\u2015on\nhigh\u2015\u2015heaven!\u2026\u201d and expires.\n\nThe whole town is in consternation. Margaret is inconsolable; all our\nfriends are weeping. What a death! God has spared her all suffering.\nLet us pray for her, or rather for her unhappy mother; for I cannot\nbelieve that Nelly is not in heaven. Do you recollect that she used to\nbe called _the Angel in prayer_?\n\nRen\u00e9 wishes me to stop here. Adieu, dear Kate.\n\n\nMARCH 5, 1868.\n\nI have been rather ill, dear Kate, and to-day I am beginning to get\nup. The doctor forbids me emotion, but as soon might he forbid me to\nlive. Marcella has nursed me like a sister. Anna is growing stronger.\nHow pretty she was, playing with her doll near my bed, silently and\ngravely, without any demonstrative gayety, but often raising her\nbeautiful eyes to look at me!\n\nI have thus missed the two first Lenten sermons. Ren\u00e9 has never left\nme a moment. Dear, kind Ren\u00e9! how thoughtful he is, even about the\nsmallest details.\n\nA letter from Isa: still in bed; weak, very weak, but wishing to live,\nthat she may be a comfort to her much-tried family. \u201cAunt D\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 finds\nno peace but when she is with me. Oh! I can truly say with St.\nAugustine that the Christian\u2019s life is a cross and martyrdom!\u201d\n\nHear what Ren\u00e9 was reading to me this morning: \u201cEvery Christian,\u201d says\nMgr. de S\u00e9gur, \u201creceives in baptism the all-powerful lever of faith\nand love, capable of moving more than the world. Its fulcrum is\nheaven; it is Jesus Christ himself, the King of Heaven, whose love\nbrings him down into the heart of each one of his faithful. The\nprospect of eternity keeps us from fainting. How everything there will\nchange its aspect! Tears will be turned into joy\u2015\u2015a joy divine,\neternal, infinite, ineffable, of which none can deprive us for ever.\u201d\n\nMay God guard you, dear Kate, and may he guard our Ireland, her\ncradles and her tombs!\n\n\nMARCH 8, 1868.\n\nBeautiful sunshine; your Georgina in the drawing-room; Ren\u00e9 at the\npiano, making the children sing a quartette. This harmony penetrates\nmy heart. All these deaths had overwhelmed me; I have now recovered my\nbalance of mind. Oh! it is undeniably sad to see so many sister-souls\ndisappear; but they go to God. Each day brings us nearer to the\neternal reunion; and your Georgina says, with Mme. Swetchine, that\n\u201clife is fair and happy, and yet more and more happy, fair, and full\nof interest.\u201d\n\nYesterday Monsignor preached at Saint-Euverte; I wished very much to\ngo, but the wish was not reasonable. I must wait until Saturday for my\necstasy. Heard a strange bishop this evening. \u201cI will give thee every\ngood thing.\u201d \u201cThe eye of man hath not seen, nor his ear heard, nor his\nheart conceived what God hath prepared for them that love him.\u201d The\npreacher employed a profusion of words, thoughts, and images which\ninterfered with his principal idea; and it was only with the greatest\ndifficulty that one could keep hold of it under this overflow, this\ntorrent, this avalanche of expressions, which, although rich and well\nchosen, were far too superabundant. Monsignor was there. How well he\nwould have treated this fruitful subject! With what genius would he\nhave depicted the immense suffering of man, who, being made for\nheaven, finds happiness nowhere upon earth, is never satisfied, whilst\neverything around him is at rest. \u201cWithout being Newton, every man is\nhis brother, and, in proceeding along the paths of science, he can\nrepeat that we are crushed beneath the weight of the things of which\nwe are ignorant.\u201d\n\nLamartine describes this when he says:\n\n \u201cMon \u00e2me est un rayon de lumi\u00e8re et d\u2019amour,\n Qui du flambeau divin d\u00e9tach\u00e9 pour un jour,\n De d\u00e9sirs d\u00e9vorants loin de Dieu consum\u00e9e\n Br\u00fble de remonter \u00e0 sa source enflamm\u00e9e!\u201d[80]\n\nDear, sweet Kate, all the lovable little singing party salutes you.\nGod be with you!\n\n\nMARCH 11, 1868.\n\nDear Kate, again there are separations and adieux!\n\nGeorge and Amaury are entering La Trappe!\u2015\u2015an unmistakable vocation, I\nassure you. Adrien and Gertrude are so far above nature since they\nhave seen Pius IX. and suffered for him, that they gave their consent\nat once. _Grandmother_ clasps her hands and utters the _fiat_ of Job.\nBrothers and sisters wonder and admire. Happy family! All three\nchosen, all three marked with the seal of God! I should regret them,\nif I were their mother\u2015\u2015so young, so handsome, rich in every gift of\nheart and understanding. O life of mothers!\u2015\u2015Calvary and Thabor!\n\nI knew nothing of it; they feared I should feel it too much. We all\nwent to Communion this morning, and this evening they leave us.\n\nWhat! have I not yet spoken to you about Benoni, who says my name so\nprettily, and who is growing superb? It is an unpardonable\nforgetfulness on my part. It was a pleasure to see this baby again,\nand his parents also, so sincere in their gratitude for the little\nthat a kind Providence has allowed me to do for them!\n\n_Evening._\u2015\u2015They are gone. Adrien accompanies them; and Gertrude, whom\nI have just been to see, said to me simply: \u201cDear Georgina, now I can\nsay _Nunc dimittis_. Will you thank God with me?\u201d I knelt down by her\nside, breathless with admiration. O this scene of the adieux! Those\ntwo noble heads bent down to receive their grandmother\u2019s blessing; the\nassembled family; the emotion of all; the last pure kisses\u2015\u2015all this\nmay be felt, but cannot be described. I know, I understand, how the\nChristian cannot render too much to God, who has given him all; but my\nheart is struck by the contrast between La Trappe and the world. On\nthe one side austerities, silence, anticipated death, manual labor,\nand forgetfulness of earth; on the other a great name, a large\nfortune, easy access to any position, renown, and glory. Oh! how well\nthey have chosen.\n\nHow I love you, dear Kate! How I love Ireland! I speak of it to the\nchildren, and love to hear them say to me, as the multitudes of\nIreland said to our great O\u2019Connell: \u201cYes, we love it; we love\nIreland!\u201d\n\n\nMARCH 14, 1868.\n\nBefore going to rest, my beloved sister, I want to tell you that I was\nthis morning at Saint-Euverte, and that I have heard the great bishop.\nMarcella was with me, especially happy, she said, because of the joy\nwhich she read in my looks. I sent back the horses, and we came home\nby _the longest way_, as the charming Picciola says, under a bright\nsun, which illuminated our bodily eyes, whilst the sunshine of the\nholy and noble words we had just heard illuminated the vision of our\nsouls and opened out to us vistas of beauty. Dear sister of my life,\nsister unspeakably beloved, I found you on re-entering\u2015\u2015a whole packet\nof letters, in which at first I saw only your dear handwriting. How\ntruly it is yourself! I gave your beautiful pages to Gertrude: she\nwill tell you herself what effect they have produced. Then Madame\nD\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 with a photograph of the departed child\u2015\u2015of Nelly dead! How well\nI recognized her! This image of death moved me with pity for the poor\nmother, but I felt nothing like fear. Why should death make me afraid?\nWould the exiled son returning to his father fear the rapid crossing\nwhich would restore him to his country, his affections, and his\nhappiness? And where is our country, where are our affections and\nhappiness to be found, except in heaven, in God, who alone can satisfy\nour desires? Mother St. Maurice only sends me a few words, but so kind\nand tender. Margaret writes me the sweetest things; she complains of\nmy silence, and informs me that the little cradle she is adorning with\nso much care and love will soon receive its expected guest. Karl is\ncoming to us; reasons of fitness and of affection have detained him,\nbut his desire is more ardent than ever. Oh! to think of seeing him\nwithout Ellen. Kate, what is life?\n\nI am going to sleep, but first I wish to ascertain whether Anna is\nfree from fever. Marcella was uneasy this evening.\n\nThey are both asleep, beautiful enough to charm the angels. The little\none\u2019s breathing is calm and gentle. I prayed by her, placing myself\nalso under the sheltering wing of the invisible Guardian.\n\nI salute yours, and embrace you, dearest Kate.\n\n\nMARCH 16, 1868.\n\n\u201cAs on high, so also here below, to love and to be loved\u2015\u2015this is\nhappiness.\u201d Oh! how truly he speaks, and how I realize it every day!\nYour tender affection, dearest Kate, that of Ren\u00e9, and of all the kind\nhearts around me\u2015\u2015this is heaven, or, at least, that which leads one\nthither.\n\nMid-Lent, and the Feast of St. Joseph\u2015\u2015this sweet and great saint, so\npowerful in heaven. O most glorious patriarch, who didst behold, and\nbear in thy arms the Messias desired by thy fathers, foretold by thine\nancestor David and all the prophets, how favored wert thou of the\nLord! Marcella said to me: \u201cI have a particular devotion for St.\nJoseph, and a boundless confidence in him; I have often thought that\nhe must have known a multitude of things about our Lord which no one\nhas ever known.\u201d O St. Joseph! remember those who invoke you in exile.\nWhat an admirable existence! What a long poem from the day when the\nrod of the carpenter blossomed in the Temple to that when Joseph\nexpires in the arms of Jesus and Mary, the two whom every Christian\nwould wish to have by him when on his death-bed! Never did any man\nreceive a mission more divine than was entrusted by the Almighty to\nSt. Joseph. I love to picture him to myself, grave, recollected,\nseraphic, accompanying Mary, that sweet young flower whom the angels\nloved to contemplate, leading her over the mountains to Hebron, to the\nabode of Elizabeth, then to Bethlehem and the Crib, then into Egypt\u2015\u2015a\nlong and painful journey through the desert. Did those who met the\nPatriarch, the humble and holy Virgin, and her dear Treasure suppose\nthat it was the Salvation of the world who was passing by?\n\n_Evening._\u2015\u2015Karl is here, dear Kate, more grave and saintly than ever;\nhis feet on earth, his heart in heaven! He gives us a week. Adrien\narrived at the same time\u2015\u2015two souls formed to understand one another.\nLetters from Ireland, where Karl\u2019s departure is causing general\nregret. We spoke of Ellen\u2015\u2015an inexhaustible subject. Karl was moved as\nhe listened to me; there are so many memories of my childhood to which\nthose of Ellen are united, making them doubly sweet.\n\nMarcella, Ren\u00e9, and Karl are wanting this letter to send to the post.\nGood-night, dear sister.\n\n\nMARCH 21, 1868.\n\nDear Kate, I send you my notes, freshly made; you will kindly return\nthem to me, that I may send them off to Margaret. We are visiting the\nchurches with Karl. Anna and all the dear little people salute Mme.\nKate. God guard you from all harm, dear sister!\n\n\nMARCH 25, 1868.\n\nDearest Kate, what will you think of your Georgina getting the\n_Conf\u00e9rences aux Femmes du Monde_[81] into a religious house? But my\nKate understands me; that is enough for me. _O amica mea, gaudium meum\net corona mea!_ The beautiful Saturday did not end at Saint-Euverte:\nsplendid festival at Sainte-Croix, the fiftieth anniversary of the\npriesthood of the good _cur\u00e9_. It was magnificent, and the music\nalso\u2015\u2015like the hymns of heaven. To-day the Annunciation, the\ncommencement of the Redemption. What a feast! How I should like, as in\nour childhood, to spend the day in prayer!\n\nO sweetest Virgin, what a most fair memory in your glory! Gabriel, one\nof the seven archangels continually at the feet of the Eternal,\nspreads his wings, and from the heights of the everlasting hills\ndescends into the valleys of Judea. Celestial messenger, you doubtless\ncast a glance of pity on the abodes of opulence and the vanities of\nthe world; or rather, you saw them not. Absorbed in your admiration at\nthe mercy of the Almighty, you adored and gave thanks. And now a\nVirgin of Nazareth, in the tranquillity of prayer and love, is\nsuddenly dazzled by an unknown light, and the archangel salutes her in\nthe sublime words which will be repeated by Catholic hearts to all\ngenerations: \u201c_Ave, gratia plena!_\u201d O Mary! from this day forth you\nare our Mother, the Mother of our Salvation. O Handmaid of the Lord,\nhumble and sweet Mother! obtain for my soul humility and love.\n\nHail to the spring, the swallows, the periwinkles, all the renewal of\nnature! How good is God, to have made our exile so fair! Oh! how I\nenjoy everything, dear Kate.\n\nPresented Karl with the portrait of Ellen, painted from memory. His\nsilent tears expressed his thanks. I have made him also sit for his\nlikeness; it will be a precious remembrance of this true friend. Who\nknows whether we shall ever meet again in this world? Thus the days\npass away, shared between regret and hope.\n\nThe good _abb\u00e9_ is delighted with the progress of his pupils. Anna\ngrows visibly stronger. I am reading Dante with Ren\u00e9. Ah! dearest, how\nmagnificent it is. Marcella speaks Greek and Latin, and wishes me to\nread Homer and Virgil in the original. Wish me good success, dear. A\nlong walk; met a little beggar, whom Picciola fraternally embraced.\nWhat a pretty scene, and how I afterwards kissed my dear pet!\n\nLove me always, dear Kate.\n\n\nMARCH 28, 1868.\n\nDarling Kate, I send you my notes without adding anything, because we\nhave Karl with us for only one more day. O these departures! _Laus\nDeo_ always, nevertheless.\n\n\nMARCH 30, 1868.\n\nDear sister, Karl is gone! I am not sorry; I shall see him again, and\nhe will then be nearer to God. How happy it is to feel that God is the\nbond of our souls! Yesterday, Sunday, his last in the life of the\nworld, we went together to Sainte-Croix, where we heard a long sermon,\na veritable encyclop\u00e6dia: Godfrey de Bouillon at Jerusalem; Maria\nTheresa in Hungary, with the shout of the magnates in French and in\nLatin; the proud Sicambre listening to the Bishop Remy; St. Elizabeth\non the throne, and then in penury; St. Thomas writing sublime pages\nbefore his crucifix; St. Francis of Assisi receiving the stigmata; St.\nBernard; St. Catherine of Genoa; the Crusaders; Magdalen at the foot\nof the cross; Veronica wiping the face of our Saviour, etc., etc.,\nappearing in it by turns. A day of unspeakable serenity. Karl sang the\n_L\u00e6tatus_ for his adieu. Dearest sister, how happy Ellen must be!\n\nYou will see Karl. Tell me if you do not find him transfigured. We\nread, during his too short stay with us, the life of Mme. St. Notburg,\nby M. de Beauchesne\u2015\u2015another saint in Protestant Germany, a French\nsaint, though her tomb is there. I have asked Karl to take you this\nbook; read, and see how excellent it is!\n\nAnd so the month of St. Joseph is ended! O protector of temporal\nthings! guard well all whom I love.\n\nMarcella, my winning Marcella, is a poet; I ought to have told you\nthis. I gave her a surprise: her most feeling lines have been printed\nin a newspaper, which I managed to put before her eyes. She blushed\nand grew pale\u2015\u2015the first emotion of authorship. Poor heart! for so\nlong severed from love, and which so soon lost that whereon it leaned.\n\u201cO Madonna mia! how good God is,\u201d she often repeats with ecstasy in\nadmiring her beautiful little Anna, who grows wonderfully. I think\nthis child was too much kept in a hot-house, when she had need of air,\nspace, and movement. I can understand how her mother may well doat on\nher: she has a way of looking at you, kissing you, and of bending her\nforehead to be kissed, quite irresistible. _Carissima_, how I love\nher, and how fondly I love my Kate!\n\nRen\u00e9 is writing to you; everybody would like to do the same.\n\n\nAPRIL 3, 1868.\n\nFeast of the Compassion. _Stabat Mater Dolorosa!_ Have I mentioned to\nyou the new frescoes of Recouvrance, dear Kate?\u2015\u2015the birth and\nespousals of the Blessed Virgin. The first does not impress me; but\nthe second! The high-priest is admirable; his purple robe gleams like\nsilk. Mary is not so beautiful as in Raphael\u2019s pictures. I have\nundertaken a painting on ivory which I wish to send to the amiable\nCh\u00e2telaine in Brittany, whom I think you cannot have forgotten. I am\nmaking Anna sit for her portrait, she looks so sweet.\n\nMgr. de S\u00e9gur, author of the poem of _St. Francis_, has just written a\ntragic poem, _St. Cecilia_. What a fine subject, and how well the\nwriter has been inspired! Isa must read it. You see whether my life is\noccupied or not. God, the poor, the family, friendship, study\u2015\u2015my mind\nis full!\n\nThe language of Homer no longer appears to me so difficult as at\nfirst. But Latin\u2015\u2015oh! this is charming, and I delight in it; in the\nfirst place, because I am still at _rosa_ and _rosarium_. What a head\nMarcella has! She has learnt everything, and sings like Nilsson. If\nonly you could hear her in _La Juive_! This is profane music; but we\nhave pious also, and Marcella enjoys _Hermann_.\n\nThis note will be slipped into the envelope destined for Karl. Lizzy\nannounces to me her visit. Good-night, _carissima sorella_.\n\n\nAPRIL 5, 1868.\n\nAnd so we are in Holy Week, my sister. I have here a blessed palm,\nsweet and gracious souvenir of the Saviour\u2019s entry into Jerusalem. O\nKing of Peace! bring peace to souls. Have pity upon us; assemble\ntogether at thy holy table both the prodigal sons and the faithful;\ngrant peace to thy church! To all troubled hearts, to all those who\nsuffer, to those who are oppressed and persecuted, give the hope of\nheaven\u2015\u2015of that eternal dwelling where all tears will be wiped away,\nwhere all lips will drink of the stream of delights, and where every\nheart will receive the fulfilment of its desires. Why does Lent come\nto an end? I could listen for ever to the lovely chants of the\n_Miserere_, the _Attende_, the _Stabat Mater_, and the _Parce Domine_.\nNo sermon, to my mind, equals the _Stabat Mater_, sung alternately by\nthe choir-boys, with their pure, melodious, a\u00ebrial voices, and the men\nwho fill the nave, and who, varying in their social position, fortune,\nand a thousand things besides, are one in the same faith, the same\nhope, and the same charity.\n\nDear Kate, I shall send you on the day of _Alleluias_ my journal of\nthe week. Thanks for having allowed me to come to you as usual during\nthis Lent; to read you and talk to you is a part of my life.\n\nA thousand kisses, my very dearest.\n\n\nAPRIL 6, 1868.\n\nMy sweet sister, I have just come in with Ren\u00e9 from Mass. We\ncommunicated side by side, like the martyrs of the catacombs. As we\ncame out, and while still under the deep impression of the presence of\nGod, Ren\u00e9 proposed to me a sacrifice\u2015\u2015that of not speaking to each\nother, at any rate without absolute necessity, during this week. My\nheart felt rather full\u2015\u2015it will cost me so much; but how could I help\nconsenting? Oh! but how love longs to speak to the object loved. I\nshall have to throw myself into a whirl of things, and absorb myself\nin them, that I may not find this privation quite insupportable.\n\n7th.\u2015\u2015Yesterday evening, at Sainte-Croix, Monsignor spoke for about\ntwenty-five minutes. I was too far off to hear, but I was none the\nless happy. I am reading Mgr. de S\u00e9gur; his teaching is gentle and\nloving, even when he speaks of self-renunciation and sacrifice.\nNothing is more comforting than his little work, _Jesus Living in Us_.\nI remarked this thought of Origen\u2019s: \u201cThou art heaven, and thou wilt\ngo to heaven!\u201d\u2015\u2015Confession. How well the good father was inspired!\nWhat wise directions! I came out strengthened and courageous; but\nalas! alas! poor, sorrowful me, on coming in I found a letter awaiting\nme\u2015\u2015a letter from Margaret. Lizzy is greatly indisposed, and obliged\nto give up her journey. This made me shed tears, and, as Ren\u00e9 did not\nask the cause of my pain, I repented for a moment that I had\nundertaken so hard a sacrifice. Dear Kate, it was very wrong, and your\nGeorgina is always the same.\n\n8th.\u2015\u2015Letter from Sarah, full of joy; her sister Betsy is to be\nmarried on the 22d, and wishes for me to be at her wedding. Kind\nfriend! God grant that she may be happy! Until this present time, with\nthe exception of the terrible strokes of death which have fallen not\nfar from her on the friends of her childhood, her life has been calm\nand happy, almost privileged. She has never left her mother.\n\nMarcella, Lucy, and I are preparing an Easter-tree for all the\ndarlings. I have been studying very much lately; _Marcella mia_\nassures me that I make wonderful progress.\n\nBenoni does not expect to share in the festivity, but he must; and how\njoyfully he will clap his hands at the sight of the playthings hung\nthere for him!\n\nMy paralytic told me yesterday that she would like to make her Easter\nCommunion next Thursday\u2015\u2015that is, to-morrow. Gertrude and I must rise\nwith the dawn to make an escort for the gentle Jesus, the Comforter of\nthe infirm and poor. Ah! dear Kate, how much I should dislike the life\nof a Chartreux. To see Ren\u00e9 and not be able to speak to him, when I\nfeel such a want to pour out my thoughts to him, is a martyrdom. So\nfar, thanks to our good angels, we have not been found out, and we\nhave not said a single word to each other.\n\n9th.\u2015\u2015What emotions! My poor and venerable paralytic has just died in\nmy arms. I return to pass the night by her. Gertrude undertook to\nobtain Ren\u00e9\u2019s permission. She communicated this morning in ecstasy,\nand blessed us afterwards. As I observed something unusual about her,\nI begged Marianne to go several times. A long walk to the different\n_sepulchres_ in the churches with our train of little angels, and\nwithout Ren\u00e9, who avoids me, from which we returned home at six\no\u2019clock. I found a line from Marianne, entreating me to join her as\nsoon as possible; so I hurried away with Gertrude. The dear sufferer\nhad scarcely a breath of life left. \u201cI was waiting for you that I\nmight die.\u2026 Thanks!\u2026 May God reward you!\u201d Dear Kate, I was ready to\ndrop from fatigue, but I know not what exciting power sustains me.\n\n10th.\u2015\u2015O Christ Jesus! who saidst: \u201cWhen I shall be lifted up from the\nearth, I will draw all unto me,\u201d draw all hearts for ever unto\nthyself. Ren\u00e9 passed the night by the lowly couch with me, and we came\nhome together, still without speaking. This evening, at Sainte-Croix,\nheard Mgr. Dupanloup. The force and authority of his language make a\ndeep impression upon his hearers. \u201cThere is in Christianity everything\nwhich can naturally go to the heart of man.\u201d How he speaks of the Crib\nand of Calvary; of the Mother whom we find with the Holy Child at\nBethlehem, and again with him upon the cross! When the clock struck\neight, he stopped. How eloquent he is! He quoted our Lord\u2019s words, \u201cHe\nwho shall say Lord, Lord, will not, for that reason only, enter into\nthe kingdom of heaven, but he that shall do the will of my Father who\nis in heaven\u201d; \u201cThe same shall be to me as a brother, a sister, a\nmother\u201d; and this thought of Rousseau\u2019s: \u201cThere is in Christianity\nsomething so divine, so intensely inimitable, that God alone could\nhave been its author. If any man had been able to invent such a\ndoctrine, he would be greater than any hero.\u201d\n\nMgr. la Carri\u00e8re preached an hour and a half. Remarked this passage:\n\u201cPilate washes his hands. Oh! there is blood upon those hands. Were\nthe waters of the Deluge to pass over them, still would they keep the\nstain of blood!\u201d This reminds me of Macbeth, where, looking on his\nmurderous hands, he says:\n\n \u201cWhat hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes.\n Will all great Neptune\u2019s ocean wash this blood\n Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather\n The multitudinous seas incarnadine,\n Making the green one red.\u201d\n\n11th.\u2015\u2015Was present at the funeral of this saintly friend, whom God had\ngiven me through H\u00e9l\u00e8ne. Looked through Marcella\u2019s manuscript books,\nin one of which she wrote a year ago: \u201cCymodoceus said: \u2018When shall I\nfind again my bed of roses, and the light of day, so dear to mortals?\u2019\nAnd all this harmonious page put in his mouth by Chateaubriand. And I,\nfor my part, say: When shall I again find heaven, from whence I feel\nthat I came? When shall I find the happiness of which I dream, and\nwhich I know too well there is no possibility of finding here below?\nWhen shall I find eternal beauty, eternal light, eternal life? But\nbefore that hour grant, O Lord! that in this world I may find, in the\nshadow of thy cross, that peace which thou hast promised to men of\ngood-will; grant that, for myself and my child, I may find a little\nrest after the storm! Give us the heavenly manna; overshadow us with\nthe bright cloud; grant us, above all, to be beloved by thee!\u201d\n\nSt. Teresa used to say: \u201cThe soul ought to think that there is nothing\nin the world but God and herself.\u201d Ren\u00e9 must have meditated on that.\n\n12th.\u2015\u2015_Alleluia!_ dear Kate, _Alleluia!_ No more penance, no more of\nthis torturing silence which so resembles death; but now talking to\neach other without ceasing, songs, letters, walks\u2015\u2015and always prayers.\n\nWhat will you think of my week, _carissima_? Oh! I could not have\nborne it longer; I found Ren\u00e9 too holy for my unworthiness. Not a\nword, not a look. It was like the visible presence of my guardian\nangel. How delightful it is to hear his voice again!\n\nWent to the Mass for the general communion of the men; no spectacle on\nearth can be more admirable or more touching. This scene was worth far\nmore than a sermon\u2015\u2015this multitude of men, so perfectly attentive and\nearnest, singing heartily the sweet hymns they all had sung on the day\nof their First Communion! And what joy to see in this Christian\nassembly those to whom I am bound by affection, and to feel myself\nunited in the grand fraternity of the faith to all these happy guests\nat the Lord\u2019s table!\n\nThe benediction was all that can be imagined of religious and\nmagnificent. What singing, what alleluias, making one think of those\nof the angels! Why do such days ever end? O risen Saviour! grant that\nwe may rise with thee.\n\nBenoni was out of himself with joy. The meditative Anna jumped about\nin her delight. The festivity was perfect, and, to crown it, news\narrived which I will send you as my adieu. Margaret is at the summit\nof happiness, the\n\n _Doux berceau qu\u2019une main jalouse\n Orne et visite \u00e0 chaque instant,\n Charme des songes d\u2019\u00e9pouse\n Doux nid, o\u00f9 l\u2019esp\u00e9rance attend_.[82]\n\nhas received the little stranger sent by Heaven. Let us bless God,\ndear Kate! _Alleluia!_ Christ is risen! Happy they who live and die in\nhis love! Alleluia!\n\n\nAPRIL 16, 1868.\n\nThanks, dear sister! I have translated Mgr. Dupanloup at Saint-Euverte\nfor Isa. Lizzy is better; they had been too much alarmed about her,\nbut they are expecting us there. Lord William sends us the most\npressing and affectionate appeals. Sarah also writes to me, gravely\nthis time: \u201cMy sister\u2019s marriage will separate her from us. Two\nsisters will henceforth be wanting to this family group; the one, and\nthat the happiest, enkindled with love for the Best-Beloved of her\nsoul, left the world for God and his poor, and, shortly afterwards,\nthe poor for eternity; the other is going into Spain.\u201d\n\nImagine Margaret\u2019s joy! Dear, sweet friend, how, with her, I bless\nGod! \u201cNo baptism without Georgina.\u201d Oh! how I long to embrace the dear\nlittle creature, to whom I send my guardian angel a hundred times a\nday. I am so anxious he should live!\n\nWalk in the country, alone with Ren\u00e9, who read me some letters from\nKarl, George, and Amaury; the latter will write to their uncles no\nmore. What detachment! Ren\u00e9 read to me also this beautiful passage\nfrom Madame Swetchine from the notes of H\u00e9l\u00e8ne: \u201cThe day of the Lord\nis not of those days which pass away. Wait for it without impatience;\nwait, that God may bless the desires which lead you toward a better\nlife, more meritorious and less perilous; wait, that he may give\nabundant work to your hands from henceforth laborious, for the\nopportunity of labor is also a grace by which the good-will of the\nlaborer is recompensed. Let not your delays and miseries trouble you;\nwait, learn how to wait. Efforts and will, means and end\u2015\u2015submit all\nto God.\u201d\n\nIt is not Monsignor who will preach the panegyric. The great bishop\nwaits until next year. It appears that various beatifications are\nabout to be taken under consideration, amongst others those of\nChristopher Columbus and Joan of Arc. The first discovered a world,\nthe second saved France by delivering it from a foreign yoke\u2015\u2015living\nas a saint and dying as a martyr; the former, a marvellous genius, was\ntried and persecuted, like everything which is specially marked with\nthe seal of God in this world. I have seen persons smile when any one\nspoke before them of the possibility of the canonization of Joan of\nArc. What life, however, was more extraordinary and more miraculous?\nWould this shepherdess of sixteen years old, so humble, gentle, and\npious, have quitted her hamlet and her family for the stormy life of\ncamps, without the express will of God, manifested to her by the\n_voices_? Poor Joan! How often have I pictured her to myself, after\nthe saving of the _gentil dauphin_ who had trusted in her words,\nweeping because the king insisted on her remaining. From that moment\nher life was a preparation for martyrdom. She knew that shortly she\nshould die.\n\nAdrien has given me the history of Christopher Columbus in English.\nYou are aware that this son of Genoa, this heroic discoverer, wore the\ntunic and girdle of the Third Order when he landed on that shore, so\nlong dreamed of, which gave a new world to the church of God. It is\nsaid that this great man had at times ecstasies of faith and love.\nWhat glory for the family of the patriarch of Assisi! Edouard assured\nme yesterday that Raphael and Michael Angelo were also of the Third\nOrder. This austerity appears naturally to suit the painter of the\n_Last Judgment_, but I cannot picture to myself the young, brilliant,\nand magnificent Sanzio in a serge habit. What centuries were those, my\nsister, when power and greatness and splendor sought after humility as\na safeguard, and followed in the footsteps of the chosen one of God,\nwho, in the lofty words of Dante, had espoused on Mount Alverna noble\nPoverty, who had had no spouse since Jesus Christ had died on Calvary!\nPoetry was not wanting to the crown of the Seraph of Assisi, himself\nso admirable a poet. Lopez de Vega was also of the Third Order.\n\nAdrien says that our age has had its Francis of Assisi in the heavenly\nCur\u00e9 d\u2019Ars, who is perhaps the greatest marvel in this epoch, fertile\nas it is in miracles. How much we regret not having seen him,\nespecially as we passed so near!\n\nPicciola has the measles. This pretty child is attacked by a violent\nfever; it is sad to see her, but she will not suffer herself to be\npitied. \u201cOur Lord suffered much more,\u201d she says. \u201cWhat is this?\u201d You\nsee, sister, that hereabouts the _children of the saints_ have not\ndegenerated.\n\nAnna, who had the measles last year, faithfully keeps the sick child\ncompany. I overheard them talking just now. \u201cWould you like to get\nwell quickly?\u201d asked the _Italiana_. \u201cOh! no, I am not sorry to suffer\na little to prepare for my First Communion.\u201d \u201cFor my part, though, I\npray with all my heart that you may soon get up; it is too sad to see\nyou so red under your curtains, whilst the sun is shining out there.\u201d\n\u201cListen to me, dear: ask the good God to help me to suffer well,\nwithout my mother being troubled about it. We are not to enjoy\nourselves in this world, as M. l\u2019Abb\u00e9 says, but to merit heaven.\u201d I\nslipped away, lest my tears should betray me: I am afraid that\nPicciola may also leave us.\n\nPray for your Georgina, dear Kate.\n\n\nAPRIL 22, 1868.\n\nThe wish of this little angel has been granted: her measles torture\nher; there are very large spots which greatly perplex the doctor. She\nis as if on fire, but always smiling and thoughtful, and so grateful\nfor the least thing done for her! What an admirable disposition she\nhas! Last night the _femme de chambre_, whose duty it was to watch by\nher, went to sleep, and the poor little one was for six hours without\ndrinking; the doctor having ordered her to take a few spoonfuls of\ntisane every quarter of an hour. It was the _sleeper_ who told us of\nthis; and when I gently scolded the darling Picciola, she whispered to\nme: \u201cDear aunt, I heard you mention what the good gentleman said who\nfounded the company of St. Sulpice: \u2018A Christian is another Jesus\nChrist on earth.\u2019 Let me, then, suffer a little in union with our\nLord.\u201d\n\nWhat do you say to this heavenly science, this perfect love, in a\nchild of twelve years old? O my God! is she too pure for this world?\nThey assure me that there is no danger, but my heart is in anguish.\nKate, I do so love this child!\n\nIt is to-day that Betsy becomes _madame_. What a day for her!\nYesterday she was still a young girl, to-morrow will begin her life as\na wife; she will begin it by sacrifice. Oh! why must we quit the soft\nnests which have witnessed our childhood and our happiness? Why comes\nthere an hour when we must bid adieu to those who, with their love and\ncare, protected our first years? Poor mothers! you lose your\nmuch-loved treasures; they will some day belong to others.\n\nP\u00e8re Gratry was received at the Academy on the 26th of March. On his\nreception he made a magnificent discourse. He was presented by Mgr.\nDupanloup.\n\n\u201cGentlemen,\u201d said the father on beginning his address, \u201cit is not my\nhumble person, it is the clergy of France, the memories of the\nSorbonne and the Oratory, which you have intended to honor in deigning\nto call me to the seat occupied by Massillon.\n\n\u201cVoltaire, gentlemen, who occupied the same, thus finds himself, in\nyour annals, between two priests of the Oratory, and his derision of\nmankind is enclosed between two prayers for the world, as his century\nitself will also be, one day in our history, enclosed between the\ngreat seventeenth century and the age of luminous faith which will\nlove God and man in spirit and in truth.\u201d\n\nKate, dearest, _amica mia_, pray for us.\n\n\nAPRIL 26, 1868.\n\nShe is better; the ninth day was good. God be praised! Last night,\nwhile watching by the sweet child, I turned over Marcella\u2019s\nmanuscript. How the thorns have wounded her! Oh! it is a nameless\ngrief, at the age of twenty years, when the soul is overflowing with\nlife and love, to be forced to shrink within one\u2019s self, to hide one\u2019s\nsufferings and joys, and repress all the ardor of youth which is\nlonging to break forth. Everywhere in these rapidly-written pages I\nfind this prayer: \u201cLord, grant me the love of the cross; give me the\nscience of salvation! St. Bonaventure used to say that he had learnt\neverything at the foot of the crucifix; St. Thomas, when he did not\nunderstand, was wont to go and lean his powerful head against the side\nof the tabernacle; and Suarez, who devoted eight hours a day to study\nand eight to prayer, loved to say that he would give all his learning\nfor the merit of a single _Ave Maria_. My God, my God! will the\ndesires which thou hast implanted within me never be realized? Must I\nlead always a wandering and isolated existence, beneath distant skies,\nmourning my country and my mother, and seeing around me nothing which\ncould in some little measure replace these two blessings? Must the\nsensitiveness of my thoughts and feelings be hourly wounded? Lord, thy\nwill be done! And if this is to be my cross, then give me strength to\nbear it lovingly, even to the end, until the blessed time when thy\nmerciful Providence shall reunite me to my mother!\u201d\n\nMy beloved Kate, Ren\u00e9 is writing to you, and I send this sheet with\nhis. Whenever I read anything beautiful, I long to show it to you.\n\nGod guard you, my second mother!\n\n\nAPRIL 30, 1868.\n\nComplete and prosperous convalescence\u2015\u2015_laus Deo!_ I sent you a few\nwords only, dear Kate, on the morning of the 26th. This was a most\nhappy day. Heard three Masses; received, with deep joy, him who is the\nSupreme Good. It was the Feast of the Adoration. The cathedral was\nsplendid. Sermon by M. Berthaud on the Real Presence. It contained\nsome admirable passages, especially on Luther and the Mass of the\nGreeks.\n\nOn the 27th was at the Benediction. Heard a _Quid Retribuant_ and\n_Regina C\u0153li_ which carried one away. In the evening Ren\u00e9 read with me\na page of H\u00e9l\u00e8ne\u2019s journal; I should like to _enshrine_ all the\nthoughts of this exquisite soul. Last year, at Paris, she wrote the\nfollowing:\n\n\u201cWas present this morning at the profession of Louise de C\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015. Sermon\nby the P\u00e8re G\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015. I was much moved when the sisters sang the _De\nProfundis_ whilst Sister St. Paul, prostrate under the funeral pall,\nconsecrated to God for ever her being and her life; then the priest\nsaid aloud: \u2018Arise, thou who art dead! Go forth from among the dead!\u2019\nHappy death! Henceforth Louise lives no more for the world; it is no\nlonger anything to her. She is here below as if alone with God, and\nwith God alone. Happy, says Pope, the spotless virgin who, \u2018the world\nforgetting,\u2019 is \u2018by the world forgot.\u2019 O religious life! how admirable\nand divine. I remember that a few years ago, in the youthful and\npoetic ardor of my enthusiastic soul, I wondered that the world was\nnot an immense convent, that all hearts did not burn with the love of\nJesus, and thought it strange that any should affiance themselves to\nman instead of to Christ. What disappointments and misery are in all\nterrestrial unions! Even in such as are sanctified and blessed is\nthere not the _shadow_ which, on one side or another, darkens all the\nhorizon of this world? No union could be ever more perfect than that\nof Alexandrine and Albert, and Alexandrine had _ten days_ of perfect\nhappiness, of unmixed felicity\u2015\u2015ten days; and afterwards, how many\ntears for this admirable wife by her suffering Albert, and, later,\nover his tomb! O joys of this world! do you deserve the name?\n\n\u201cMy family has been greatly privileged hitherto, so united, so happy!\nBut I am going away, mixing wormwood with the honey in my mother\u2019s\ncup. How Aunt Georgina will also suffer! O grief to cause so many\ngriefs! This evening I went to Ernestine\u2019s with mamma. The mother and\ntwo daughters were magnificent\u2015\u2015just ready to go to the ball. What a\ncontrast! This morning the Virgin of the Lord, this evening the world\nand its pomps. Mme. de V\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 looked like a queen; my two friends were\nin clouds of tulle. May all the angels protect them! Are there angels\nat a ball? Oh! it is there above all that we need to be guarded.\nBlessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God!\u201d\n\nDear Kate, you can understand how such reading as this consoles\nGertrude. Oh! how good God is.\n\nWe are going to have great festivities. The _Concours R\u00e9gional_[83]\nbegins on the 2d; the emperor and empress will be here on the 10th. On\nthe 12th Ren\u00e9 and I are going to see you, dear Kate, while all the\nrest of the family take flight into Brittany. Then, after the best and\nhappiest day of the twins, in July, we shall, I hope, go all together\nto see \u201cmerry England\u201d and our dear Ireland.\n\nGood-night, dear Kate; I have studied so much to-day that my head\nfeels heavy. Adieu, my dear heart, as Madame Louise used to say.\n\n\nMAY 3, 1868.\n\nThe month dear to poets, and still dearer to pious hearts, is come.\nThree Masses, visits, a walk on the Mall, a family concert after the\nmonth of Mary\u2015\u2015this, dearest, is my day. Yesterday Ren\u00e9 set out at\ndawn on an excursion with Adrien. They have a passion for these long\nwalks through the woods. While waiting until Marcella could receive\nme, I plunged into the _History of St. Paula_, which my mother-in-law\nhas given me. This beautiful book is written by M. l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Lagrange. A\ndisciple of the great bishop is easily recognizable in these\nmagnificent pages. St. Jerome, whom M. de Montalembert calls the lion\nof Christian polemics, is there fully portrayed. \u201cThis ardent soul\nwhich breathes of the desert.\u201d Remarked this passage in the\nintroduction: \u201cGod has not bestowed all gifts upon them\u201d (women), \u201cnor\nspared them all weaknesses; but it is the privilege of their delicate\nand sensitive natures that the faith, when it has penetrated them, not\nonly enlightens but enkindles them\u2015\u2015it burns; and this sacred gift of\npassion and enthusiasm carries them on to wondrous heights of virtue.\u201d\n\nAnd elsewhere: \u201cWill not the accents of St. Jerome, filled as they\nare, according to the expression of an illustrious writer, with the\ntears of his time, wonderfully impress souls wearied by the spectacles\nwith which we are surrounded, and which have within them, as the poet\nsays, the _tears of all things_? For those who have other sadnesses\nand other tears, inward sorrows, hidden wounds, some of those sorrows\nof which life is full\u2015\u2015these, at least, will not weary of\ncontemplating a saint who has herself suffered so much, and who was\ntransfigured in her sufferings because she had the secret of knowing\nhow to suffer, which is knowing how to love.\u201d\n\nDo you not seem to hear Mgr. Dupanloup in this? \u201cThere are times when\na struggle is necessary, and when, in spite of its bitterness and\ndangers, we must plunge into it, cost what it may. No doubt that, as\nfar as happiness is concerned, tranquillity and repose would be far\npreferable\u2015\u2015repose, allowable for timid hearts incapable of defending\na cause and holding a flag, or of comprehending a wide range of view,\nor the generosity of militant souls; but we ought to know how to\nrespect and honor those who engage in the combat\u2015\u2015often at the price\nof unspeakable inward sorrows, and even at times giving evidence of\nweakness and human passion\u2015\u2015in the cause of truth and justice.\u201d\n\nHow fine it is! I want to read this book with Ren\u00e9. Reading is a\ndelightful relaxation. I sometimes read to my mother, who finds\nherself more solitary since I became so studious, and since the house\nis changed into an _academy_. Highly educated herself, she takes much\ninterest in our studies, but is quickly fatigued. What pleasure it is\nto sit at her feet on a footstool which her kind hands have worked for\nme, whilst she leans back her fine, intellectual head in her large\neasy-chair; to listen to her narratives, and to revisit the past with\nher! How truly she is a mother to me! Marcella has an enthusiastic\nveneration for her, and calls her by the same name that we do. Was not\nour meeting at Hy\u00e8res providential, dear Kate?\n\nPicciola is pressing me to go out. Good-by, dearest.\n\n\nMAY 8, 1868.\n\nWhat splendid festivities, dear sister! Sumptuous carpets and hangings\nof velvet have been sent from the crown wardrobe. The cathedral\nresembled the vestibule of heaven; and yet I prefer the austere\ngrandeur of the bare columns to all this pomp. It was a beautiful\nsight, nevertheless, with the paintings, the banners, the escutcheons.\nIt was imposing, but the presence of the Creator was forgotten in the\nvanities of earth; people were talking and laughing in this cathedral,\nusually full of subdued light and of silence.\n\nThe panegyric was equal to the occasion. I was delighted. What\neloquence! It was the Abb\u00e9 Baunard, the gentle author of the _Book of\nthe First Communion_ and of the _Perseverance_, who pronounced it.\n\nThis quiet city is in a state of agitation not to be imagined; the\nstreets are encumbered with strangers, and there is noise enough to\nsplit one\u2019s head. Last year there was a general emulation to point out\nto me the minutest details of the _f\u00eate_; to-day Marcella was the\nheroine. I like to see her, radiant, enchanted, eager, while the\ndelicate Anna clings to my arm, her large eyes sparkling with\npleasure. We are so numerous that we divide, in order to avoid in some\ndegree the looks of curiosity. My dear Italians are much disputed for.\n\nThe twins care no more to be here. Brittany has for them an invincible\nattraction. Happy souls, who are about to live their fairest day! Pray\nfor them and for us, dear Kate!\n\n\nMAY 10, 1868.\n\nDearest, the sovereigns are come and gone. Did I tell you about the\n_Concours R\u00e9gional_? Every day I take the little people thither; there\nis a superb flower-show, orange-trees worthy of Campania, etc.\n\nM. Bougaud pronounced a discourse upon agriculture, and with admirable\nfitness quoted our Lamartine:\n\n \u201cObjets inanim\u00e9s, avez-vous donc une \u00e2me,\n Qui s\u2019attache \u00e0 notre \u00e2me et la force d\u2019aimer?\u201d[84]\n\nBut I shall see you soon\u2015\u2015a happiness worth all the rest, dear Kate.\nShall I own to you that I regret Orleans because of Sainte-Croix,\nNotre Dame des Miracles, and our poor, besides so many things one\nfeels but cannot express in words?\n\nBenoni cries as soon as he hears us speak of going away. I observed in\nthe _Annales_ the following gloomy words by M. Bougaud: \u201cGratitude is\nin great souls, but not in the vulgar; and as the soul of human nature\nis vulgar, it is only allowable in childhood to reckon upon the\ngratitude of men; but when we have had a nearer view of them, we place\nour hopes higher, since only God is grateful.\u201d May God preserve me\nfrom learning this truth by experience! Hitherto I have found none but\ngood hearts, the poor of Paradise!\n\nMargaret presses me affectionately to make all diligence to go and\nembrace her baby. Isa is looking for me \u201cas for a sunbeam.\u201d Lizzy also\nunites her reiterated entreaties. Betsy is installed at Cordova, and\npraises her new country so highly that I am longing to see it.\n\nDear Kate, the twins are just come to me as a deputation to say that I\nam waited for, to go _in choir_ to the exhibition of the Society of\nthe Friends of Art at the H\u00f4tel de Ville; it appears that there is no\none just now.\u2026\n\n_Later_ I will return to you.\n\nI will not conclude without giving you another quotation from M.\nLagrange: \u201cGreat sacrifices, which touch all that is most delicate,\ntender, and profound in the heart, even to the dividing asunder of the\nsoul, according to the words of Holy Scripture, possess a sternness\nwhich cannot be measured or even suspected beforehand. There is a\nstrange difference between wishing to make a sacrifice and making it.\nIn vain we may be ready and resolute; the moment of accomplishment has\nalways something in it more poignant than we had thought; the stroke\nwhich cuts away the last tie always gives an unexpected wrench. Every\ngreat design of God here below would be impossible, if the souls whom\nhe chooses were always to let themselves be stopped by human\nobstacles.\u201d Kate, H\u00e9l\u00e8ne, Ellen, Karl, Georgina, have felt this!\n\nDid I mention to you the impression made on me by a story in the\n_Revue_, \u201cFlaminia\u201d? It is singularly beautiful, and quite in\nagreement with my belief.\n\nWould you believe that here there are Jews and a synagogue, and also\nan \u201cEvangelical Church\u201d? They say that the minister is very agreeable,\nand that he goes into society. Protestants inspire me with so much\ncompassion! A Protestant boarding-school was pointed out to me. What a\npity that one cannot snatch away these poor young girls from a\nloveless worship!\n\nGood-by, dear Kate, until the day after to-morrow. Ren\u00e9 sends all\nsorts of kind messages.\n\n\nMAY 25, 1868.\n\nOur oasis is resplendent, dear sister. Your good angel Raphael has\nsweetly protected us; not the smallest inconvenience; the delicious\nsensation that our sister-souls are more united than ever. To be alone\nwith Ren\u00e9, who is worth a thousand worlds\u2015\u2015what delight! The air was\npure, the country bright with fresh verdure, the birds joyous.\nCharming journey! At Tours a letter from Gertrude apprises me that all\nthe W\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 family is in _villeggiatura_ at X\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015. We hasten thither,\nand are received like welcome guests. What a happy meeting!\u2015\u2015an\nenchantment which lasted two days, at the end of which we bade a\ntearful adieu. But the arrival here\u2015\u2015oh! what heart-felt joy!\nEverybody out to meet us, with flowers, shouts, and _vivats_. Dearest\nKate, earth is too fair!\n\nMarcella is in love with Brittany, our coasts and wild country-places.\nEverything around us is budding or singing; the children run about in\nthe fields of broom. We read, we play music; and our poor are not\nforgotten. The twins are preparing themselves with great earnestness.\n_M. l\u2019Abb\u00e9_ gives them sermons, to which we all listen with much\nprofit. Kate, do you remember my First Communion? Good-by, _carissima_.\n\n\nMAY 28, 1868.\n\nRen\u00e9 is gone away to see his farms. Why am I so earthly that a single\nhour without him should be painful? Adrien was just now reading that\nfine page of St. Augustine where he says: \u201cHuman life is full of\nshort-lived joys, prolonged sorrows, and attachments which are frail\nand passing.\u201d\n\nWhen will heaven be ours, that the joys of meeting again may never\nend? We are preparing some beautiful music for Sunday. Why are not you\nto be there with your sweet voice, dear sister? My mother would have\nliked to see you, but she made the sacrifice of not doing so that we\nmight have the pleasure of a _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_. What do you think of that!\nDear, kind mother! Do you know she had a charming and idolized\ndaughter, who died at the age of sixteen? She died here, where\neverything speaks of her; and it is for this reason that Mme. de T\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\nlikes to return hither, and goes daily to the cemetery. I am told that\nI resemble her, this soul ascended to heaven, and every one finds it\nnatural that there should be the perfect intimacy which exists between\nmy mother and myself.\n\nMarcella and Greek are waiting for me. Long live old Homer, long live\nBrittany, long live Kate!\n\n_Evening._\u2015\u2015It is ten o\u2019clock, and Ren\u00e9 is not come in. Adrien and\nEdouard are gone to wait for him, while I am dying of anxiety. Prayers\nwithout him seemed to me so sad! My mother also is uneasy. Where is\nhe? Oh! where can he be?\n\n29th.\u2015\u2015The night has been a long one. Adrien and Edouard came back\nafter having sought for him in all the neighborhood. The servants were\nsent out in different directions. I went in and out, listening to the\nslightest noise.\u2026 Nobody! My mother sent every one away and was\npraying. Impossible to remain in any one place. I was full of the most\nterrible conjectures. At last, at four o\u2019clock in the morning, I hear\na carriage. It is he! it is Ren\u00e9\u2015\u2015poor Ren\u00e9, covered with dust, more\nanxious than we, on account of our alarm. Would you like to know the\ncause of this delay? It is like the parable of the Good Samaritan.\nRen\u00e9 met with a poor old man who had hurt himself in cutting wood, and\nafter binding up the wound with some herbs and a pocket-handkerchief,\nhe put him in the carriage and took him back to his cottage, which was\nat a great distance off. There he found a dying woman, who asked for a\npriest. To hasten to the nearest village and fetch the _cur\u00e9_ was\nRen\u00e9\u2019s first thought. There was no sacristan, so Ren\u00e9 took the place\nof one, and passed the whole night between the dying woman and the\nwounded man. The good _cur\u00e9_ had other sick to attend to, but at two\no\u2019clock he arrived, and relieved _God\u2019s sentinel_[85] (this is what\nthe sweet Picciola calls him), who started homewards at a gallop.\n\nYou may imagine whether I am not very happy at this history. And yet I\nsuffered very much; I feared everything, even death.\n\nLove us, dear Kate.\n\n\nTO BE CONTINUED.\n\n\n [80] My soul is a ray of light and love, which, being\n separated for a day from the torch of divinity, far from\n God, is consumed by ardent aspirations, and burns to\n reascend to its fiery source.\n\n [81] Conferences for Women in the World.\n\n [82] \u201cSoft cradle which a jealous hand\n Adorns and visits every hour,\n Charm of the wife\u2019s imaginings,\n Soft nest, whereby hope waits.\u201d\n\n [83] Provincial Exhibition.\n\n [84] Objects inanimate, have you, then, a soul which binds\n itself to ours and forces it to love?\n\n [85] _Le factionnaire du Bon Dieu._\n\n\n\n\nHOW ROME STANDS TO-DAY.\n\nSeveral articles have been published in THE CATHOLIC WORLD on the\nsubject of which this paper is to treat\u2015\u2015the condition of the\nSovereign Pontiff consequent on the seizure of Rome, which thereby\nbecame the capital of the kingdom of Italy. As these articles marked\nthe successive stages in the novel relations of the Head of the\nchurch, they could not fail to excite the interest of our readers. We\nlook to a like interest, and invite it, for the present article,\nbecause it tells of new phases, and of the logical results of the\nschemes which their authors were bold enough to say were initiated \u201cto\nsecure the spiritual independence and dignity of the Holy See.\u201d With\nthis cry the attempts against Rome were begun, were carried on, and\ntheir success finally secured. So familiar, in fact, is this\nprofession of zeal for the welfare of the Sovereign Pontiff, that we\ndo not stop to cite one of the thousand documents in which it\nappeared, from the letter of Victor Emanuel, presented to Pius IX. by\nCount Ponza di San Martino, down to the instructions of the ministers\nto their subordinates or the after-dinner speeches of Italian\npoliticians. Nor need we persuade ourselves that no one believed such\nan assertion any more than did those who first uttered it, nor than do\nwe, who know what a hollow pretext it was and what fruit it has\nproduced. Twenty years of revolution in Italy, and a vast ignorance of\npolitical matters, of the relations between church and state, rendered\nmany in Italy and elsewhere ready dupes of the cunning devisers of\nItalian independence and clerical subjugation. These went with the\ncurrent; and though not a few have had their eyes opened, and now\ndeplore the excesses against religion they are doomed to witness, they\nare impotent to remedy what they aided in bringing about, and behold\ntheir more determined and less scrupulous companions hurry onward with\nthe irresistible logic of facts. Now and then some voice even among\nthese latter is heard above the din, asking: _Dove andiamo?_\u2015\u2015Whither\nare we going? That is a question no one can answer. The so-called\ndirectors of revolutionary movements often look with anxiety at the\neffects of the raging passions they have let loose; but as for guiding\nthem permanently, that is out of the question, for they have a way of\ntheir own. The skilful manipulators of revolution ride with the tide;\nthey now and then see a break by which the waters may be diverted, and\nthey succeed in making them take that course, but stop them they\ncannot. They can only keep a sharp look-out for what comes next, and\ntrust to fortune to better matters for themselves or others. And so it\nis just now with the state of Italy. Things are taking their logical\ncourse, and every one who can lay claim to a little knowledge of\npolitics and a moderate share of common sense will say what Cavour, in\nperhaps more favorable circumstances, remarked: \u201cHe is a wise\nstatesman who can see two weeks ahead.\u201d\n\nWe are not going to dwell on the political and financial state of\nItaly in itself; on the fact of its Chamber of Deputies representing\nonly the one hundredth part of its people; on the saying, now an\nadage, as often in the mouths of liberals as in those of the clerical\nparty, \u201cthat there is a _legal_ Italy and a _real_ Italy,\u201d the former\nwith the government and the deputies, the other with the _ancien\nr\u00e9gime_ and the church; nor on the debt\u2015\u2015immense for so impoverished a\nland\u2015\u2015the exhausting taxation, and the colossal expenditures for army,\nnavy, and public works that add every day to the debt, and weigh as an\nincubus on the people, increasing to a fearful extent poverty and\ncrime, peculation, brigandage, suicide, and murder. This would of\nitself require all the space at our disposal. Nor is it necessary,\nwhen we have one of the most accredited liberal papers of Rome, the\n_Libert\u00e0_ of Sept. 3, speaking of the trial of the Marchese\nMantegazza, who was accused of forging the signature of Victor Emanuel\nto obtain money, that tells us: \u201cToo truly and by many instances does\nour society show that it is ailing, and it is needful that justice\ntake the matter in hand, and strive to stop the evil with speedy and\nefficacious cure.\u201d\n\nWe propose, therefore, to confine our remarks to the condition of the\nSovereign Pontiff at the present moment; to the consequent necessary\nexamination of the relation of the state with the church; and to a\nlook into the future, as far as events will justify us.\n\nWhat is the condition of the Pope? Is he a prisoner or is he not? We\nhad better start out with establishing what the word _prisoner_ means;\notherwise some misunderstanding may arise. Webster gives us a triple\nmeaning of it. According to him, it means \u201ca person confined in\nprison; one taken by an enemy; or a person under arrest.\u201d Ogilvie,\nbesides the above, adds as a meaning \u201cone whose liberty is restrained,\nas a bird in a cage.\u201d Let us see if any of these meanings apply to the\ncondition of the Pope; for if any one of them do, then the Pope is a\nprisoner.\n\nThe Holy Father, in his letter to the bishops immediately after Rome\nwas taken by the Italian army, declared himself to be _sub hostili\ndominatione constitutus_\u2015\u2015that is, subjected to a power hostile to\nhim. And this is the fact; for friendly powers do not come with an\narmy and cannon to batter down one\u2019s gates and slay one\u2019s faithful\ndefenders. Any one who is taken by a power that, like the Italian\ngovernment, did batter down walls and kill his defenders, it seems to\nus, looking at the matter calmly, would be declared by thinking people\neverywhere _sub hostili dominatione constitutus_\u2015\u2015subjected to a\nhostile power. After a course like this one might as well say that\nAbdul Aziz was made to abdicate his throne, and put out of the\nway\u2015\u2015_suicided_, as the phrase goes\u2015\u2015to farther his own interests, as\nto assert that Pius IX. was dethroned and deprived of the free\nexercise of the prerogatives he lays claim to in order to secure his\nindependence and protect his freedom of action. Under this title,\nthen, of \u201chaving been taken by an enemy,\u201d Pius IX. is a prisoner.\n\nBut it is said Pius IX. is not in a prison; he is in the splendid\npalace of the Vatican, with full liberty to come out when he will.\nWith due respect to the sincerity of many who say this, we beg leave\nto remark, first, that there are prisoners who are not necessarily\nconfined in jail; and, secondly, that there are excellent reasons for\nstyling the residence of Pius IX. his prison. To illustrate the first\npoint, there are prisoners on parole; there are, or were under the\nCrispi law, in Italy, men condemned to the _domicilio coatto_\u2015\u2015to a\nforced sojourn in some place other than that in which they habitually\ndwelt before, just as the venerable Cardinal de Angelis was compelled\nto leave his see, Fermo, and reside for years at Turin. It is plainly\nnot necessary, then, that, in order to be a prisoner, a man should be\nobliged to live in a building erected for penal purposes. It is enough\nthat there should be powerful motives, such as honor, or conscientious\nduties, or just fear of consequences, to prevent the free use of his\nphysical power of going from one place to another, to render him\nreally a prisoner. In the case of Pius IX. there do exist such\npowerful motives in the highest degree. There exist powerful motives\nof honor. Pius IX. is under oath not to give up, or do any detriment\nto, the rights of the Roman Church and of the universal church. He\ninherited vested rights from his predecessors, and, as far as depends\non him, he is bound to transmit them unimpaired to his successor. He\nis a man of honor, pre-eminently so, and will not, cannot prove false\nto his oath or fail in protecting the rights entrusted to his keeping.\nThe effect of Pius IX.\u2019s leaving the Vatican and going about Rome, as\nhe did in former times, would be a persuasion in the minds of all that\nhe had accepted the situation created for him by the act of the\nItalian government; that he was, in fact, coming to terms with the\nrevolution; that he no longer protested against the violations of the\ndivine and natural law embodied in the Italian code, which one of\nItaly\u2019s public men declared, a short time ago, to be made up of the\npropositions condemned in the Syllabus. Talk about parole after such a\npicture! Parole regards the personal honor only; but the motives of\nPius IX. not only regard honor, but the highest interests of mankind.\n\nAgain, a further effect of Pius IX.\u2019s leaving the Vatican would be\ntrouble in the city. Had we not facts to prove this, there might be\nmany who would doubt it. On occasion of the _Te Deum_, on the\nrecurrence of the anniversary of his elevation and coronation, in\nJune, 1874, the Sovereign Pontiff, who had been present, unseen, in\nthe gallery above the portico of St. Peter\u2019s, on reaching his\napartments chanced momentarily to look from the window at the immense\ncrowd in the piazza. His figure, clad in white, against the dark\nground of the room behind him, attracted the attention of some one\nbelow and excited his enthusiasm. His cry of _Viva Pio Nono, Pontifice\ne Re!_ had a magical effect. It was taken up by the thousands present,\nwhose waving handkerchiefs produced the effect, to use the words of a\nyoung American poet present, of a foaming sea. In vain the agents of\nthe government scattered through the mass of people\u2015\u2015_gend\u2019armes_ and\n_questurini_\u2015\u2015did their best to stop the demonstration and silence a\ncry guaranteed by law, but discordant to the liberal ear, and\nsignificant of opposition to their views. They could not succeed. They\nhad recourse to the soldiery. A company of Bersaglieri was called from\nthe barracks near by, who, after giving with their trumpets the triple\nintimation to disperse, charged with fixed bayonets, and drove the\npeople out of the piazza. The arrests of men and of ladies, and the\nresulting trials, with condemnation of the former, but release of the\nlatter, are fresh in our memories. How, in the face of a fact like\nthis, could the Pope come out into the city?\u2015\u2015especially when we\nconsider his position, the delicate regard due it, the danger, not\nonly of harm to those who favor him, but of injury to the respect in\nwhich people of all classes hold him. Even those who would be the\nfirst to turn such an act to their account at his expense cannot\nwithhold the respect his virtues, consistency, and courage exact.\nThese, however, are prepared for the first mistake; they are ready to\ngive him a mock triumph at the very first opportunity. But they have\nto do with a man who knows them; who, being in good faith himself,\nlearnt his lesson in 1848, and understood what reliance is to be\nplaced on European revolutionists. We conclude, then, this portion of\nour paper by saying that the condition created for the Pope by the\ntaking of Rome, added to considerations of the highest order, has kept\nPius IX. from putting his foot outside the Vatican since September 19,\n1870, and that consequently \u201chis liberty is restrained\u201d and he is a\nprisoner.\n\nHaving thus shown that Pius IX. is a prisoner, we can safely draw the\ninference that the place in which circumstances oblige him to remain\nis his prison\u2015\u2015prisoner and prison being correlative terms. He is \u201ca\nprisoner in his own house,\u201d though certainly we know that house was\nnot built for penal purposes. But we have more than inference, logical\nas it is. We have facts to show that the same precautions were and\nstill are used that it is the custom to adopt with regard to ordinary\nprisons. For example, it is well known that in the beginning of the\nItalian occupation of Rome the utmost surveillance was kept up on all\ngoing into or coming out from the Vatican. One met the Piedmontese\nsentinel at the entrance, and by him the government police; people\nwere occasionally searched; and the guards had orders not to allow\npersons to show themselves from the windows or balconies of the\npalace. The lamented Mgr. de Merode, almoner to the Sovereign Pontiff,\na soldier by early education, could hardly give credit to the facts\nthat proved this. Full of indignation, he went himself to the spot,\nand from the balcony looked down upon the street below where the\nsentinel stood. He was at once saluted with the words, \u201cGo back!\u201d\nAgain the command was repeated, and then the levelled rifle admonished\nthe prelate that further refusal to obey was imprudent. The affair\nmade a good deal of noise at the time, and the guards were removed\nfrom close proximity to the palace, remaining only a few hundred feet\naway. All things, then, considered, Pius IX. is a prisoner and the\nVatican is his prison.\n\nBut not only is the liberty of the Sovereign Pontiff directly\ninterfered with in this way; he is trammelled also in purely spiritual\nmatters. The Pope, the rulers of Rome say, may talk as he pleases in\nthe Vatican, as we cannot prevent him, and he will not be put down;\nnay, he may even promulgate his decrees, encyclicals, and\nconstitutions by putting them up as usual at the doors of the\nbasilicas of St. Peter and St. John Lateran; but any one who dares to\nreprint them will do so at his peril; his paper will be sequestrated,\nif the document published be judged by the authorities of the Italian\nkingdom to contain objectionable matter, and he will be tried by due\ncourse of law. This mode of proceeding has been put in practice; the\nseizure of the issue of the _Unit\u00e0 Cattolica_ for publishing an\nencyclical is well known, and was remarkable for an amusing feature.\nThe edition for the provinces escaped the vigilance of the fiscal\nagents, and the Florentine liberal press, anxious to show how much\nfreedom was allowed the Pope, on getting the _Unit\u00e0_, printed the\ndocument. To their surprise, their issues were sequestrated. The\nletter of instruction on the subject of papal documents, and of\nsurveillance, _by the police_, of the Catholic preachers, issued by\nthe late ministry, to our knowledge never was recalled, and is\ntherefore still in force; worse is contemplated, as we shall see later\non. This coercion of his freedom of action extends also to the Pope\u2019s\njurisdiction in spirituals and in temporals.\n\nThe first instance of this is the exaction of the royal _exequatur_.\nWe cannot do better than cite the words of the able legal authority,\nSig. A. Caucino, of Turin, who has lately written a series of articles\non the law of guarantees, passed by the chambers and confirmed by the\nking, of which we are speaking. On this subject of the _exequatur_ he\nwrites: \u201cAfter the discourse of the avvocato Mancini, on the 3d of\nMay, 1875, and the \u2018order of the day\u2019 by the deputy Barazzuoli, no one\nwonders that the nature of the application of the law of guarantees\nhas been changed, and that all the promises solemnly made when it was\nnecessary to forestall public opinion, and promising cost nothing,\nhave been broken. From that time to this the bishops named by the\nPontiff, but not approved of by the royal government, have been put in\nthe strangest and most unjust position in the world. It is hardly\nneedful to recall that the first and principal guarantee in the law of\nMay 13, 1871, was that by which the government renounced, throughout\nthe whole kingdom, the right of naming or presenting for the\nconferring of the greater benefices (bishoprics, etc.) Well, after\nMay, 1875, the bishops who were without the _exequatur_ were treated\nwith two weights and two measures: they are not to be considered as\nbishops with respect to the Civil Code and the code of civil\nprocedure, of equity\u2015\u2015and logically; but they are to be looked on as\nsuch with regard to the Penal Code, the code of criminal procedure,\nand the whole arsenal of the fiscal laws of the Italian kingdom.\u201d\n\nIncredible, but true. Let us see the proofs.\n\nMgr. Pietro Carsana, named Bishop of Como, instituted a suit against\nthe Administration of the Demain to have acknowledged as exempt from\nconversion into government bonds, and from the tax of thirty per\ncent., a charitable foundation by the noble Crotta-Oltrocchi, assigned\nto the Bishop of Como for the time being, that the revenues of it\nmight be used for missions to the people and for the spiritual retreat\nor exercises of the clergy. The Demain raised the question as to\nwhether Mgr. Carsana had the character required for the prosecution of\nsuch a cause before the tribunal. The tribunal of Como was for the\nbishop; but the Court of Appeal of Milan decided in favor of the\nDemain, for the following reasons, drawn up on June 28, 1875: \u201cIt\ncannot be doubted but that the episcopal see of Como is to be held as\n_still vacant_ as to its civil relations, since Mgr. Pietro Carsana,\nnamed to that see by the supreme ecclesiastical authority, has not yet\nreceived the royal _exequatur_, according to the requirements of the\nsixteenth article of the laws of May 13, 1871.[86] If the act of the\nsupreme ecclesiastical authority\u201d\u2015\u2015we call attention to that word\n_supreme_\u2015\u2015\u201cdirected to providing an occupant for the first benefice\nof the bishopric of Como, by the nomination of Mgr. Carsana, has not\nobtained the royal _exequatur_, as peace between the parties requires,\nthis act before the civil law is _null and of no effect_, the\nappointment to the said benefice _is to be looked on as not having\ntaken place_, and the episcopal see of Como is to be considered as\nstill vacant, and the legitimate representation of it, in all its\nright, belongs to the vicar-capitular\u201d (_Unit\u00e0 Cattol._, July 25,\n1876). A like decision was given by the Court of Appeal of Palermo,\nOctober 16, 1875. Thus, to use the words of this writer, \u201cthe Pope has\na right to name the bishops to exercise their episcopal functions,\nbut, as far as their office has a bearing affecting external matters\nof civil nature, bishops without the _exequatur_ cannot exercise it.\u201d\nThese external matters of a civil nature, which might be\nmisunderstood, be it said, are none other than the acts without which\nthe temporalities of a bishopric cannot be administered. The bishop\nmay say Mass, preach, and confirm, but not touch a dollar of the\nrevenues of his see.\n\nIt needs no great acumen to perceive how the Sovereign Pontiff is thus\nhampered in his jurisdiction. His chief aids are his bishops; but they\nare not free unless they subject themselves, against conscience, to\nthe civil power. Every _exequatur_ is an injustice to the church, no\nmatter whether exacted by concordat or no. The church may submit under\nprotest to the injustice, but the nature of the act of those requiring\nsuch submission does not change on that account. Hence it is clear\nthat the Pope is at this moment most seriously hampered in the\nexercise of his _spiritual_ jurisdiction. If to this fact of the\n_exequatur_ we add the election of the parish priests by the people,\nfavored by the government, the case becomes still clearer. But of this\nwe shall speak fully at the end of the article.\n\nTo the impediments put in the way of the exercise of the Sovereign\nPontiff\u2019s spiritual jurisdiction are to be added those of a material\nnature, resulting from the heavy pecuniary burdens he, his bishops,\nand his clergy are obliged to bear. The scanty incomes of the clergy\nof the second order are in many cases reduced to two-thirds, while\nliving costs one-fifth more than it did before Rome was taken. The\nvery extensive suffering, from poverty, stagnation of business, the\nnecessity of supporting the schools of parishes and institutions\nestablished to supply the place of those suppressed by the government,\nor whose funds have gone into the abyss of public administration\u2015\u2015all\nhave the effect of keeping the people from giving as largely to the\nclergy as they used to give, although that source of revenue to them\nwas not very great, as nearly everything was provided for by\nfoundations. With reference to the bishops, and the Sovereign Pontiff\nespecially, the case is much more aggravating. Those prelates who have\nnot obtained the _exequatur_ have no means of support, as the\ntemporalities of their sees are withheld. Pius IX., whose trust in\nProvidence has been rewarded with wonderful abundance of offerings\nfrom the faithful throughout the world, came to the assistance of\nthese persecuted successors of the apostles. Out of his own resources,\nthe gratuitous generosity of his flock everywhere, he gives to each\none of them five hundred francs a month. The drain on the papal\ntreasury by this and other necessary expenses forced upon him by the\ntaking of Rome, amounts in the gross, yearly, to $1,200,000, which, as\nthe Pope consistently refuses to take a sou of the $640,000 offered\nhim by the government, comes from the contributions of the faithful\ngiven as Peter-pence. In this way are the Catholics of the whole world\ntaxed by the action of the Italian government.\n\nBesides this direct action on the Head of the church and on her\npastors that interferes with their freedom, there are other modes of\nproceeding which we hardly know whether we are justified in styling\nindirect, so sure and fatal are their effects on the spiritual\njurisdiction and power of the Pope.\n\nThe first of these is the claim on the part of the state, enforced by\nevery means in its power, to direct the education of the young. No\neducation is recognized except that given by the state schools.\nWithout state education no one can hold office under the government,\nno one can practise law or medicine, or any other liberal profession.\nMoreover, every youth, boy or girl, must undergo an examination before\nexaminers deputed by the state. It stands to reason that no one can\nteach unless he have a patent or certificate from the state. Now, what\ndoes this mean? It means simply that the most powerful engine for\nmoulding the mind of man, poisoning it, prejudicing it, giving it the\nbent one wants, is in the hands of the avowed enemies of the church;\nmoreover, that those who are so acted on by this mighty agency are the\nspiritual subjects of Pius IX.; and that this is being done not only\nin all Italy, but especially in Rome. The most strenuous efforts are\nbeing made to remedy this evil, with a good deal of success; and the\nsuccess will be greater farther on. But in the meantime a vast harm is\ndone and a generation is perverted.\n\nThe next of these indirect means is the conscription, which seizes on\nthe young men even who have abandoned the world and embraced the\necclesiastical life. At first sight one may be inclined to think the\ndamage done not so extensive, as only a certain percentage after all\nwill be taken. Even were this so, the injustice done to the persons\nconcerned, and the harm to the church, would not the less be real. The\nfact is that this course of the government affects a comparatively\nsmall number in time of peace; but in time of war the number remains\nno longer small. Besides, the uncertainty of being able to pursue\ntheir career must have a bad effect on young men, while the\nassociations which they are obliged to see around them, if they\nundertake the year of voluntary service to escape the conscription,\nmust often have a result by no means beneficial to their vocation.\nFacts are in our possession to show deliberate attempts to corrupt\nthem and make them lose the idea of becoming priests. What is more\nweighty than these reasons is the fact of the diminishing number of\nvocations for the priesthood in Italy. The army of the government is\nswelling, while the army of Pius IX. in Italy is decreasing.\n\nA late measure of the government has also a tendency to diminish the\nfervor of attachment in the people to their religion, and that measure\nis the prohibition of public manifestation of their belief outside the\nchurches. A circular letter from the Minister of the Interior to the\nprefects of Italy forbids religious processions in the public streets.\nThis in a Catholic country is a severe and deeply-felt blow at the\npiety of the people. Processions have always been one of the most\nnatural and favorite ways of professing attachment to principles, and\nthis is particularly true of religious processions. They have a\nlanguage of their own that goes straight to the heart of the people.\nThe discontinuance of them will have a dampening effect, on those\nespecially who are a little weak; while those who go to church as\nseldom as possible, or rarely, will be deprived of a means of\ninstruction that constantly served to recall to their minds the truths\nof religion; and instead of the enjoyment that came from beholding or\nassisting at some splendid manifestation of their faith, and from the\naccompanying festivities never wanting, will be substituted\nforgetfulness of religion and religious duties, the dissipation of the\nwine-shop and saloon, and those profane amusements, often of the most\nquestionable character, that are beginning to be so frequent on days\nof obligation, offered to the masses at hours conflicting with those\nof religious ceremonies. What has especially shocked every\nunprejudiced person, even liberals and non-Catholics, is the\nprohibition of the solemn accompaniment of the Blessed Sacrament.\nBesides the ordinary carrying of the Viaticum to the sick, and\noccasional communion to those unable to come to the church, some three\nor four times a year the Blessed Sacrament was borne to the bedridden\nwith much solemnity, the most respectable people of the parish taking\npart in the procession or sending those who represented them. It was\nalways an imposing and edifying spectacle to Catholics. This has been\nput a stop to. In Frascati, where, after prohibition of public\nprocessions had been notified to all, the Blessed Sacrament was\ncarried to the sick with only the _ordinary_ marks of respect, that\nthere might be no violation of the unjust and illegal order, there was\nan exhibition of the animus of the authorities that almost exceeds\nbelief. The people, to honor the Blessed Sacrament, were present in\ngreater numbers than usual, and, as is the custom, prepared to follow\nit to the houses of the sick persons. The government authorities\ndetermined to prevent them. Hardly had the priest come out of the\nchurch, with the sacred pix in his hands, when he was accosted by the\npolice officer, was laid hold of by him, and made to come from under\nthe canopy, which from time immemorial is used during the day for the\nordinary visits for the communion of the sick at Frascati. He was\npermitted to go with some four or five assistants. The people\npersisted in following, whereupon the troops were called and they\ndispersed the crowd. The result was a spontaneous act of reparation to\nthe Blessed Sacrament in the form of a Triduum in the cathedral, at\nwhich the first nobility of Rome, very numerous in the neighborhood of\nthis city, assisted, while the attendance in the church was so great,\nincluding even liberals, that many had to kneel out on the steps and\nin the piazza. The effect on good Catholics thus far, though painful,\nhas been beneficial; but the continuation of this course on the part\nof the government, with the means of coercion at their disposal,\ncannot but be hurtful to the cause of religion, and cannot but\ndiminish the respect and obedience of the people to their pastors. All\nthis, as a matter of course, has a decided effect on the power and\ninfluence of the Pope himself. There are indeed Catholics to whom God\nhas vouchsafed so great an abundance of faith that, no matter what\nhappens, they rise under trial and show a sublimity of trust and\ncourage that extorts admiration even from their enemies; but,\nunfortunately, these are not the majority. Faith is a gift of God, and\nrequires careful cultivation and fostering watchfulness; negligence,\nand above all wilful exposure to the danger of losing it, ordinarily\nweaken it much, and not unfrequently in these days bring about its\ntotal loss. This is one reason, and the principal one, why the church\nprays to be delivered from persecution, because, though some die\nmartyrs or glorify God by a noble confession and unshaken firmness,\nmany, very many, fall away in time of danger. History is full of\ninstances of this. The _lapsi_ in the early centuries were\nunfortunately a large class, and in the persecutions of China and\nJapan, in our day, we hear, indeed, of martyrs, but we hear, too, of\nlarge numbers that fall away at the sight of torture or in the\npresence of imminent peril.\n\nSuch is the state of things in Italy with respect to the Sovereign\nPontiff and the church over which he rules: persecution, oppression,\nhate, are the portion of Catholics and their Head; protection,\nfavoritism, and aid, that of all who are adversaries of the church,\nfrom the latest-come Protestant agents of the Bible societies of\nEngland or America to the most avowed infidel and materialist of\nGermany or France. A Renan and a Moleschott are listened to with\nrapture; a Dupanloup or a Majunke are looked on as poor fanatics who\ncling to a past age. We do not wish to weary our readers with further\ninstances of tyrannical action; though readily at hand, we may\ndispense with them, for the matter cited above is enough for our\npurpose, and certainly speaks for itself. We simply ask, What prospect\nlies before us? What is the promise of the future? On such a\nfoundation can anything be built up that does not tell of sorrow, of\ntrouble, and of ruin? Of a truth no one who loves virtue and religion\ncan look upon the facts without concern; and that concern for an\nearnest Catholic will increase a hundred-fold, if he take into\nconsideration the plans just now showing themselves for the warfare of\nto-morrow. These prove the crisis to be approaching, and that far\ngreater evils are hanging over the Papacy than yet have threatened it,\ndemonstrating more evidently and luminously than words what a pope\nsubject of another king or people means.\n\nAny one who is even a superficial observer of matters in Italy cannot\nfail to see how closely Italian statesmen and politicians ape the\nideas and the measures of Germany, particularly against the church.\nThere, it is well known, strenuous efforts are being made to construct\n_a national church_, and with partial success. The pseudo-bishops\nReinkens in the empire and Herzog in Switzerland are doing their\nutmost to give form and constitution to the abortions they have\nproduced. The example is followed in Italy. The apostate Panelli, in\nNaples, made an unsuccessful attempt to begin the _chiesa nazionale_;\nbut disagreement with his people caused him to be supplanted, though\nhe still styles himself national bishop. Agreeing with him in\nsentiments are a certain number of ecclesiastics, insignificant if\ncompared with the clergy of the Catholic Church in Italy; yet to these\nmen, who certainly did not and do not enjoy the esteem of the _sanior\npars_, the wiser portion of the people, the government, holding power\nunder a constitution the first article of which declares that the\nRoman Catholic and apostolic religion is the religion of the state,\nshow favor and lend aid and comfort. Let us listen for a moment to\ntheir language and to that of their supporters.\n\nSig. Giuseppe Toscanelli is a deputy in the Italian parliament, and a\nman of so-called liberal views, an old soldier of Italian\nindependence, and an old Freemason. He has the merit of seeing\nsomething of the inconsistency and injustice of the action of the\nauthorities, in parliament and out of it, with regard to the church,\nis a ready speaker, and has the courage to say what he thinks, thus\nincurring the enmity of his fellow-Masons, some of whom, in 1864, in\nthe lodge at Pisa, declared him unworthy of their craft, and cast him\nout of the synagogue. We are not aware that he troubles himself much\nabout the matter, nor that he looks on himself as any the less an\nardent supporter of united Italy. When the law of guarantees for the\nSovereign Pontiff was up for discussion, Toscanelli said: \u201cReport has\nit that in 1861 some public men of Lombardy conceived the idea of a\nnational church, which they made known to Count Cavour, and urged him\nto bring it about; and that Count Cavour decidedly refused to do so.\nIn 1864 this idea showed itself again, and a bill in accordance with\nit was presented in parliament. The civil constitution of the church\nwas most strongly maintained by the Hon. Bonghi. At present we see\npapers, some most closely connected with the government, printing\narticles professedly treating of a national church, even to the point\nof going to the extremes Henry VIII. reached.\u201d\n\nBut not only papers favor the project. We have heard lately of cabinet\nministers using the same language. The head of the late ministry, Sig.\nMarco Minghetti, did so at Bologna in a public speech. Yet he was the\nleader of the so-called _moderate_ party. It is therefore not\nsurprising that the recognized prince of Italian lawyers, Sig.\nStanislas Mancini, the Minister of Public Worship of the present\nradical cabinet, should speak in the same style. We have a letter of\nhis to a notorious person, Prota Giurleo, President of the Society for\nthe Emancipation of the Clergy, vicar-general of the national church,\nin the _Libert\u00e0 Cattolica_ of August 2, 1876. It is worth translating:\n\n \u201cHONORED SIR: Hardly had I taken the direction of the\n ministry of grace, justice, and worship, when you, in the\n name of the society over which you preside, thought fit to\n send me a copy of the memorandum of Nov. 9, 1873, which,\n under the form of a petition, I had myself the honor of\n presenting to the Chamber of Deputies, recalling to my mind\n the words uttered by me at the meeting of Dec. 17 of that\n year, when I asked and obtained that the urgency of the case\n should be recognized, and demanded suitable provision.\n\n \u201cIt is scarcely necessary for me to say that I remembered\n very well the expressions used by me on that occasion,\n because they give faithful utterance to an old, lively, and\n deep feeling of my soul.\n\n \u201cAs minister I maintain the ideas and the principles I\n defended as deputy. Still, I did not conceal the fact that\n the greatest and most effectual measures were to be obtained\n only by way of legislation, without omitting to say,\n however, that by way of executive action something might be\n done. To-day, then, faithful to this order of ideas, I have\n no difficulty in opening my mind on each of the questions\n recapitulated in the memorandum.\n\n \u201c1st. The first demand of the worthy society over which you\n preside was made to the Chamber of Deputies, in order that\n steps might be taken to frame a new law to regulate\n definitively the new relations between the state and the\n church, in accordance with the changed condition of the\n political power and of the ecclesiastical ministry. On this\n point I am happy to assure you that this arduous problem\n constitutes one of the most important cares, and will form\n part of study and examination, to which the distinguished\n and competent men called by me to compose the commission\n charged with preparing the law reserved by the eighteenth\n article of the law of May 13, 1871, for the rearrangement\n and preservation of ecclesiastical property, will have to\n attend.\n\n \u201c2d. In the second place, this memorandum asks the\n revindication, for the clergy and people, of the right to\n elect their own pastors in all the grades of the hierarchy.\n You are not ignorant that such a proposition made by me in\n parliament, during the discussion of the above-mentioned law\n of May 13, 1871, relative to the nomination of bishops, did\n not meet with success, nor would there be reasonable hope,\n at present, of a different legislative decision. It results\n from this, therefore, that efforts in this direction must be\n limited to preparing by indirect ways the maturity of public\n opinion, which is wont, sooner or later, to influence the\n deliberations of parliament. The manifestation of the will\n of the people in the choice of ministers and pastors, that\n recalls the provident customs and traditions of the\n primitive church, to which the most learned and pious\n ecclesiastics of our day\u2015\u2015it is enough to name\n Rosmini\u2015\u2015earnestly desire to return, must first be the\n object of action to propagate the idea, in the order of\n facts, by spontaneous impulse, and by the moral need of\n pious and believing consciences; and afterward, when these\n facts become frequent and general, it will be the duty of\n the civil power to interfere to regulate them, and secure\n the sincerity and independence of them, without prejudice to\n the right of ecclesiastical institution.\n\n \u201cAlready some symptoms have shown themselves, and some\n examples have been had, in certain provinces of the kingdom,\n and I deemed it my duty not to look on them with aversion\n and distrust, but at the same time to reconcile with\n existing discipline regarding benefices all such zeal and\n the protection that could be given to the popular vote and\n to ecclesiastics chosen by it, not only by providing for\n these the means needed for the becoming exercise of their\n ministry, but also to benefit at the same time the people by\n works tending to their instruction and assistance. I will\n not neglect opportunities of aiding by other indirect\n measures the attainment of the same end. The future will\n show whether this movement, a sign of the tendencies of the\n day, may be able to exercise a sensible influence on\n religious society and claim the attention of the legislator.\n\n \u201c3d. The same commission referred to above will be able to\n examine how, by means of opportune expedients, some of the\n dispositions of the forthcoming law on the administration of\n the ecclesiastical fund may be made serve to relieve and\n encourage the priests and laymen belonging to associations\n the aim of which is to fulfil scrupulously at one and the\n same time the duties of religion and of patriotism. Still,\n despite the fact that the actual arrangement and the\n accustomed destination of the revenues of vacant benefices\n succeed with great difficulty in meeting the mass of\n obligations that weigh upon them, I have earnestly sought\n for the readiest and most available means to afford some\n help and encouragement to the well-deserving society over\n which you preside, especially to promote the diffusion of\n the earnest and profound studies of history and\n ecclesiastical literature; and I am only sorry that\n insuperable obstacles have obliged me to keep within very\n modest limits. I will not neglect to avail myself of every\n favorable occasion to show the esteem and the satisfaction\n of the government with respect to those ecclesiastics and\n members of the association who join to gravity of conduct\n the merit of dedicating themselves to good ecclesiastical\n studies, and render useful service to their fellow-citizens.\n\n \u201c4th. In the fourth place, by this memorandum the demand is\n presented that one of the many churches in Naples, once\n conventual, be assigned to the society, endowing it with the\n property acquired by the laws affecting the title to such\n property of February 17, 1861, July 7, 1866, and August 15,\n 1867. On this point I have to say that many years ago there\n was brought about a state of things which certainly is not\n favorable to the granting of the demand; for the\n twenty-fourth article of the law of February 17, 1861, was\n interpreted in the sense that churches formerly conventual\n should be subject, as regards jurisdiction, to the\n archiepiscopal curia. Notwithstanding this, and although I\n intend to have examined anew the interpretation given to\n Article 24, seeing in the meantime that this state of things\n be not in the least changed for the worse, I will\n immediately put myself in relation with the prefect of the\n province, to know whether, keeping in view the facts as\n above, there be in your city a church we may dispose of that\n presents all the conditions required, in order that it may\n be given for the use of the society. It is hardly necessary\n to speak of the absolute impossibility of assigning an\n endowment from the property coming from the laws changing\n the title to such property, because, even apart from any\n other reason, the very laws themselves determine, in order,\n the use to which the revenues obtained by the consequent\n sale of the property are to be put.\n\n \u201c5th. Finally, as regards guaranteeing efficaciously,\n against the arbitrary action of the episcopate, the lower\n clergy who are loyal to the laws of the country and to the\n dynasty, I do not deem it necessary to make any declarations\n or give any assurances, because my principles and the first\n acts of my administration are a pledge that, within the\n bounds allowed me by law, and urging, if needful, the action\n of the courts, in accordance with the law of May 13, 1871, I\n shall not fail to show by deeds that the government of the\n king is not disposed to tolerate that good ecclesiastics of\n liberal creed should be subject to abuse on the part of\n their ecclesiastical superiors, when the legal means are in\n their power to prevent it.\n\n \u201cBe pleased to accept, honored sir, the expression of my\n esteem and consideration.\n\n \u201cThe Keeper of the Seals,\n \u201cMANCINI.\u201d\n\nWe shall adduce only one other document as prefatory to what we are\ngoing to say, and that is the letter of a certain Professor Sbarbaro,\nwho is a prominent writer of extreme views, possessing a frankness of\ncharacter that makes him attack the government at one time, even in\nfavor of the church, though through no love of it, at another launch\nforth against it an amount of invective and false accusation that\nwould warrant us in looking on him as the crater of the revolutionary\nvolcano. This personage has written quite recently one of his\ncharacteristic letters, in which he uses all his eloquence against the\nchurch, recommending everywhere the establishment of Protestant\nchurches and schools; because, he says, this is the only way to\ndestroy the Catholic Church, the implacable enemy of the new order of\nthings. Every nerve must be strained to effect this. There can be no\npeace till it be accomplished, and the edifice of Italian unity and\nfreedom tower over the ruins of ecclesiastical oppression.\n\nWith the express declaration of the deputy, Sig. Giuseppe Toscanelli,\nthe letter of his Excellency the Keeper of the Seals and that of\nProfessor Sbarbaro, before our eyes, we are prepared to see some fact\nin accordance with the ideas and sentiments therein expressed. The\nfact is at hand; it is a movement set on foot to obtain adhesion and\nsubscriptions to the scheme of electing, by the people, to their\npositions ecclesiastics even of the highest grade. The Sovereign\nPontiff himself alluded to this in his discourse to the foreign\ncolleges, July 25, 1876, when he warned them that steps were taking to\nprepare the way to a popular election, \u201c_a tempo suo, anche al maggior\nbeneficio della chiesa_\u201d\u2015\u2015\u201cat the proper time, to even the first\nbenefice of the church\u201d\u2015\u2015in other words, the Papacy. It is worth while\nexamining this question, because the agitation having begun, specious\narguments having been advanced, and illustrious names, such as that of\nRosmini\u2015\u2015who, it is well known, retracted whatever by overzeal he had\nwritten that incurred censure at Rome\u2015\u2015having been brought forward to\nsupport such views, it is not unlikely that elsewhere we may hear a\nrepetition of them. Say what people may, Rome is the centre of the\ncivilized world; the agitations that occur there, especially in the\nspeculative order, are like the waves produced by casting a stone in\nthe water: the ripples extend themselves from the centre to the\nextreme circumference. So thence the agitations strike France and\nGermany and Spain, extend to England, Russia, the East, and finally\nreach us and the other extra-European nations.\n\nThe errors on this subject of popular election in the church, where\nthey are not affected, come from a confusion of ideas and a want of\nknowledge of what the church is. Protestantism has had the greatest\npart in misleading men; for it completely changed the essential idea\nof this mystic body of Christ. Our Lord, when founding his church on\nearth, spoke of it continually as his, as his kingdom, as his house,\nas his vineyard. He told his disciples that to him all power had been\ngiven in heaven and on earth. Nowhere do we see him giving to any one\na title that would make him a sharer in that power; the unity of\ncommand signified by the idea of the kingdom, the absolute power of\nimposing laws, is his, his alone, and is entrusted to those he\nselected to continue his work. His words to his apostles were: \u201cAs the\nFather hath sent me, I send you\u201d\u2015\u2015the fulness of power I have I bestow\nupon you, that you may act in my name, in such a way that \u201che who\nhears you hears me; and he who will not hear you, let him be to you as\nthe heathen and the publican.\u201d He makes the distinction between those\nwho are to hear and those who are outside his church; he constitutes\nin his kingdom, his church, those who are to command with his\nauthority and those who are to obey: the apostles and their\nsuccessors\u2015\u2015the Sovereign Pontiff with the bishops\u2015\u2015and the people or\nthe laity. The duty of the laity is to obey, not to command, not to\nimpose, not to exact, much less to name those who are to hold\npositions in the church\u2015\u2015an act proper of its nature only to those who\nhold power of command, just as in a kingdom the naming to offices\nresides with the king or with those he may depute for such purpose.\nThe duty of the laity is summed up in the words of the Prince of the\nApostles: _Obedite pr\u00e6positis vestris_\u2015\u2015Obey your prelates. Such is\nthe divine constitution of the church, and, like everything of divine\nright, that constitution is unchangeable. Alongside of this fact,\nhowever, we find another that apparently conflicts with it. We see the\npeople, even in the first period of the preaching of Christianity,\ntaking part in the election of those who were to hold places in the\nchurch, and this at the instance of the apostles themselves. It is,\nhowever, not the rule, but the exception, in the sacred text; for we\nfind the apostles acting directly, themselves selecting and bestowing\npower of orders and jurisdiction; as, for example, when St. Paul\nplaced Timothy over the church of Ephesus, and Titus over those of\nCrete. This is in accordance with what we might expect from the\nconstitution of the church. Had the election to such places been of\ndivine right, St. Paul would have violated that right in so naming\nboth Timothy and Titus. It follows, then, that this power of taking\npart in the election of prelates, priests, and deacons was introduced\nby the apostles and used in the early church as a matter of\nexpediency, the continuation or interruption of which would depend\nupon circumstances. What was the meaning of it? Was it a conferring of\npower, a naming to fill a place, or a presentation, a testimony of\nworth of those thus selected, which the apostles and their successors\nsought from the people? It was a testimony of worth only. This is\nevident from the words of St. Peter to the one hundred and twenty\ngathered with him for the nomination of St. Matthias. It is St. Peter\nwho regulates, orders what is to be done, and commands the brethren to\nselect one from their number. They could not agree on one; two were\nnominated, and the prayer and choice by lot followed. This was, of\ncourse, an extraordinary case, and we do not see this mode of election\nafterwards resorted to, leaving the matter to be decided by the power\nof God. What we do see here that is of interest to us is the act of\nthe Prince of the Apostles prescribing what was to be done; this shows\nhis supreme authority, and is the source of the legality of the\nposition of St. Matthias. The testimony of the people was required to\nascertain his worth and fitness. It was very natural that this\ntestimony of the people should be resorted to, especially in the early\nchurch, in which affairs were administered and the work of the Gospel\ncarried on rather through the spirit of charity, \u201cthat hath no law,\u201d\nthan by legal enactments; though we begin to see quite early traces of\nthese, as required by the nature of the case. This example of the\napostles continued in use in the church for centuries, the testimony\nof the people to the worth of their bishops being required; for it has\nalways been an axiom in the conduct of affairs in the church that the\nbishop must be acceptable to his people; nor is any great examination\nneeded to arrive at such a conclusion, for the office of a bishop\nregards the spiritual interests of his flock, and such interests\ncannot be furthered by one against whom his people have just cause of\ncomplaint and dissatisfaction. To obtain such testimony, or to be able\nto present an acceptable and worthy bishop to a flock, there is no one\nessentially necessary way. Provided testimony beyond exception can be\nhad, it matters little by what channel it comes. In process of time,\nwhen persecution, and persistent struggle with paganism for centuries\nafter persecution, ended, \u201cthe charity of many having grown cold,\u201d the\nstrife that too often ensued in the choice of bishops, and the success\nof designing men through bribery or intrigue, brought about the change\nin the discipline of the church. We find the eighth general council\nlegislating with regard to elections to patriarchates, archbishoprics,\nand bishoprics. We see that the powerful were making use of the means\nat their command either to influence the people in the choice, where\nthis was possible, or by their own authority placing ecclesiastics in\npossession of sees. The council was held in the year 869, and was\ncalled on to act against Photius, the intruded patriarch of\nConstantinople. It drew up and promulgated these two canons:\n\n \u201cCAN. XII. The apostolic and synodical canons wholly\n forbidding promotion and consecration of bishops by the\n power and command of princes, we concordantly define, and\n also pronounce sentence, that, if any bishop have received\n consecration to such dignity by intrigue or cunning of\n princes, he is to be by all means deposed as having willed\n and agreed to possess the house of the Lord, not by the will\n of God and by ecclesiastical rite and decree, but by the\n desire of carnal sense, from men and through men.\n\n \u201cCAN. XXII. This holy and universal synod, in accordance\n with former councils, defines and decrees that the promotion\n and consecration of bishops are to be done by the election\n and decree of the college of bishops; and it rightly\n proclaims that no lay prince or person possessed of power\n shall interfere in the election of a patriarch, of a\n metropolitan, or of any bishop whatsoever, lest there should\n arise inordinate and incongruous confusion or strife,\n especially as it is fitting that no prince or other layman\n have any power in such matters\u201d (Version of Anastasius).\n\nIn the Roman Church, however, while the active interference of secular\nprinces and nobles, despite the canons of the church, continued to be\nthe rule during the middle ages, to the great harm of religion and\ndishonor of the See of Peter, to the intrusion even of unworthy\noccupants who scandalized the faithful, the popes and the clergy\nwished to have the people present as witnesses of the election, and\nconsenting to it, that in this way there might be a bar to calumny,\naffecting the validity of it, and an obstacle to the ambition of the\nsurrounding princes. Still, the election proper belonged to the\nclergy, the people consenting to receive the one so elected. Prior to\nthe pontificate of Nicholas II. the people, so often the willing\nservants of the German emperors or of their allies, used not\nunfrequently to impose their will on the clergy, or made Rome the\ntheatre of factional strife. To put a stop to this, Nicholas, having\ncalled a council of one hundred and thirteen bishops at Rome,\npublished in it the following decree:\n\n 1. \u201cGod beholding us, it is first decreed that the election\n of the Roman Pontiff shall be in the power of the cardinal\n bishops; so that if any one be enthroned in the apostolic\n chair without their previous concordant and canonical\n election, and afterwards with the consent of the successive\n religious orders, of the clergy, and of the laity, he is to\n be held as no pope or apostolic man, but as an apostate.\u201d\n\nIn the centuries of contention between the lay powers and the\necclesiastical authorities, the discipline on the subject of election\nto the higher benefices became more and more strict, till finally the\nselection has, as a rule, come to be reserved to the Sovereign\nPontiff, to whom, even after election by chapter, the confirmation\nbelongs. The Council of Trent has been very explicit on this point. In\nch. iv. of sess. xxiii. we read:\n\n \u201cThe holy synod, moreover, teaches that, in the ordination\n of bishops, priests, and of the other grades, the consent,\n or call, or authority neither of the people nor of any\n secular power and magistracy is so required that without\n this it be invalid; nay, it even decrees that those who\n ascend to the exercise of this ministry, called and placed\n in position only by the people or lay power and magistracy,\n and who of their own rashness assume them, are all to be\n held, not as ministers of the church, but as thieves and\n robbers who have not come in by the door.\u201d\n\nCan. vii. of this session condemns those who teach otherwise.\n\nWe are, therefore, not surprised to find duly promulgated the\nfollowing document referring to the \u201cItalian society for the\nreassertion of the rights that belong to Christian people, and\nespecially to Roman citizens,\u201d under whose auspices the movement for\nelection to ecclesiastical benefices by the people has been set on\nfoot. The _Sacra Penitentiaria_ is the tribunal to which cases of\nconscience are submitted for decision, and its answers are given\naccording to the terms of the petition or case submitted. We give the\ncase as submitted, and the reply:\n\n \u201cMOST EMINENT AND REVEREND SIR: Some confessors in the city\n of Rome humbly submit that, at the present moment, there is\n in circulation in it a paper containing a printed programme,\n with accompanying schedules of association, by which the\n faithful are solicited to join a certain society,\n established or to be established to the end that, on the\n vacancy of the Apostolic See, the Roman people may take part\n in the election of the Roman Pontiff. The name of the\n society is: _Societ\u00e0 Cattolica per la rivendicazione dei\n diritti spettanti al popolo cristiano ed in ispecie al\n popolo Romano_. Whoever gives his name to this society must\n expressly declare, as results from the schedules, that he\n agrees to the doctrines set forth in the programme, and\n contracts the obligation, before two witnesses, of doing all\n he can to further the propagation of these doctrines and the\n increase of the society. Wherefore, the said confessors,\n that they may properly absolve, when by the grace of God\n they come to the sacrament of penance, those who have been\n the promoters of this evil society, or have subscribed their\n names thereto, and other adherents and aiders of it, send a\n copy of the programme and schedules to be examined by the\n Sacred Penitentiary, and ask an answer to the following\n questions:\n\n \u201c1. Whether each and all, giving their names to this\n society, or aiding it, or in any way abetting it, or\n adhering to it, by the very fact incur the penalty of the\n major excommunication?\n\n \u201c2. And if so, whether this excommunication be reserved to\n the Sovereign Pontiff?\u201d\n\n \u201cThe Sacred Penitentiary, having considered all that has\n been laid before it, and duly examined into the nature and\n end of this society, having referred the foregoing to our\n most holy lord, Pius IX., with his approbation, replies to\n the proposed questions as follows:\n\n \u201cTo the first, affirmatively.\n\n \u201cTo the second: The excommunication is incurred by the very\n fact, and is in a special manner reserved to the Roman\n Pontiff.\n\n \u201cGiven at Rome, in the Sacred Penitentiary, August 4, 1876.\n\n \u201cR. CARD. MONACO, _for the\n Grand Penitentiary_.\n\n \u201cHIP. CANON PALOMBI, _S. P.\n Secretary_.\u201d\n\nSuch is the state of things we have to present to our readers as a\nresult of the triumph of Freemasonry in Italy and of the seizure of\nRome: the Pope a captive; his temporal power gone; his spiritual power\ntrammelled; his influence subject to daily attacks that aim at its\ndestruction; and, to crown all, looming up in the distance, a possible\nschism, resulting from interference, patronized by the Italian\ngovernment, in the future election of the Head of two hundred millions\nof Catholics throughout the world, whose most momentous interests are\nat stake. Surely nothing could be of more weight to show how\nimpossible a thing a pope under the dominion of a sovereign is; nor\ncould we desire anything better adapted to show the necessity of the\nrestoration of his perfect independence in the temporal order. We\nbelieve this will be; and, as things are, we can see no other way\npossible than by the restoration of his temporal power; how, or when,\nis in the hands of divine Providence.\n\n\n [86] Art. XVI. \u201cThe disposition of the civil laws with\n regard to the creation and the manner of existence of\n ecclesiastical institutions, and the alienation of their\n property, remains in force.\u201d There is no mention of the\n _exequatur_ being required for a bishop to plead before a\n court; that is, to begin to act under the provisions of Art.\n XVI.\n\n\n\n\nA GLIMPSE OF THE ADIRONDACKS.\n\nLAKE GEORGE, Sept. \u2015\u2015, 1876.\n\nMY DEAR FRIEND: Not content with being told that we enjoyed our trip\nimmensely, you demand a description\u2015\u2015of, at least, the chief part of\nit. Now, an adequate description of any kind of scenery is by no means\nan easy thing. I have read since my return those _Adventures of a\nPhaeton_ which your high praises made me promise to try. And,\ncertainly, the author\u2019s plan is admirably executed; his pages are\nfragrant with rural freshness; but can you aver that your mind carries\naway a single picture from his numerous descriptions? I have, as you\nknow, the advantage over you of having visited some of the places\nthrough which he conducts the party, particularly Oxford and its\nvicinity; but I assure you, had I not _seen_ old Iffley, for instance,\nwith its church and mill, the strokes of his pen would have given me\nno idea of them.\n\nPoets understand description better than other writers. Lord Byron is\nthe greatest master of the art in our language, and, I venture to say,\nin any. What is their secret? To go into the least possible\ndetail\u2015\u2015sketching but a few bold outlines, and leaving you to\ncontemplate, as they did. I shall make no apology, then, for following\nin their wake.\n\nWell, the time we spent in the woods proper\u2015\u2015or mountains proper, if\nyou prefer it\u2015\u2015was barely five days. It took us a whole day to voyage\ndown Lake George and part of Lake Champlain, and then stage (or\nvehicle) it to a place with the euphonious name of Keene Flats. Lake\nGeorge looked as lovely as it always does under a clear morning sky;\nand when the _Minnehaha_ had finished her course, we found\u2015\u2015something\nnew to us\u2015\u2015a railway station, and a train waiting to convey us to Lake\nChamplain. I cannot deny that the unromantic train is an improvement\non the coach-ride of other days; for the old road was so absurdly bad,\none had to hold on to the coach like grim death to avoid being jolted\noff.\n\nThe Champlain boats are all that can be desired. Besides other\naccommodations, they serve you with a dinner which is well worth the\ndollar you pay for it. The lake itself, though, makes a very poor show\nafter the beautiful George; and on this occasion what charms it had\nwere veiled by a thick smoke\u2015\u2015from Canadian forests (we were told). We\nhad not more than time for a post-prandial cigar before we reached\nWestport, our aquatic terminus. Landing, we found it no difficult\nmatter to discover the stage for Keene Flats. Two men, if not three,\nvociferously greeted us with \u201cKeene Flats!\u201d \u201cStage for Keene Flats!\u201d\nThe stage we had expected to meet was not there. It ran only Tuesdays\nand Fridays, they said\u2015\u2015or Mondays and Fridays, I forget which\u2015\u2015and\nthis was Wednesday. So we took the only one to be had, and started on\na journey of some twenty-four miles, but which lasted over five hours.\n\nThe journey was broken by having to change vehicles at Elizabethtown\u2015\u2015a\nstrikingly pretty place, and evidently popular. The drive thus far had\nbeen through a continuous cloud of dust, and the thickest of its kind\nI was ever in. The remaining fourteen miles were really delightful.\nWhile evening fell softly from a cloudless sky, the scenery grew\nbolder and wilder. The heights on either side took a deeper blue, the\nwoods a darker green. And presently the chill air made us wrap\nourselves against it. Very long seemed the drive, and weary; but many\na violet peak beguiled us with its beauty, and the large star drew our\nthoughts from earth, till at last, as we descended into Keene Valley,\nthe moon rose to light us to our rest.\n\nIt was after nine o\u2019clock when we alighted at Washbond\u2019s. Mine host\nhad gone to bed, but was not slow to answer our summons; and then his\nwife and daughter came down to get us supper. We did justice to the\nrepast, which was simple but well served, and in the meantime made\narrangements with Trumble, the guide, whom we were fortunate in\nfinding at home. Our beds were in a new house Washbond had just built.\nEverything was clean and comfortable, and I need not say we slept.\n\nBreakfasting about eight next morning, we made preparations for our\ntramp through the woods. The guide was very useful to us in knowing\nwhat provisions to get. His younger brother, too\u2015\u2015himself training for\na guide\u2015\u2015came along with us, for a consideration, to help carry our\nload.\n\nTaking one more meal at Washbond\u2019s, we started in the heat of noon. A\ncouple of miles brought us to the woods proper. Here the character of\nthe road changed, of course, and the \u201cpull\u201d began. It was surprising\nhow cool the air of the woods was when we stopped to breathe and sat\ndown with our packs; whereas, wherever the sun got at us through the\ntrees, he \u201clet us know he was there.\u201d But had the fatigue of those\nfirst miles through the woods been twice or ten times as great, it\nwould have been more than repaid when, suddenly, a turn in the road\nbrought us in view of the Lower Au Sable Lake.\n\nOne of our trio, whom we called Colonel (for we thought it wise to\ntravel _incog._\u2015\u2015the second being Judge, and myself Doctor), had run\non ahead of the guides\u2015\u2015a practice he kept up throughout the trip. We\nheard him shout as he came upon the lake, and he told us afterwards\nthat he had taken off his hat and thanked God for having lived to see\nthat view. There lay the water in the light of afternoon, long,\nnarrow, and winding out of sight. To either shore sloped a mountain,\nwooded, clear-cut, precipitous.\n\nIt was quite romantic to be told we had to navigate this lake. But\nfirst there were the Rainbow Falls to see. Our end of the lake (not\nincluded in the above view) was choked up with fallen timber. Crossing\non some trunks to the other shore, we had but a few minutes\u2019 walk\nbefore we came into a rocky hollow of wildest beauty, where, from a\ncliff some hundred and fifty feet high, leapt the torrent\u2015\u2015scarcely\n\u201cwith delirious bound,\u201d nor, of course, with the bulk it would have\nhad in winter, yet with terrible majesty\u2015\u2015into a channel below us. It\ndid not wear the rainbow coronal, the time of day being too late. But\nthe glen was well worth a visit, and deliciously cool from the spray.\n\nThe boat we were to voyage in was the property of the guide\u2015\u2015a light\ncraft, and rather too crank to be comfortable, particularly with a\nload of five on board, to say nothing of the dog and the baggage; so\nthat, in fact, our passage along the lake and between the giant slopes\nwas not as pleasant as it might have been. After some difficult\nnavigation at the other end of the lake, the crew was safely landed\nwith the baggage, and the boat hidden in some bushes. Then a trudge\nthrough the woods again for a couple of miles at least (distances, by\nthe bye, are peculiar in these regions), till we issued on the bank of\nthe Au Sable River where it leaves the Upper Lake. It was during this\nmarch that the Colonel (who had brought his gun) got a shot at a\ncertain bird, and knocked too many feathers from her not to have\nkilled her, though neither he nor the dog could find her; and this\nwas, positively, the only game he sighted the whole trip through.\n\nBut here a second boat was found hidden and ready, and one a little\nlarger than the first. And now came _the_ scene of our excursion. We\nseemed to have entered an enchanted land\u2015\u2015to be floating on a\nveritable fairy lake. The vision stole over us like a dream. Then,\ntoo, it was \u201cthe heavenliest hour of heaven\u201d for such a scene: the sun\nset, and twilight just begun. The picture, as a whole, will ever\nremain in my memory as, of its kind, the loveliest it has been my\nhappiness to see. But, my dear friend, it \u201cbeggars all description.\u201d I\ncan only ask you to imagine it, while I jot down a few points of\ndetail.\n\nThe Upper Au Sable differs strikingly from the Lower, although, of\ncourse, equally formed by, and a part of, the same river. It is less\nlong, but also less narrow; and while to the left, as you glide up it,\nthere stands but one mountain from shore to sky, to the right you\nbehold other majestic summits towering above the wooded slope. So,\nagain, on looking back, you see a gap of fantastic grandeur, and,\nfronting you, is a wide opening, relieved by a single peak. This peak,\nas we then saw it, wore the bewitching blue that distance and evening\ncombine to \u201clend\u201d\u2015\u2015a charm which I, for one (and surely all lovers of\nnature), can never enough feast my eyes upon. The summits to the right\nand behind us were also robed in various shades of \u201cpurple,\u201d which\ndeepened with the twilight. The glassy water was covered here and\nthere with yellow-blossomed lilies. Even the green of the woods\npartook with the sky\n\n \u201cThat _clear obscure_,\n So softly dark, and darkly pure.\u201d\n\nAlong the right bank two campfires were burning brightly. Toward one\nof these our guide was steering. He knew that his camp (constructed by\nhimself, and therefore his by every right) was occupied, but was bent\non turning the intruders out. We found a guide sitting calmly by the\nfire, and awaiting the return of his party to supper. They had gone up\n\u201cMarcy,\u201d he said, and two of them were ladies, and it would be very\nhard for them to have to seek another camp after their day\u2019s climb. He\nhad supposed our camp would not be wanted. There was one of his own on\nthe other side, just as good, and we could have that. Well, of course,\nwe three, when we heard of ladies, used our influence with Trumble,\nwho slowly relented, and then rowed us over to the other shore. Yes,\nthe camp was as good, and all about it; but we were on the wrong side\nfor seeing the moon rise, and felt not a little disappointed.\n\nWhile the guide was making the fire the Colonel proposed that we\nshould row up the lake and look for deer. So we went; but not a sign\nof any such quadruped could we see. Our view of the lake, though,\nrepaid us; and when we returned, we found a splendid fire and a savory\nsupper. These fires are kept up all night. They are close in front of\nthe camp. This species of \u201ccamp\u201d is a hut or shed, built of logs and\nsecurely roofed with birch bark. Sloping upward from behind, it stands\nopen to the air in front. The floor is strewed with spruce boughs, or\nsome other equally suitable; and when over this covering a \u201crubber\nblanket\u201d is placed, you have quite a comfortable bed. Did we sleep,\nthough? Very fairly for the first night out.\n\nAnd here I am tempted to end this epistle; for no other day of our\nwhole trip brought anything to compare with the exquisite surprises of\nthis first day in the woods. But I know you will not be satisfied if I\nfail to take you up Mt. Marcy and round through Indian Pass.\n\nWell, then, we started for \u201cMarcy\u201d (as the guides call it) next\nmorning, right after breakfast. Our breakfast, by the way, was\nunusually good for Friday. The Colonel and Trumble had risen early and\ncaught a nice string of brook trout. The brook was near the head of\nthe lake. We also supped on trout, which the Colonel and I got from\nMarcy Brook, a mountain stream we reached about noon.\n\nThe ascent from the lake was decidedly a \u201cpull,\u201d the more so, no\ndoubt, from the reluctance with which we took leave of the lake. We\nfelt the climb that day more than any climb we had afterward. A mile,\ntoo, of this kind seems equal, in point of distance, to three or four\nmiles on ordinary ground. Having rested by Marcy Brook for dinner, we\npushed on in the afternoon for Panther Gorge, where we found a good\ncamp unoccupied, which served us for the night. The Judge was very\neager to scale Marcy that evening, in order to get the view from it by\nmoonlight. We met a gentleman coming down, who said he had been on\nMarcy the night before, and described the moonlight view as the finest\nsight he had ever witnessed. We also met some ladies belonging to the\nsame party. Still, I think it was as well we did not go up that night;\nfor it would have sorely taxed our strength. I have recently been told\nof persons who brought on disease, and died within a year or two\nafter, by rash exertion among these mountains. This sort of thing\nseems to me consummate folly. More than that, it is a sin. We had come\non the excursion not only to see, but, equally, to gain vigor. Having,\nthen, plenty of time and ample provisions, there was no use in\nstraining ourselves to gratify vanity or anything else.\n\nPanther Gorge must have taken its name from that truculent animal\nhaving \u201cinfested\u201d there (as Josh Billings would say). But the bounty\nset on beasts of prey current in these woods seems to have made them\nvery scarce; for the only specimen we met with all the way was a dead\nbear rotting in a trap. The gorge itself is wild, but not particularly\nromantic. We got a view of it from a place called \u201cThe Notch,\u201d near\nthe summit of Mt. Marcy, where we rested to dine. There is a sort of\ncamp at this spot, but a poor thing to pass a night in. There is also\na most convenient spring. Indeed, we had reason to be very grateful\nfor the springs and rills of delicious water which abounded all along\nour line of march.\n\nThe ascent of Marcy is singularly easy for a mountain of such\nheight\u2015\u2015one of the highest, indeed, this side of the Rocky range. I\nconfess I had rather dreaded the climb, from an experience of Black\nMountain, on Lake George. I was therefore quite agreeably surprised.\nOn the other hand, I was almost equally disappointed by the view from\nthe Cloud-splitter\u2019s top. (Tahawus\u2015\u2015_i.e._, Cloud-splitter\u2015\u2015is the old\nIndian name for the mountain. What a pity it was changed!\u2015\u2015nearly as\nbarbarous as giving the name of one of Thackeray\u2019s \u201cFour Georges\u201d to\nthe beautiful Lac du Saint-Sacrement. Far better to have restored the\nIndian name\u2015\u2015Horicon, _Holy_ Lake.) It is rarely, I suppose, that a\nperfectly clear view is to be had from these mountains. _We_,\nprobably, saw little more than half the horizon commanded by the\nheight at which we stood. What we did see was worth seeing, certainly.\nStill, I, at least, remembered an incomparably finer view from the\nwell-named Prospect Mountain at the head of Lake George.\n\nLake George we could not see, but only where it was. A number of small\nlakes were pointed out to us by the guide, among them the \u201cTear of the\nClouds,\u201d one of the reputed sources of the Hudson. This wretched\nlittle pond\u2015\u2015for such it proved when we passed it on our way towards\nLake Colden that afternoon\u2015\u2015looked far from deserving of its poetical\nname, even at a distance; for we could see that it was yellow, being,\nin fact, a very shallow affair, and more like a stagnant marsh than a\ncrystalline tear. They might as well have given some sidereal\nappellation to the sun-reflector which Mr. Colvin has erected on the\nexact apex of Marcy\u2015\u2015a few sheets of tin, some of which had been torn\noff; for when, three days later, we were many miles away, we beheld\nthis apparatus glittering like a star in the rays of the setting sun.\n\nBut here let me moralize a moment. Those to whom \u201chigh mountains are a\nfeeling,\u201d as they were to the \u201cPilgrim poet,\u201d will not scale them\npurely for the view they afford, much less for the sake of vaunting a\ncreditable feat. They will understand the longing so nobly expressed\nby Keats:\n\n \u201cTo sit upon an Alp as on a throne,\n And half forget what world and worldling meant.\u201d\n\nThat is, they will feel at home on mountain-tops, because uplifted\nfrom the transitory and the sordid, and reminded what it is to belong\nto eternity. But then, on the other hand, unless, with Wordsworth,\nthey \u201chave ears to hear\u201d\n\n \u201cThe still, sad music of humanity,\u201d\n\nthey will miss the real lesson which the \u201cwonder-works of God and\nNature\u2019s hand\u201d are meant to teach\u2015\u2015to wit, the infinitely greater\nworth and _beauty_ of a single human soul, even the lowest and most\ndegraded, as a world in which are wrought, or can be wrought, the\n\u201cwonder-works\u201d of _grace_. The love of Nature never yet made a\nmisanthrope. The poet who could write\n\n \u201cTo me\n High mountains are a feeling, but the hum\n Of human cities torture,\u201d\n\nhad been stung into misanthropy before he \u201cfled\u201d to Nature, and would\nrather have found in Nature\u2019s bosom a sublime and tender love of\nmankind, had he not possessed (as some one has well said of him) \u201cthe\neagle\u2019s _wing_ without the eagle\u2019s _eye_,\u201d so that \u201cwhile he soared\nabove the world\u201d he \u201ccould not gaze upon the sun of Truth.\u201d\n\nSuch having been my cogitations as I stood on Mt. Marcy, you will not\nthink it pedantry that I record them here.\n\nDescending, we returned to the camp at the Notch, where we had left\nour baggage, then struck into the trail for the Iron-Works (of which\nanon). This trail, though well worn, is very tiresome, owing to the\nnumber of trees that have fallen across it, obliging you to crawl a\ngood deal. But we were glad to have seen the \u201cFlumes\u201d of the\n\u201cOpalescent\u201d\u2015\u2015another poetic name, which obviously means \u201cbeginning to\nbe opal,\u201d or _resembling_ that hue. But, unfortunately, there are\nvarious kinds of opal; and since the water had nothing of a milky\ntinge, the bestower of the name must have meant the _brown_ opal, an\nimpure and inferior sort. I therefore deem the name infelicitous. The\nonly color-epithet for clear and shallow waters, whether running or\nstill, is _amber_. Witness Milton, in _Paradise Lost_:\n\n \u201cWhere the river of bliss through midst of heaven\n Rolls o\u2019er Elysian flowers her _amber_ stream.\u201d\n\nAnd again, in _Comus_:\n\n \u201cSabrina fair!\n Listen where thou art sitting\n Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,\n In twisted braids of lilies knitting\n The loose train of thy _amber_-dropping hair!\u201d\n\nThe \u201cFlumes\u201d are fine\u2015\u2015too fine to be called flumes, according to the\ndictionary sense of the term. They are chasms of considerable depth\nand length. But I must hasten on, like the river by which we are\nloitering.\n\nOur camp that night was on the shore of Colden Lake\u2015\u2015quite a pretty\nlittle lake of its kind. But all lakes seemed (to me, at least)\napologies for lakes after the Upper Au Sable. From our camp we could\nsee where Lake Avalanche lay\u2015\u2015not a mile, we were told, from Colden.\nThe Judge and Colonel made an agreement with the guide to visit Lake\nAvalanche next morning early: but, when the time came, they found\nslumber too sweet, as I had anticipated they would. _I_ had no\nhankering to accompany them, because, for one thing, they would have\nhad to trudge through a regular swamp, the guide said\u2015\u2015a kind of\nwalking I particularly dislike; while, for another thing, it was easy\nto imagine the lake from the sloping cliffs that shut it in. These\nreminded us of the Lower Au Sable, but, being bare and scarred, would\nhave evidently a very inferior effect. So Avalanche, like \u201cYarrow,\u201d\nwent \u201cunvisited.\u201d\n\nIt was a matter of necessity now to push on to the Iron-Works. Our\nprovisions had run out; so we made the seven miles that Sunday\nmorning, and reached our destination in good time for dinner. The\ntrail was the best we had seen yet. We passed \u201cCalamity Pond,\u201d so\ncalled from a Mr. Henderson, one of the owners of the Iron-Works,\nhaving shot himself there accidentally. He laid his revolver on a rock\nnear the pond, and, on taking it up, discharged it into his side. On\nthis rock now stands a neat monument erected by filial affection.\n\nAs we entered the deserted village still called the Iron-Works (though\nsaid works have been abandoned twenty years), a shower of rain\nfell\u2015\u2015the first we had met. (Such a run of fine weather as we had been\nfavored with is very rare in the Adirondacks.) The only occupied house\nbelongs to a Mr. M\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015, who, while disclaiming to keep an inn or\npublic-house of any kind, accommodates passing tourists, and even\nboarders. The table was good enough, especially after our frugal meals\nin the woods; but I cannot say as much for the beds in comparison with\nthe camps. He had to put us for the night in another house belonging\nto him, but which had not been used, he said, this year, and looked as\nif it had not been used for several years. The bedsteads, too,\nsurprised us by not breaking down in the night; and two of us had to\noccupy one bed. However, we contrived to sleep pretty well, and rose\nnext morning quite ready for \u201cIndian Pass.\u201d Fortunately, Mrs. M\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\nwas able to let us have enough provisions for the remainder of our\ntramp; but when we came to \u201cfoot\u201d the bill, it was unexpectedly\n\u201csteep.\u201d People must \u201cmake,\u201d you see, in a place like this.\n\nStarting after breakfast that Monday morning, we took the shorter\nroute by way of Lake Henderson. We were not sorry to get a good view\nof this lake, but our voyage on it was far from pleasant. A guide from\nM\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2019s came with us. He had two boats: one a sort of \u201cscow\u201d with a\npaddle, the other a boat like Trumble\u2019s, only lighter and smaller.\nTrumble and brother, dog and baggage, went in the scow; we three in\nthe other, with the guide for oarsman. Our boat was loaded to within\nthree inches of the water\u2019s edge, and, there being a slight breeze, it\nwas the greatest risk I ever ran of an upset. Had the breeze\nincreased, we must have gone over. All three of us could swim; but to\nrisk a drenching with its consequences, and under such circumstances,\nseemed to me the most provoking stupidity. One of us might easily have\ngone in the scow. The guide was to blame, for he knew the boat\u2019s\ncapacity. However, through the favor of Our Lady and the angels, under\nwhose joint protection our excursion had been placed, we were safely\nlanded, and soon found ourselves in the woods once more, and on a\ntrail that seemed made for wild-cats.\n\nBut now our fears of rain were verified. The menacing west had not\nhindered us from setting out; but we found the shelter of trees\ninadequate, and, of course, they kept dripping upon us after the\nshower had passed over. In short, we got wet enough to feel very\nuncomfortable; and the sun could not penetrate to us satisfactorily.\nWe had hoped the rain was a mere thunder-shower; but when we saw more\nclouds, dense and black, we made up our minds that we were \u201cin for\nit.\u201d Trumble put forth the assurance that nobody ever caught cold in\nthe woods. But I, less contented with this than the others, resolved\nto try the supernatural. I vowed Our Blessed Lady some Masses for the\nsouls in purgatory most devoted to her; and behold, as each succeeding\ncloud came resolutely on, the sun broke through it triumphantly, till,\nafter an hour or two, all danger had disappeared, and we were left to\nfinish our journey under a cloudless sky. Of course this favorable\nturn may have been due to purely natural causes; but I mention it as\nwhat it seemed to me, because I know you believe in \u201cspecial\nprovidences,\u201d and always rejoice in acknowledging Our Blessed Mother\u2019s\ngoodness and power.\n\nThe trail became more perilous to eyes and ankles than any we had\nfollowed yet. Indeed, it was a constant marvel that we met with no\nsprain or fracture. Such an accident would have been extremely\nawkward, remote as we were from the habitations of men, to say nothing\nof surgical aid. But, of course, we took every care, and the prayers\nof friends, together with our own, drew Heaven\u2019s protection round us.\n\nAt last we came in sight of the gigantic cliff which forms the western\nside of the pass\u2015\u2015very grand, certainly, but not what we had\nanticipated from the glowing accounts of brother-pilgrims. Then, too,\nwe saw but that one side; being _on_ the other ourselves, and not\nbetween the two, as we had supposed we should be. When we reached\n\u201cSummit Rock,\u201d we stopped for dinner. The view that met our\nretrospection from this rock repaid our climb. In fact, it was this\nview alone that made us think anything of \u201cIndian Pass.\u201d \u201cSummit\nRock,\u201d though, is not easy to scale; and I, having taken the wrong\ntrack, in turning to descend had the narrowest escape from a very\nserious fall. I shall always feel grateful for that preservation when\nI recall our Adirondack experiences. How forcibly and consolingly the\nwords of the Psalmist came to me then, as they do now: \u201cQuoniam\nangelis suis mandavit de te, ut custodiant te in omnibus viis tuis. In\nmanibus portabunt te, ne forte offendas ad lapidem pedem tuum\u201d (Ps.\nxc. 11, 12.[87])\n\nWe camped that afternoon, and for the night, at a spot about \u201chalf\nway\u201d\u2015\u2015that is, half way between the Iron-Works and North Elba (a\ndistance of eighteen miles); for the pass proper is of no great\nlength. The camp there is excellent. We reached it in time for the\nJudge and myself to get a capital bath, while the Colonel caught a\nstring of trout, before supper. We did not cook all the fish for that\nmeal, but kept a supply for the morrow\u2019s breakfast. The trout thus\nreserved were hung upon a stump about fifteen yards from the camp, at\nthe risk of having them stolen in the night by some animal. And, sure\nenough, some animal was after them in the night, for the dog got up\nand growled, and went outside; but this scared the marauder away, for\nwe found the fish untouched in the morning.\n\nTuesday dawned serenely, and we lost no time after breakfast in\ngetting under way for Blinn\u2019s Farm\u2015\u2015our chosen destination in North\nElba County. The walk seemed interminably long, but was almost all\ndown-hill, and over ground covered with dried leaves. We lunched,\nrather than dined, on the march; for we knew a good dinner was to be\nhad at the farm. The last difficult feat to be performed was crossing\nour old friend the Au Sable, which flows between the hill we had\ndescended and the slope leading up to Blinn\u2019s. We had to take boots\nand socks off, and make our way over a few large stones, some of which\nwere awkwardly far apart. The others managed it all right. _I_ might\nas well have kept boots and socks on; for just as I got to the last\nstone but one, and where a jump was necessary, I slipped and came down\non my hands, sousing boots and socks under water. Even this, though,\nwas preferable to slipping ankle-deep into black mud, as I had done\nagain and again on the tramp; and when we gained the house and changed\nour things, I was as well off as anybody.\n\nFortunately, they had room for us. Very pleasant people. And they got\nus up a first-rate dinner, the most delectable feature whereof was (to\nme, at least) some rashers of English bacon. This and the farm itself,\nwith its look of peace and honest toil, took me back to long ago\u2015\u2015to\nmy first English home; for the pretty little parsonage where I was\nborn was close to two farmhouses. But farm, dinner, and all were\nnothing to the view commanded by this spot\u2015\u2015the most exquisite\npanorama of mountains it had ever been my happiness to contemplate.\nFacing us, as we turned to look back on the wilderness we had escaped\nfrom, was Indian Pass, the true character of which is best seen from\nthis distance. To the left of us stood Marcy in majestic silence.\nBetween him and the pass were the \u201cscarp\u00e8d cliffs\u201d of Avalanche. From\nsouth to west was a lower line of heights, apparelled in a thick blue\nhaze. And when, an hour later, we saw the sun set along this line, the\nevening azure settled on the other peaks around us, and Marcy\u2019s signal\ngleamed and flashed like a red star.\n\nAnd here I must bid you adieu, my dear friend. However poorly I have\ncomplied with your request, it has been no small pleasure to me. I\nhope you will catch a fair _glimpse_ of the Adirondacks, which is all\nI pretend to give. But I must add that when we three travellers got\nback to this dear old lake, we were unanimous in declaring that, after\nall we had seen, there was nothing to surpass Lake George, nor\nanything that would _wear_ so well. _Vale._\n\n\n [87] \u201cFor he hath given his angels charge over thee, to keep\n thee in all thy ways. In their hands they shall _bear thee\n up_, lest, perchance, thou dash thy foot against a stone.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nSIR THOMAS MORE.\n\n_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._\n\nFROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.\n\nXV.\n\n\nAs the night wore away the bonfires lighted in the public places were\nextinguished. Quiet and silence succeeded the tumult, the shouts,\ndances, and the surging waves of an excited populace rushing wildly\nthrough the streets of the capital. The ladies had deposited their\nborrowed charms upon the ebony and ivory of their solitary and hidden\ntoilets. Themselves wrapped in slumber within the heavy curtains of\ntheir luxurious couches, their brocade robes and precious jewels still\nwaited (hanging up or thrown here and there) the care of the active\nand busy chambermaids. Of all the sensation, triumphs, and\nirresistible charms there was left nothing but the wreck, disorder,\nand faded flowers. And thus passes everything appertaining to man.\nBeauty lives but a day; an hour even may behold it withered and cut\ndown.\n\nThe sun had scarcely risen when a number of carts, mounted by vigilant\nupholsterers, were driven up, in order to remove the scaffolds, the\ntriumphal arches, and strip them of their soiled drapery and withered\ngarlands. The avenues of the palace were deserted, and not a courtier\nhad yet appeared. One man, however, all alone, slowly surveyed the\nsuperb apartments of the Tower. He paused successively before each\npanel of tapestry, examining them in all their details, or he took\nfrom their places the large chairs with curved backs, that he might\ninspect them more closely; he then consulted a great memorandum-book\nhe held in his hand.\n\n\u201cAh! Master Cloth, you are not to be cheated. It is not possible that\nSignor Ludovico Bonvisi has sold you this velvet at six angels the\npiece; and six hundred pieces more, do you say? But I will show you I\nam not so easily duped as you would think by the thieving merchants of\nmy good city. The rascals understand very well how to manage their\naffairs; but we will also manage to clip some of their wings.\u201d\n\nAnd Henry VIII. gave a stroke with his penknife through the column he\nwished to diminish; it was in this way he made his additions.\n\n\u201cThe devil! This violet carpet covering the courtyard is enormously\ndear.\n\n\u201cMistress Anne, your reception here has ruined me. We must find some\nmeans of making all this up. These women are full of whims, and of\nvery dear whims too. A wife is a most ruinous thing; everything is\nruinous. They cannot move without spending money. It has been\nnecessary to give enormous sums right and left\u2015\u2015to doctors of\nuniversities, to Parliament; and all that is an entire loss, for they\nwill clamor none the less loudly. There are men in Parliament who will\nsell themselves, and yet they will ridicule me just as much as the\nothers, in order to appear independent. Verily, it is terror alone\nthat can be used to advantage; with one hand she replenishes the\npurse, while with the other she at the same time executes my commands.\n\n\u201cThis fringe is only an inch wide; it cannot weigh as much as they say\nit does here. I counted on the rest of the cardinal\u2019s money; but\nnothing\u2015\u2015he had not a penny, or at any rate he has been able to hide\nhis pieces from me, so that I could not find a trace of them.\n\n\u201cNorthumberland has written me there was nothing at Cawood but a box,\nwhere he found, carefully tied up in a little sack of red linen, a\nhair shirt and a discipline, which have doubtless served our friend\nWolsey to expiate the sins I have made him commit.\u201d And as these\nreflections were passing through his mind, the king experienced a very\ndisagreeable sensation at the sight of a man dressed in black, who\napproached him on tiptoe. Henry VIII. did not at all like being\nsurprised in his paroxysms of suspicion and avarice.\n\n\u201cWhat does that caterpillar want with me at this early hour?\u201d he said,\nlooking at Cromwell, who was in full dress, frizzled, and in his\nboots, as though he had not been to bed, and had not had so much to do\nthe day before.\n\nThe king endeavored to conceal the memorandum he held in his hand; but\nwho could hide anything from Cromwell? He was delighted to perceive\nthe embarrassment and vexation of his master, because it was one of\nhis principles that he held these great men in his power, when favor\nbegan to abate, through the fear they felt of having their faults\npublicly exposed by those who had known them intimately. He therefore\ntook a malicious pleasure in proving to the king that his precautions\nhad been useless, and that he knew perfectly well the nature of his\nmorning\u2019s occupation, for which he feigned the greatest admiration.\n\n\u201cWhat method!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cWhat vast intellect! How is your majesty\nable to accomplish all that you undertake, passing from the grandest\nprojects to the most minute details, and that always with the same\nfacility, the same unerring judgment?\u201d\n\nHenry VIII. regarded Cromwell attentively, as if to be assured that\nthis eulogy was sincere; but he observed an indescribable expression\nof hypocrisy hovering on the pinched lips of the courtier. He\ncontracted his brow, but resolved to carry on the deception.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he said, \u201cI reproach myself with this extravagance. I should\nhave kept the furniture of my predecessors. There are so many poor to\nrelieve! I am overwhelmed with their demands; the treasury is empty, I\ncannot afford it, and I have done very wrong in granting myself this\nindulgence.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome!\u201d replied Cromwell, \u201cthink of your majesty reproaching yourself\nfor an outlay absolutely indispensable. Very soon, I suppose, you will\nnot permit yourself to buy a cloak or a doublet of Flanders wool,\nwhile you leave in the enjoyment of their property these monks who\nhave never been favorable to your cause. The treasury is empty, you\nsay; give me a fortnight\u2019s time and a commission, and I will replenish\nit to overflowing.\u201d\n\nThe king smiled. \u201cYes, yes, I know very well; you want me to appoint\nyou inspector of my monks. You would make them disgorge, you say.\u201d\n\n\u201cA set of drones and idlers!\u201d[88] cried Cromwell. \u201cYou have only to\ndrive them all out, take possession of their property, and put it in\nthe treasury; it will make an immense sum. They are to be found in\nevery corner. When you have dispossessed them, you will be able to\nprovide for them according to your own good pleasure, your own\nnecessities, and those of the truly poor. Give me the commission!\u201d\n\nCromwell burned to have this commission, of which he had dreamed as\nthe only practicable means of enriching himself at his leisure, and\nmaking some incalcuable depredations; because how could it possibly be\nknown exactly how much he would be able to extort by fear or by force?\nHaving the king to sustain him and for an accomplice, he had nothing\nto fear. He had already spoken of it to him, but in a jesting manner,\napparently; it was his custom to sow thus in the mind of Henry VIII. a\nlong time in advance, and as if by chance, the seeds of evil from\nwhich he hoped ultimately to gather the fruits.\n\nAt the moment this idea appeared very lucrative to the king; but a\nsense of interior justice and the usage of government enlightened his\nmind.\n\n\u201cThis,\u201d said he, \u201cis your old habit of declaiming against the monks\nand convents. As for idleness, methinks the life of the most indolent\none among them would be far from equalling that which yourself and the\ngallants of my court lead every day in visits, balls, and other\ndissipations. Verily, it cannot be denied that these religious live a\ngreat deal less extravagantly than you, for the price of a single one\nof your ruffs would be sufficient to clothe them for a whole year. All\nthese young people speak at random and through caprice, without having\nthe least idea of what they say. I love justice above all things. Had\nyou the slightest knowledge of politics and of government, you would\nknow that an association of men who enjoy their property in common\nderive from it much greater advantages, because there are a greater\nnumber to partake of it. These monks, who are lodged under the same\nroof, lighted and warmed by the same fire, nursed, when they are sick,\nby those who live thus together, find in that communion of all goods\nan ease and comfort which it would be impossible to attain if they\nwere each apart and separated from the other. If, now, I should drive\nthem from their convents and take possession of their estates, what\nwould become of them? And who would be able so to increase in a moment\nthe revenues of the country as to procure each one individually that\nwhich they enjoyed in common together? And, above all, these monks are\nmen like other men; they choose to live together and unite their\nfortunes: I see not what right I have to deprive them of their\nproperty, since it has been legally acquired by donations, natural\ninheritance, or right of birth. \u2018These church people monopolize\neverything,\u2019 say the crack-brained fools who swarm around me; and\nwhere would they have me look for men who are good for something?\nAmong those who know not either how to read or write, save in so far\nas needs to fabricate the most insignificant billet, or who in turn\nspend a day in endeavoring to decipher it? I would like to see them,\nthese learned gentlemen, holding the office of lord chancellor and the\nresponsibility of the kingdom. They might be capable of signing a\ntreaty of commerce with France to buy their swords, and with Holland\nto purchase their wines. These coxcombs, these lispers of the \u201cRomance\nof the Rose,\u201d with their locks frizzled, their waists padded, and\ntheir vain foolishness, know naught beyond the drawing of their swords\nand slashing right and left. Or it would be necessary for me to bring\nthe bourgeois of the city, seat them on their sacks, declaring before\nthe judge that they do not know how to write, and sending to bring the\npublic scribe to announce to their grandfathers the arrival of the\nnewly born. Cromwell, you are very zealous in my service; I commend\nyou for it; but sometimes\u2015\u2015and it is all very natural\u2015\u2015you manifest\nthe narrow and contracted ideas of the obscure class from whence you\nsprang, which render you incapable of judging of these things from the\nheight where I, prince and king, am placed.\u201d\n\nCromwell felt deeply humiliated by the contempt Henry VIII.\ncontinually mingled with his favor in recalling incessantly to his\nrecollection the fact of his being a _parvenu_, sustained in his\nposition only by his gracious favor and all-powerful will, and then\nonly while he was useful or agreeable. He hesitated a moment, not\nknowing how to reply; but, like a serpent that unfolds his coils in\nevery way, and whose scales fall or rise at will at the same moment\nand with the same facility, he said:\n\n\u201cYour Majesty says truly. I am only what you have deigned to make me;\nI acknowledge it with joy, and I would rather owe all I am to you than\npossess it by any natural right. I will be silent, if your majesty\nbids me; though I would fain present a reflection that your remark has\nsuggested.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak,\u201d said the king, with a smile of indulgence excited by this\nadroit admission.\n\n\u201cI will first remark that your majesty still continues to sacrifice\nyourself to the happiness and prosperity of your people; consequently,\nit seems to me that they should be willing, in following the grand\ndesigns of your majesty, to yield everything. Thus they would only\nhave to unite the small to the greater monasteries, and oblige them to\nreceive the monks whose property had been annexed to the crown. The\ntreasury would in this way be very thoroughly replenished, and no one\nwould have a right to complain or think himself wronged.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d said the king, \u201cthey are of different orders.\u201d\n\nHowever, he made this objection with less firmness; and it appeared to\nCromwell that his mind was becoming familiarized with this luminous\nidea of possessing himself of a number of very rich and\nwell-cultivated ecclesiastical estates, which, sold at a high price,\nwould produce an enormous sum of money.\n\nCromwell, observing his success, feared to compromise himself and make\nthe king refuse if he urged the matter too persistently; promising\nhimself to return another time to the subject, he said nothing more,\nand, adroitly changing the conversation, spoke of all that had\noccurred the day before, and dwelt strongly on the enthusiasm of the\npeople.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d said the king, \u201cthat enthusiasm affects me but little! The\npeople are like a flea-bitten horse, which we let go to right or left,\naccording to circumstances; and I place no reliance on these\ndemonstrations excited by the view of a flagon of beer or a fountain\nof wine flowing at a corner of the street. There are, nevertheless,\ngerms of discord living and deeply rooted in the heart of this nation.\nAppearances during a festival day are not sufficient, Cromwell. Listen\nto me. It is essential that all should yield, all obey. I am not a\nchild to be amused with a toy!\u201d And he regarded him with an expression\nof wrath as sudden as it was singular.\n\n\u201cThink you,\u201d he continued with gleaming eyes, \u201cthat I am happy, that I\nbelieve I have taken the right direction? It is not that I would\nretract or retrace my steps; so far from that, the more I feel\nconvinced that it is wrong, the more resolved am I to crush the\ninspiration that would recall me. No! Henry VIII. neither deceives\nhimself nor turns back; and you, if ever you reveal the secret of my\nwoes, the violence and depth of your fall will make you understand the\nstrength of the arm you will have called down on your head.\u201d\n\nCromwell felt astounded. How often he paid thus dearly for his vile\nand rampant ambition! What craft must have been continually engendered\nin that deformed soul, in order to prevent it from being turned from\nits goal of riches and domination, always to put a constraint upon\nhimself, to sacrifice in order to obtain, to yield in order to govern,\nto tremble in order to make himself feared!\n\n\u201cMore,\u201d he said in desperation.\n\n\u201cMore!\u201d replied the king. \u201cThat name makes me sick! Well, what of him\nnow?\u201d\n\n\u201cSire,\u201d replied Cromwell vehemently, \u201cyou speak of discords and fears\nfor the future; I should be wanting in courage if I withheld the truth\nfrom the king. More and Rochester\u2015\u2015these are the men who censure and\ninjure you in the estimation of your people. There are proofs against\nthem, but they are moral proofs, and insufficient for rigid justice to\nact upon. They refuse to take the oath, and it is impossible to\ninclude them in the judgment against the Holy Maid of Kent. They would\nbe acquitted unanimously. However, you have heard it from her own\nlips. You know that she is acquainted with them, has spoken to them;\nthis she has declared in presence of your majesty. They were in the\nchurch; she had let them know she was to appear at that hour. Well, it\nis impossible to prove anything against them; they will be justified,\nelated, and triumphant. Parliament, reassured, encouraged by this\nexample of tenacity and rebellion, will recover from the first fright\nwith which the terror of your name had inspired them. They will raise\ntheir heads; your authority will be despised; they will rise against\nyou; they will resist you on every side, and compel you to recall\nQueen Catherine back to this palace, adorned by the presence of your\nyoung wife. And then what shame, what humiliation for you, and what a\ntriumph for her! And this is why, sire, I have not been able to sleep\none moment last night, and why I am the first to enter the palace this\nmorning, where I expected to wait until your majesty awoke. But,\u201d he\ncontinued, \u201czeal for your glory carries me, perhaps, too far. Well\nthen you will punish me, and I shall not murmur.\u201d\n\n\u201cRecall Catherine!\u201d cried the king, who, after this name, had not\nheard a syllable of Cromwell\u2019s discourse; and he clenched his fists\nwith a contraction of inexpressible fury. \u201cRecall Catherine, after\nhaving driven her out in the face of all justice, of all honor! No, I\nshall have to drink to the dregs this bitter cup I have poured out for\nmyself; and coming ages will for ever resound with the infamy of my\nname. Though the earth should open, though the heavens should fall and\ncrush me, yet Thomas More shall die! Go, Cromwell,\u201d he cried, his eyes\ngleaming with fury; \u201clet him swear or let him die! Go, worthy\nmessenger of a horrible crime; get thee from before my eyes. It is you\nwho have launched me upon this ocean, where I can sustain myself only\nby blood. Cursed be the day when you first crossed my sight, infamous\nfavorite of the most cruel of masters! Go, go! and bring me the head\nof my friend, of the only man I esteem, whom I still venerate, and let\nthere no longer remain aught but monsters in this place.\u201d\n\nCromwell recoiled. \u201cInfamous favorite!\u201d he repeated to himself. \u201cMay I\nbut be able one day to avenge myself for the humiliations with which\nyou have loaded me, and may I see in my turn remorse tear your heart,\nand the anger of God punish the crimes I have aided you in\ncommitting!\u201d He departed.\n\nHenry VIII. was stifled with rage. He crushed under his foot the\nupholsterer\u2019s memorandum; he opened a window and walked out on the\nbalcony, from whence the view extended far beyond the limits of the\ncity. As he advanced, he was struck by the soft odor and freshness\nwhich was exhaled by the morning breeze from a multitude of flowers\nand plants placed there. He stooped down to examine them, then leaned\nupon the heavy stone balustrade, polished and carved like lace, and\nlooked beyond in the distance.\n\nThe immense movement of an entire population began in every direction.\nThere was the market, whither flocked the dealers, the country people,\nand the diligent and industrious housewives. Farther on was the wharf,\nwhere the activity was not less; soldiers of the marine, cabin boys,\nsailors, ship-builders, captains\u2015\u2015all were hurrying thither. Troops of\nworkmen were going to their work on the docks, with tools in hand and\ntheir bread under their arms. The windows of the rich alone remained\nclosed to the light of day, to the noise and the busy stir without.\nThere they rolled casks; here they transported rough stones, plaster,\nand carpenter\u2019s timber. Horses pulled, whips cracked\u2015\u2015in a word, the\nentire city was aroused; every minute the noise increased and the\nactivity redoubled.\n\n\u201cThese men are like a swarm of bees in disorder,\u201d said Henry VIII.;\n\u201cand yet they carry tranquil minds to their work, while their king is\nsuffering the keenest tortures in the midst of them; yet is there not\none of them who, in looking at this palace, does not set at the summit\nof happiness him who reigns and commands here. \u2018If I were king!\u2019 say\nthis ignorant crowd when they wish to express the idea of happiness\nand supreme enjoyment of the will. Do they know what it costs the king\nto accomplish that will? Why do I not belong to their sphere? I should\nat least spend my days in the same state of indifference in which they\nsleep, live, and die. They are miserable, say they; what have they to\nmake them miserable? They are never sure of bread, they reply; but do\nthey know what it is to be satiated with abundance and devoured by\ninsatiable desires? Then death threatens us and ends everything\u2015\u2015that\nterrible judgment when kings will be set apart, to be interrogated and\npunished more severely. More, the recollection of your words, your\ncounsel, has never ceased to live in my mind. Had I but taken your\nadvice, if I had sent Anne away, to-day I should have been free and\nthought no more of her; while now, regarded with horror by the\nuniverse, I hate the whole world. But let me drown these thoughts. I\nwant wine\u2015\u2015drunkenness and oblivion.\u201d And pronouncing these words, he\nrushed suddenly from the balcony and disappeared.\n\nIn the depths of his narrow prison there was another also who had\nsought to catch a breath of the exhilarating air with which the dawn\nof a beautiful day had reanimated the universe. It was not upon a\nbalustrade of roses and perfumes that he leaned, but upon a miserable,\nworm-eaten table, blackened by time, and discolored by the tears with\nwhich for centuries it had been watered. It was not a powerful city, a\npeople rich, industrious, and submissive, that his eyes were fixed\nupon, but the sombre bars of a small, grated window, whose solitary\npane he had opened.\n\nHe sat with his head bowed upon one of his hands. He seemed tranquil,\nbut plunged in profound melancholy; for God, in the language of holy\nScripture, had not yet descended into Joseph\u2019s prison to console him,\nnor sent his angel before him to fortify his servant. And yet, had any\none been able to compare the speechless rage, the frightful but vain\nremorse, which corroded the king\u2019s heart, with the deep but silent\nsorrow that overwhelmed the soul of the just man, such a one would\nhave declared Sir Thomas More to be happy. And still his sufferings\nwere cruelly intense, for he thought of his children; he was in the\nmidst of them, and his heart had never left them.\n\n\u201cThey know ere this,\u201d he said to himself, \u201cthat I shall not return.\nMargaret, my dear Margaret, will have told them all!\u201d And he was not\nthere to console them. What would become of them without him,\nabandoned to the fury of the king, ready, perhaps, to revenge himself\neven upon them for the obstinacy with which he reproached their\nfather?\n\nWhilst indulging in these harrowing reflections he heard the keys\ncautiously turned in the triple locks of his prison; and soon a man\nappeared, all breathless with fear and haste. It was Kingston, the\nlieutenant of the Tower. He entered, and, gasping for breath, held the\ndoor behind him.\n\n\u201cMy dear Sir Thomas,\u201d he cried, \u201cblessed be God! you are acquitted,\nyour innocence is proclaimed. The council has been assembled all\nnight, and they have decided that you could not in any manner be\nimplicated in the prosecution. Oh! how glad I am. But the Holy Maid of\nKent has been condemned to be hanged at Tyburn. Judge now if this was\nnot a dangerous business! I have never doubted your innocence; but you\nhave some very furious and very powerful enemies. That Cromwell is a\nmost formidable man. My dear Sir Thomas, how rejoiced I am!\u201d\n\nA gleam of joy lighted the heart of Sir Thomas.\n\n\u201cCan it be?\u201d he cried. \u201cSay it again, Master Kingston. What! I shall\nsee my children again? I shall die in peace among them? No, I cannot\nbelieve in so much happiness. But that poor girl\u2015\u2015is she really\ncondemned?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d cried Kingston; \u201cbut here are you already thinking of this nun.\nBy my faith, I have thought of nobody but you. And the Bishop of\nRochester has also been acquitted.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe has, then, already been in the Tower?\u201d cried More.\n\n\u201cJust above you\u2015\u2015door to the left\u2015\u2015No. 3,\u201d replied Kingston briefly,\nin the manner of his calling.\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d cried Sir Thomas, \u201cis it he, then, I have heard walking above\nmy head? I knew not why, but I listened to those slow and measured\nsteps with a secret anxiety. I tried to imagine what might be the age\nand appearance of this companion in misfortune; and it was my friend,\nmy dearest friend! O my dear Kingston! that I could see him. I beg of\nyou to let me go to him at once!\u201d\n\n\u201cOf what are you thinking?\u201d exclaimed Kingston\u2015\u2015\u201cwithout permission!\nYou do not know that I have come here secretly, and if they hear of it\nI shall be greatly compromised. The order was to hold you in solitary\nconfinement; it has not been rescinded, and already I transgress it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! I cannot see him,\u201d repeated Sir Thomas. \u201cI am in solitary\nconfinement.\u201d And his joy instantly faded before the reflection which\ntold him that the real crime of which he was accused had not been\nexpiated.\n\nPenetrated by this sentiment, he took the keeper\u2019s hand. \u201cMy dear\nKingston,\u201d he said, \u201cyou are right\u2015\u2015you would surely compromise\nyourself; for my case is not entirely decided yet. As you say, I have\nsome very powerful enemies. However, they will be able to do naught\nagainst me more than God permits them, and it is this thought alone\nthat animates and sustains my courage.\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, nay, you need not be uneasy,\u201d replied Kingston; \u201cthey can do\nnothing more against you. I have listened to everything they have\nsaid, and have not lost a single word. You will be set at liberty\nto-day, after you have taken an oath the formula of which they have\ndrawn up expressly for you, as I have been told by the secretary.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! the oath,\u201d cried Sir Thomas, penetrated with a feeling of the\nkeenest apprehension. \u201cI know it well!\u201d\n\n\u201cFear naught, then, Sir Thomas,\u201d replied Kingston, struck by the\nalteration he observed in his countenance, a moment before so full of\nhope and joy. \u201cThey have arranged this oath for you; they know your\nscrupulous delicacy of conscience and your religious sentiments. This\nis the one they will demand of the ecclesiastics, and you are the only\nlayman of whom they will exact it. You see there is no reason here why\nyou should be uneasy.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d said Sir Thomas, whose heart was pierced by every word of the\nlieutenant, \u201cyou are greatly mistaken, my poor Kingston. It is to\ncondemn and not to save me they have done all this. The oath\u2015\u2015yes; it\nis that oath, like a ferocious beast, which they destine to devour me.\nAh! why did the hope of escaping it for a moment come to gladden my\nheart? My Lord and my God, have mercy on me!\u201d\n\nSir Thomas paused, overcome by his feelings, and was unable to utter\nanother word.\n\n\u201cMy dear Sir Thomas,\u201d said Kingston, amazed, \u201cwhat means this? Even if\nyou refuse to take this oath they will doubtless set you at liberty.\nCromwell has said as much to the secretary. But what should prevent\nyou from taking it, if the priests do not refuse?\u201d\n\n\u201cDear Kingston,\u201d replied Sir Thomas, \u201cI cannot explain that to you\nnow, as it is one of the things I keep between God and myself. I know\nright well, also, that these prison walls have ears, that they re-echo\nall they hear, and that one cannot even sigh here without it being\nreported.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are dissatisfied, then, with being under my care!\u201d exclaimed\nKingston, who was extremely narrow-minded, and whose habit of living,\nand still more of commanding, in the Tower had brought him to regard\nit as a habitation by no means devoid of attractions.\n\n\u201cYou may very well believe, Sir Thomas,\u201d he continued, \u201cthat I have\nnot forgotten the many favors and proofs of friendship I have received\nfrom you; that I am entirely devoted to you; and what I most regret is\nnot having it in my power to treat you as I would wish in giving you\nbetter fare at my table. Fear of the king\u2019s anger alone prevents me,\nand I at least would be glad to feel that you were satisfied with the\ngood-will I have shown.\u201d\n\nMore smiled kindly: for the delicate sensibility and exquisite tact\nwhich in an instant discovered to him how entirely it was wanting in\nothers never permitted from him other expressions than those of a\npleasantry as gentle as it was refined.\n\n\u201cIn good sooth, my dear lieutenant, I am quite contented with you; you\nare a good friend, and would most certainly like to treat me well. If,\nthen, I should ever happen to show any dissatisfaction with your\ntable, you must instantly turn me out of your house.\u201d And he smiled at\nthe idea.\n\n\u201cYou jest, Sir Thomas,\u201d said Kingston.\n\n\u201cIn truth, my dear friend, I have nevertheless but little inclination\nto jest,\u201d replied More.\n\n\u201cWell, all that I regret is not having it in my power to treat you as\nI would wish,\u201d continued Kingston in the same tone. \u201cI should have\nbeen so happy to have made you entirely comfortable here!\u201d\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d said Sir Thomas, \u201clet us speak no more of that; I am very well\nconvinced of it, and I thank you for the attachment you have shown me\nto-day. I only regret that I cannot be permitted to see the Bishop of\nRochester for a moment.\u201d\n\n\u201cImpossible!\u201d cried Kingston. \u201cIf it were discovered, I should lose my\nplace.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen I no longer insist,\u201d said Sir Thomas; \u201cbut let me, at least,\nwrite him a few words.\u201d\n\nKingston made no reply and looked very thoughtful. He hesitated.\n\n\u201cCarry the letter yourself,\u201d said Sir Thomas, \u201cand, unless you tell\nit, no person will know it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou think so?\u201d said Kingston, embarrassed. \u201cBut then my Lord\nRochester must burn it immediately; for if they should find it in his\nhands, they would try to find out how he received it; and, Sir Thomas,\nI know not how it is done, but they know everything.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey will never be able to find this out. O Master Kingston!\u201d said\nMore, \u201clet me write him but one word.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well, haste, then; for it is time I should go. If they came and\nasked for me, and found me not, I would be lost.\u201d\n\nSir Thomas, fearing he might retract, hastened immediately to write\nthe following words on a scrap of paper:\n\n \u201cWhat feelings were mine, dear friend, on learning that you\n are imprisoned here so near me, you may imagine. What a\n consolation it would be to clasp you in my arms! But that is\n denied me; God so wills it. During the first doleful night I\n spent in this prison my eyes never once closed in sleep. I\n heard your footsteps; I listened, I counted them most\n anxiously. I asked myself who this unfortunate creature\n could be who, like myself, groaned in this place; if it were\n long since he had seen the light of heaven, and why he was\n imprisoned in this den of stone. Alas! and it was you. Now I\n see you, I follow you everywhere. What anguish is mine to be\n so near you, yet not be able to see or speak to you! Rap\n from time to time on the floor in such a manner that I may\n know you are speaking to me; my heart will understand thine.\n It seems to me the voice of the stones will communicate your\n words. I shall listen night and day for your signals, and\n this will be a great consolation to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cHasten, Sir Thomas,\u201d said Kingston. \u201cI hear a noise in the yard; they\nare searching for me.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes,\u201d replied Sir Thomas.\n\n \u201cMy friend, they hurry me. Do you remember all you said to\n me at Chelsea the night you urged me not to accept the\n chancellorship? O my friend! how often I have thought of it.\n And you\u2015\u2015you also will be a victim, I fear. They hurry me,\n and I have so many things to say to you since the time I saw\n you last! I fear you suffer from cold in your cell. Ask\n Kingston for covering; for my sake he will give it you.\n Implore him to bring me your reply. A letter from you\u2015\u2015what\n happiness in my abandoned condition; for they will not\n permit Margaret to visit me. I am in solitary confinement.\n They will probably let me die slowly of misery, immured\n within these four walls. They fear the publicity of a trial;\n and men so quickly forget those who disappear from before\n their eyes. God, however, will not forget us, and we are\n ever in his keeping; for he says in holy Scripture: \u2018I carry\n you written in my hand, and a mother shall forget her child\n before I forget the soul that seeks me in sincerity of\n heart.\u2019 Farewell, dear friend; let us pray for each other. I\n love and cherish you in our Lord Jesus Christ, our precious\n Saviour and our only Redeemer.\n \u201cTHOMAS MORE.\u201d\n\nMeanwhile, Rumor, on her airy wing, in her indefatigable and rapid\ncourse, had very soon circulated throughout the country reports of\nHenry\u2019s enormities. The great multitudes of people who prostrated\nthemselves before the cross, carried it with reverence in their hands,\nand elevated it proudly above their heads, were astonished and\nindignant at these recitals of crime. Princes trembled on their\nthrones, and those who surrounded them lived in constant dread.\n\nThomas More, the model among men, the Bishop of Rochester, that among\nthe angels\u2015\u2015these men cast into a gloomy prison, separated from all\nthat was most dear to them, scarcely clothed, and fed on the coarse\nfare of criminals\u2015\u2015such outrages men discussed among themselves, and\nreported to the compassionate and generous hearts of their mothers and\nsisters.\n\nWill, then, no voice be raised in their defence? Will no one endeavor\nto snatch them from the tortures to which they are about to be\ndelivered up? Are the English people dead and their intellects\nstultified? Do relatives, friends, law, and honor no longer exist\namong this people? Have they become but a race of bloodthirsty\nexecutioners, a crowd of brutal slaves, who live on the grain the\nearth produces, and drink from the rivers that water it? Such were the\nthoughts which occupied them, circulating from mouth to mouth among\nthe tumultuous children of men.\n\nBut if this mass of human beings, always so indifferent and so\nperfectly selfish, felt thus deeply moved, what must have been the\nanguish of heart experienced by the faithful and sincere friend, what\nterror must have seized him, when, seated by his own quiet fireside,\nenjoying the retreat it afforded him, the voice of public indignation\ncame to announce that he was thus stricken in all his affections! For\nhe also, a native of a distant country, loved More. He had met him,\nand immediately his heart went out toward him. Who will explain this\nsublime mystery, this secret of God, this admirable and singular\nsympathy, which reveals one soul to another, and requires neither\nwords nor sounds, neither language nor gestures, in order to make it\nintelligible? \u201cI had no sooner seen Pierre Gilles,\u201d said More, \u201cthan I\nloved him as devotedly as though I had always known and loved him.\nThen I was at Antwerp, sent by the king to negotiate with the prince\nof Spain; I waited from day to day the end of the negotiations, and\nduring the four months I was separated from my wife and children,\nanxious as I was to return and embrace them, I could never be\nreconciled to the thought of leaving him. His conversation, fluent and\ninteresting, beguiled most agreeably my hours of leisure; hours and\ndays spent near him seemed to me like moments, they passed so rapidly.\nIn the flower of his age, he already possessed a vast deal of\nerudition; his soul above all\u2015\u2015his soul so beautiful, superior to his\ngenius\u2015\u2015inspired me with a devotion for him as deep as it was\ninviolable. Candor, simplicity, gentleness, and a natural inclination\nto be accommodating, a modesty seldom found, integrity above\ntemptation\u2015\u2015all virtues in fact, that combine to form the worthy\ncitizen\u2015\u2015were found united in him, and it would have been impossible\nfor me to have found in all the world a being more worthy of inspiring\nfriendship, or more capable of feeling and appreciating all its\ncharms.\u201d\n\nIn this manner he spoke before his children, and related to Margaret\nhow painful he found the separation from his friend. Often during the\nlong winter nights, when the wind whistled without and heavy\nsnow-flakes filled the air, he would press his hand upon his forehead,\nand his thoughts would speed across the sea. In imagination he would\nbe transported to Antwerp, would behold her immense harbor covered\nwith richly-laden vessels, her tall roofs and her long streets, and\nthe beautiful church of Notre Dame, with the court in front, where he\nso often walked with his friend. Then he entered the mansion of Pierre\nGilles; he traversed the court, mounted the steps; he found him at\nhome in the midst of his family; it seemed to him that he heard him\nspeak, and he prepared to give himself up to the charms of his\nconversation.\n\nThe cry of a child, the movement of a chair, came suddenly to blot out\nthis picture, dispel this sweet illusion, and recall him to the\nreality of the distance which separated them. An expression of pain\nand sorrow would pass over his features; and Margaret, from whom none\nof her father\u2019s thoughts escaped, would take his hand and say:\n\u201cFather, you are thinking about Pierre Gilles!\u201d\n\nA close correspondence had for a long time sweetened their mutual\nexile; but since the divorce was set in motion the king had become so\nsuspicious that he had all letters intercepted, and one no longer\ndared to write or communicate with any stranger. Thus they found\nthemselves deprived of this consolation.\n\nEager to obtain the slightest intelligence, questioning\nindiscriminately all whom he met\u2015\u2015merchants, strangers,\ntravellers\u2015\u2015Pierre Gilles endeavored by all possible means to obtain\nsome intelligence of his friend Thomas More. Whenever a sail appeared\nupon the horizon and a ship entered the port, this illustrious citizen\nwas seen immediately hastening to the pier, and patiently remaining\nthere until he had ascertained whether or not the vessel hailed from\nEngland; or else he waited, mingling with a crowd of the most degraded\nclass, until the vessel landed. Alas! for several months all that he\ncould learn only increased his apprehensions, and he vainly endeavored\nto quiet them. He had already announced to his family his intention of\nmaking the voyage to England to see his friend, when the fatal\nintelligence of More\u2019s imprisonment was received.\n\nThen he no longer listened to anything, but, taking all the gold his\ncoffers contained, he hastened to the port and took passage on the\nfirst vessel he found.\n\n\u201cO my friend!\u201d he cried, \u201cif I shall only be able to tear you from\ntheir hands. This gold, perhaps, will open your prison. Let them give\nyou to me, let my home become yours, and let my friends be your\nfriends. Forget your ungrateful country; mine will receive you with\nrapturous joy.\u201d\n\nSuch were his reflections, and for two days the vessel that bore him\nsailed rapidly toward England; the wind was favorable, and a light\nbreeze seemed to make her fly over the surface of the waves. The sails\nwere unfurled, and the sailors were singing, delighted at the prospect\nof a happy voyage, while Pierre Gilles, seated on the deck, his back\nleaning against the mast, kept his eyes fixed on the north,\nincessantly deceived by the illusion of the changing horizon and the\nfantastic form of the blue clouds, which seemed to plunge into the\nsea. He was continually calling out: \u201cCaptain, here is land!\u201d But the\nold pilot smiled as he guided the helm, and leaning over, like a man\naccustomed to know what he said, slightly shrugged one shoulder and\nreplied: \u201cNot yet, Sir Passenger.\u201d\n\nAnd soon, in fact, Pierre Gilles would see change their form or\ndisappear those fantastic rocks and sharp points which represented an\nunattainable shore. Then it seemed to him that he would never arrive,\nthe island retreated constantly before him, and his feet would never\nbe permitted to rest upon the shores of England.\n\n\u201cAlas!\u201d he would every moment say to himself, \u201cthey are trying him\nnow, perhaps. If I were there, I would run, I would beg, I would\nimplore his pardon. And his youthful daughter, whom they say is so\nfair, so good\u2015\u2015into what an agony she must be plunged! All this family\nand those young children to be deprived of such a father!\u201d\n\nPierre was unable to control himself for a moment; he arose, walked\nforward on the vessel; he saw the foaming track formed by her rapid\npassage through the water wiped out in an instant, effaced by the\nwinds, and yet it seemed to him that the vessel thus cutting the waves\nremained motionless, and that he was not advancing a furlong. \u201cAn\nhour\u2019s delay,\u201d he mentally repeated, \u201cand perhaps it will be too late.\nLet them banish him; I shall at least be able to find him!\u201d\n\nAlready the night wind was blowing a gale and the sea grew turbulent;\na flock of birds flew around the masts, uttering the most mournful\ncries, and seeming, as they braved the whirlwind which had arisen, to\nbe terrified.\n\n\u201cComrades, furl the sails!\u201d cried the steersman; \u201ca waterspout\nthreatens us! Be quick,\u201d he cried, \u201cor we are lost.\u201d\n\nIn the twinkling of an eye the sailors seized the ropes and climbed\ninto the rigging. Vain haste, useless dexterity; their efforts were\nall too late.\n\nA furious gust of wind groaned, roared, rent the mainmast in twain,\ntore away the ropes, bent and broke the masts; a horrible crash was\nheard throughout the ship.\n\n\u201cCut away! Pull! Haul down! Hold there! Hoist away! Let go!\u201d cried the\ncaptain, who had rushed up from his cabin. \u201cBravo! Courage, there!\nStand firm!\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, ay!\u201d cried the sailors. A loud clamor arose in the midst of the\nhorrible roaring of the winds. The sailor on watch had fallen into the\nsea.\n\n\u201cThrow out the buoy! throw out the buoy!\u201d cried the captain. \u201cKnaves,\ndo you hear me?\u201d\n\nImpossible; the rope fluttered in the wind like a string, and the\ntempest drove it against the sides of the vessel. They saw the\nunfortunate sailor tossing in the sea, carried along like a black\npoint on the waves, which in a moment disappeared.\n\n\u201cAll is over! He is lost!\u201d cried the sailors. But the howling winds\nstifled and drowned their lamentations.\n\nIn the meantime Pierre Gilles bound himself tightly as he could to a\nmast; for the shaking of the vessel was so great that it seemed to him\nan irresistible power was trying to tear him away and cast him\nwhirling into the yawning depths of the furious element.\n\n\u201cThe mizzen-mast is breaking!\u201d cried the sailors; and by a common\nimpulse they rushed toward the stern to avoid being dragged down and\ncrushed by its fall.\n\nThe gigantic beam fell with a fearful crash, catching in the ropes and\nrigging.\n\n\u201cCut away! Let her go!\u201d cried the captain.\n\nHe himself was the first to rush forward, armed with a hatchet, and\nthey tried to cut aloose the mast and let it fall into the water.\n\nBut they were unable to succeed; the mast hung over the side of the\nship, which it struck with every wave, and threatened to capsize her.\nEvery moment the position of the crew became more dangerous. The\nshocks were so violent that the men were no longer able to resist\nthem; they clung to everything they could lay hold of; they twined\ntheir legs and arms in the hanging ropes. All efforts to control the\nvessel had become useless, and, seeing no longer any hope of being\nsaved, the sailors began to utter cries of despair.\n\nPierre Gilles had fastened himself to the mainmast. \u201cIf this also\nbreaks,\u201d he thought, \u201cwell, I shall die by the same stroke\u2015\u2015die\nwithout seeing him!\u201d he cried, still entirely occupied with More. \u201cHe\nwill not know that I have tried to reach him, and will, perhaps,\nbelieve that I have deserted him in the day of adversity. Oh! how\ndeath is embittered by that thought. He will say that, happy in the\nbosom of my family, I have left him alone in his prison, and he will\nstrive to forget even the recollection of my friendship. O More, More!\nmy friend, this tempest ought to carry to you my regrets.\u201d\n\nLooking around him, Pierre saw the miserable men tossing their arms in\ndespair; for the night was advancing, their strength nearly exhausted,\nwhile the vessel, borne along on the crest of the waves, suddenly\npitched with a frightful plunge, and the water rushed in on every\nside.\n\nThe captain had stationed himself near Pierre Gilles; he contemplated\nthe destruction of his ship with a mournful gaze.\n\n\u201cHere is this fine vessel lost\u2015\u2015all my fortune, the labor of an entire\nlife of toil and care. My children now will be reduced to beggary!\nHere is the fruit of thirty years of work,\u201d he cried. \u201cSir,\u201d he said\nto Pierre Gilles, \u201cI began life at twelve years; I have passed\nsuccessively up from cabin-boy, mariner, boatswain, lieutenant,\ncaptain finally, and now\u2015\u2015the sea. I shall have to begin anew!\u201d\n\n\u201cBegin anew, sir?\u201d said Pierre Gilles. \u201cBut is not death awaiting us\nvery speedily?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat remains to be seen,\u201d answered the captain, folding his arms. \u201cI\nhave been three times shipwrecked, and I am here still, sir. It is\ntrue there is an end to everything; but the ocean and myself\nunderstand each other. We shall come out of it, if we gain time. After\nthe storm, a calm; after the tempest, fine weather.\u201d Here he\nattentively scanned the heavens. \u201cA few more swells of the sea, and,\nif we escape, courage! All will be well.\u201d\n\n\u201cHold fast, my boys!\u201d he cried; \u201canother sea is coming.\u201d\n\nHe had scarcely uttered the words when a frightful wave advanced like\na threatening mountain, and, raising the vessel violently, swept\nentirely over her; but the ship still remained afloat. Other waves\nsucceeded, and the unfortunate sailors remained tossing about in that\ncondition until the next morning. However, as the day dawned, hope\nrevived in their hearts; the horizon seemed brightening; the wind\nallayed by degrees. Pierre Gilles and his companions shook their\nlimbs, stiffened and benumbed by the cold and the water which had\ndrenched them, and thought they could at last perceive the land. They\nsucceeded in relieving the vessel a little by throwing the mast into\nthe sea. Every one took courage, and soon the coast appeared in sight.\nThere was no more doubt: it was the coast of England. There were the\npointed rocks, the whitened reefs. They were in their route; the\ntempest had not diverted the ship from its course. On the fourth day\nthey entered the mouth of the Thames.\n\nThe poor vessel, five days before so elegant, so swift, so light, was\ndragged with difficulty into that large and beautiful river. Badly\ncrippled, she moved slowly, and was an entire day in reaching London.\nPierre Gilles suffered cruelly on account of this delay, and would\nhave made them put him ashore, but that was impossible. Besides, he\nwished to arrive more speedily at London, and that would not hasten\nhis journey. From a distance he perceived the English standard\nfloating above the Tower, and his heart swelled with sorrow. \u201cAlas!\nMore is there,\u201d he cried. \u201cHow shall I contrive to see him? how tear\nhim from that den?\u201d Absorbed in these reflections, he reached at\nlength the landing-place. He knew not where to go nor whom to address\nin that great city, where he had never before been, and where he was\nentirely unacquainted. He looked at the faces of those who came and\nwent on the wharf, without feeling inclined to accost any of them.\n\nSuddenly, however, he caught the terrible words, \u201cHis trial has\ncommenced\u201d; and, uncertain whether it was the effect of his troubled\nimagination or a real sound, he turned around and saw a group of women\ncarrying fish in wicker baskets, and talking together.\n\n\u201cAt Lambeth Palace, I tell you. He is there; I have seen him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho?\u201d said Pierre in good English, advancing in his Flemish costume,\nwhich excited the curiosity and attention of all the women.\n\n\u201cThomas More, the Lord Chancellor,\u201d answered the first speaker.\n\n\u201cThomas More!\u201d cried Pierre Gilles, with a gesture of despair and\nterror which nothing could express. \u201cWho is trying him? Speak, good\nwoman, speak! Say who is trying him? Where are they trying him?\nConduct me to the place, and all my fortune is yours!\u201d\n\nThe women looked at each other. \u201cA foreigner!\u201d they exclaimed.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he replied, \u201ca stranger, but a friend, a friend. Leave your\nfish\u2015\u2015I will pay you for them\u2015\u2015and show me where the trial of Sir\nThomas is going on.\u201d\n\nThe fisherwoman, having observed the gold chain he wore around his\nneck, his velvet robe, and his ruff of Ypres lace, judged that he was\nsome important personage, who would reward her liberally for her\ntrouble; she resolved to accompany him. She walked on before him, and\nthe other women took up their baskets, and followed at some distance\nin the rear.\n\nMeanwhile, Pierre Gilles and his conductress, having followed the quay\nand walked the length of the Thames, crossed Westminster Bridge, and\nhe found himself at last in front of Lambeth Palace.\n\nA considerable crowd of people, artisans, workmen, merchants, idlers,\nbegan to scatter and disperse. Some stopped to talk, others left; they\nsaw that something had come to an end, that the spectacle was closed,\nthe excited curiosity was satisfied. The juggler\u2019s carpet was gathered\nup, the lottery drawn, the quarrel ended, the prince or the criminal\nhad passed; there was nothing more to see, and every one was anxious\nto depart\u2015\u2015careless crowd, restless and ignorant, which the barking of\na dog will arrest, and a great misfortune cannot detain!\n\n\u201cHere it is, sir,\u201d said the woman, stopping; \u201cthis is Lambeth Palace\njust in front of you, but I don\u2019t believe you can get in.\u201d And she\npointed to a large enclosure and a great door, before which was\nwalking up and down a yeoman armed with an arquebuse.\n\nStanding close to one of the sections of the door was seen a beautiful\nyoung girl, dressed in black, and wearing on her head a low velvet hat\nworn by the women of that period. A gold chain formed of round beads,\nfrom which was suspended a little gold medal ornamented with a pearl\npendant, hung around her neck, and passed under her chemisette of\nplaited muslin bordered with narrow lace. She stood with her hands\nclasped, her beautiful countenance pale as death, and her arms\nstretched at full length before her, expressive of the deepest sorrow.\nNear her was seated a handsome young man, who from time to time\naddressed her.\n\nPierre Gilles approached these two persons.\n\n\u201cMargaret,\u201d said Roper, \u201ccome.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said the young girl, \u201cI will not go; I shall remain here until\nnight. I will see him as he goes out; I will see him once more; I will\nsee that ignoble woollen covering they have given him for a cloak; I\nwill see his pale and weary face. He will say: \u2018Margaret is standing\nthere!\u2019 He will see me.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat will only give him pain,\u201d replied Roper.\n\n\u201cPerhaps,\u201d said the young girl. \u201cIndeed, it is very probable!\u201d And a\nbitter smile played around her lips.\n\n\u201cIf you love him,\u201d replied Roper, \u201cyou should spare him this grief.\u201d\n\n\u201cI love him, Roper; you have said well! I love him! What would you\nwish? This is my father!\u201d\n\nPierre Gilles, who had advanced, seeking some means of entering,\npaused to look at the young girl, and was struck by the resemblance he\nfound between her features and those of her father, his friend, who\nwas still young when he knew him at Antwerp.\n\n\u201cCan this be Margaret?\u201d murmured the stranger.\n\n\u201cWho has pronounced my name?\u201d asked the young girl, turning haughtily\naround.\n\nPierre Gilles stood in perfect amazement. \u201cHow much she resembles him!\nPardon me, damsel,\u201d he said; \u201cI have been trying to get into this\nplace to see my friend, Sir Thomas More.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour friend!\u201d replied Margaret, advancing immediately toward him.\nThen a feeling of suspicion arrested her. She stepped back and fixed\nher eyes on the stranger, whose Flemish costume attracted her\nattention. \u201cAnd who,\u201d she said, \u201ccan you be? Oh! no; he is not here.\nSir Thomas More has no friends. You are mistaken, sir,\u201d she continued;\n\u201cit is some one else you seek. My father\u2015\u2015no, my father has no longer\nany friends; has _any one_ when he is in irons, when the scaffold is\nerected, the axe sharpened, and the executioner getting ready to do\nhis work?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you say?\u201d cried the stranger, turning pale. \u201cIs he, then,\nalready condemned?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is going to be!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, he shall not be! Pierre Gilles will demand, will beseech;\nthey will give him to him; he will pay for him with his gold, with his\nlife-blood, if necessary.\u201d\n\n\u201cPierre Gilles!\u201d cried Margaret; and she threw herself on the neck of\nthe stranger, and clasped him in her arms.\n\n\u201cPierre Gilles! Pierre Gilles! it is you who love my father. Ah!\nlisten to me. He is up there; this is the second time they have made\nhim appear before them. Alas! doubtless to-day will be the last; for\nthey are tired\u2015\u2015tired of falsehoods, artifices, and base, vile\nman\u0153uvres; they are tired of offering him gold and silver\u2015\u2015he who\nwants only heaven and God; they are weary of urging, of tormenting\nthis saintly bishop and this upright man, in order to extort from them\nan oath which no Christian can or ought to take. Then it will be\nnecessary for these iniquitous and purchased judges to wash out their\nshame in blood. They must crush these witnesses to the truth, these\ndefenders of the faith! My father, child of the martyrs, will walk in\ntheir footsteps, and die as they died; Rochester, successor of the\napostles, will give his life like them; but Margaret, poor Margaret,\nshe will be left! And it is I, yes, it is I, who am his daughter, and\nwho is named Margaret!\u201d As she said these words, she clasped her hands\nwith an expression of anguish that nothing can describe.\n\n\nTO BE CONTINUED.\n\n\n [88] These words, which we find in the mouth of this\n hypocrite, the impious Cromwell, have been the watchword\n from all time of those who wished to attack the monks and\n destroy them. Well-informed and educated persons know, by\n the great number of works coming from their pens, whether\n they were idlers, and the poor in all ages will be able to\n say whether they have ever been selfish or uncharitable.\n\n\n\n\nNEW PUBLICATIONS.\n\n\n SERMONS ON THE SACRAMENTS. By Thomas Watson, Master of St. John\u2019s\n College, Cambridge, Dean of Durham, and the last Catholic Bishop\n of Lincoln. First printed in 1558, and now reprinted in modern\n spelling. With a Preface and Biographical Notice of the Author by\n the Rev. T. E. Bridgett, of the Congregation of the Most Holy\n Redeemer. London: Burns & Oates. 1876. (For sale by The Catholic\n Publication Society.)\n\nAfter Father Bridgett\u2019s beautiful work, _Our Lady\u2019s Dowry_, we may be\nsure that whatever he puts forth, whether original or edited, will\nrepay perusal. He has a _penchant_ for forgotten treasures of\nEngland\u2019s Catholic past, and spares himself no pains to give us the\nbenefit of his researches. Not content with editing the present\nvolume, he has gone to the trouble of a biographical notice, and quite\na long one, of his author. We cannot do better than let him speak for\nhimself in the opening lines of his preface:\n\n\u201cHere is a volume of sermons, printed more than three centuries ago in\nblack-letter type and uncouth spelling, and the existence of which is\nonly known to a few antiquarians. Why, it will be asked, have I\nreprinted it in modern guise and sought to rescue it from oblivion? I\nhave done so for its own sake and for the sake of its author. It is a\nbook that deserves not to perish, and which would not have been\nforgotten, as it is, but for the misfortune of the time at which it\nappeared. It was printed in the last year of Queen Mary, and the\nchange of religion under Elizabeth made it almost impossible to be\nprocured, and perilous to be preserved. The number of English Catholic\nbooks is not so great that we can afford to lose one so excellent as\nthis.\n\n\u201cBut even had it less intrinsic value, it is the memorial of a great\nman, little known, indeed, because, through the iniquity of the times,\nhe lacked a biographer. I am confident that any one who will read the\nfollowing memoir, imperfect as it is, will acknowledge that I have not\nbeen indulging an antiquarian fancy, but merely paying, as far as I\ncould, a debt of justice long due, in trying to revive the memory of\nthe last Catholic bishop of Lincoln.\u201d\n\nFather Bridgett further explains that these sermons belong to the\nclass which \u201care written that they may be preached by others.\u201d Their\nauthor undertook to write them as a \u201cManual of Catholic Doctrine on\nthe Sacraments,\u201d and in compliance with the order of a council under\nCardinal Pole in December, 1555.\n\n\u201cBeing intended for general preaching\u2015\u2015or rather, public\nreading\u2015\u2015these sermons are, of course, impassioned and colorless. We\ncannot judge from them of Bishop Watson\u2019s own style of preaching. We\ncannot gather from them, as from the sermons of Latimer and Leaver,\npictures of the manners and passions of the times. They scarcely ever\nreflect Watson\u2019s personal character, except by the very absence of\ninvective and the simple dignity which distinguishes them. As\nspecimens of old English before the great Elizabethan era, they will\nbe interesting to students of our language, especially as being the\nwork of one of the best classical scholars of the day\u201d (Preface, p.\nxii.).\n\nFather Bridgett characterizes these sermons as \u201ceminently patristic.\u201d\n\u201cI have counted,\u201d he says, \u201cmore than four hundred marginal references\nto the fathers and ecclesiastical writers; and I may say that they are\nin great measure woven out of the Scriptures and the fathers.\u201d Then,\nafter remarking that, \u201cwith regard to their doctrine, it must be\nremembered that they were published before the conclusion of the\nCouncil of Trent,\u201d he tells us: \u201cI have added a few short theological\nnotes only; for the doctrine throughout these sermons is both clearly\nstated and perfectly Catholic. As they certainly embody the\ntraditional teaching of the English Church before the Council of\nTrent, they are an additional proof that Catholics of the present day\nare faithful to the inheritance of their forefathers.\u201d\n\nFrom what we have had time to read of these pages, we have been struck\nwith at once the fulness and simplicity of the instructions they\ncontain. The style, too, in our eyes, has both unction and charm. We\nthank Father Bridgett that he has \u201cexactly reproduced the original,\nwith the exception of the spelling.\u201d \u201cNo educated reader,\u201d he says,\n\u201cwill find much difficulty in the old idiom. The sentences, indeed,\nare rather long, like those of a legal document; yet they are simple\nin construction, and, when read aloud, they can be broken up by a\nskilful reader without the addition of a word.\u201d We will only add that,\nperhaps, not the least attractive feature of these sermons (to the\nmodern reader) is their brevity.\n\n\n THE CONSTITUTIONAL AND POLITICAL HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. By\n Dr. H. von Holst, Professor at the University of Freiburg.\n Translated from the German by John J. Lalor and Alfred B. Mason.\n 1750-1833. State Sovereignty and Slavery. Chicago: Callaghan & Co.\n 1876.\n\nThe efforts of Europeans to study and write upon the American\nConstitution and the political life of our people, though partial and\nsomewhat prejudiced, have always been interesting and instructive. De\nTocqueville, in his _Democracy in America_, studied rather to teach us\nthan to learn from our theory of government and its practice, and this\nfrom his transient observations as a tourist. Professor von Holst\nresided in this country from 1867 to 1872, and thus may be supposed to\nhave studied more profoundly our system, and to have seen more\nthoroughly our practice. No one, however, could rightly judge of our\npolitical history or the system of our government who had not seen and\nknown us both before and after our civil war. De Tocqueville saw us\nbefore, and Von Holst after, that great crisis in our history. Hence\nwe think that both authors should be read, in order to appreciate the\nefforts of learned and distinguished foreigners to comment upon a\ntheme so difficult to any European. This is especially desirable now,\nas in this case the Frenchman and the German are not admirers of each\nother\u2019s respective political systems. The present volume, however, is\nable, spirited, and well written, and shows a remarkable acquaintance\nwith our history and institutions, and with the lives and characters\nof our public men. The author is not in love with our government, and\nyet is not without sympathy for it and for our people. He is, no\ndoubt, more in sympathy with our present than with our past. From his\nvigorously-written pages Americans may learn something of their\nvirtues and of their faults. The _animus_ and style of the work might\nbe inferred from the title of the second chapter: \u201cThe Worship of the\nConstitution, and its real Character.\u201d We have often been accused of\nmaking the Constitution our political _bible_, and Washington our\npolitical patron saint. Such seems to be the impression of Professor\nvon Holst. But it must be said that his able and interesting work is\nwell calculated to promote the study of the American republican form\nof government; for we are certainly a _terra incognita_ to most\nEuropeans. Having ably studied his subject, he has ably and learnedly\ncommunicated his researches to his countrymen and to the world. His\nwork will appear in a series of volumes, of which we have now only the\nfirst, and the English translation will hereafter appear in this\ncountry simultaneously with the original German publications. The work\nseems to deal exclusively with political questions, and handles them\nably. We commend its perusal to our readers.\n\n\n ALICE LEIGHTON. A Tale of the Seventeenth Century. London: Burns &\n Oates. 1876. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.\n\nThis story of the wars between Roundhead and Cavalier will prove an\nagreeable disappointment to the reader who contrives to wade through\nits first few pages, which are rather silly. We tremble for the fate\nof a story which in the very first page tells us of its youthful hero:\n\u201cHis brow was, however, clouded, either with emotion or with sorrow,\n_perchance with both_; and a _careful_ observer _might_ have marked a\ntear in his soft dark eyes as he turned his gaze upon the fair view\nbefore him.\u201d In the second page the hero tells us, or rather nobody in\nparticular, that eighteen summers have at last passed over him,\nwhereupon he proceeds to deliver a page of an address to his \u201cown dear\nhome,\u201d in the course of which he remarks that \u201cthe _accents_ of a\ndethroned monarch are _calling_ for assistance,\u201d but \u201cthe\nlong-listened-to maxims\u201d of his childhood hold him back from joining\nthe king. In the third page he encounters a mild sort of witch, who is\ngifted with that very uncertain second sight that has been the\npeculiar property of witches from time immemorial, and who prophesies\nto him, in Scotch dialect, in the usual fashion of such prophets.\n\nNothing could be more inauspicious than such a beginning; and yet as\none reads on all this clap-trap disappears, and a very interesting\nstory, though by no means of the highest order, unfolds itself. There\nis abundance of incident, battle, hair-breadth escape, varying\nfortunes, misery, ending with the final happiness of those in whom we\nare chiefly interested. Some of the characters are very well drawn,\nand the author shows a competent knowledge of the scenes, events, and\nperiod in which the story is laid. It affords a healthy and agreeable\ncontrast to the psychological puzzles generally given us nowadays as\nnovels. It looks to us as though the writer were a new hand. If so,\n_Alice Leighton_ affords every promise of very much better work in a\ntoo weak department of letters\u2015\u2015Catholic fiction. If the writer will\nonly banish for ever that antiquated _deus_ or _dea ex machin\u00e2_, the\nwitch, especially if she speak with a Scotch accent, give much more\ncare than is shown in the present volume to English, not _force_ fun\nfor fun\u2019s sake, we shall hope soon to welcome a new volume from a\nlively, pleasant, and powerful pen.\n\n\n \u201cMY OWN CHILD.\u201d A Novel. By Florence Marryat. New York: D. Appleton\n & Co. 1876.\n\nFlorence Marryat has become, and deservedly, quite a popular novelist.\nShe has, we understand, become something in our opinion very much\nbetter\u2015\u2015a Catholic. We see no reason why her faith should interfere\nwith the interest or power of her stories. On the contrary, it should\nsteady her hand, widen her vision, chasten her thought, give a new\nmeaning to very old scenes and types of character; and we have no\ndoubt at all that such will be the case. _My Own Child_ is neither her\nbest story nor her worst. It is a very sweet and pathetic one, simple\nin construction and plot, yet full of sad interest throughout,\nlightened here and there by bits of lively description or pictures of\nquaint character. It is easy to recognize a practised hand in it. The\nchief characters of the story are Catholics. We have only one fault to\nfind, but that a very serious one. It is too bad to make a young lady,\nand so charming a young lady as May Power is represented to be, talk\nslang. Where in the world did she learn it, this bright, beaming,\nIrish, Catholic girl? Certainly not from her mother, for she never\nindulges in it, and surely not from the good Sisters in Brussels by\nwhom she was educated. Yet she bounds out of the convent perfect\nin\u2015\u2015slang! For instance: \u201c\u2018I\u2019ll get some nice, jolly fellow to look\nafter it [her property] for us, mother.\u2019 \u2018You\u2019ll never get another\nHugh!\u2019 I exclaimed indignantly. \u2018Well, then, we\u2019ll take the next best\nfellow we can find,\u2019 replied my darling.\u201d The first \u201cbest fellow,\u201d the\nHugh alluded to, happened to be the \u201cdarling\u2019s\u201d dead father. The same\ndarling, only just out of convent, is anxious to make her first\nappearance \u201cwith a splash and a dash.\u201d It is only natural that she\nshould discover her mother looking \u201crather peaky\u201d when that lady is\nthreatened with an illness that endangers her life.\n\nThis is to be regretted. Young ladies are much more acceptable as\nyoung _ladies_ than when indulging in language supposed to be\nrelegated to \u201cfast\u201d young women. Slang is bad enough in men\u2019s mouths,\nwhether in or out of books; but, spoken by a woman, it at once places\nher without the pale of all that is sweet and pure and calculated to\ninspire that admiration and reverence in men which are the crown and\npride of a Christian woman\u2019s life. Miss Marryat is clever enough to\ndispense with such poor material. Meanwhile, what becomes of this\nslangy young lady the reader will discover for himself.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLIC WORLD.\n\nVOL. XXIV., No. 141.\u2015\u2015DECEMBER, 1876.\n\nCopyright: Rev. I. T. HECKER. 1877.\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNITARIAN CONFERENCE AT SARATOGA.[89]\n\n\nThe Unitarians in September last held at Saratoga their biennial\nconference, and we have looked over the issues of the _Liberal\nChristian_, a weekly publication of this city, for a full report of\nits proceedings, and looked to no purpose. It has, however, printed in\nits columns some of the speeches delivered in the conference, and\ngiven _in extenso_ the opening sermon of the Rev. Edward E. Hale.\nBefore the conference took place the _Liberal Christian_ spoke of Rev.\nEdward E. Hale \u201cas one of the few thoroughly-furnished and\nwidely-experienced men in their ranks.\u201d This notice prepared us to\ngive special attention to the opening sermon, and to expect from it a\nstatement of Unitarian principles or beliefs which would at least\ncommand the assent of a considerable portion of the Unitarian\ndenomination. More than this it would have been unreasonable to\nanticipate; for so radical and extreme are their divergencies of\nbelief that it may be said Unitarians agree on no one common objective\ntruth; certainly not, if Mr. Frothingham and the section which the\nlatter gentleman represents are to be ranked within the pale of\nUnitarianism.\n\nThe Rev. Edward E. Hale has not altogether disappointed our\nanticipations, for he has given expression to some of the ideas most\nprevalent among Unitarians; but before entering upon the consideration\nof these there are certain preliminary statements which he makes\ndeserving some attention.\n\nIn the closing sentence of the first paragraph of his sermon Mr. Hale\ngives us a noticeable piece of information. He says:\n\n \u201cWe were taught long since by Macaulay, in fervent rhetoric,\n that the republic of Venice is new in comparison with the\n papacy, and that the Roman Church was in its vigor when\n Augustine landed in Kent in the sixth century. So it was.\n But earlier than all this, before there was a bishop in\n Rome, there were independent Christian churches, liberal in\n their habit and Unitarian in their creed, in Greece, in\n Asia, and in Cyprus. Nay, before those churches existed there had\n gathered a group of peasants around the Saviour of men, and he\n had said to them: \u2018Fear not, little flock; it is your Father\u2019s\n good pleasure to give you the kingdom.\u2019 The Congregational Church\n order, with the Unitarian theology, is the _oldest_ Christian\n system known to history.\u201d\n\nWhat authentic history goes back of the account given in the New\nTestament of the founding of the Catholic Church and her hierarchy by\nChrist the Rev. Mr. Hale does not deign to inform us. When he does, it\nwill be time enough to pay attention to the assertion, \u201cThe\nCongregational Church order is the oldest Christian system known to\nhistory.\u201d The church is in possession; the plaintiffs must make out\ntheir case. Until then, \u201c_quod gratis asseritur gratis negatur_\u201d; for\nan assertion without proof counts for nothing.\n\nBut he does attempt to prove his assertion about \u201cUnitarian theology\u201d\nby what follows:\n\n \u201cI make no peculiar partisan claim or boast in this\n statement. As to the statement of theology, I do but\n condense in a few words the statement made by the Roman\n Catholic writer in highest esteem among Englishmen to-day.\n He says what I say, that he may argue from it that you\n require the development of doctrine which only the perpetual\n inspiration of a line of pontiffs gives you, unless you\n choose to hold by the simple Unitarian creeds of the fathers\n before Constantine.\u201d\n\nFrom which of the many volumes of the writings of Dr. Newman Mr. Hale\nhas ventured to condense his language we are not told; but we are led\nto suppose that it was written by Dr. Newman since he became a\nCatholic, for he speaks of him as \u201cthe Roman Catholic writer in the\nhighest esteem among Englishmen to-day.\u201d As a Catholic, Dr. Newman\nnever used language which could be condensed by a \u201cthoroughly-informed\u201d\nman to what Rev. Mr. Hale has made him say; and we have our doubts\nwhether before he was a Catholic he used it. It would not be amiss if\nMr. Hale had something of Dr. Newman\u2019s clearness of thought and\naccuracy of expression. If he had, of this we are sure: he would never\nventure to utter in a public speech or put in print that any Catholic\nwriter who has any claim of being a theologian believed or maintained\n\u201cthe perpetual _inspiration_ of a line of pontiffs.\u201d\n\nIn the next paragraph Rev. Mr. Hale literally quotes a passage from\nDr. Newman\u2019s writings to sustain his thesis, but he fails. Here is the\nquotation:\n\n \u201cThe creeds of that early day,\u201d says Dr. Newman, \u201cmake no\n mention in their letter of the Catholic doctrine of the\n Trinity at all. They make mention, indeed, of a three, but\n that there is any mystery in the doctrine, that the three\n are one, that they are co-equal, co-eternal, all increate,\n all omnipotent, all incomprehensible, is not stated, and\n never could be gathered from them.\u201d\n\nHe fails, because he proceeds on the supposition that the Catholic\nChurch teaches that her creeds contain the whole body of truth of the\nChristian faith. The Catholic Church at no time or nowhere taught\nthis. Her creeds never did contain explicitly the whole body of the\nChristian faith, they do not even now; for such was not her intention\nor purpose. Had it not been for the errors of Arius and his followers,\nthe Christian doctrine of the Trinity might not have been contained in\nthe creeds of the church explicitly, even down to our own day. The\nsupposition, however, that the mystery of the Trinity was not believed\nin the church \u201cbefore Constantine\u201d is as absurd as to suppose that the\nnecessity of good works for salvation, or there being a purgatory, was\nnot believed and maintained in the Catholic Church before the time of\nCharles V., or that Papal Infallibility was not believed and held in\nthe church before the time of William of Prussia, the German _kaiser_!\nThe discussions and definitions of the councils render Christian\ntruths more explicit and intelligible than they were before; this is a\nmatter of course, but who is so ignorant as to suppose that the\ncouncils originated these truths?\n\nThat the creeds \u201cbefore Constantine\u201d implied the Trinity and intended\nit Dr. Newman would have taught the Rev. Edward E. Hale, if he had\ningenuously quoted the two sentences which follow his extract. Dr.\nNewman continues thus: \u201cOf course we believe that they [the early\ncreeds] imply it [the Trinity]. God forbid we should do\notherwise!\u201d[90] Rev. Edward E. Hale ought to know that the Catholic\nChurch repudiates with instinctive horror the idea of adding to, or\ntaking away from, or altering in the least, the body of the Christian\ntruth delivered once and for all to her keeping by her divine Founder\nwhen upon earth. The mistakes he makes on these points arise from his\nviewing the church solely as an assembly, overlooking that she is also\na corporated body, informed by the indwelling Holy Spirit, and the\nconstitution given to her by Christ includes the commission to \u201cteach\nall things whatsoever he commanded.\u201d\n\nFollowing what has gone before, the Rev. Mr. Hale makes another\nsurprising statement. He says:\n\n \u201cIt was not to be expected\u2015\u2015nor, in fact, did anybody\n expect\u2015\u2015that a religion so simple and so radical should\n sweep the world without contaminating its own simplicity and\n blunting the edge of its own radicalism in the first and\n second contact, nay, in the contact of centuries. Least of\n all did Jesus Christ himself expect this. Nobody so definite\n as he in the statement of the obscurities and defilements\n which would surround his simple doctrine of \u2018Love God and\n love men.\u2019\u201d\n\nIn all deference to Mr. Hale, this is precisely what everybody did\nexpect from the church of Christ\u2015\u2015to teach the truth with purity and\nunswerving fidelity, \u201cwithout contamination in the contact,\u201d for all\n\u201ccenturies.\u201d For this is what the promises of Christ led them\nprecisely to expect when he founded his church. He promised that \u201c_the\ngates of hell shall not prevail against it_.\u201d[91] He promised also\nthat he would be with his church through all ages: \u201cBehold, I am with\nyou all days, even to the consummation of the world.\u201d[92] Does Mr.\nHale read the Holy Scriptures and believe what he reads? Listen,\nagain, to St. Paul\u2019s description of the church. After saying that\n\u201cChrist is the head of the church,\u201d and \u201cthe church is subject to\nChrist,\u201d he adds: \u201cChrist also loved the church, and delivered himself\nup for it, that he might sanctify it, cleansing it by the laver of\nwater in the word of life; that he might present it to himself a\nglorious church, not having spot or wrinkle, nor any such thing.\u201d[93]\nNow, although the Rev. E. E. Hale has thrown overboard the belief in\nthe divinity of Christ and the supernatural inspiration of the Holy\nScriptures, nevertheless the words of Christ and his apostle, measured\nonly by the standard of personal holiness and learning, ought to be\nesteemed, when speaking of God\u2019s church, of equal authority, at least,\nto his statement, even though he ranks \u201cas one of the few\nthoroughly-furnished and widely-experienced men\u201d among Unitarians.\n\nBut how did the church of Christ become \u201ccontaminated\u201d? This is an\nimportant point, and here is the Rev. E. E. Hale\u2019s reply to it:\n\n \u201cAnd, in truth, so soon as the church met with the world, it\n borrowed while it lent, it took while it gave. So, in the\n face of learned Egypt, it Egyptianized its simple Trinity;\n in the face of powerful Rome it heathenized its nascent\n ritual; in the face of wordy Greece it Hellenized its\n dogmatics and theology; and by way of holding well with\n Israel it took up a rabbin\u2019s reverence even for the jots and\n tittles of its Bible. What history calls \u2018Christianity,\u2019\n therefore, is a man-adorned system, of which the methods can\n be traced to convenience, or even to heathen wisdom, if we\n except that one majestic method by which every true disciple\n is himself ordained a king and a priest, and receives the\n charge that in his daily life he shall proclaim glad tidings\n to every creature.\u201d\n\nThe common error of the class of men to whom the Rev. E. E. Hale\nbelongs, who see the church, if at all, only on the outside, is to\n\u201cput the cart before the horse.\u201d It is not the Egyptians, the Greeks,\nthe Romans, who teach the church of Christ, but the church of Christ\nwhich teaches the truth to the Egyptians, the Greeks, and the Romans.\nChrist came to teach all nations, not to be taught by them. Hence, in\ncommunicating his mission to his church, he said: \u201cAll power is given\nto me in heaven and in earth. Going, therefore, teach ye all\nnations.\u201d[94] The church, in fulfilling this divine commission of\nteaching all nations, utilizes their gifts in bringing out the great\ntruths committed to her care by her divine Founder. It is in this\ncooperation with the work of the church that the different nations and\nraces of men find the inspiration of their genius, the noblest\nemployment of their highest faculties, and the realization of their\nprovidential mission upon earth. For the scattered rays of religious\ntruth which were held by the different nations and races of men under\npaganism were derived from primitive revelation, and it is only when\nthese are brought within the focus of the light of universal truth\nthat their complete significance is appreciated, and they are seen in\nall their original splendor. The Catholic Church, in this aspect, is\nthe reintegration of natural religion with the truths contained in\nprimitive revelation and their perfect fulfilment. Moreover, there is\nno truth contained in any of the ancient religions before the coming\nof Christ, or affirmed by any of the heresies since that event, or\nthat may be hereafter affirmed, which is not contained, in all its\nintegrity, in Catholicity. This is only saying, in other words, The\nCatholic Church is catholic.\n\nBut these men do not see the church, and they appear to regard\nChristianity as still an unorganized mass, and they are possessed with\nthe idea that the task is imposed upon them to organize the Christian\nChurch; and this work occupied and perplexed them not a little in\ntheir Unitarian biennial conference held in the town of Saratoga, in\nthe United States of North America, in the month of September, in the\nyear of our Lord eighteen hundred and seventy-six!\n\n \u201cPoor wanderers! ye are sore distrest\n To find the path which Christ has blest,\n Tracked by his saintly throng;\n Each claims to trust his own weak will\u2015\u2015\n Blind idol!\u2015\u2015so ye languish still,\n All wranglers, and all wrong.\u201d[95]\n\nWere the veil taken from their spiritual eyes, and did they behold the\nchurch as she is, they would easily comprehend that her unbroken\nexistence for nineteen centuries alone, saying nothing of what glory\nis in store for her in the future, is a more evident and conclusive\nproof to us of the divinity of her Founder than the miracle of his\nraising Lazarus from the dead was to those who were actual witnesses\nto it. For, in raising Lazarus from the dead, he had but to deal with\npassive matter, and that for only an instant; whereas in founding his\nchurch he had to exert his power and counteract all the attacks of the\ngates of hell, combined with the persecutions of the world and the\nperversities of men, during successive centuries until the end of all\ntime. None but the living God could be the author of so potent,\ncomprehensive, and indestructible a body as the Catholic Church. Of\nall the unanswerable testimonies of the divinity of Christ, there is\nnone so forcible as that of the perpetual existence of the one, holy,\nRoman Catholic Church. She is the standing miracle of Christ.\n\nThe reverse sense of the statement of the Rev. Edward E. Hale on this\npoint contains the truth. The Catholic Church welcomes all nations and\nraces to her fold, and reintegrates the scattered truths contained in\nevery religious system, not by way of reunion or composition, but by\nsimplicity and unity in a divine synthesis; and as the ancient\nEgyptians, and the Greeks, and the Romans, so also the modern Franks\nand Celts, have served by their characteristic gifts to the\ndevelopment and progress of Christian truth. In like manner the\nSaxons, with their peculiar genius and instincts, will serve, to their\nown greater glory, in due season, in the same great cause, perhaps, by\ngiving a greater development and a more scientific expression to the\nmystic life of the church, and by completing, viewed from intrinsic\ngrounds, the demonstration of the truth of her divine mission.\n\nLeaving aside other misstatements and errors contained in the first\npart of this sermon from want of space, we pass on to what may be\ntermed its pith. Mr. Hale starts with the hazardous question, \u201cWhat is\nthe Unitarian Church for?\u201d As far as we can make out from repeated\nreading of the main portion of the sermon\u2015\u2015for there reigns a great\nconfusion and incoherence in his ideas\u2015\u2015the Unitarian Church has for\nits mission to certify anew and proclaim the truth that \u201cGod is in\nman.\u201d \u201cGod in man,\u201d he says, \u201cis in itself the basis of the whole\nGospel.\u201d Undoubtedly \u201cGod is in man,\u201d and God is in the brute, and God\nis in every grain of sand, and God is in all things. God is in all\nthings by his immensity\u2015\u2015that is, by his essence, and power, and\npresence. But this is a truth known by the light of human reason, and\ntaught by all sound philosophers, heathen and Christian. There was no\nneed of the Gospel, nor of that \u201cfearlessness\u201d which, he tells us,\n\u201cwas in the Puritan blood,\u201d nor of the Unitarian Church, to teach this\nevident and common truth to mankind.\n\nThe Gospel message means more than that, and the Rev. Mr. Hale has\nsome idea that it does mean more. He adds: \u201cEvery man is God\u2019s child,\nand God\u2019s Spirit is in every life.\u201d Again: \u201cMen are the children of\nGod really and not figuratively\u201d; \u201cThe life of God is their life by\nreal inheritance.\u201d After having made these statements, he attempts to\ngive the basis and genesis of this relation of God as father to man as\nchild, as follows:\n\n \u201cThat the force which moves all nature is one force, and not\n many, appears to all men, as they study it, more and more.\n That this force is conscious of its own existence, that it\n is conscious of its own work, that it is therefore what men\n call spirit, that this spirit has inspired and still\n inspires us, that we are therefore not creatures of dumb\n power, but children of a Father\u2019s love\u2015\u2015this is the\n certainty which unfolds itself or reveals itself, or is\n unfolded or is revealed, as higher and higher man ascends in\n his knowledge of what IS.\u201d\n\nThat man, by the light of his reason, can, by the study of nature,\nattain to this idea of God and his principal attributes, as Spirit, as\nCreator, upholder of the universe, and as Providence, is no doubt\ntrue; but that, by the study of \u201cthe force which moves all nature,\u201d\nour own consciousness included, we can learn that we are the \u201cchildren\nof a Father\u2019s love,\u201d does not follow, and is quite another thing. It\nis precisely here that Unitarianism as a consistent, intelligible\nreligious system crumbles into pieces. Nor can Unitarians afford to\nfollow the Rev. Edward E. Hale in his attempt to escape this\ndifficulty by concealing his head, ostrich-like, under the sand of a\nspurious mysticism, and virtually repudiating the rational element in\nreligion by saying: \u201cThe mystic knows that God is here now. He has no\nchain of posts between child and Father. He relies on no long, logical\nsystem of communication,\u201d etc. The genuine mystic, indeed, \u201cknows God\nis here,\u201d but he knows also that God is not the author of confusion,\nand to approach God he does not require of man to put out the light of\nhis reason. He will tell us that the relation of God to all things as\ncreated being, and the relation of God to man as rational being, and\nthe relation of God to man as father to child, are not one and the\nsame thing, and ought not, therefore, to be confounded. The true\nmystic will further inform us that the first relation, by way of\nimmanence, is common to all created things, man included; the second,\nby way of rationality, is common to the human race; the third, by way\nof filiation, is common to those who are united to God through the\ngrace of Christ. The first and second are communicated to man by the\ncreative act of God, and are therefore ours by right of natural\ninheritance through Adam. The third relation is communicated to us by\nway of adoption through the grace of the new Adam, Christ, who is \u201cthe\nonly-begotten Son of God.\u201d This relation is not, therefore, ours by\ninheritance. We \u201chave received from Christ,\u201d says St. Paul to the\nRomans, \u201cthe spirit of adoption, whereby we cry: Abba, Father.\u201d[96]\n\u201cBy whom also we have access through faith into this grace, wherein we\nstand, and glory in the hope of the glory of the sons of God.\u201d[97] It\nis proper to remark here that it is an error very common among\nradicals, rationalists, and a certain class of Unitarians to suppose\nthat the relation of the soul to God by way of filiation, due to\nChrist, is intended as a substitute for our natural relations to God\nby way of immanence and rationality; whereas Christianity presupposes\nthese, reaffirms, continues, completes, and perfects them, by this\nvery gift of filiation with God. For it is a maxim common to all\nCatholic theologians that _gratia supponit et perficit naturam_.\n\nOur intelligent mystic would not stop here. Proceeding further, he\nwould say that to be really and truly children of God by inheritance\nimplies our being born with the same identical nature as God. For the\nnature of a child is not a resemblance to, or an image of, that of his\nfather, but consists in his possessing the same identical essence and\nnature as his father. If the son is equal to his father by nature,\nthen he is also equal to his father in his capacities as such. Now, if\nevery man, by nature, has the right to call God father, as the Rev.\nMr. Hale and his co-religionists pretend, then all men by nature are\nequal to God, both in essence and attributes! Is this what Unitarians\nmean by \u201cthe divinity of human nature\u201d? The Rev. E. E. Hale appears to\nsay so when he tells us: \u201cWhat we are struggling for, and what, if\nwords did not fail us, we would fain express, is what Dr. James Walker\ncalled \u2018the identity of essence of all spiritual being and all\nspiritual life.\u2019\u201d All, then, that the believers in the divinity of\nChrist claim exclusively for him is claimed by Unitarians equally for\nevery individual of the human race. But the belief in the divinity of\nChrist is \u201cthe latest and least objectionable form of idolatry\u201d\u2015\u2015so\nthe Rev. H. W. Bellows informs us in his volume entitled _Phases of\nFaith_. The Unitarian cure, then, for the evil of idolatry is by\nsubstituting an indefinite multitude of idols for one single object of\nidolatrous worship.\n\nThere is one class of Unitarians, to whom the author of this sermon\nseems to belong, who accept boldly the consequences of their premise,\nand maintain without disguise that all men are by nature the equals of\nChrist, and that there is no reason why they should not, by greater\nfidelity, surpass Christ. Up to this period of time, however, they\nhave not afforded to the world any very notable specimen of the truth\nof their assertion. Another class attempt to get over the difficulty\nby a critical exegesis of the Holy Scriptures, denying the\nauthenticity or the meaning of those parts which relate to the\nmiraculous conception of Christ, his miracles, and his divinity. A\nrepresentative of the extreme wing on the right of Unitarianism\nreplied, when this point was presented to him: \u201cOh! we Unitarians\nreject the idea of the Trinity as represented by Calvinists and other\nProtestants, for they make it a tritheism; but we accept the doctrine\nas holy mother Church teaches it\u201d; while a leader of the extreme left\nadmitted the difficulty, and in speaking of Dr. Channing, who\nchampioned the idea of the filiation of man to God, he said: \u201cNo\nintelligent Unitarian of to-day would attempt to defend the\nUnitarianism of Dr. Channing.\u201d He was right; for no Unitarian, on the\nbasis of his belief, can say consistently the Lord\u2019s Prayer; for the\nCatholic doctrine of the Incarnation is a rigorous necessity to any\none who admits the infinite and the finite, and the necessity of a\nunion of love between them which authorizes the finite to call the\nInfinite Father! One may bestow sympathy upon the pious feelings of\nthat class of Unitarians of which Dr. Channing is the representative,\nbut the less said about their theological science the better.\n\nOur genuine mystic would not stop here. He would continue and show\nthat the denial of the Incarnation involves the denial of the Trinity,\nand the denial of the Trinity reduces the idea of God to a mere\nabstraction. For all conception of real life is complex. Intellectual\nlife in its simplest elements, in its last analysis, will be found to\nconsist of three factors: Man as the thinker, one factor; the thing\nthought, the second factor; and their relation, the third factor\u2015\u2015or\nthe lover, the beloved, and their relation; again, the actor, the\nthing acted upon, and their relation. Man cannot think, love, or act\nwhere there is nothing to think, to love, or to act upon. Place man in\nan absolute vacuum, where there is nothing except himself, and you\nhave man _in posse_, but not man as being, as existing, as a living\nman. You have a unit, an abstraction, nothing more. But pure\nabstractions have no real existence. Our conception of life in\naccordance with the law which governs our intelligence is comprised in\nthree terms\u2015\u2015subject, object, and their relation.[98] There is no\npossible way of bringing out of a mere unit, as our absolute starting\npoint of thought, an intellectual conception of life. But the\nUnitarian idea of God is God reduced to a simple, absolute unit. Hence\nthe Unitarian idea of God is not the conception of the real, living\nGod, but an abstraction, a non-existing God.\n\nOur genuine mystic would proceed still further; for infused light and\nlove from above do not suspend or stultify the natural action of our\nfaculties, but quicken, elevate, and transform their operations. He\nwould apply, by way of analogy, the same process of thought in\nconfirmation of the Catholic doctrine of the Trinity. If there had\nbeen a time, he would say, when there was no object before God, then\nthere would have been a period when God was not the real, living God,\nbut only God _in posse_, non-existing. But this is repugnant to the\nreal conception of God; therefore the true idea of God involves a\nco-eternal object. If, however, this co-eternal object was not equal\nto God in substance as well as in attributes, then there would have\nbeen a period when God did not exist in all his fulness. Now, this\nobject, co-eternal and equal to God the Father, is what the Catholic\ndoctrine teaches concerning Christ, the only-begotten Son of the\nFather, \u201cbegotten before all ages, consubstantial with the Father.\u201d\nBut the Father and the Son being co-eternal and co-adequate, their\nrelations to each other must have been eternal and equal, outflowing\ntoward each other in love, commensurate with their whole nature. This\nprocession of mutual love between Father and Son is what the Catholic\ndoctrine teaches concerning the Holy Spirit. Thus we see, however\nimperfectly, that the Catholic doctrine concerning the Trinity\npresents to our minds nothing that is contrary to our reason, though\nit contains an infinite abyss beyond the present scope of our reason,\nbut which we shall know when our reason is increased, as it will be,\nby the gift of the light of glory. But every mystery of Christianity\nhas an intelligible side to our natural reason, and by the light of\nfaith it is the privilege and joy of a Christian while here upon earth\nto penetrate more deeply into their hidden, divine truth.\n\nAgain, the Unitarian is mistaken when he supposes that Catholics, in\nmaintaining the Trinity, exclude the divine Unity. They include both\nin one. Herein again is found in man an analogy. Man is one in\ntriplicity. Man is thought, love, and activity, and at the same time\nman is one. He thinks, he loves, he acts; there are not three distinct\nmen, one who thinks, another who loves, and still another who acts.\nThere is, therefore, a sense in which man is one in three and three in\none. So there is in the Trinity. The Unitarians are right in affirming\nthe divine Unity; their error consists in excluding the divine\nTrinity. All heresies are right in what they affirm, and wrong in what\nthey exclude or deny; which denial is the result of their breaking\naway from that divine Unity in whose light alone every truth is seen\nin its co-relation with all other truths.\n\nOur true mystic would not be content to rest here, but, soaring up\nupon the wings of divine light and love, and taking a more extended\nview, he would strive to show that where the doctrine of the Trinity\nis not held either explicitly or implicitly, there not only the theory\nof our mental operations and the intellectual foundation of religion\ndissolve into a baseless fabric of a vision; but that also the solid\nbasis of society, the true idea of the family, the right conception of\nthe state and its foundations, and the law of all genuine progress,\nare wanting, and all human things tend towards dissolution and\nbackward to the reign of old chaos.\n\nWe give another characteristic statement of the Rev. Edward E. Hale\u2019s\nopening sermon which must have grated harshly on the ears of the more\nstaid and conservative portion of his audience; it is under the head\nof \u201cThe immanent presence of God.\u201d He says:\n\n \u201cThe Roman Church will acknowledge it, and St. Francis and\n St. Vincent and F\u00e9nelon will illustrate it. But, at the same\n time, the Roman Church has much else on her hands. She has\n to be contending for those seven sacraments, for this\n temporal power, all this machinery of cardinals and bishops,\n and bulls and interdicts, canon law and decretals, so that\n in all this upholstery there is great risk that none of us\n see the shrine. So of the poor little parodies of the Roman\n Church, the Anglican Church, the Lutheran Church, and the\n rest of them.\u201d\n\nAgain:\n\n \u201cAll our brethren in the other confessions plunge into their\n infinite ocean with this hamper of corks and floats,\n water-proof dresses lest they be wet, oil-cloth caps for\n their hair, flannels for decency, a bathing-cart here, a\n well-screened awning there\u2015\u2015so much machinery before the\n bath that one hardly wonders if some men refuse to swim! For\n them there is this great apology, if they do not proclaim as\n we must proclaim, God here and God now; nay, if they do not\n live as we must live, in the sense of God here and God now.\n For us, we have no excuse. We have stripped off every rag.\n We have destroyed all the machinery.\u201d\n\nThe Rev. Mr. Hale regards the seven sacraments, the hierarchy, the\ncanon law\u2015\u2015briefly, the entire visible and practical side of the\nchurch\u2015\u2015as a \u201champer,\u201d \u201cmachinery,\u201d \u201crags,\u201d and thinks there \u201cis great\nrisk that none of us see the shrine.\u201d The difficulty here is not where\nMr. Hale places it.\n\n \u201cNight-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing.\u201d\n\nThe visible is not the prison of the invisible, as Plato dreamed, but\nits vehicle, as St. Paul teaches. \u201cFor the invisible things of God,\nfrom the creation of the world, are clearly seen, being understood by\nthe things that are made, his eternal power also and divinity.\u201d[99]\nThe author of this sermon is at least consistent in his error; as he\nbelieves in an abstract God, so he would reduce \u201cthe church of the\nliving God,\u201d \u201cthe body of Christ,\u201d to an abstract non-existence.\nSuppose, for example, that the Rev. Edward E. Hale had reduced \u201call\nthe machinery\u201d of his curiously-devised body to an abstraction before\nthe Unitarian biennial conference was held at Saratoga; the world\nwould have been deprived of the knowledge of that \u201csimplicity which it\nis the special duty of the Unitarian Church to proclaim.\u201d Think of the\nloss! For it was by means of the complex \u201cmachinery\u201d of his concrete\nbody that the Rev. E. E. Hale came in contact with the \u201cmachinery\u201d of\nthe Unitarian biennial organization at Saratoga, and, thus\n\u201cupholstered,\u201d he publicly rants against all \u201cmachinery.\u201d\n\nThere may be too complex an organization, and too many applications of\nit, and too much made of these, owing to the necessities of our times,\nin the Catholic Church, to suit the personal tastes and the stage of\ngrowth of the Rev. Edward E. Hale. But the Catholic Church does not\nexist solely for the benefit of Mr. Hale, or for any peculiar class of\nmen, or any one race alone. He has and should have, and they all have,\ntheir own place and appropriate niche in her _all_-temple; for the\nCatholic Church takes up in her scope every individual, and the human\nrace entire. But there are others, with no less integrity of spiritual\nlife and intelligence than he, who esteem those things of which he\nspeaks so unappreciatingly as heavenly gifts and straight pathways to\nsee more clearly the inner shrine and approach more nearly to the\ndivine Presence. Are the idiosyncrasies of one man, though \u201cthoroughly\nfurnished and widely experienced,\u201d to be the norm of all other men,\nand of every race? Men and races differ greatly in these things, and\nthe church of God is not a sect or conventicle; she is Catholic,\nuniversal, and in her bosom, and in her bosom alone, every soul finds\nits own place and most suitable way, with personal liberty and in\naccord with all other souls and the whole universe, to perfect union\nwith God.\n\nThe matter with the Rev. E. E. Hale is, he has missed his vocation.\nHis place evidently was not in the assembled conference at Saratoga;\nfor his calling is unmistakably to a hermit life. Let him hie to the\ndesert, and there, in a forlorn and naked hermitage, amid \u201cfrosts and\nfasts, hard lodgings and thin weeds,\u201d in an austere and unsociable\nlife, \u201cunswathed and unclothed,\u201d _in puris naturalibis_, \u201ctriumphantly\ncease to be.\u201d The Rev. E. E. Hale is one-sided, and seems to have no\nidea that the Catholic Church is the organization of that perfect\ncommunion of men with God and each other which Christ came to\ncommunicate and to establish in its fulness upon earth, and is its\npractical realization. God grant him, and others like him, this light\nand knowledge!\n\nBut we would not have our readers think that all Unitarians agree with\nthe Rev. E. E. Hale in his estimate of the visible or practical side\nof the church. We quote from a leading article in the _Liberal\nChristian_ of August last, under the head of \u201cSpirit and Form in\nReligion,\u201d the following passage:\n\n \u201cIt seems painfully indicative of the still undeveloped\n condition of our race that no truce or medium can be\n approximated in which the two great factors of human nature\n and society, the authority and supremacy of _spirit_ and the\n necessity and usefulness of _form_, are reconciled and made\n to serve each other or a common end. Must inward\n spirituality, and outward expression of it in forms and\n worship, be for ever in a state of unstable equilibrium?\n Must they ever be hostile and at cross-purposes? Must all\n progress be by a displacement in turn of each other\u2015\u2015now an\n era of honored forms, and then of only disembodied\n spirituality? There is probably no entire escape from this\n necessity. But, surely, he is the wisest man who can hold\n this balance in the evenest hand; and that sect or school,\n whether political, social, or religious, that pays the\n finest justice and the most impartial respect to the two\n factors in our nature, spirit and form, will hold the\n steadiest place and do the most good for the longest time.\n This is the real reason why Quakerism, with all its exalted\n claims to respect, has such a feeble and diminishing\n importance. It has oil in the lamp of the purest kind, but\n almost no _wick_, and what wick it has is made up of its\n _thee_-ing and _thou_-ing, and its straight coat and stiff\n bonnet. These are steadily losing authority; and when they\n are abandoned, visible Quakerism will disappear. On the\n other hand, Roman Catholicism maintains its place against\n the spirit of the age, and in spite of a load of discredited\n doctrines, very largely because of its intense persistency\n in forms, its highly-illumined visibility, its large-handed\n legibleness; but not without the unfailing aid and support\n of a spirit of faith and worship which produces a devoted\n priesthood and hosts of genuine saints. No form of\n Christianity can boast of lovelier or more spiritual\n disciples, or reaches higher up or lower down, including the\n wisest and the most ignorant, the most delicate and the\n coarsest adherents. It has the subtlest and the bluntest\n weapons in its arsenal, and can pierce with a needle, or mow\n with a scythe, or maul with a mattock.\u201d\n\nThe same organ, in a later number, in speaking of the Saratoga\nconference, says:\n\n \u201cThe main characteristic of the meeting was a conscientious\n and reverent endeavor to attain to something like a\n scientific basis for our faith in absolute religion, and in\n Christianity as a consistent and concrete expression of it,\u201d\n\nand adds that the opening sermon of the Rev. Mr. Hale \u201chad the merit\nof starting us calmly and unexcitedly on our course.\u201d Our readers will\nform their own judgment about what direction the course leads on which\nthe Rev. Edward E. Hale started the Unitarians assembled at Saratoga\nin their seeking after a \u201cscientific basis\u201d for \u201cabsolute religion,\nand Christianity as a concrete expression of it\u201d!\n\n\n [89] \u201cA Free-born Church.\u201d The sermon preached before the\n National Conference of Unitarian and other Christian\n Churches at Saratoga, Tuesday evening, Sept. 12. The\n _Liberal Christian_, New York, Sept. 16, 1876.\n\n [90] _An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine_, p.\n 14. Appleton, N. Y.\n\n [91] Matt. xvi. 18.\n\n [92] Matt. xxviii. 18.\n\n [93] Eph. v. 25, 26, 27.\n\n [94] St. Matt. xxviii. 18, 19.\n\n [95] Dr. Newman.\n\n [96] Rom. viii. 15.\n\n [97] _Ibid._ v. 2.\n\n [98] \u201cLiquido tenendum est, quod omnia res, quamcumque\n cognoscimus, congenerat in nobis notitiam sui. Ab utroque\n enim notitia paritur, a cognoscente et cognito.\u201d\u2015\u2015St.\n Augustine, _De Trinitate_, s. ix. c. xii.\u2015\u2015Wherefore it must\n be clearly held that everything whatsoever that we know\n begets at the same time in us the knowledge of itself; for\n knowledge is brought forth from both, from the knower and\n from the thing known. Again, \u201cBehold, then, there are three\n things: he that loves, and that which is loved, and\n love.\u201d\u2015\u2015s. viii. c. x., _ibid._\n\n [99] Romans i. 20.\n\n\n\n\nSIX SUNNY MONTHS.\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF \u201cTHE HOUSE OF YORKE,\u201d \u201cGRAPES AND THORNS,\u201d ETC.\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nAN UNEXPECTED PROPOSAL.\n\nThe next morning coffee was brought to the bed-rooms at the first peep\nof dawn, and when the little party went out for their walk the sun had\nonly just begun to set the sea-line on fire.\n\nThey stepped for a moment into the Franciscan church next door, then\nwent down the road leading past it to the Campagna. Fresh and sweet\nthe morning air touched them as they sauntered along\u2015\u2015not the morning\nbreeze of New England, simple in associations as the breath of a\nnewly-created being, but like the breath of one, immortally beautiful,\nabout whom Calliope, Clio, and Erato have circled in their stately\ndance through the unfading centuries. Not only every spot of earth,\nbut every waft of air, was haunted.\n\nMr. Vane stopped them presently with a silent gesture, and pointed to\na near height, where a solitary cloud, softly resplendent in all its\nbeautiful undulations, was slowly and loathly detaching itself to\nfloat upward and disappear in the sky, as if the door of a sapphire\npalace had opened to receive it. \u201cIs it Diana?\u201d he whispered.\n\n\u201cThe Jew has touched nature with a pen of fire,\u201d the Signora said as\nthey walked on again; \u201cbut the pagan has dominated, and still in a\ncertain sense possesses that beautiful realm. If, as Milton sings,\n\u2018the parting genius was with sighing rent\u2019 from tree and grove at the\nbirth of Christ, its ghost still haunts the spot, and Milton himself\nuses pagan language when he sings the beauties of nature. Why does not\nsome Christian Job dislodge these \u2018mythic fancies,\u2019 and make nature\nlive with a life that is something more than the rustling of a\ngarment? Job made the lightnings go and return at the command of God,\nsaying, \u2018Here we are!\u2019 and he speaks of the \u2018store-houses of the\nsnow.\u2019 The Christian poet seems to fear his imagination, to find it\ntainted, and, instead of purifying it, and setting it flying, like a\nbird or a butterfly, through the garden of the earth, he puts it in a\ncage or under a glass along with the pagan images he only glances\naskance at. Now and then one meets with a saint whose heart overflows\nin that direction, like St. Francis of Assisi, calling the birds his\nsisters. Blessed Fra Egidio made the flowers bear witness, as when he\nproved the miraculous motherhood of the Virgin to the doubting\n_Predicatore_. At each of the three strokes of his staff in the road,\nfollowing his three assertions of Our Lady\u2019s purity, up sprang a\nbeautiful lily. Our Lord set the example in his reference to the\nlilies of the field: they toiled not, neither did they spin, yet the\nCreator had arrayed them as Solomon in all his glory was never\narrayed. Did he talk to his mother about the flowers, I wonder? When\nthe boat was tossed by a tempest, he spoke to the waves, as to living\ncreatures, saying, \u2018Peace, be still!\u2019 Do spirits troublesome and\ntroubled take shape, or, stretching their invisible hands, catch the\nshapes of nature as weapons, and lash with foam or strike with\nlightning? We cannot know, and we need not know; and we must not\nassert. It is not, however, forbidden to fancy. Nature may serve as\nthe playground wherein our imagination and fancy shall exercise\nthemselves and prepare our minds for the wonders of the spiritual\nlife. Fancy and imagination are as really a part of ourselves, and as\ntruly and wisely given by God, as reason and will. They are the sweet\nlittle enticements inviting us to fly off\n\n \u2018From the dark edges of the sensual ground,\u2019\n\nas the bird-mother coaxes her young to try its wings in little flights\nfrom twig to twig before it soars into the heavens. No, it is not\nforbidden to the fancy to play around the mysterious life that makes\nthe bud swell into the flower and the seed grow into the lofty tree,\nso long as we see all in God, and see in God the Trinity, and, in the\naspiring flame of created adoring spirits, behold Maria Santissima as\nthe white point that touches the foot of the throne.\u201d\n\nThe Signora had been speaking slowly and dreamily, pausing now and\nthen; but at the last, growing earnest, had, as it were, waked\nherself, and become aware that she was talking aloud and was listened\nto.\n\nSmiling, and blushing too a little, \u201c_Scusino!_\u201d she said. \u201cI cannot\nhelp it. I preach as the sparks fly upward.\u201d\n\n\u201cI speak for a seat in your meeting-house for the rest of my life,\u201d\nMr. Vane replied promptly.\n\n\u201cApropos of meeting-houses,\u201d she said, \u201cwhat do you think of those for\nspires?\u201d pointing to four gigantic cypresses in the villa they were\npassing.\n\nThis villa was a strange, deserted-looking place just above the\nCampagna. Nothing in it flourished but the four cypresses, which rose\nto a magnificent height, their huge cones sloping at the top to a\nfeather so slender that it was always tipped to one side. Stern, dark,\nand drawn close together, they looked down on the place as if they had\ncursed it and were waiting to see the consummation of its ruin. All\ntheir shadows were full of a multitudinous grit of cicali voices that\nsounded like the sharp grating together of teeth. At their feet stood\nthe house, half-alive, half-dead, hidden from the street by the walls\nit was not high enough to overlook. It was like the upper part of a\nhouse that the earth had half swallowed. At each side of the door\nstood a statue dressed in some antique fashion, hat on head and sword\non thigh. They might have been two men who were petrified there long\nbefore. At each side of the gate, inside, a stone dog, petrified too,\nin the act of starting up with open jaws, crumbled in a blind rage, as\nif a paralyzed life yet dwelt under the lichen-covered fragments, and\nstruggled to pour forth its arrested anger.\n\nA little farther on was another decaying villa, where green moss and\ngrasses grew all over the steps, half hid the paving-stones of the\ncourt, and choked the fountain dry. The house, once a gay and noble\nmansion, had now got its shutters decently closed over the sightless\nwindows, and resigned itself to desolation. The long, dim avenues had\na damp, unhealthy breath, and not a flower was to be seen.\n\nThey went in and seated themselves on the steps, where the shadow of\nthe house, covering a verdant square in the midst of the sunshine,\nlooked like a block of verd-antique set in gold.\n\n\u201cIt reminds me of the funeral we went to in St. Peter\u2019s,\u201d Mr. Vane\nsaid, glancing about the sombre place, and over the walls into the\noutside splendor. \u201cThe mournful pageant looked as small in that bright\ntemple as this villa in the landscape.\u201d\n\nThe two girls gathered grasses and leaves and bits of moss, binding\nthem into tiny bouquets to keep as mementos, and Bianca made a sketch\nof the two villas. They talked but little, and, in that silent and\nquiescent mood, perceived far more clearly the character and influence\nof the scene\u2015\u2015the melancholy that was not without terror; the proud\nbeauty that survived neglect and decay, and might at any time burst\ninto a triumphant loveliness, if but some one should care to call\nforth the power hidden there; the dainty graces that would not thrust\nthemselves forward, but waited to be sought. Yet it needed that summer\nand sunshine should be all about to keep the sadness from being\noppressive. With those cheering influences so near and so dominantly\nlarger, the touch of melancholy became a luxury, like a scattering of\nsnow in wine.\n\nIsabel came back to the steps from her ramble about the place, and\nfound her father and the Signora sitting there with no appearance of\nhaving uttered a word since she left them.\n\n\u201cIt is just the time to read something I found and brought with me\nfrom Rome,\u201d she said. \u201cI tucked it into my note-book, see, and\nsomething at this moment reminded me of it. Bianca was saying that if\nthe place should be sprinkled with holy water, she did not doubt that\nflowers would immediately begin to grow again, and the track was not\nlong from her notion round to this poem. It had no name when I found\nit, but I call it \u2018At Benediction.\u2019 The Signora told me that it was\nrude and unfinished; but no matter.\u201d She read:\n\n\n AT BENEDICTION.\n\n \u201cLike a dam in which the restless tide\n Has washed, till, grain by grain,\n It has sapped the solid barrier\n And swept it down again,\n The patience I have built and buttressed\n Like a fortress wall,\n Fretted and undermined, gives way,\n And shakes me in its fall.\n\n \u201cFor I have vainly toiled to shun\n The meaner ways of life,\n With all their low and petty cares,\n Their cold and cruel strife.\n My brain is wild with tangled thoughts,\n My heart is like to burst!\n Baffled and foiled at every turn\u2015\u2015\n My God, I feel accursed!\n\n \u201cIt was human help I sought for,\n And human help alone;\n Too weary I for straining\n To a height above my own.\n But thy world, with all its creatures, holds\n Nor help nor hope for me;\n I fly to sanctuary,\n And cast myself on Thee!\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cThe priest is at the altar\n Praying with lifted hands,\n And, girdled round with living flame,\n The veil\u00e8d Presence stands.\n Wouldst thou kindle in our dying hearts\n Some new and pure desire,\n That thou com\u2019st, my Lord, so wrapt about\n In robes of waving fire?\n\n \u201cHast thou come, indeed, for blessing,\n O silent, awful Host?\n Thou One with the Creator,\n One with the Holy Ghost!\n Hast thou come, indeed, for blessing,\n O pitying Son of Man?\n For if that thou wilt bless me,\n Who is there that can ban?\n\n \u201cHast thou come, indeed, for blessing,\n Within whose knowledge rest\n The labyrinthine ways of life,\n The cares of every breast?\n My doubting hope would fain outshake\n Her pinions, if she durst;\n For if truly thou wilt bless me,\n I cannot feel accursed!\n\n \u201cThe _Tantum Ergo_ rises\n In a chorus glad and strong,\n And, waking in their airy height,\n The bells join in the song.\n And priest, and bells, and people,\n As one, in loud accord,\n Are pouring forth their praises\n Of the Sacramental Lord.\n\n \u201c\u2019Tis as though, from out of sorrow stepping,\n And a darksome way,\n The singers\u2019 eyes had caught the dawn\n Of the celestial day.\n \u2019Tis as though, behind them casting off\n Each clogging human load,\n These happy creatures, singing, walked\n The open heav\u2019nly road.\n\n \u201cThe hymn is stilled, and only\n The bells ring on above.\n Oh! bless me, God of mercy;\n Have mercy, God of love!\n For I have fought a cruel life,\n And fallen in the fray.\n Oh! bless me with a blessing\n That shall sweep it all away!\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cIt is finished. From the altar\n The priest is stepping down;\n His incense-perfumed silver train\n Brushes my sombre gown.\n The mingled crowd of worshippers\n Are going as they came;\n And the altar-candles drop to darkness,\n Tiny flame by flame.\n\n \u201cSilence and softly-breathing Peace\n Float downward, hand in hand,\n And either side the threshold,\n As guardian angels stand.\n I see their holy faces,\n And fear no face of man;\n For when my God has blessed me,\n Who is there that can ban?\u201d\n\nThe Signora rose rather hastily. \u201cIf we are going to Monte Compatri\nthis afternoon, we have no time to linger about reading rhymes,\u201d she\nsaid.\n\nThey went out into the sunshine, already burning hot, and stole along,\none by one, in the shadow of the high wall, walking over crowds of\nlittle pale, pink morning-glories, that crept humbly on the ground,\nnot knowing themselves to be vines with a power to rise and climb to\nthe height of a man, any more than dear Hans Andersen\u2019s ugly duck knew\nthat he was a swan, though at one point they might have seen, through\nan opening in the stonework, better-instructed morning-glories\nclimbing hedge and shrub, and blowing out a rhythmic joy through their\ngreat white trumpets far up in the air. The greatest pride or\naspiration these little creatures seemed capable of was when, now and\nthen, one grew, breath by breath, over some small obstacle in its\npath, and bloomed with its pretty pink cheek against a gray bit of\nstone. The whole ground blushed softly with their sweet humility.\n\nThey entered the shaded avenue that circles the lower part of the\ntown, and saw the beautiful city climbing on the one hand, and the\nbeautiful Campagna spread out on the other; passed the little wooden\n_chalet_ where Garibaldi was holding his court\u2015\u2015a wooden house is such\na wonder in Italy!\u2015\u2015and the public garden, sweet with the infantine\nbreath and bright with the infantine hues of countless petunias, and\nat length found refuge in Villa Torlonia.\n\nThick and dark, the lofty trees knit their branches over the seats\nwhere the travellers sat and looked at the grand fountain-front, with\nits stone eagle and rows of huge stone vases along the top, and its\nbeautiful cascade and basin in the centre. At either side this\ncascade, in the ten or twelve niches, tall stone vases overflowed with\nwild-flowers that had once overflowed with water, the masks above\nstill holding between their dry lips the pipes from which the sunny\nstreams had sprung. Far above could be seen, in the rich green gloom\nof overarching trees, cascade after cascade dancing down the steep\nslope, and, farther yet, the top of a great column of water that\nmarked the uppermost fountain.\n\n\u201cIt is too late to go up now,\u201d the Signora said; \u201cbut you can see the\nway. It goes round in a circling avenue, or up the steps that are at\neach side of the ten cascades. I think there are ten. But the steps at\nthe right are constantly wet with the spray, and covered with ferns\nand moss. You go up at the left, which the sun sometimes touches, and\nwhich is always dry. Below here, too, there are two ways of going up,\neither by the parting avenues or by the little dark door you see\nbeside the cascade. That door leads through a dim passage, where the\nwalls are all a green tremble with maidenhair fern growing as thick as\nfeathers on a bird, and up a little dim winding stair that brings you\nout beside the stone eagle there. I gathered one of those ferns once\nthat was half a yard long. You see they build palaces here for waters\nas well as for princes.\u201d\n\nThe day went by like a dream, steeped in dazzling light, embalmed with\nthe odors of flowers growing in a luxuriance and beauty new to their\nnorthern eyes, sprinkled over with a ceaseless fountain-spray, sung\nthrough by countless larks, and made magnificent by palace after\npalace, and by constantly-recurring and incomparable views. For many a\nyear to come they would remember the honey-snow of the orange-trees\nand the clustered flames of the pomegranates; they would compare their\nrose-bushes with the tree which, in one of these gardens, held its\ntea-roses nodding over their heads, nor love their own shyer gardens\nthe less, indeed; and in their trim walks, and loath and delicate\nblooming, they would sometimes think with longing of the careless\nprofusion of the land where the best of nature and the best of art\ndwelt together in the familiar and graceful intercourse of daily life.\n\nAn hour before sunset they were again in their carriage, and, after a\nshort drive, found themselves following the long loops of the road\nthat lead leisurely up the side of Monte Compatri, through the rich\nwoods, through the pure and exquisitely invigorating air, with all the\nworld unrolling itself again before their eyes in a view almost equal\nto that of Tusculum.\n\nThey were obliged to alight in the piazza of the fountain; for the\nsteep and narrow streets did not admit of carriages. From this piazza\nthe streets straggled, climbing and twisting, breaking constantly into\nlittle flights of stairs, and sometimes ending in a court or at a\ndoor.\n\n\u201cPrepare to be stared at,\u201d the Signora said, as they took their way up\nthe _Via Lunga_. \u201cWe are the only ladies in the town whose headgear is\nnot a handkerchief; and as for Mr. Vane, they are very likely to take\nhim for Prince Borghese. And, come to think of it,\u201d she said, looking\nat him attentively, \u201cyou are very much like the prince, Mr. Vane.\u201d\n\nThe gentleman smiled quietly, without answering. He recollected what\nthe Signora had forgotten\u2015\u2015that she had once expressed the greatest\nadmiration for Prince Borghese. He took the lady\u2019s parasol and\ntravelling-bag from her hand, and offered his arm, which the steep way\nand her fatigue made acceptable, and the two girls followed, searching\non every side with bright and curious eyes, and murmuring little\nexclamations to each other. The irregular stone houses, so near each\nother, face to face, that one could easily toss a ball from window to\nwindow across the street, were quite vacant, except for pigeons that\nflew in at the windows, or a cat that might be seen sleeping on a\nchair or window-ledge, or, perhaps, for a few hens searching for\ncrumbs. The families were all out of doors. In one little corner\nportico sat a handsome woman, with her dark hair beautifully plaited,\nand a bright handkerchief laid over her massive shoulders. Her hands\nwere folded in her lap, and she sat smiling, chatting with a neighbor\nnow and then, and enjoying a conscious queenship of the place. At\neither side of her was a young girl, slim, dark, and bright, a mere\nslip of the mother. These girls kept their eyes cast down, and\nappeared to think only of their knitting. On the next step was\nCarlin\u2019s group. Further on, a young mother steadied her year-old child\nbetween her knees and a chair, while she darned a stocking. One\nperceived that the whole and snowy-white stockings worn even by the\npoorest were not kept in order without constant care and labor. Near\nby, an old woman with a distaff spun flax, and entertained a company\nof men with her lively talk. This antique goddess was, perhaps, the\nwit of the place. She was, however, in no manner allied to the graces;\nfor the thin gray hair gathered tightly with a comb to the top of her\nhead, and entirely uncovered, and the white kerchief knotted round her\nneck, instead of being draped in the becoming Italian fashion, showed\nthat she had long since ceased to hold by even the shadow of a\npersonal charm. Outside the door of a little _caf\u00e9_, the only one in\nthe place, half a dozen men sat at tables, drinking coffee and\nsmoking, while on the door-step a man with a furnace and rotary stove,\nand a basket of charcoal beside him, roasted coffee to keep up the\nsupply, lazily turning the crank while he listened to the gossip going\non at the tables. On a neighboring step were gathered several women in\na little sewing-circle. To these came a woman up the street, bearing\non her head a tub covered over with nodding fern-leaves, which she set\ndown on the wide top of the balustrade. The circle suspended their\nwork while the woman displayed a sample of her wares\u2015\u2015twelve frogs run\non to a stick. She was met with shrugs and exclamations of\ndisapproval.\n\n\u201cPoor frogs!\u201d said Isabel. \u201cThey look like little white babies.\u201d\n\nThey were very poor little babies indeed, thin and small as spiders.\n\nThe frog-merchant, nothing disconcerted, laid aside her first sample\nand displayed another. \u201cOh! those are better,\u201d the women cried, and\nimmediately began to chaffer about the price.\n\nChildren swarmed everywhere. The close little town was as full of them\nas the shoe where the old woman we all know so well dwelt with her\ntribe of young ones. It did not need a powerful imagination to picture\nthe place boiling over like a pot some day, with a many-colored froth\nof _bambini_ down the mountain-side. It was out of the question that\nthere should be room for the rising generation to stay in the town\nwhen they should have become a risen generation; for they were six or\nseven in a family, and already the houses were full.\n\n\u201cPerhaps one of them will go to America, and set up on some sidewalk a\nfurnace for roasting chestnuts,\u201d Bianca said. \u201cAnd perhaps, some day,\nten or fifteen years hence, we may stop and ask such a person what\npart of Italy he came from, and he will answer, \u2018From Monte Compatri\u2019;\nand we will say, \u2018Ah! we have been there, at such a time; and perhaps\nit was you we saw playing in _Via Lunga_ or in the _piazza_?\u2019 and he\nwill brighten an instant, and then, all at once, begin to cry. And\nIsabel will almost cry for him, and will give him her best\nhandkerchief to wipe his tears away, perhaps wiping them for him; and\nI will buy all his chestnuts, which will be cold by the time we get\nhome, and papa will slip some money into his hand, and ask him if he\nwants work to do, and we will all tell him where we live, and to come\nto us if he should get into trouble. And then we will go home and talk\nfor all the rest of the day about nothing but Italy, and that day we\nwent up Monte Compatri. And Isabel will insist that she recognizes the\nfellow perfectly, and try to coax papa to take him for a gardener or\nsomething.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd then,\u201d resumed Mr. Vane, continuing the story, \u201cwe shall have the\nlazy vagabond coming to us every day begging, and we shall miss things\nout of the room where he is left alone a few minutes, and Isabel will\ngive him my clothes, till I shall have nothing left to wear.\u201d\n\n\u201cMeantime, what will the Signora be doing?\u201d that lady demanded,\nfinding herself left out. \u201cIs she to have no part?\u201d\n\nShe did not see the pleasant glance that fell on her from the eyes of\nthe gentleman at her side. She was looking down, a little hurt, she\nhardly knew why. For was it not a matter understood that her home was\nin Italy, and theirs in America?\n\n\u201cWhy, you,\u201d said Isabel\u2015\u2015\u201cyou will be in _Casa Ottant\u2019Otto_, thousands\nof miles away, and we shall be writing you all about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot so!\u201d Mr. Vane said. \u201cShe will be with us at the time, I think,\nand will correct all our mistakes, and reward all our well-doing with\nher approbation.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere, that sounds comfortable,\u201d the lady said, smiling. \u201cI was\nreally feeling neglected and left out in the cold.\u201d\n\nThey had come to the street that encircles the town, and on the\noutside of which a row of houses hangs on the mountain-edge. In one of\nthese they were to spend the night, and, as she spoke, the Signora\nlooked up brightly, and beckoned some one in a window above to come\ndown and open the door for them.\n\nMr. Vane spoke rather hastily in answer to her remark, and apparently\nfor her ear alone. \u201cIf you should be outside, the cold will then be\ninside the circle,\u201d he said. \u201cIt is you who are to choose.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! thank you,\u201d she replied lightly. \u201cAnd now mind the steps. They\nare rather dark.\u201d\n\nThe street from which they entered this house was so narrow, and the\nhouses so joined, that they seemed to be still in the heart of the\ntown; but when they had passed the dusky stairs, and entered the long,\nlow _sala_ at the head of them, they found the place like a nest in a\ntree-top. The mountain-side dropped sheer from under the very windows,\nand the view swept round from Rome and the sea to Palestrina and the\nmountains.\n\nIn this _sala_ the whole family of the _padrone_ had assembled to\nwelcome and stare at the strangers before giving the room up to their\nuse. A dozen or so smiling faces, full of good-will and curiosity,\nclustered about without the slightest sign of any thought that they\nmight be intruding, or that there was to be any limit to the free use\nof their eyes. An old woman leaning on a cane muttered unintelligible\nblessings and made innumerable little bows right and left, a hale\nyoung matron talked and welcomed, a servant smiled unceasingly, a\nyoung girl with a baby in her arms asked abrupt questions in a loud\nvoice, and children of all ages filled up the gaps.\n\nThe young ladies resigned their clothes to examination, and began\nshyly petting the little ones, and the Signora gave orders for their\nentertainment. While she was talking the servant and two of the boys\nran skurrying out of the room and presently returned with an air of\ngreat pride, bearing in their hands beautiful white pigeons, which\nthey caressed while displaying.\n\nThe young ladies admired them and smoothed their snowy plumage,\nwithout being in the least aware why they had been brought.\n\n\u201cThey are for our dinner to-morrow,\u201d the Signora remarked with great\ncomposure.\n\nThere was a little duet of dismayed exclamations. \u201cI thought they were\nfamily pets!\u201d Bianca said, recoiling.\n\n\u201cAnd so they are, my dear,\u201d was the reply. \u201cThey pet them up to the\nmoment of killing them, and praise while they are eating them. Their\nfondness never ceases. And now let us take off our bonnets and have\nsupper.\u201d\n\nThe room was long, low, and paved with coarse red bricks. The ceiling,\ncrossed by several large beams, was papered in compartments\nrepresenting squares of blue sky with light clouds floating over, and\na bird or two here and there in the space, and the flowery walls were\nnearly hidden by great presses holding linen, by sideboards laden with\ndishes, and by the high backs of patriarchal old chairs, very\npicturesque to look at and very penitential to sit in.\n\nAll the centre of this room was taken up by a long table, at one end\nof which their supper was speedily prepared. There was bread, as good\nas could be had in Rome, and such a salad as could scarcely be had in\nany city, the oil as sweet as cream, and the lettuce so crisp and\ndelicate that it could be almost powdered between the hands. Just as\nthey sat down a large decanter of gold-colored wine, ice-cold from the\ngrotto, was placed before them. For in these little Italian towns,\nhowever they may lack the necessities of life, they are never without\nthe luxuries.\n\nThey sat down merrily, only one of the family remaining to wait on\nthem, the others hovering about the door, and watching the faces of\ntheir guests as they ate, to see how the food pleased them.\n\n\u201cPapa,\u201d said Isabel, pointing to a plate before her, on which a small\nonion shone like silver, \u201cdo you recognize that vegetable?\u201d\n\n\u201cI recog_nose_ it,\u201d replied Mr. Vane, who would sometimes play upon\nwords.\n\n\u201cWell, I propose that we agree to divide it in four parts, each a\nlittle larger than the last, the largest for you, the smallest for\nBianca, and that we all eat our portions, and so find no fault with\neach other.\u201d\n\nBianca instantly declined the invitation, and blushed deeply when they\nrallied her on her daintiness.\n\n\u201cThese onions are very delicate and sweet,\u201d the Signora said. \u201cI used\nto avoid them, till one day I received a call from a personage of the\nmost dignified position and unexceptionable manners, from whose breath\nI perceived, in the course of the conversation, that he had been\neating these little onions. But the faint odor that reached me as he\nspoke was as though a rose and an onion had been grafted together.\nSince then I have eaten without scruple.\u201d\n\nBut Bianca still declined, still blushing. Why? Was it that her\naffection for the friend ever tenderly remembered had so consecrated\nher to him that nothing but what was sweetest and purest must touch\nwhere his image was enshrined, whether he were present or absent? She\nwas quite extreme enough in her sensitive delicacy for such a thought.\n\nSupper over, they went out into a _loggia_ attached to their _sala_\nand overhanging the steep mountainside, and watched the sun go down\nover the sea. The globe of fire had already touched the water-line,\nthat by day showed only like a line of purple cloud, and kindled it to\nan intense lustre; and, as they looked, there was half a sun above the\nhorizon, and another half visible as though seen through the\ntransparent edge of the world over which it disappeared; then, without\ndiminishing, it dropped out of sight, leaving an ineffable, silent\nglory over the scene. The fire of the sea faded to a faint gold, the\nrosy violet of the Campagna changed to a deep purple, and Earth,\nraising her shadowy hands, put aside the curtaining light of day, and\nlooked out at the stars.\n\nThe sisters withdrew presently, and left the two elders to admire the\nbeauties of nature at their leisure. Isabel, screened off in one\ncorner of the _sala_, made voluminous notes of her experiences, and\nplanned a wonderful story, into which they should all be woven. Seated\non a footstool, with a brass lamp hanging to the back of a chair near\nher, and her writing on her knees, she saw one character after another\nemerge from the shades and take form and individuality before her\neyes, as if they grew there independent of her will. They spoke and\nmoved of themselves, and she only looked and listened. Now and then\nsome trait, some feature, some word, was such as she had seen in real\nlife, but these people were not portraits, though they might have such\nresemblances, and even might have been suggested by persons she had\nknown. The shades grew more and more alive, gathering into substance.\nStone walls built themselves up silently and with a more than\nAladdin-like celerity, and gardens burst into instantaneous bloom. If\nshe willed the sea present, its waves rolled up to her feet in foam,\nor caught and tossed her in their strong arms; if she called for\nforests, swiftly their darkening branches shut her in, and her light\nfeet trod their dry, crackling twigs and rich, disordered flowers. The\nvery accidents of a great pine-cone to stumble over, or an unexpected\nlizard running across the path, were there. The dull walls of the room\nshe sat in, the rough bricks under her feet, the crowded town about\nher, were as though they were not. She was free of the world.\n\nO precious gift of the magical lamp! which, at a touch, calls about\nits possessor all that men wish, and work, and strive for of earthly\ngood, without the pain or responsibilities of earthly possession;\nwhich gives the rose without its thorn, the wine without its lees, the\nfriend without the doubt, the triumph without disappointment! Happy\nthey who, when what we call real life presses too hard or becomes too\ndull, can put it aside for the time, and enter a world of their own,\nfor ever beautiful and satisfying, who, walking the common street, see\nthings unseen of common eyes, and for whom many a beauty smiles under\nan ugly mask.\n\nBianca was in no such exalted mood of fancy, but, withdrawn to the\nchamber she was to occupy with the Signora, was lifting the holier\neyes of faith, and, with childlike simplicity and confidence, laying\nall her heart open to God, sending up her petitions for earthly\nhappiness on a cloud of the Acts, said after her own manner: \u201cO my\nGod! I believe in thee, I hope in thee, I love thee, I thank thee, and\nI am sorry for having offended thee\u201d; and then, as a thought or wish\nmore earthly thrust itself forward, presenting it, unafraid and\nundoubting. Living and dead, friends and strangers, the poor, and\nthose who had no one to pray for them\u2015\u2015all were remembered by this\ntender heart; but ever, like the refrain of a song, came back the\npetition, \u201cBless, and guard from all ill of soul or body, him who is\nso much more to me than all other men, and, if it be thy will, give\nhim to me for a friend and companion as long as I shall live.\u201d\n\nThe two in the balcony, left to themselves, were talking quietly,\nhaving no mind to separate. The Signora found in the society of Mr.\nVane a pleasure altogether new to her\u2015\u2015the pleasure of being able to\ndepend on some one. It was only now, when she was surrounded with a\nconstant, friendly care, that she became aware how unprotected and\nunhelped her former life had been, and how sweet was that repose which\nthe protected enjoy. Besides, Mr. Vane\u2019s care was of a particularly\nagreeable kind. It did not, by watching and seizing on opportunities\nof serving, suggest the existence of an emotional care which might\nchange to neglect, but was simply a calm readiness, which assumed, as\na matter of course, that it should help when help was needed.\n\n\u201cI shall never be sufficiently thankful for having been led to make\nthis European journey,\u201d Mr. Vane said after a little silence. \u201cIt has\ndone me good in many ways, and promises more even than it has\nperformed as yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am glad you say thankful instead of glad,\u201d the Signora said,\nsmiling. \u201cPerhaps, too, I should say, I am thankful you say so.\u201d\n\nHe thought a moment before speaking, and recollected that only a few\nmonths before he would not have used the word. The change had come so\ngradually that he had scarcely been aware of it. \u201cYet I believe that I\nalways recognize the Source from which all good flows,\u201d he resumed\nseriously. \u201cAt least, I never denied it. Here religion is such a\nhousehold affair, one falls after awhile into the habit of expressing\nwhat before was only felt, and felt, perhaps, unconsciously.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is better so,\u201d was the reply. \u201cWe strengthen a true feeling when\nwe give it utterance. Besides, we may thus communicate it to others.\u201d\n\n\u201cOne of my causes of thankfulness,\u201d he resumed, \u201cis that my daughters\nshould be associated with you. I wish you could make them more like\nyourself, and I am sure that their admiration and affection for you\nwill lead them naturally to imitate you and to receive your\ninstructions willingly. They have been to me a source of great\nanxiety, and I feel myself utterly incapable of directing them; for,\nwhile I wish them to be modest and womanly, on the one hand, I as\ncertainly wish them to be capable of finding in life an object and a\nhappiness which shall not depend on any other person. It would please\nme to see them well married; but God forbid that an unmarried life\nshould be for them a disappointed life! What I could do for them I\nhave done, but with an immense self-distrust; and I have felt safer\nwhen leaving them to themselves than when interfering or seeking to\nguide them.\u201d\n\n\u201cI should think you had done well both in guiding and in leaving them\nfree,\u201d the lady replied. \u201cMany parents do too much either one way or\nthe other. Does not the result satisfy you so far?\u201d\n\nShe was surprised at the emotion with which he spoke, not knowing\nanything of his married life.\n\n\u201cThe result is not yet. Everything depends on their marriage, or their\nreason for not marrying.\u201d He hesitated, then went on, as if incapable\nof keeping silence longer on a subject of which he had never spoken:\n\u201cThe fate of their mother is to me a constant warning and a constant\npain. In one respect I can save them from that; for I shall never urge\nthem to marry, and shall never oppose any choice of theirs, unless it\nshould be a manifestly bad one. But I cannot guard them from the\ntyranny of some mistaken sense of duty, or mistaken pride or delicacy\nwhich they might conceal from all the world.\u201d\n\nStartled by this half-revelation, his companion kept silence, waiting\nfor him to speak. It was impossible he should not speak after such a\nbeginning.\n\n\u201cI do not know which was the more deeply wronged, I or my poor\nBianca,\u201d he said presently. \u201cIt all came from the blundering\ncoarseness of parents who overstepped, not their authority\u2015\u2015for they\nnever commanded her\u2015\u2015but their power to influence, which, with one\nlike her, was quite as strong. Their mistake has taught me to\ninterfere and control less the gentle, silent one than the one who\nspeaks her mind out clearly and loudly. I have always thought that the\nmother of my daughters had some preference which she never\nacknowledged. Often, more often than not, these preferences come to\nnothing and are soon forgotten; but not always. She did not wish to\nmarry me, but she consented without hesitation, and I believed that\nthe slight reserve would vanish with time. Perhaps she believed it\ntoo. Her conscience was as pure as snow. She did perfectly, with all\nher power, what she believed to be her duty. But that preoccupation,\nwhether for another person or for a single life, was never vanquished.\nYou have, perhaps, chased a butterfly when you were a child, beaten it\nwith your hat from flower to flower, and at last imprisoned it under a\nglass; or you have caught a hummingbird that has strayed into your\nroom, and flown from you as long as it had strength. Neither resisted\nwhen it was caught; but the down was brushed off the butterfly\u2019s\nwings, and the bird was dead in your hand. My wife omitted nothing\nthat a good will could accomplish. She was grateful for my efforts to\nmake her happy; she was calm, and even cheerful; and I am sure that\nshe never said to herself, even, that she was sorry for having married\nme. But the only beaming smile I ever saw on her face was when she\nknew that she was going to die.\u201d\n\nHis voice trembled a little, and he stopped a moment, as if to steady\nit before going on.\n\n\u201cWas not I wronged too? Was not the unwilling jailer as unfortunate as\nthe unwilling prisoner? I say nothing of my own personal\ndisappointment, though that was great. The mutual confidence, the\ndelightful companionship, the perfect union, to which I had looked\nforward, and which were my ideal of marriage\u2015\u2015where were they? In\nplace of them I never lost the feeling that I had a victim for ever at\nmy side. I felt as if I had been unmanly and cruel; yet the fault was\nnot mine. She gave herself to me in all that she could, yet she was\nnever mine.\u201d\n\nHe paused again; yet this time his voice trembled more in resuming\nthan in leaving off his story.\n\n\u201cI rejoiced in her release; and I look forward to no future meeting\nwith her that shall be different from that meeting which we are\npermitted to look forward to with all the good in heaven. If other\nhusbands and wives expect some closer partnership in heaven, I neither\nexpect nor wish it. I have resigned her absolutely and for ever. I do\nnot think that I am morbid. You should know her peculiar character to\nunderstand well how I could be made to feel that crystal wall that\nalways stood between us. I felt it so that I really believe, if the\nchildren were not demonstrative in their affection for me, I should\nnot have the courage to show any fondness for them. I used, when they\nwere little ones, to look at them sometimes with a kind of terror when\nI came home, to see if they would smile brightly, and run to me as if\nthey were glad from the heart to see me. I always waited for them,\nand, thank God! they never failed me. Duty and submission are there,\nbut a perfect affection makes them almost unnecessary.\u201d\n\nFinishing, he glanced for the first time at his companion, and saw\nthat she was in tears.\n\n\u201cMy dear friend!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201chow selfish I have been! Forgive me!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d she replied gently, wiping her eyes, \u201cyou are not selfish. It\nseems to me that you are one of the least selfish of men. I am glad\nyou have confidence enough in me to tell me such a story, which, I can\nwell believe, you seldom or never speak of. It is quite natural that\nyou should confide it to some one, and you could not expect any one to\nhear it unmoved.\u201d\n\nWhat an exquisite moonlight covered the world, and made a fairy-like,\nsilvery day in the little balcony where the two sat! The air sparkled\nwith it, and one tear still hanging to the Signora\u2019s eyelashes shone\nlike a diamond in its beams.\n\n\u201cYou are the first person to whom I have ever spoken on this subject,\nand the only person to whom I could confide it,\u201d Mr. Vane said. \u201cCan\nyou guess why, Signora?\u201d\n\nShe looked at him with a startled glance and read his meaning, and, in\nthe first astonishment and confusion, was utterly incapable of\nreplying.\n\n\u201cShall I tell you why?\u201d he asked.\n\nShe rose hastily, blushing and distressed.\n\n\u201cDo not say any more!\u201d she exclaimed, and was on the point of leaving\nhim abruptly, but checked herself, and, turning in the open low\nwindow, held out her hand to him. \u201cYou have called me friend. Let us\nremain friends,\u201d she said.\n\nHe touched the hand, and released it without a word, and they\nseparated.\n\nHalf an hour afterward Bianca\u2019s face peeped out into the moonlight.\n\u201cAre you still here, papa?\u201d she said, and went to him. \u201cGood-night,\ndear.\u201d\n\nHe embraced her gently, and echoed her good-night, but did not detain\nher a moment.\n\n\u201cWhat! papa romancing here all alone?\u201d exclaimed Isabel in her turn.\n\u201cIt isn\u2019t good for your complexion nor for your disposition. Late\nhours and too much thinking make one sad.\u201d\n\n\u201cTherefore you should go to bed directly,\u201d was his reply.\n\nShe kissed him merrily and left him alone.\n\n\nTO BE CONTINUED.\n\n\n\n\nMIVART\u2019S CONTEMPORARY EVOLUTION.[100]\n\nIf in our contemporary evolution a great genius should appear, worthy\nto continue the work of St. Thomas, it would be requisite that he\nshould combine in himself the gifts and acquirements of a\nmetaphysician, a theologian, and a master of natural science. We\naccentuate strongly the last of these requisites, because we are not\nso much in need of pure metaphysics and theology, possessing both\nalready in a state of high perfection and completeness, as we are of\nthe mixed science in which the relations of the higher and the lower\norders of being, truth and good, are developed and manifested. There\nhave been some men already, since the modern period began, who have\ncombined metaphysical and natural science in a remarkable degree. Such\na man was Leibnitz. The famous Jesuit Boscovich was perhaps superior\nintellectually, as he certainly was morally, even to this prodigy of\ntalent and learning. He was a great mathematician and physicist, a\ngreat metaphysician, and a great statesman, besides being eminent in\nChristian perfection and apostolic zeal. Balmes was a man of a similar\nstamp, though especially eminent in social science. Among living men a\nhigh place belongs to Father Bayma as a metaphysician, mathematician,\nand physicist, although he has published little under his own name,\nexcept his remarkable work on _Molecular Mechanics_. Such men are\ninvaluable at the present time. And for all those who are aiming at a\nthorough education for important positions in the service of the\nchurch and humanity, the conjoined cultivation of these various\nbranches of science, in the due proportion for acquiring what we have\ncalled the mixed science, is of the highest importance. We are happy\nto know that it is not neglected, and is likely to be advanced to a\nhigher and more extensive state of excellence in the near future. One\nwho has the chance of looking over the theses in physics which are\nprepared for the examinations at Woodstock will be convinced that\nthere is one Catholic seminary, at least, in this country where such\nmatters receive due attention. The articles published from time to\ntime in the Catholic reviews of Europe, as well as an occasional\nvolume from the pen of a Catholic professor, are another evidence of\nwhat we have stated. The English hierarchy, aided by the band of\ngifted and learned priests and laymen who adorn the Catholic Church of\nEngland, is distinguishing itself in the promotion of this scientific\nculture. Dr. Mivart is one of this band. We have, in former numbers,\ntaken occasion to notice several of his works, and express our high\nestimation of the courage and ability with which he is constantly\nlaboring for the advancement of true, Catholic science. Dr. Mivart\u2019s\nspecialty is natural science; but he is not a mere physicist or\nscientist. He has the genuine philosophical spirit, and shows in his\nwritings that he has studied to some purpose metaphysics, theology and\nethics, history, politics, and _belles-lettres_. The essays contained\nin the volume we are at present reviewing were first published in the\n_Contemporary Review_, with the exception of the last one, which\nappeared in the _Dublin Review_. We propose, at present, to do little\nmore than give an analysis of their contents and of the author\u2019s\nargument.\n\nThe title informs us that his topic of discussion is, \u201cSome great\nSocial Changes.\u201d These social changes, in his idea, are very deep and\nuniversal alterations in the social fabric which have been going on\nduring the entire post-medi\u00e6val period, are still in progress, and are\nlikely to proceed much further as time goes on. It is in view of their\nbearing on the perpetuity and action of the Catholic Church that they\nare considered. In the introductory chapter a general view is taken of\ntheir nature, origin, causes and probable development, and the plan to\nbe followed in pursuing the particular scope of the essay is laid\ndown. The second chapter is on Political Evolution. The third presents\nthe three ideals of social organization, which are proposed by as many\ndifferent classes of political philosophers: 1. The pagan, or\nmonistic. 2. The civic, or that which is based on some maxims of\nnatural right and expediency. 3. The theocratic or medi\u00e6val. The\nfourth chapter treats of Scientific Evolution, the fifth of\nPhilosophical and the sixth of \u00c6sthetic Evolution.\n\nWe may as well premise a statement of Dr. Mivart\u2019s idea of evolution\nbefore we proceed to analyze his argument. It is a procession from an\nindefinite, incoherent homogeneity to a definite, coherent\nheterogeneity, whose origin is God as first cause, whose ultimatum is\nGod as final cause or end, whose principle of continuity is the\nintelligent volition of God as ruler, embracing all the phenomena of\nthe universe, physical, biological, political, moral, and religious,\nin one enchainment of activities, which rise in a graduated series\nfrom the lowest to the highest toward their Ideal in God.[101] A\nsimilar idea is laid by Leo at the foundation of his _Universal\nHistory_: \u201cThe Christian view of the history of the world takes all\nfacts, not as something new superadded by the power of man to the\ncreative act of God, but only as a further _evolution_ of the facts of\ncreation.\u201d[102] In the introductory chapter Dr. Mivart begins by\nnoting the fact that there are crises or great epochs in this\nhistorical evolution, and expressing his conviction that the present\nis one of these, and particularly marked by being a period of\n_conscious_ development. As the outcome of the changes occurring in\nthe past, he traces its logical connection with the periods of the\nFrench Revolution, the revolt of the sixteenth century, the\nRenaissance, and the conflict of Philip the Fair with the Holy See.\nThe process of this evolution is designated as a struggle of reviving\npaganism to reject the domination of medi\u00e6val theocracy, which,\ngradually obtaining success, is likely to be carried to a much further\npoint than it has yet reached. Two questions are proposed for\nconsideration: 1. \u201cThe effect on Christianity of the further\ndevelopment of the great movement.\u201d 2. \u201cThe probable result of the\nrenewed conflict between such a modified Christianity and a revived\npaganism.\u201d\n\nIn order clearly and fully to understand the author\u2019s method of\ntreating these questions, it is necessary to place and keep distinctly\nin view with whom he is arguing and on what principles. It is not with\nprofessed Christians or Catholics that he primarily intends to discuss\nthese topics, on their principles, but with those who are mere\nnaturalists, and who admit nothing but what is evident or provable by\npurely scientific and rational arguments. The truth of revelation and\nthe Catholic faith is therefore left on one side, and nothing is taken\ninto consideration except \u201cobvious or admitted tendencies of known\nnatural forces and laws.\u201d It is the author\u2019s purpose to extort from\nthe enemies of revelation and the Catholic Church, by using their own\nprinciples and ideas, evidence for the ability of the church to cope\nwith, overcome, and bend to her own superior force of intelligence and\nwill the new and hostile environments, political, scientific, and\nphilosophical, by which she is surrounded. In respect to the political\naspect of the question, he argues that, supposing the changes in this\norder to proceed in their evolution until a complete disintegration of\nthe medi\u00e6val, theocratic system is effected, an interior, latent\ncapacity will be evolved in the church, by which she will be\nintegrated and strengthened for a more complete and extensive triumph\nthan was ever before achieved. Briefly, his argument amounts to this:\nViolent, red-republican, or despotic subversions of the liberty of the\nmasses and social order cannot be lasting. Some kind of basis for\nliberty with order must be found in natural law and right, consisting\nof maxims of ethical truth and expediency. The political maxims of\nEngland and the United States are referred to for illustration, and\nthe author anticipates for the English-speaking nations, their maxims\nof policy and their language, an universal, predominating influence in\nthe future. Now, the church, he argues, can avail herself of this\nliberty. The laboring classes, once liberated from and raised above\nthat misery and oppression which are the active cause of their\nhostility against both the hierarchy and the aristocracy, can be won\nover to the cause of the church. Religious orders, founded on poverty\nand labor, whose members are drawn from these classes and associated\nwith them, can gain new life, power, and extension. Opposition and\npersecution will only purify and invigorate the intellectual and moral\nconstitution of the church, and intensify its unity of organic life\nand action. That part of society which is corrupted by pagan\nimmorality will be weakened and diminished by its errors and vices,\nwhile the Catholic portion will become always stronger and more\nnumerous by the effect of its ethical maxims carried out in practice.\nThe past history of the church enables us to augur for her future\nhistory that there are no circumstances, however difficult and\napparently destructive to her life, which she cannot surmount, and\nover which she cannot achieve a complete triumph, in virtue of the\norganic strength which she possesses. At the end of his long and\nminute process of argument, in which he says he has \u201cendeavored\ndispassionately to estimate what, at the very utmost, must be the\ndestructive effects on Christianity of the greatest amount of\nanti-theocratic change which can possibly be anticipated,\u201d the author\nconsiders that a Catholic may be fairly entitled to express the\nfollowing conviction: \u201cBy the continuance, then, of this evolutionary\nprocess, there is plainly to be discerned in the distant future a\ntriumph of the church compared with which that of medi\u00e6val Christendom\nwas but a transient adumbration\u2015\u2015a triumph brought about by moral\nmeans alone, by the slow process of exhortation, example, and\nindividual conviction, after every error has been freely propagated,\nevery denial freely made, and every rival system provided with a free\nfield for its display\u2015\u2015a triumph infinitely more glorious than any\nbrought about by the sword, and fulfilling at last the old\npre-Christian prophecies of the kingdom of God upon earth.\u201d[103]\n\nOne-half of the volume is taken up with the consideration of political\nevolution and the three political ideals. Nevertheless, the author\nconsiders that the questions respecting science and philosophy are\nmuch the most important. For, although he concludes from his course of\nreasoning that political changes will be harmless to the church, and\neven give her increased strength, coherence, and efficiency, so that a\nCatholic may reasonably expect for her all that triumph which he\nthinks her Author has foretold, in spite of such changes; yet, in\narguing with an unbeliever, such a ground of confidence cannot be\nassumed. If the claims of the church to authority, and the dogmatic\ntruth of her doctrine, can be successfully assailed by science and\nphilosophy, then scientific and philosophical evolution must be fatal\nto Christianity, and political changes will facilitate and hasten the\ncatastrophe, though they are powerless to produce it by their own\nsolitary, unaided force. Here we arrive at that part of the subject\nwhich is to us the most interesting, and which the author has treated\nin the most satisfactory manner. On this field Dr. Mivart is at home;\nfor it is his own peculiar ground, where he has already labored with\neminent success, and where we confidently hope he will hereafter\ngather a still greater and richer harvest.\n\nWe anticipate a great revolution in the attitude of what is in common\nparlance rather incorrectly called \u201cscience\u201d\u2015\u2015_i.e._, the complex of\nvarious branches of physics\u2015\u2015toward the Catholic Church. A hostile\nattitude is wholly unnatural. Second-class scientists, sciolists in\nknowledge, men of an imperfect and one-sided culture, are\nintellectually swamped in the morass of facts, theories, and\nhypotheses in which they pass their lives. The imperfect beginnings of\nnatural sciences present phases of apparent contradiction to revealed\ntruths. Imperfect theological systems, and opinions which rest on\nmerely human authority, but are erroneously supposed to be revealed\ndoctrines, frequently clash with science, or with scientific\nhypotheses which are more or less probable or plausible. But there is\nin genuine natural science, in the methods by which it proceeds, in\nthe spirit which actuates its great masters, something eminently\nfavorable to genuine sacred science and akin to it. The wild,\nanti-Christian hypotheses which are put forth under the name of\nscience are not unfrequently crushed by the masters in science, even\nthough they are not themselves Christians. Inductive science is\nmodest, calm, impartial, slow, and just, in its procedure. It is like\nthe law in its accepting and examining evidence on all sides of every\nquestion. The masters in science who are unbelievers are so in spite\nof, and not because of, their scientific spirit and method. If they\nare actively hostile to Christianity, it is because of some false\nphilosophy which is accidentally connected with their science, or by\nreason of their ignorance of real Christianity. No false system can\nstand the application of the genuine principles and method of\nscientific inquiry. It is precisely by that method and those\nprinciples that the truth of the Catholic Church is established,\ncorroborated, and confirmed. An amiable friend, a Unitarian minister,\nonce remarked to us that men\u2019s minds were going back, by a circuitous\nroute, to the Catholic Church. This is what Dr. Mivart endeavors to\nshow. Having tried all false routes and traced up all errors to their\nending in No-Land, men work back across lots and through thickets to\nthe old travelled road which they abandoned through caprice.\n\nIn respect to physical science, Dr. Mivart\u2019s principal line of\nargument goes to show that it has nothing to do directly with\ntheology, because it is conversant exclusively with \u201cphenomenal\nconceptions.\u201d Facts as to the coexistences and sequences of phenomena\ndo not furnish the philosophy by which they are to be explained. This\nphilosophy, and the theology which rests on it as its natural basis,\nhave their own distinct sphere. It is only where theology affirms\nsomething as a revealed truth respecting facts of this kind\u2015\u2015_e.g._,\nthat the sun revolves around the earth, that creation began four\nthousand years before Christ, and was completed in six literal\ndays\u2015\u2015that it comes upon the common ground where it can clash with\nphysical science. In regard to Catholic doctrine, he shows that such\naffirmations are but few, and that none have ever been made into\ndogmas by the authority of the church which have been afterwards\nproved by scientific evidence to be false. The complete revolution in\ncosmology effected by the demonstration of the Copernican system is\nreferred to as an instance of apparent conflict between science and\ndogma which turned out to be no conflict at all. So, also, the\napparent conflict between evolutionary biology and Christian dogma,\nwhich the author has more fully discussed in other works, is\nsuccinctly treated. The antagonism between physics and theology,\nthough of long standing, is accidental, and \u201cphysical science should\nbe considered, alike by the philosophic Christian and anti-Christian,\nas neutral and indifferent.\u201d The only influence, therefore, which\nphysical science can have on Christianity is through the philosophy\nwhich is connected with it. It is philosophy which affords the real\nbattle-ground for the final and decisive conflict between the\nChristian and anti-Christian forces. Notwithstanding the\nnarrow-minded, ignorant, and absurd contempt for philosophy which many\nmodern scientists express, and which has been quite common for some\ntime past, the author thinks that the scientists themselves, even by\ntheir destructive efforts, are aiding powerfully in bringing about a\ngreat philosophic reaction. The author most justly observes that\nfundamental questions of philosophy underlie all physical science, and\nthat, for this reason, the great development and wide popularity of\nphysical science must drive many minds into philosophy. Reviving\npaganism, which is only a return to the old Aryan predilection for\npantheistic naturalism, and is theoretically based on ancient\nphilosophical ideas revived in new dresses by modern sophists, can\nonly come into that internecine conflict with Christianity, after\nwhich it pants, on the ground of philosophy. Both sides must therefore\ngive themselves to philosophical study and discussion, and they have\nalready begun to do so. The supreme question, therefore, in respect to\nthe movement of contemporary evolution, is the philosophical direction\nit is likely to take.\n\nWe arrive, then, at the last topic but one considered by Dr.\nMivart\u2015\u2015viz., Philosophic Evolution, and the process by which he\nendeavors to \u201cform a final judgment as to the result of the great\nconflict between reviving paganism and the Christian church.\u201d\n\nIn Dr. Mivart\u2019s opinion\u2015\u2015one in which we need not say we most heartily\nconcur\u2015\u2015what is needed is a return, \u201cnot to a philosophy, but to _the_\nphilosophy. For if metaphysics are possible, there is not, and never\nwas or will be, more than one philosophy which, properly understood,\nunites all speculative truths and eliminates all errors: _the_\nphilosophy of _the_ philosopher\u2015\u2015Aristotle.\u201d[104] Moreover, he\ndeclares his conviction that evolution will infallibly bring about\nthis return. In his view, scholastic philosophy simply went out of\nfashion in the same way that medi\u00e6val architecture came to be despised\nas barbarous, and will again resume its sway just as the architectural\nglories of northern Europe have come to be universally appreciated.\nOne or two testimonies to the grandeur of the medi\u00e6val philosophy from\ndistinguished opponents are given. The widespread and earnest revival\nof the same among Catholics all over the world is a fact too patent to\nneed any proof. Dr. Mivart\u2019s almost chivalric enthusiasm for\nscholastic philosophy is of itself a signal instance of a movement in\nthis direction from a new quarter\u2015\u2015_i.e._, from the ranks of the\ndevotees of physical science. It would seem that he himself has been\nled through science to philosophy, and therefore his views and\nreasonings on the matter have a peculiar interest. He presents two\ndistinct phases of the question. One represents the inability of the\nanti-Christian scientists to construct a philosophy which may\nsuccessfully oppose Christianity. The other presents positive\ntendencies in scientific evolution toward the peripatetic philosophy\nof the Christian schools. In respect to the first, his line of\nargument shows that these anti-Christian scientists are at war with\neach other and can never agree upon any one system; furthermore, that\ntheir reasonings end in absolute scepticism, and thus undermine their\nown foundations. Human nature and common sense invariably cause a\nreaction against idiotic and suicidal systems of this sort. Even the\ncultivation of natural science, therefore, must produce a tendency to\nseek for a satisfactory system of psychology and ontology. And as the\nphilosophy which Des Cartes brought into vogue, ending with the\ntranscendentalism of Kant and his successors, is no better than a\nphilosophy of scepticism, it seems that a return to the medi\u00e6val and\nGrecian school, to Aristotle and St. Thomas, is unavoidable. There is\nbut one other system which holds out the promise of a refuge from\nmaterialism and scepticism\u2015\u2015that of the Ontologists. This system,\nhowever, is too contrary to the spirit and method of the natural\nsciences to offer any attractions to minds seeking for a synthesis of\nthe spiritual and the material. The exposition of positive tendencies\ntoward Catholic philosophy in the evolutionary processes of modern\nthought is on too abstruse and extensive a range to admit of being\nmore compendiously treated than it actually is in the author\u2019s text.\nWe will, therefore, content ourselves with quoting his own words, in\nwhich he summarily expresses the result of his arguments in his\nconclusion: \u201cGlancing backward over the course we have traversed, it\nseems borne in upon us that the logical development of that process\nwhich Philip the Fair began is probably advancing, however slowly, to\na result very generally unforeseen. But if such result as that here\nindicated be the probable outcome of philosophical evolution,\nChristianity has once more evidently nothing whatever to fear from it.\nA philosophy which as a complement unites in one all other systems\nwill harmonize with a religion which as a complement synthesizes all\nother religions, and not only religions properly so called, but\natheism also. Atheism, pantheism, and pure deism, running their\nlogical course and mutually refuting each other, find an ultimate\nsynthesis in Christianity, as we have before found them to do in\nnature. Christianity affirms the truth latent in atheism\u2015\u2015namely, that\nGod, as He is, is unimaginable and inscrutable by us; in other words,\nno such God as we can _imagine_ exists. It also affirms the truth in\npantheism, that God acts in every action of every created thing, and\nthat in him we live and move and are. Finally, it also asserts the\ntruths of deism, but by its other assertions escapes the objections to\nwhich deism is liable from opposing systems. Similarly, Christianity\nalso effects a synthesis between theism and the worship of humanity,\nand that by the path, not of destruction, but through the nobler\nconception of \u2018taking the manhood into God.\u2019\n\n\u201cOur investigations have led us to what we might have _\u00e0 priori_\nanticipated\u2015\u2015the conclusion that the highest and most intellectual\npower is that which must ultimately dominate the inferior forces.\nNeither political nor scientific developments can avail against the\nnecessary consequences of philosophical evolution. No mistake can be\ngreater than that of supposing that philosophy is but a mental luxury\nfor the few. An implicit, unconscious philosophy possesses the mind\nand influences the conduct of every peasant. Metaphysical doctrines,\nsooner or later, filter down from the cultured few to the lowest\nsocial strata, and become, for good or ill, the very marrow of the\nbones, first of a school, then of a society, ultimately of a nation.\nThe course of general philosophy, it is here contended, is now\nreturning to its legitimate channel after a divergence of some three\ncenturies\u2019 duration. This return cannot affect prejudicially the\nChristian church, but must strengthen and aid it; and thus that\nbeneficial action upon it of political and scientific evolution,\nbefore represented as probable, will be greatly intensified, and the\ngreat movement of the RENAISSANCE hereafter take its place as the\nmanifestly efficient promoter of a new development of the Christian\norganism such as the first twenty centuries of its life afforded it no\nopportunity to manifest.\u201d[105]\n\nThe author\u2019s last chapter, on \u00c6sthetic Evolution, is a kind of\nappendix to the essay\u2015\u2015which is really concluded with the passage just\nnow quoted\u2015\u2015but it is nevertheless an ingenious and elaborate essay in\nitself. The author begins by remarking that the question of evolution\nin religion is one which would furnish an interesting subject of\ninquiry. He then pays a very high but just tribute to the genius of\nDr. Newman, whose influence over Dr. Mivart\u2019s mind may be traced in\nall his writings, as the one who, in his great essay on Development,\nhas elucidated with a master-hand the evolutionary process within the\nchurch, and anticipated the doctrines of Spencer, of Darwin, and of\nHaeckel. With a passing allusion to the great Vatican decree as the\nculmination of this process and the keystone of the great arch of\ncivil and religious liberty; and to the two distinct though intermixed\nprocesses of evolution outside the church, one simply pagan, the other\nsectarian; and to the process of disruption and dissolution which is\ntending to carry the adherents of the sects either toward anti-theism\nor toward the church\u2015\u2015the author turns aside to consider a subject\nclosely connected with religious evolution: the probable effect of the\ngreat modern movement of contemporary evolution upon Christian art.\nMost of his remarks are upon architecture, although he touches lightly\nupon music, painting, and sculpture. In music he appears to give his\nvote for St. Gregory and Palestrina. In respect to painting and\nsculpture, he anticipates progress in these arts by the blending of\nthe best elements of the Preraphaelite period and those of the\nRenaissance. In handling the topic of architecture he analyzes the\narguments for and against both the Gothic and Italian styles, and ends\nby declining to advocate the side of the exclusive champions of either\nof the two styles. After discussing some of the general principles of\nthe art, he proposes a return to the style which prevailed before the\nintroduction of the pointed arch, as a starting point for an improved\nstyle combining some features of the Gothic with some others of the\nRomanesque style of architecture. One consideration which he presents\nrespecting the use of stained-glass windows strikes us as especially\nworthy of attention. As ornaments and as objects of devotion, the\npaintings upon glass in church-windows are far inferior to statues and\npictures, and they nevertheless exclude them and occupy their place by\nreason of the quality of the light which is reflected through stained\nglass. It is desirable, therefore, to find some way of making the\nwindows beautiful and ornamental as well as useful, and at the same\ntime admitting light of that quality and in that direction which is\nrequisite in a church decorated with paintings and statuary. Dr.\nMivart says: \u201cIn the first place, the absence of any rigid rule of\nsymmetry will allow the admission of light just wherever it may be\nrequired. Secondly, the windows may be of any shape found the most\nconvenient\u2015\u2015square, elongated, and narrow windows, rose-windows or\nsemi-circular windows, as in the nave of Bonn cathedral. They may also\nbe made ornamental by mullions, while tracery need not by any means be\nconfined to the upper part of each window, since each window may be\nall tracery, the stone-work being of such thickness as may combine\nstrength and security with a copious admission of light. The absence\nof that beautiful but self-contradictory feature, _brilliant_ stained\nglass, will allow an ample supply of light without too great a\nsacrifice of wall-space, and without any impairment of stability. Not\nthat the glazing should not be ornamental and artistic; the pieces of\nglass might be so designed that their lead frame-work may form elegant\npatterns, while the glass itself, of delicate grays and half-tints,\nwill afford a wide scope for the skilful designer.\u201d[106]\n\nFinally, the author winds up by expressing his belief in a future\ndevelopment of Christian art in language which we condense a little\nfrom his concluding pages: \u201c_Nullum tempus occurrit ecclesi\u00e6!_ The\never-fruitful mother of beauty and of truth, of holy aspirations and\nof good works, has not come to the end of her evolution even in the\nworld of art, and it may be affirmed that there appear to be grounds\nfor thinking that in the whole field of art, music, painting,\nsculpture, and architecture, our successors may witness a vast, new,\ncomplex, and stable artistic integration of a special and distinctly\nChristian character\u2015\u2015a self-consciousness, as it were, in Christian\nart such as never was before, and which will appropriately serve to\nexternally clothe and embody that vast and magnificent Christian\ndevelopment for which all phases of evolution are preparing the way,\nand to which Christians may look forward with joy and hope as the one\nsupreme end of the whole evolutionary process, so far as the Author of\nnature has revealed to us his purposes either by the lessons which the\nuniverse of mind and matter displays before our eyes, or by\nsupernatural revelation.\u201d[107]\n\nThe essay of which we have given an analysis, and all the other works\nof Dr. Mivart, are well worthy of attentive perusal. Their great merit\nlies in the fact that they break up new ground and lead the way to\ninvestigations in new fields of thought. Of course it could not be\nexpected that subjects so wide-spreading and far-reaching as those\nwhich the author has discussed in this volume should be thoroughly and\ncompletely handled within so small a compass. Each chapter would\nrequire an elaborate volume even for the full elucidation of the\nauthor\u2019s own ideas. Whatever difference of opinion may exist in regard\nto particular views and theories, there is one grand, predominant idea\npervading them all, in which Dr. Mivart expresses in his own peculiar\nway what is a very common belief and expectation of great numbers of\nthe most illustrious champions of the Catholic Church in the present\neventful period.\n\nThat this is really a great and critical era in the church\u2019s history,\nand that present changes and events, however painful and unpromising\nthey may be, are preparing the way for one of her grand and decisive\ntriumphs, is a general conviction in the minds of her devoted\nadherents, the truth of which her most embittered enemies seem to\nforebode with a dread anticipation. All things created by God have a\npotentiality in them which is infinite. Much more, the greatest of his\nworks on this earth, the church. The mere observation of what she has\ndone, and of the capabilities which are contained within her, looked\nat from a purely rational viewing-point, is sufficient for\nprognosticating a future evolution to which no limits are assignable.\nA Catholic must, however, look upon her origin, her past action, and\nher future destiny as belonging to the supernatural order. She has\nbeen created to fulfil God\u2019s purpose. That his purpose is the final\ntriumph of good over evil is certain. But, in particulars, we only\nknow how far, how long, and in what way this triumph is decreed to\ntake place on this earthly arena where the church is militant; in so\nfar as the purposes of God are made manifest to us by actual history\nor by prophecy. The general sense of the most approved interpreters of\nprophecy in the sacred Scriptures justifies the expectation of some\nsignal triumph of the church on the earth yet to come. There seems to\nbe a presentiment in the hearts of the faithful that it is now drawing\nnear. We have a strong warrant for attributing this presentiment to a\nsecret movement of the Holy Spirit, in the repeated and emphatic\nutterances of the august and holy Vicar of Christ upon earth, our\ngloriously reigning Sovereign Pontiff Pius IX. As to the time, the\nmeans, the nature, and the duration of this triumph of the church upon\nearth, and the exact, precise sense of the unfulfilled prophecies\nrespecting the temporal kingdom of Jesus Christ, there is room for\nmuch diversity of opinion. The great social changes and evolutionary\nmovements of which Dr. Mivart writes present a problem to a thoughtful\nChristian mind very difficult of solution. \u201c_O\u00f9 allons nous!_\u201d is the\nanxious exclamation of Bishop Dupanloup in respect to France, and a\nsimilar questioning of the future agitates the minds of men throughout\nthe world. Whoever has any sagacious and well-reasoned answer to this\ninterrogation is, therefore, likely to find eager and interested\nlisteners, and deserves a respectful hearing. Dr. Mivart thinks that\nhe sees the way out of present complications, and discovers signs\nwhich herald the advent of a new and long period of human history\nunder the influence of Christianity which will be the culmination of\nGod\u2019s work on the earth. Whatever may be thought by different persons\nof this horoscope and of the signs in our present sky, all must admit\nthe ingenuity and force of reasoning which the author has displayed,\nadmire his chivalrous and generous spirit, and recognize the great\namount of valuable knowledge and genuine truth, both in physics and\nmetaphysics, contained in the volume now reviewed and in Dr. Mivart\u2019s\nother productions.\n\n\n [100] _Contemporary Evolution._ An Essay on some Recent\n Social Changes. By St. George Mivart. (Dedicated to the\n Marquis of Ripon.) Henry S. King & Co., London. 1876. (An\n American edition of the work is announced by the Messrs.\n Appleton.)\n\n [101] See p. 194.\n\n [102] _Lehrb. der Univ. Gesch._, vol. i. p. 17.\n\n [103] P. 121.\n\n [104] P. 179.\n\n [105] P. 215.\n\n [106] P. 247.\n\n [107] P. 253.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL\u2019S CHRISTMAS GIFT.\n\n\nLet fastidious and fashionable people say what they will about\nshanties, there was something in Mike Roony\u2019s humble dwelling that was\nreally attractive. Perched on the top of a broad and lofty rock near\nthe corner of Broadway and Forty-ninth Street, it commanded a\nmagnificent view of the Hudson River and the Sound; and as the only\nway to reach it was by a flight of steps which Mike had cut in the\nrock, \u2019twas known among the neighbors by the name of Gibraltar. Some\nsaid Roony was a squatter; that he paid neither tax nor rent for the\nsmall piece of Manhattan Island which he occupied. Well, be this as it\nmay, one thing is certain\u2015\u2015he always declared his readiness to move\nwhen they blasted him out. Nothing grew upon this homestead\u2015\u2015not a\nbush, not a weed, not a blade of grass; it was a little desert, roamed\nover by a goat, and swept clean by the winds, which made it their\nromping-ground from every quarter of the compass.\n\nBut Mike had a wife who loved flowers, and in the window fronting\nsouth stood a flower-pot wherein there bloomed a sweet red rose.\nHelen\u2015\u2015for this was her name\u2015\u2015had the true instincts of a lady, albeit\nher garment was not of silk and she sometimes went barefoot. She kept\nherself scrupulously neat\u2015\u2015for water does not cost anything\u2015\u2015and was\nfairer to behold than the flower she cherished. Born in America, of\nIrish parents, hers was one of those ideal faces which we not seldom\nmeet with among American women. A freckle or two only helped to set\noff the perfect whiteness of her skin; her eyes had taken their hue\nfrom the blue sky of her native land, and like the raven\u2019s wing was\nthe color of her hair.\n\nBut although Helen knew that she was beautiful, and there was a small\nmirror in the shanty, she did not waste any time before it, unless,\nperhaps, of a Sunday morning ere going to High Mass. A true helpmate\nwas this wife in every sense of the word. She arose betimes, no matter\nhow cold the weather might be, to prepare her husband\u2019s breakfast,\nand, if a button was missing off his coat, always found time to sew it\non before he went to his work. The floor of the shanty was daily\nsprinkled with fresh sand; the pictures on the wall\u2015\u2015one of the\nBlessed Virgin at the foot of the cross, the other of St. Joseph\u2015\u2015were\nnever hung awry; you saw no broken panes in the windows; and the faces\nof her two little children, Michael and Helen, were kept as bright and\nclean as her own. She never quitted home during her husband\u2019s absence\nto gossip and talk scandal with other women; and, monotonous as her\nlife may seem, \u2019twas a happy one. Mike, too, was happy, and no mariner\nhomeward bound ever watched for the beacon-light on his native coast\nmore impatiently than he watched for the light which Helen used to\nplace in the window, whence he might see it from afar as he trudged\nback from his day\u2019s work. And no matter how hard it might be raining,\nor snowing, or freezing, at the first glimpse of its welcome rays Mike\nalways burst out into a merry song. In the evening she would read him\nto sleep with some story from the _Catholic Review_; then, when his\nhead began to nod, she gently drew the pipe out of his mouth and\nwhispered: \u201cLove, \u2019tis bed-time.\u201d\n\nOh! happy were those days\u2015\u2015so happy that Helen would sometimes\ntremble; for surely they could not last for ever\u2015\u2015otherwise it would\nbe heaven on earth.\n\nBut, sober and inoffensive as Roony was, he was not without enemies;\nindeed, for very reason of his sobriety and inoffensiveness some hated\nhim. And one evening\u2015\u2015Christmas eve\u2015\u2015he and his young wife were seated\nby the stove, talking about the Black-eye Club, whose head-quarters\nwere in a liquor-store close by, and whose members had sworn vengeance\non Mike for refusing to join them. \u201cThey have threatened to beat me,\u201d\nhe said; \u201cbut if they only give me fair play, I\u2019ll be a match for the\nbiggest of \u2019em.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, fair play!\u201d said Helen, shuddering. \u201cSavages like them always\ntake a man unawares, and, like wolves, they hunt in packs.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey carry pistols, too,\u201d added Mike, \u201cwhile I carry nothing but my\nfists.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, bad as I feel about it, husband dear, I\u2019d a thousand times\nrather have you brave the whole villanous gang than see you join them;\nfor now we are so happy.\u201d Here Helen twined her arm round his neck,\nthen, gazing on him with loving eye, she continued: \u201cYou have never\ntouched liquor, you do not get into fights, you are so good; and this\nrock is dearer to me than the greenest farm in the land.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith you any spot would be a paradise,\u201d rejoined Mike; \u201cand I hope\nto-morrow will be the last Christmas that we\u2019ll go without a turkey\nand some toys for the children.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I\u2019m sure it will,\u201d said Helen. \u201cBut you are right to pay all our\ndebts first; and already the boards which the shanty cost are paid\nfor, and so is the stove, and there is nothing owing except the coal\u201d;\nthen, with a smile: \u201cAnd I\u2019ve promised a pailful of coal to Mrs.\nMcGowan, who lives on the next rock. You see, poor as we are, we can\nafford to give something away. Oh! isn\u2019t that sweet?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is indeed,\u201d answered Roony; then, after a pause: \u201cBut now tell me,\nwife, who do you think is going to preach to-morrow?\u201d\n\n\u201cFather H\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015.\u201d\n\n\u201cReally! Oh! I\u2019m so glad; he always knows when to stop.\u201d\n\n\u201cA good sermon can\u2019t be too long,\u201d said Helen.\n\n\u201cWell, I own it isn\u2019t easy to leave off when once you get a-going. I\nwas a brakeman five years, and know what it is to stop a train of\ncars. But if I was in the pulpit I\u2019d know how to do it.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I\u2019d just fix my eye on the sleepiest-looking fellow in the\ncongregation, and the very moment his head began to nod I\u2019d lift up my\nhand and say, \u2018A blessing I wish you all.\u2019\u201d Here Helen laughed, and\nwhile she was laughing Mike added: \u201cAnd I\u2019ve sometimes thought Father\nH\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 kept his eye on me.\u201d\n\nWhile they were thus chatting by the little stove the northwest wind\nwent howling round the house, and Jack Frost tried his best, his very\nbest, to get in, but did not succeed, not even through the keyhole;\nfor Roony was not sparing of fuel, and the stove-pipe was red hot.\nIndeed, \u2019twas rather pleasant to hear the voice of the blast and the\nrattling of the window-panes; while at times the whole building seemed\nto rise up off the rock, and then Helen would throw an uneasy glance\nat her husband, who would grin and say: \u201cIt\u2019s well anchored, darling;\nnever fear.\u201d At length the clock struck midnight, and the children,\nwho had been sleeping on their parents\u2019 laps, were taken gently up and\nput to bed\u2015\u2015so gently that their slumber was scarcely broken. Then\nhusband and wife retired too; but, ere placing their heads on the\npillow, they knelt and gave thanks to God for the many blessings they\nhad enjoyed since last Christmas. Oh! sweet was the sleep which\nfollowed the prayer, and happy were their dreams; and when Christmas\nmorning came, the sun did not rise on a happier home than this one.\nScarcely had its rays flashed through the east window when Mike sprang\nup, and, clapping his hands, shouted: \u201cO Helen, Helen! open your eyes\nand see what Santa Claus has brought you.\u201d\n\nObedient to his call, Helen awoke; and sure enough, to her great\nsurprise, discovered one of her stockings dangling from the latch of\nthe door, and there was something in it, but what it might be she had\nnot the least notion, nor her husband either.\n\n\u201cOh! go quick and see what it is,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m so curious to know.\u201d\n\nAccordingly, Mike went to the stocking; then, plunging his hand into\nit, drew forth\u2015\u2015a bottle, and on it was marked, \u201cWhiskey.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I declare,\u201d he said, grinning, as he held it up, \u201chere is\nsomething, Nell, to drink your health with this Christmas day.\u201d\n\nBut the wife\u2019s bright look had vanished in a moment when she heard\nwhat the bottle contained; and now, in a grave tone, she answered:\n\u201cNo, dear, do not drink my health with that. Thank God! you have never\nyet touched liquor, so do not begin the bad habit on this sacred day,\nnor on any other day. Throw the bottle out of doors\u2015\u2015do!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, now, can\u2019t a fellow take just a sip in honor of Santa Claus,\nwho brought it?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no; the devil brought it. Don\u2019t take even one drop; throw the\npoison away\u2015\u2015quick!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! but it\u2019s a bitter cold morning, Nell, and the fire isn\u2019t lit, and\na sip of whiskey\u2019ll keep me warm while I make it\u2015\u2015only just one sip.\u201d\n\n\u201cHusband, I beg you\u201d\u2015\u2015here the wife clasped her hands\u2015\u2015\u201cI implore you\nto get rid of the devil\u2019s gift as quick as possible. I see that you\nare already tempted. O husband! listen to my voice.\u201d\n\nTo calm her\u2015\u2015for she seemed much excited\u2015\u2015Roony opened the door, and,\nstepping out into the frosty air, struck the neck of the bottle\nagainst the rock, so as to make her believe that it was broken in\npieces; but only the neck came off. \u201cReally,\u201d he said within himself,\nafter moistening his lips with a drop, \u201cthis doesn\u2019t taste bad; surely\na little won\u2019t hurt me.\u201d Then, concealing the bottle in the\ngoat-house, he went back and told his wife what he had never told her\nbefore\u2015\u2015a lie.\n\n\u201cYou broke it! Oh! I\u2019m so glad,\u201d she exclained, \u201cso very glad!\u201d But\nthere was a tear in her eye as she spoke; then, while Mike busied\nhimself kindling the fire, Helen knelt down and remained a good while\non her knees.\n\n\u201cWhy, Nell, what ails you?\u201d he asked, drawing near her after she had\nfinished the prayer. \u201cThis is Christmas morning; let\u2019s be merry.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! yes, I must be merry,\u201d she replied, trying to assume a cheerful\nair. But there was something in her tone which struck Mike as\npeculiar, and for a moment he blushed. Did she suspect the untruth\nwhich he had told? No; her faith in him was unbroken, and she could\nnot account to herself for the heavy weight upon her heart, which even\nthe prayer had not taken away; and now, despite the glorious sunbeams\nflooding the room and the sweet voices of her children, Helen felt\nsad. Who had entered their happy home in the stillness of night, and\nplaced that ill-omened gift in her stocking? Might it really be the\nEvil One? And while she wondered over this mysterious occurrence, she\nthought of the many families, once happy and well-to-do, who had come\nto grief and misery through intemperance. Was her own day of trial\napproaching? What did this Christmas gift portend? \u201cBut no, no; I will\nnot be sad; I\u2019ll be cheerful. For Michael\u2019s sake I will,\u201d she said to\nherself. Then, as the bright look spread over her face, Mike clapped\nhis hands and shouted: \u201cThat\u2019s right, my darling. Hurrah!\u201d\n\nAnd so the early hours went by; and when ten o\u2019clock struck, they set\nout for St. Paul\u2019s Church, which was about nine blocks off, the mother\nholding her little boy by the hand, the father carrying little Nell,\nwho was not yet old enough to walk so far. But when they were within a\nfew paces of the church door, Roony stopped and declared that he had\nforgotten to feed the goat. \u201cWell, dear, it\u2019s too late now,\u201d said\nHelen. \u201cNanny can wait; you\u2019ll miss Mass if you go back.\u201d\n\n\u201cO wife! how would you like to miss your breakfast?\u201d rejoined Mike.\n\u201cNanny is hungry. I must return.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd lose Mass?\u201d she said, with a look of tender reproach. Roony did\nnot answer, but turned on his heel and went away, leaving her too\novercome with surprise to utter another word.\n\nThe priest was already at the altar when Helen arrived, and the church\nvery full; yet more people continued to push their way in, and ever\nand anon she would look round to see if her husband were among the\nlate-comers. She tried to keep her thoughts from wandering, but did\nnot succeed. Never had Helen felt so distracted before, and the\nforeboding of evil which had oppressed her in the early morning now\nreturned and shrouded her in such gloom that she could hardly pray.\nBut, troubled as the poor woman was, no suspicion of the truth had yet\nentered her mind. She was very innocent, and did not doubt but Mike,\nhaving come late, was hidden among the crowd by the door.\n\nAt length the service ended; and now she felt quite certain that he\nwould join her. But five minutes elapsed, and then ten\u2015\u2015a whole\nquarter of an hour passed away. The congregation was fast dispersing;\nstill, her husband did not appear. \u201cOh! where can he be?\u201d she asked\nherself. \u201cWhere can he be?\u201d At every voice that greeted her Helen\nstarted; for many knew her and wished her a merry Christmas, and Mrs.\nMcGowan, who had a keen eye, exclaimed: \u201cWhy, what ails you, Mrs.\nRoony?\u201d\n\nHow lonesome the wife felt as she plodded homeward! Yet her children\nwere prattling merrily, and the street was full of happy people. She\nwas blind to them all, she was deaf to every word that was spoken, and\nkept murmuring again and again: \u201cWhere can Michael be?\u201d\n\nFinally Helen reached home, and was about to cross the threshold, when\nsuddenly she paused and uttered a cry which might have been heard\nafar, \u2019twas so loud and piercing; while little Mike and Nell exclaimed\nat one breath: \u201cMamma, look at papa sleeping.\u201d\n\nYes, there lay their father stretched upon the floor, breathing\nheavily. But \u2019twas not the pleasant slumber into which Helen loved to\nsee him fall when he returned weary from a hard day\u2019s work; and after\ngazing on him a moment with an expression impossible to describe, she\nburied her face in her hands. Poor thing! well might she weep; and if\na feeling of disgust mingled with her grief, may we not forgive her?\nHe was breathing heavily; by his right hand lay an empty bottle with\nthe neck broken off, and the air of the room was tainted with the\nfumes of liquor.\n\n\u201cStop! let your father sleep,\u201d she said to her son, who had knelt down\nand was playfully brushing the hair off his parent\u2019s face. But this\nprecaution was needless; the latter was too deep in his cups to be\nroused by the touch of the child\u2019s hand, and presently, with a heavy\nheart, Helen turned away and set to work to prepare the dinner. There\nwas no turkey to cook; still, she had intended to provide a somewhat\nbetter repast than ordinary, it being Christmas day. But, alas! she\nhardly knew what she was doing as she bustled about the stove; and\nwhen, by and by, dinner was ready, she tasted not a mouthful\nherself\u2015\u2015all appetite had fled. The children, however, ate heartily,\npausing now and again to say: \u201cMamma, why don\u2019t you call papa?\u201d\n\nIt was evening when Roony awoke, and the moment Helen perceived that\nhis eyes were open she began to tremble; for, though she did not doubt\nbut he was sober by this time, she felt as if another man were near\nher, and not the one whom she had once so honored and trusted. And as\nhe stared at her from the floor, he did indeed appear changed; there\nwas a silly, vacant look on his face, his eyes were bloodshot, and it\nwas almost five minutes before he attempted to rise. Then, without\nopening his lips, he got up and went out of the house, closing the\ndoor behind him with a slam.\n\n\u201cWell, I declare,\u201d he said, tossing away the broken bottle\u2015\u2015\u201cI declare\nI\u2019ve been drunk; and, what\u2019s more, I told a lie and missed Mass. Will\nshe ever forgive me?\u201d Then stamping his foot: \u201cOh! what a fool I\u2019ve\nbeen\u2015\u2015what a wicked fool!\u201d\n\nPresently, while he was thus lamenting his sins, the door opened and a\nvoice said: \u201cCome to me, dear; come to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cO Helen!\u201d he cried, turning toward her, \u201ccan you forgive me, will\nyou?\u201d\n\n\u201cCome to me,\u201d she repeated, opening wide her arms, but at the same\ntime drawing back a step from the threshold; for curious eyes were\nwatching them from a neighboring rock. Quick Roony flew into the\nshanty, then, dropping down on his knees, burst into tears. The wife\nwept too, while little Mike and Nell looked on in childish wonder at\nthe scene.\n\n\u201cBut, darling, why do _you_ cry?\u201d he exclaimed presently, rising to\nhis feet. \u201c_You\u2019ve_ done nothing wrong.\u201d\n\nHelen made no response, but brushing the tears away, twined her arms\naround his neck.\n\n\u201cWell, speak, darling. What have _you_ done to cry?\u201d repeated Roony.\n\n\u201cO Michael!\u201d she answered in faltering accents, \u201cyou have been such a\ngood, kind husband to me. We have been so happy together\u2015\u2015so very,\nvery happy. God has blest us with two darling children. We might live,\nperhaps, years and years in this sweet spot; and when at length death\nparted us, \u2019twould not be for long\u2015\u2015we should meet again in heaven. O\nMichael! I weep because all this may be changed\u2015\u2015because death might\npart us for ever and ever!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, darling, it shall not! It shall not!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I will pray with heart and soul, husband dear, that you may not\nfall a second time. Alas! if the habit of drink once fasten upon you,\nit may be impossible to shake it off; and intemperance not only ruins\nmany a family, but damns many a soul.\u201d At her own words the wife\nshuddered and began to weep anew.\n\n\u201cWell, I say never fear. Not another drop of liquor will I touch,\u201d\nsaid Mike\u2015\u2015\u201cno, not another drop as long as I live.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! thank God!\u201d exclaimed Helen, \u201cthank God!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, yes, I solemnly promise it. And now, darling, try and forget all\nabout my wickedness to-day, won\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I\u2019ll forget all about it,\u201d she answered. With this Helen began\nto sing a merry song, in which her husband joined, while the children\nwent romping around the room, and the cricket came out of his tiny\nhole beneath the stove and chirped merrily too. But although Helen had\nforgiven him, yet Mike\u2019s conduct had wrought a deep impression on her;\nand when bedtime arrived and they retired, he slept soundly enough,\nbut she lay awake for hours. And whenever the wind shook the house,\nshe would tremble; and once the door seemed to open. But no, this was\nmerely fancy. The noise, however, which startled her at midnight was\nreal and not imagination. It proceeded from the den where the\nBlack-eye Club was celebrating Christmas, and mingled with their yells\nwere horrible oaths. Helen did not doubt but a fight was going on;\nperhaps some one was being beaten to death. Then she turned toward her\nhusband, and even touched him, to make quite sure that he was lying\nbeside her.\n\nThe following day Roony went off to work as usual, and came back in\nthe evening, cheered as usual, too, by the light in the window; and\nimmediately its welcome rays flashed upon him, he exclaimed: \u201cOh! what\na good wife I have. God bless her!\u201d\n\nAy, Helen is good! Her heart is with you, Mike, wherever you go; and\nat this very moment she is kneeling by the little beacon, praying that\nit may guide you safely to her side, and that you may not be tempted\nto stray into the bar-room on the corner.\n\nBut not the next day only, the whole week, Roony was his old,\ngood-natured, hard-working, sober self; and what had marred the joy of\nChristmas was fast fading from Helen\u2019s memory. But one Saturday\nevening, as he was trudging homeward with his pocket full of wages,\nthere came over him a sudden craving for spirits; the broken bottle\nout of which he had taken his maiden drink seemed to rise up before\nhis eyes; the delicious taste of the whiskey was on his lips afresh.\nIn fact, the craving was so very strong, so wholly unexpected, that it\nstartled him, and his heart beat violently.\n\n\u201cOh! I never thought I should be seized in this way,\u201d he groaned. \u201cHow\nvery strange! I can\u2019t resist; yet I must. O Helen! would to God I had\nnot taken that first drink.\u201d The words were scarcely breathed when the\nbeams of the home-light flashed upon him. \u2019Twas still a good distance\noff, and the air was muggy and thick, yet it shone brighter than Mike\nhad ever seen it shine before. For about a minute he watched it\nyearningly; he even quickened his steps and twice groaned, \u201cO Helen!\u201d\nThen, muttering a curse upon himself, he turned his eyes away from the\nlight, and at the same time, swerving out of the dear home-path, he\nhurried on to the liquor-saloon.\n\n\u201cThree cheers for Mike Roony!\u201d was the salutation which greeted him\nfrom a dozen voices as he entered. \u201cI knew you\u2019d join us afore long,\u201d\nsaid the President of the Black-eye Club, advancing and shaking him\nwarmly by the hand; then, motioning to the others, their empty glasses\nwere refilled and the new-comer\u2019s health toasted. Presently Roony\nwanted to treat; but \u201cNo, no,\u201d they all shouted; \u201c\u2019tis our privilege\nto treat you this evening.\u201d Whereupon the bottle was passed round\nagain; while poor Mike, flattered beyond measure by this unlooked-for\nreception, thought to himself: \u201cWhat a fool I was not to join the club\nlong ago!\u201d\n\nAnd so on they went carousing, and Helen\u2019s husband growing more and\nmore intoxicated, until at length, when he was barely able to stand, a\nvoice exclaimed: \u201cNow, boys, let\u2019s christen him.\u201d Quick as lightning a\nviolent blow on the eye followed these words; then down dropped Roony\nunconscious to the floor.\n\n\u201cWhere can he be?\u201d said the anxious wife, seeing that he did not\nreturn at the usual hour. \u201cI pray God nothing has happened. The dear\nfellow came near being killed by a blast last year. O my God! I hope\nnothing has happened.\u201d After waiting for him awhile, Helen and her\nyoung ones took their places at the supper-table; but not a morsel did\nshe eat. A vague fear possessed her. The children spoke, but the\nmother answered them not; the cricket chirped\u2015\u2015she was deaf to its\nmerry song; and every few minutes she would open the door, and look\nout and listen. But no husband appeared. And now, without him, how\neverything seemed to change! The rock, the shanty, the pretty rosebush\nshe cherished, even the children whom she loved ten thousand times\nmore than the rose\u2015\u2015all appeared different to her eyes; nothing was\nthe same when he who was the corner-stone of home was missing; and\nHelen realized as never before what a link of adamant bound her heart\nto his. \u201cOh! if anything has happened. If he is killed, \u2019twill kill me\ntoo,\u201d she sighed. Then, when little Mike asked, \u201cWhere is papa?\u201d she\nanswered, \u201cComing soon.\u201d And even to speak these words brought her a\nmoment\u2019s peace of mind, and she would try to think of some good cause\nwhich might detain him. But the clock went on ticking, and the\nhour-hand moved further and further toward midnight; still, no husband\ncame. The children were put to bed, and soon were fast asleep; the\nfire in the stove died out; the cricket became silent; but the wife\ngrew more and more wakeful, while ever and anon she would go to the\nwindow and nervously snuff the candle burning there. Then again she\nwould open the door and listen\u2015\u2015listen with all her ears; but she\nheard only the throbbing of her heart and boisterous voices in the\ndirection of the liquor-saloon.\n\n\u201cWell, I\u2019ll watch and pray till he arrives,\u201d said Helen; then kneeling\nbeside the crib where her children were sleeping, she lifted her\nthoughts to God. But the many hours she had been awake, the busy day\nprolonged so far into night, proved at last too much for her; and just\nas the clock struck one her weary eyes closed and her guardian angel\ntook up the prayer which she left unfinished.\n\nHow long Helen slept she did not know; but when she awoke the candle\nhad burned out and the chamber was pitch dark. \u201cOh! what is the\nmatter? What did I hear? Was it only a dream?\u201d she cried, starting to\nher feet.\n\n\u201cCome, now, I want my supper!\u201d growled Mike, staggering further into\nthe room. \u201cWhere\u2019s my supper?\u201d\n\nPen cannot describe the wife\u2019s feelings as she groped about for the\nmatch-box. And when finally, after letting three or four matches drop\nout of her quivering fingers, she succeeded in lighting a fresh\ncandle, what a sight did she behold! Was this man scowling at her,\nwith one eye battered and swollen, her own Michael?\n\n\u201cI say, where\u2019s my supper?\u201d he repeated with an oath.\n\nWithout uttering a word, but with a sinking of the heart which she had\nnever experienced till now, Helen made haste to kindle a fire and heat\nup the potatoes and pork which she had laid aside for him in the\nevening. While thus employed Roony dropped down on a bench; then,\nafter grumbling at her a few minutes, began suddenly to giggle. \u201cI\nwant you to know,\u201d said he, \u201cthat I\u2019m now a member of the Black-eye\nClub. But that\u2019s plain enough by looking at me, eh? And when I\u2019ve\neaten supper, I\u2019m going to make you cut my hair\u2015\u2015cut it short to\nfighting trim.\u201d\n\n\u201cO husband!\u201d replied Helen, in a voice of sorrowful entreaty, \u201cdo not\nbreak my heart, I love you so.\u201d\n\n\u201cBreak your heart! Ha! ha! that\u2019s a good joke.\u201d Then, glancing up at\nthe clock: \u201cWell, by jingo, Nell, I\u2019d better call this meal breakfast.\nWhy, it\u2019s pretty nigh four, isn\u2019t it?\u201d\n\nEncouraged, perhaps, by the somewhat milder tone in which these last\nwords were spoken, she now approached him, and, bending down,\nproceeded to examine his wounded eye. \u201cYes, bathe it for me,\u201d he\ncontinued. \u201cBut, for all it hurts, I\u2019m deuced proud of it; for it\u2019s\nthe christening mark of the Black-eye Club.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! hush, dear. Don\u2019t mention that wicked gang any more,\u201d said the\nwife. \u201cI hate them; they are fiends.\u201d\n\n\u201cFiends? Ha, ha! Well, well, hurry up with my breakfast or supper,\nwhichever you choose to call it; then get the scissors and cut off my\nhair.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet me bathe your poor eye first,\u201d she answered; \u201cthen, after you\nhave done eating, \u2019twill be daylight, and I want you, love, to come to\nMass this morning, and to see the priest; we\u2019ll go together. O\nMichael! dark clouds are lowering over us; come with me to the\npriest.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo the priest? No, indeed! The Black-eye Club have nothing to do with\npriests.\u201d\n\n\u201cO husband! do not talk so; save yourself before it is too late,\u201d she\nwent on, as she sponged the clotted blood off his cheek.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t, wife. The craving for spirits is too strong. It all comes, I\nknow, from that one little drink Christmas morning. Now I\u2019m not master\nof myself; I believe there\u2019s a devil in me.\u201d\n\nA long, shadowy silence followed, during which Helen wept, while ever\nand anon Roony would say, \u201cIt\u2019s no use crying.\u201d While he was at his\nbreakfast she once more begged him to go with her to Mass. But again\nhe refused, saying, \u201cOur club don\u2019t go to Mass; nor must you, until\nyou have trimmed my hair.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, \u2019tis short enough,\u201d replied Helen.\n\n\u201cIs it? Look!\u201d And as Mike spoke he clutched a fistful of it, then\ngave a pull. \u201cNow, don\u2019t you see that some chap might grab me and get\nmy head in \u2018chancery\u2019? I want my hair short as pig\u2019s bristles, and\nwell greased too; then I\u2019ll be like an eel, and grab me who can.\u201d\n\nThe wife obeyed without a murmur, performing the operation to his\nentire satisfaction; after which, approaching the crib where her\nchildren were sleeping, she gave each a soft kiss, then went off by\nherself to church.\n\nHelen had never been wanting in devotion; her faith had always been\nstrong. But now, as she took her way along the lonely street, with the\nmorning star still shining in the heavens, she felt as though God were\ncome nearer to her; and all her former prayers were cold compared with\nthe prayers which she offered this morning at the foot of the altar.\nAnd when Mass was over and she turned her steps homeward, \u2019twas with a\nmore cheerful heart and a firm resolution to be a loving and faithful\nwife to the end, the bitter end, whatever it might be.\n\nWhen Helen entered the shanty she found her husband gone. But little\nMike was there, and he looked so like his father; and little Nell was\nthere too. Oh! surely they would not be abandoned. \u201cNo, God is with\nus,\u201d she murmured. \u201cMy prayers will be heard, and Michael will one day\nbe what he used to be. Yes, yes! I know it.\u201d As she spoke a radiant\nlook spread over her face; then, making the sign of the cross, she\nstraightway set about her daily duties as if nothing had happened. O\nblessed Faith! which makest the darkest hour bright; richer, indeed,\nin gifts than a gold-mine art thou, and stronger than a mountain to\nlean upon in moments like these!\n\nWhen evening came round, Helen placed the candle in the window as\nusual, although she had faint hope that Mike had been at work. And\nagain she set up till a very late hour, keeping the fire burning and\ntaking good care not to fall asleep this time.\n\nIt was one o\u2019clock when Roony returned. He was not tipsy, but surly,\nand when she laid her hand on his arm he flung it away, saying, \u201cNow,\nI want no preaching and petting; I want my supper.\u201d The poor woman was\na little frightened, and waited upon him awhile in silence.\n\n\u201cYet I must speak,\u201d she murmured; \u201cI must brave his anger. No husband\nwas ever kinder than he, no spouse happier than I have been till now;\nI must make one more effort to save him from ruin.\u201d With this, she\nagain gently touched his arm and said, \u201cDear love\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\n\u201cD\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 your preaching; I won\u2019t listen to it,\u201d he snarled, cutting\nshort her words, and in a voice so loud that it awoke the children.\nThen, presently, shrugging his shoulders, \u201cOh! you needn\u2019t whimper.\nI\u2019m bound to be master here.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave I ever denied your authority?\u201d inquired Helen, looking calmly at\nhim through her tears.\n\n\u201cOh! hush. Don\u2019t bother me,\u201d continued Roony, lifting up his plate.\nThen, as if he had changed his mind about throwing it at her, he\ndashed it into shivers on the floor.\n\n\u201cAlas! what a curse liquor is,\u201d she cried in a tone of passionate\nenergy. \u201cWhat a terrible curse!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I\u2019m not drunk, am I?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut you have been drinking; and the poison is in your veins. O\nMichael! for God\u2019s sake abandon the villanous set you belong to!\u201d Here\nhe clenched his fist. But heedless of the threat she went bravely on:\n\u201cThink how happy we were, Michael. This bare rock was more lovely than\na garden to us. And we have two dear children; look at them yonder!\nLook at them!\u201d\n\n\u201cI say, woman, go to bed and leave me alone,\u201d thundered Roony,\nbringing down his huge fist on the table with a thump which made\neverything in the shanty rattle.\n\nPoor, poor Helen! With a heart torn by anguish, she obeyed. But not a\nwink of sleep came to her\u2015\u2015no, not a wink, and never night seemed\nlonger than this one. But her husband slept like a top, nor opened his\neyes until ten the next morning; then, as soon as he was dressed, and\nwithout waiting for breakfast, out he went to take a drink.\n\n\u201cOh! what is coming? What is going to happen now?\u201d thought Helen, as\nshe watched him enter the bar-room. Then kneeling down, she said a\nprayer.\n\nThe clock had just struck noon when Mike returned, accompanied part of\nthe way by another man, who helped him mount the difficult path which\nwound up the rock; and Roony needed assistance, for even when he\ngained the summit he could not walk straight, and fell within a yard\nof his door. Quick Helen ran to him; for, although his condition\nfilled her with disgust, yet she could not abide the thought of other\neyes than hers discovering him thus. \u201cCome in, husband, come in the\nhouse,\u201d she said, taking his arm. Scarcely, however, had she got him\non his feet again when he caught her by the throat and exclaimed, in\nthe voice of a wild beast, \u201cAh, ha! now I\u2019m going to beat you.\u201d But in\nan instant Helen broke loose from him; then rushing back into the\nshanty, she called her children and bade them hurry out on the rock.\nThe little things obeyed, too innocent to know what the trouble was.\nThen facing her husband, who was scowling at her from the threshold,\n\u201cNow enter,\u201d she said, \u201cand beat me if you will. Here, at least,\nnobody will witness the deed.\u201d Roony staggered in and Helen closed the\ndoor.\n\nThat evening, after pressing her children many times to her poor\nbruised heart, Helen went away. She quitted the home where she had\nonce been so happy, and, as she went, she said to herself: \u201cIf on my\nwedding day an angel from heaven had told me this, I should not have\nbelieved him.\u201d\n\nBut the step she was now taking was all for the best. In his madness\nRoony had threatened to kill her. \u201cAnd he might do it,\u201d she sighed,\n\u201cfor when he is intoxicated he doesn\u2019t know what he is doing. And then\nall his life afterward he would be haunted by remorse. Poor Michael! I\nbelieve he still loves me. For his own sake I am going away.\u201d\n\nIt was Helen\u2019s intention to seek refuge with a family who dwelt not\nfar off, and for whom she had once done some work. They received her\nvery kindly, and wondered ever so much at the ugly cut under one of\nher eyes, from which the red drops were still oozing; and her upper\nlip, too, was cut. But Helen refused to tell who had ill-used her.\n\u201cPray, ask no questions,\u201d she said. \u201cOnly furnish me with employment;\nI\u2019ll drudge; I\u2019ll do anything to earn a little money.\u201d Accordingly,\nthey gave her a number of shirts to make; and being a deft hand at\nneedle-work, she was able to gain quite a good livelihood. But it was\nnot for herself that Helen labored, \u2019twas for those whom she loved\nbetter than herself. And every evening, when the stars began to\ntwinkle, she visited her old home, and there, peeping through the\nwindow, would watch little Mike and Nell with yearning eyes. And once\nshe saw her husband seated by the stove, eating a piece of the bread\nand meat which she had left at the door the previous evening.\n\n\u201cOh! thank God!\u201d she said, \u201cthat I am able to support him and the\nchildren. Perhaps ere long my prayers will be heard, and I shall be\nhappy again.\u201d\n\nBut Roony was still drinking steadily; even now, as he ate the cold\nvictuals, he was barely able to sit on the chair, and so the poor\nwoman did not venture to show herself. Next day, however, the fifth\nsince she left home, the longed-for opportunity presented itself; Mike\nwas sober, and with bounding heart Helen went into the shanty.\n\n\u201cO wife!\u201d he exclaimed, rising to meet her, \u201c\u2019tis an age since I laid\neyes on you. Where have you been?\u201d Then his countenance suddenly\ngrowing dark as a thundercloud, \u201cbut, by heaven! what\u2019s happened? How\ncame those bruises on your face? Somebody has ill-treated you! Tell me\nthe villain\u2019s name, that I may take his heart\u2019s blood.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll never tell his name,\u201d answered Helen, in a low but firm voice.\n\u201cNever!\u201d\n\nFor about a minute Roony gazed on her in silence; the mournful, the\nshocking truth seemed to be gradually dawning upon him. \u201cOh! is it\npossible? Could I have done it\u2015\u2015done such a wicked, brutal thing?\u201d he\nasked himself. Then, falling on his knees, he bathed her feet with\nbitter tears. Helen wept also, while the children ceased their gambols\nand wondered what was the matter. But presently the wife bade him\nrise, then, twining her arms round his neck, gave him a tender\nembrace, by which he knew that he was forgiven. And now for a brief\nhalf-hour, oh! how happy he was, and how happy she was! During the\ndark days which followed Helen often looked back to those fleeting\nmoments; \u2019twas like a gleam of sunshine flung across a scathed and\ndesolate landscape.\n\n\u201cNow, husband dear,\u201d she said after he had fondled her a little while,\n\u201clet me put things to rights.\u201d Whereupon she took her broom, swept the\nfloor, and sprinkled it with clean sand; the pictures were dusted; the\nclock set agoing; the rosebush watered; nor was the poor goat\nforgotten. And delighted, indeed, was the half-starved creature to see\nher again.\n\n\u201cHelen!\u201d exclaimed Mike, while she was thus employed, \u201ca wife like you\nis a priceless treasure. Would to Heaven I had listened to you\nChristmas morning! What a different man I\u2019d be now!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, love, all is bright once more,\u201d answered Helen, cheerily. He\nmade no response save a deep sigh.\n\n\u201cWhy, husband dear, what troubles you?\u201d she asked, her look of joy\nvanishing in a moment.\n\n\u201cNo slave was ever bound by such chains as bind me,\u201d he groaned,\ndropping his forehead in his hands. \u201cAnd it all comes from that one\nfatal drink.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, pray, dear, pray to God, and I will pray with you.\u201d\n\n\u201cToo late! The craving for liquor which seizes me at times is\nirresistible; \u2019tis seizing me now\u2015\u2015the demon!\u201d\n\n\u201cO my Saviour!\u201d cried Helen, trembling and turning pale. The words had\nhardly left her lips when the door opened and a strange face\u2015\u2015at least\nit was new to her\u2015\u2015peeped in.\n\n\u201cTime!\u201d spoke the chief of the Black-eye Club in a voice which caused\nRoony to start to his feet.\n\n\u201cBegone!\u201d cried Helen, advancing boldly toward the intruder.\n\n\u201cTime!\u201d he repeated, now holding up a pistol. But, nothing daunted,\nshe was about to try and close the door on him, when her husband\nslipped past, and ere she could recover from her amazement they were\nboth beyond the rock and half way to the grog-shop.\n\nThat night the poor woman remained in the shanty, watching, and\nweeping, and praying. But her husband did not come back till sunrise;\nand then he was so crazy with drink that she deemed it best to quit\nher home once more. Accordingly, she returned to the kind people who\nhad given her shelter and employment. But it was not easy to settle\ndown anew to her sewing; the needle would drop from her fingers and a\ncold fear thrill through her veins as she thought of the repulsive,\nsin-stamped face which had peeped into the shanty and enticed her dear\nMichael away. We may imagine, also, her agony of mind when it was\nreported that a burglary, accompanied by murder, had been committed\nduring the night, and that suspicion pointed to certain members of the\nBlack-eye Club. But, to her unspeakable relief, Mike was not among\nthose who were arrested. The chief of the gang, however, was; and\ncondemned, too, to be hanged; which sentence would doubtless have been\ncarried out had he not managed to escape from prison. This incident,\nfar from ruining the Black-eyes, only afforded them a pleasing\nexcitement; like rats when the cat comes, they dived into their holes\nfor a space; then out they came as flourishing as ever, and Roony was\none of their most popular members.\n\nBut let us be brief with our story. Why linger over poor Helen\u2019s\nmisery? Why tell of all the brutal treatment she suffered?\n\nMonth after month rolled by. Spring came; summer followed spring. Yet\nthere was no change for the better in Mike. His shanty, once the\nprettiest and cleanest of all the shanties on Manhattan Island, grew\nto be the dirtiest and most forlorn-looking. The door was kicked off\nits hinges, ugly rags and papers fluttered in the broken windows, and\noccasionally the Black-eye Club assembled on the rock, making it the\nscene of a drunken revel. But brave, faithful Helen continued to visit\nher children every evening after dark, carrying them food and\nclothing. She would not remove them from the spot which she still\ncalled home, for she hoped that the sight of the little innocents\nwould sooner or later call her husband back to his old self again. And\nevery day Helen went to St. Paul\u2019s church and made the Stations of the\nCross; this was her favorite devotion. \u201cAnd if my Saviour suffered so\nmuch,\u201d she would say, \u201coh! surely, I can bear my load.\u201d Yet there were\nmoments when she seemed well-nigh ready to sink under it. Ay, more\nthan once Hope wrestled with Despair; but Hope always came off\nvictorious.\n\nIf the wife\u2019s faith was still glowing, if her trust in God continued\nstrong as ever, nevertheless in one respect a woful change appeared in\nher. Oh! sad was the havoc which this year of grief, of cruel\nill-treatment wrought on her once bright and lovely face! \u2019Twas as if\na coarse hand had rubbed off the delicate tints of that sweet picture,\nand left behind, not the ruins of her beauty, but the ruins of those\nruins.\n\nAnd now in time\u2019s monotonous circle winter is come round again;\nanother Christmas is at hand. Evergreens and toys, laughing children\nand good-humored parents, with well-filled purses, all tell it to you.\nAnd papa and mamma, as they dash hither and thither in their jingling\nsleighs, doubt not but everybody else is happy too: Santa Claus will\nvisit every home; Santa Claus will fill every stocking. Why, who could\nhelp feeling merry at this holy season?\u2015\u2015unless, perhaps, the turkeys.\nYes, it is Christmas Eve.\n\n\u201cHow well I remember last Christmas!\u201d sighed poor Helen as she leaned\nback in her chair and gazed with tearful eyes at the shirt which,\nalas! she was unable to finish. How could she finish it? She was\nbarely able to see. Yet those livid, tell-tale marks on her visage,\npainful as they are, are easier to bear than the curses and unfeeling\nwords which have broken her heart at last. As night approached, snow\nbegan to fall and the wind to blow\u2015\u2015a keen, angry wind from the\nnorth-east; one of those winds we love so to hear howling round the\nhouse while we sit toasting our slippers by the fire. But, bitter cold\nas it was, Helen did not shrink from going to church; although\nhalf-blind, she could still find the way there.\n\nShe went; she made anew the stations of the Cross, and said, as she\nhad so often said before, \u201cIf my Saviour suffered so much, oh! surely\nI can bear my load.\u201d As she breathed these words to herself the ugly\nblack-and-blue marks which disfigured her seemed to fade away, a glow\nof heaven shone in her face, and for a moment, one brief moment, she\nbecame once more the beautiful Helen\u2015\u2015Helen, \u201cthe Belle of the\nShanties,\u201d as Mrs. McGowan used to call her\u2015\u2015then suddenly she gave a\nstart and the mien of rapture changed to a look of wonder and alarm.\nWho had spoken her name? There was nobody near; who could it be? While\nHelen was gazing about her, she heard the voice again. \u201cWho is calling\nme?\u201d she asked, her heart now throbbing violently. The words were\nscarcely uttered when for the third time, and more distinctly,\n\u201c_Helen!_\u201d sounded in her ear. \u201cIt is Michael!\u201d she exclaimed,\nhastening to the door. \u201cYes, it is he calling me.\u201d But ere she passed\nout of the church she broke off a sprig of evergreen and dipped it\ninto the holy-water font. Then hiding it in her bosom, so that the\nangry wind might not snatch it away, she sped homeward on winged feet.\n\nBut \u2019twas no easy matter to get to the rock at this hour with her poor\nbruised eyes and in such a driving storm. Yet she did find the way.\nAnd up the rude path she climbed with marvellous agility; \u2019twas as\nthough an invisible hand were leading her on.\n\nThe sight which Helen beheld on entering the shanty might have\nappalled any heart but hers. Her husband, his face streaming with\nblood, was engaged in a deadly struggle with a horrible-looking being\nmuch larger than himself, who seemed striving to make him drink from a\ncup which he pressed to his lips. \u201cO Ellen!\u201d cried Michael in a tone\nof despair, \u201csave me! save me!\u201d Quick she flew towards him, stretching\nforth at the same time the branch of evergreen. In another instant\n\u2019twas in his hand; then, just as he grasped it, his strange adversary\nuttered a demoniac cry and the cup fell to the floor, shattered in\nmany pieces.\n\n\u201cOh! I am saved,\u201d exclaimed Roony\u2015\u2015\u201csaved! saved! Thank God!\u201d But\nwhile his joyful words were ringing through the house, the fiend\nturned upon his deliverer and out into the black night Helen was\ndriven. Vainly she struggled; a powerful hand, which seemed mailed in\niron, thrust her out, and presently, when released from its ruthless\ngrip, she found herself blindly groping here and there in the\ndarkness. Round and round the house she wandered\u2015\u2015near it always, yet\nnever finding it.\n\nAnd during these sad moments, the last moments of her life, her\nhusband was anxiously seeking her. But it was easy to miss each other\nin such a snow-storm, and when he shouted her name the wild wind\ncarried away her response, until at length, numbed by the cold, she\nanswered him no more. And so, within a few feet of home, the brave\nHelen, the faithful Helen, was wrapt in a winding-sheet of snow.\n\n * * * * *\n\nNext morning\u2015\u2015sweet Christmas morning\u2015\u2015the sun rose in a cloudless\nsky; and as its bright beams flashed from window to window, from spire\nto spire, every object, the humblest, the least beautiful, became\nsuddenly transformed into a thing of beauty. Ay, even those two icy\nhands peeping above the snow hard by Mike Roony\u2019s shanty door sparkle\nas if they were covered with gems and have a golden halo round them.\nThey were clasped as if in prayer, and when poor Mike discovered them\nhe cried aloud: \u201cOh! she prayed for me to the last; she prayed for me\nto the last!\u201d\n\nHis wail was heard at the next rock, and far beyond it. Then a crowd\nbegan to collect, a very large crowd; for Helen was known to many, and\nher husband was not the only one who shed tears over her remains this\nbright Christmas morning.\n\n\u201cI had a feeling that something was going wrong,\u201d spoke Mrs. McGowan.\nThen, when Roony told of the infernal being who had attacked him, and\nhow he had been rescued by the blessed evergreen which Helen had\nbrought, the good woman solemnly shook her head, and whispered: \u201cThis\nhouse ought to be exorcised\u2015\u2015indeed it ought.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, one thing I vow by all that\u2019s holy,\u201d ejaculated Mike, crossing\nhimself and lifting his voice so that the crowd might hear him\u2015\u2015\u201cI vow\nnever again to touch liquor\u2015\u2015never, never, never!\u201d\n\n\u201cI join you!\u201d exclaimed a bystander.\n\n\u201cSo do I!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I too!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I!\u201d shouted a number of voices. And those who spoke were members\nof the notorious Black-eye Club. Then they all knelt around the body\nand swore, hand-in-hand together, never to drink another drop of\nintoxicating spirits.\n\nAnd thus by Helen\u2019s death many sinners were converted, many a\ndrunkard\u2019s home made happy again; for the ways of the Lord are\nmysterious. Good is not seldom wrought out only through tears and\nsuffering. Oh! who will say it was not well for Helen to die?\n\nBut poor Mike was inconsolable. He who had once been so blithe and\nfrolicsome now spoke scarcely a word. Days and weeks rolled by, yet he\ndid not change. We may pity him indeed! There was no light in the\nwindow now to welcome him from afar as he trudged back from his work\nin the dusk. And when he sat down to warm himself by the stove,\ninstead of lighting his pipe as of yore and falling into a pleasant\ndoze, he became strangely wakeful.\n\nThen the spectre remorse would glide out of some shadowy corner and\nwhisper bitter words in his ear. If at times he succeeded in silencing\nits voice, and would give himself up to a reverie of other days, when\nthis miserable shanty was more gorgeous to him than a palace, oh! the\npleasure which the sweet vision brought was like music heard from\nwithinside a prison wall, like sunshine seen through the bars; for\nthose golden days would come never more. Eternity stood between him\nand them.\n\nThen back remorse would creep and whisper: \u201cYou beat her\u2015\u2015you broke\nher heart\u2015\u2015you killed her\u2015\u2015you did\u2015\u2015you did!\u201d\n\nAnd one evening, while these torturing words were wringing his soul,\nhe threw up his right hand\u2015\u2015the hand which had struck her so\noften\u2015\u2015and groaned aloud: \u201cOh! this is hell. Where\u2019s the axe?\u201d\n\nForlorn wretch! well it was that as he bared his arm and clutched the\naxe\u2015\u2015ay, well it was that at that very moment the minister of God\nappeared to check the rash deed he contemplated, to speak soothing\nwords, to save him, perhaps, from madness.\n\nAnd as from this hour forth a new life began for Michael Roony, we end\nour tale with the closing advice which the priest addressed him. \u201cMy\ndear friend,\u201d he said, \u201cdo not weep any more, for tears will not bring\nback your wife. There is nothing in this world so vain as regret.\nTherefore cease to mourn; strive your best to be cheerful.\u201d Then\npointing to little Mike and Nell, who were playing at his feet, \u201cwork\nhard, too, for these children whom she bore you. For their sake, as\nwell as your own, keep true to the pledge of temperance, and so live\nhere on earth that one day you may meet again your dear Helen in\nheaven.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nSIENA.\n\n_Cor magis Sena pandit._\n\nThe railway from Empoli to the south passes through a rough, hilly\ncountry, following its sinuosities, spanning the valleys on gigantic\narches, or plunging through the tunnelled mountains. One tunnel is a\nmile long\u2015\u2015through the hill of San Dalmazzo; and when you issue from\nit, you see before you another hill, on which rises, stage after\nstage, the strange, medi\u00e6val city of Siena, to the height of nearly a\nthousand feet above the level of the sea. It was rather a\ndisappointment not to enter it, as carriages from Florence do, by the\ncelebrated Porta Camollia, where the traveller is greeted by the\ncordial inscription, _Cor magis Sena pandit_\u2015\u2015Siena opens her gates\neven more willingly than her heart\u2015\u2015testifying to the hospitable\ncharacter of the inhabitants. The city is built on three hills, with\ndeep ravines between them. These hills are crossed by three main\nstreets, meeting at the Piazza del Campo, around which the city\nradiates like a star. There is scarcely a level spot in the whole\nplace. Even the central square descends like the hollow of a cone.\nNothing could be more favorable to the picturesque. The old brick\nwalls of the thirteenth century, with their fortifications and\nthirty-eight gate-ways, go straggling up the heights. Narrow,\nlane-like streets, inaccessible to carriages, rush headlong down into\ndeep ravines, sometimes through gloomy arches, the very houses\nclinging to the steep sides with a giddy, top-heavy air. On one of\nthese three hills stands the cathedral, with its lofty arches and\nmagnificent dome, a marvel of art, full of statues and bronzes,\ncarvings and mosaics. On another is the enormous brick church of San\nDomenico, for ever associated with the divine raptures of St.\nCatharine of Siena. Palaces, as well as churches, adorn all the\nheights\u2015\u2015palaces grim and time-worn, that bear old, historic names,\nfamed in the great contests between the Guelphs and Ghibellines, in\nwhich live, secluded in their own dim halls, the aristocratic owners,\nkeeping up their ancient customs, proud as the imperial Ghibellines or\nlordly Guelphs from whom they sprang. Amid all the towers, and domes,\nand palaces, rises, from the central square, light and slender, the\ntall, arrow-like Torre del Mangia, which shoots up to a prodigious\nheight into the sapphire sky, crowned with battlements, as if to\ndefend the city against the spirits of the air.\n\nYes, Siena is singularly picturesque and striking as no other city in\nItaly is, but sad and melancholy with its recollections of past\ngrandeur. It cannot forget the time when it sent forth its legions to\ntriumph over the Florentines, and had two hundred thousand\ninhabitants. Now it has only about a tenth of that number. Once it was\ngreat in war. It was a leader in art. Eight popes sprang from its\nterritory, among whom were Pius II., the poet, diplomatist, and lover\nof art, from the Piccolomini family; the great Hildebrand, so\nprominent in the history of the church; and Alexander III., who\ndeposed Frederick Barbarossa, and gave his name to a city\u2015\u2015styled by\nVoltaire himself the benefactor of the human race. And like so many\nstars that blaze in the heaven of the Italian Church\u2015\u2015nay, the church\nuniversal\u2015\u2015are the Sienese saints, wondrous in life and glorified by\nart.\n\nThe first place into which the traveller inevitably drifts, if he\nattempts to explore the city alone, is the Piazza del Campo, now\ncalled, of course, Vittorio Emmanuele, in spite of Dante. This piazza\nis singularly imposing from its unchanged, medi\u00e6val aspect. It slopes\naway like an amphitheatre, being intended for public games and\nspectacles; Murray says, like a shell. Yes, a shell that whispers of\npast storms\u2015\u2015of the tempestuous waves that have swept over the city;\nfor it has witnessed many a popular insurrection, many a struggle\nbetween the nobles and people. Among the interesting associations we\nrecall the haughty Ghibelline leader, Provenzano Salvani, whose name,\nas Dante says:\n\n \u201cFar and wide\n Through Tuscany resounded once; and now\n Is in Siena scarce with whispers named.\u201d\n\nIt was here, when a friend of his, taken prisoner by Charles of Anjou,\nlay under penalty of death, unless his ransom of a thousand florins in\ngold should be paid within a certain time, that Provenzano, the first\ncitizen of the republic, the conqueror of Monte Aperti, unable to pay\nso large a sum, humbled himself so far as to spread a carpet on this\npiazza, on which he sat down to solicit contributions from the public.\n\n \u201cWhen at his glory\u2019s topmost height,\n Respect of dignity all cast aside,\n Freely he fixed him on Siena\u2019s plain,\n A suitor to redeem his suffering friend,\n Who languished in the prison-house of Charles;\n Nor, for his sake, refused through every vein to tremble.\u201d\n\nDante, who meets him in Purgatory, alludes to the grandeur of this act\nas atoning for his ambition, which\n\n \u201cReached with grasp presumptuous at the sway\n Of all Siena.\u201d\n\nSo stanch a friend would seem to have deserved a less terrible fate.\nOn the disastrous day of Colle he was taken by the Florentines, who\ncut off his head, and carried it around the battle-field, fastened on\na lance.\n\nOn one side of the piazza is the massive Palazzo Pubblico, bristling\nwith battlements. On its front blazes the holy name of Jesus, held up\nby St. Bernardin of Siena for the reverence of the whole world. The\nbusy throng beneath looks up in its toilsome round, and goes on, the\nbetter for a fleeting thought. Below is a pillar with the wolf of\npagan Rome that bore Siena. From this palace rises the beautiful tower\n_del Mangia_, seen far and wide over the whole country, so called from\nthe automaton which used to come forth at mid-day, like the Moor at\nVenice, to strike the hours. This figure was to the Sienese what\nPasquino was to Rome. To it were confided all the epigrams of the city\nwits; but, alas for them! one day, when it came forth to do its duty,\na spring gave way, and it fell to the ground and was dashed in pieces.\nThis tower commands an admirable view. North, the country looks\nbarren, but the slopes of Chianti are celebrated for their wines, and\nMonte Maggio is covered with forests. South and west, it is fresher\nand more smiling, but leads to the fatal marshes of Maremma. Santa\nFiora, the most productive mountain, annually yields vast quantities\nof umber. The happy valleys are full of olives and wheat-fields.\nFarther off, to the south, the volcanic summits of Radicofani,\nassociated with Boccaccio\u2019s tales, blacken the horizon. To the east\neverything is bleak and dreary, the whole landscape of a pale, sickly\ngreen.\n\nAt the foot of the tower is a beautiful votive chapel of the Virgin,\nbuilt in the fourteenth century after a pestilence which carried off\neighty thousand people from Siena and its environs. It is like an open\nporch resting on sculptured pillars. Over the altar within are statues\nand a fresco of the Madonna, before which are flowers and lamps\nburning in the bright sunlight\u2015\u2015all open to the air, as if to catch a\npassing invocation from the lips of those who might otherwise spare no\nthought, amid their toils, for heaven.\n\nSiena is peculiarly the city of Mary. Before the great battle with the\nFlorentines,\n\n \u201cThat colored Arbia\u2019s flood with crimson stain,\u201d\n\nthe Sienese solemnly placed their city under the protection of the\nVirgin, and vowed, if victorious, to regard her as the Sovereign Lady\nof the land, from whom they would henceforth hold it as her vassals.\nAfter their triumph they came to lay their spoils at her feet, and had\nher painted as Our Lady of Victory, throned like a queen, with the\nInfant standing on her knee. When Duccio, some years later, finished\nhis Madonna, he wrote beneath it: _Mater sancta Dei, sis causa Senis\nrequiei!_\u2015\u2015Give peace to Siena!\u2015\u2015and the painting was transported,\namid public rejoicings, to the cathedral. Business was entirely\nsuspended. All the shops were closed. The archbishop, at the head of\nthe clergy and magistrates, accompanied it with a vast procession of\npeople, with lighted tapers in their hands, as if around a shrine. The\ntrumpets sounded; the bells rang; nothing could equal the enthusiasm.\nThe picture was placed over the high altar of the church.\n\nThis was during the height of Siena\u2019s grandeur, when the wisdom of its\nlaws corresponded to the depth of its religious sentiments, so that,\nwhile most of the Italian republics were ruined by intestine\ncommotions between the nobles and people, Siena had the wisdom to\nmodify its constitution in such a way as to admit the representatives\nof both parties to the government, and so preserve the vigor of the\nnation. It was thus she was enabled to extend her dominion and win the\ngreat victory of Monte Aperti, in which ten thousand Florentines were\nleft dead on the field.\n\nOn one side of the piazza is the palace of the Sansedoni, one of the\ngreat Ghibelline families belonging to the feudal aristocracy of\nSiena\u2015\u2015a frowning, battlemented palace, with a mutilated tower built\nby a special privilege in 1215. In it is a chapel in honor of the\nBeato Ambrogio Sansedoni, a Dominican friar who belonged to this\nillustrious family. It was he whom Pope Clement IV., after a vain\neffort to save the unfortunate Conradin of Souabia from death, sent to\nadminister the sacraments and console the young prince in his last\nmoments. Ambrogio distinguished himself as a professor of theology at\nParis, Cologne, and Rome.\n\nClose beside the Palazzo Buonsignori, one of the finest in the city,\nis the house said by tradition to have been inhabited by the unhappy\nPia de Tolomei, indebted for her celebrity to Dante, rather than to\nher misfortunes. He meets her in the milder shades of Purgatory, among\nthose who had by violence died, but who, repenting and forgiving,\n\n \u201cDid issue out of life at peace with God.\u201d\n\nHer death was caused by the deadly miasmas of \u201cMaremma\u2019s pestilential\nfen,\u201d to which her cruel husband had banished her.\n\nIt was a member of the Tolomei family\u2015\u2015the Beato Bernardino\u2015\u2015who, in\nthe fourteenth century, founded the Olivetan Order. He was previously\na professor at the university of Siena, but, being struck blind while\ndiscussing some philosophical subject in his lecture-room, he\nresolved, though he soon recovered his sight, to embrace the religious\nlife; and when he next appeared in his chair, instead of resuming his\nphilosophical discussions, he astonished his audience by insisting on\nthe vanity of all earthly acquirements, and the importance of the only\nknowledge that can save the soul. Several of his pupils were so\nimpressed by his words that they followed him when he retired to one\nof the family estates not far from Siena, which he called Monte\nOliveto, whence the name of the order. Bernardino fell a victim to his\nzeal in attending to the sick in the time of a great plague. The\nconvent he founded became a magnificent establishment, with grounds\nluxuriantly cultivated, a church adorned by the arts, and apartments\nso numerous that the Emperor Charles V., and his train of five\nthousand, all lodged there at once.\n\nThe Palazzo Bandanelli, where Pope Alexander III. was born, is gloomy\nand massive as a prison, with iron gratings at the arched windows,\nbrick walls black with age, from which project great iron rings, and\non the doors immense knockers of wrought iron, made when blacksmiths\nwere genuine artists. But, however dismal his birthplace, Alexander\nIII. was enlightened in his views. It was in 1167 he declared, in the\nname of a council, that all Christians ought to be exempted from\nservitude.\n\nTo go back to the Piazza del Campo. Before the Sansedoni palace is the\nFonte Gaja\u2015\u2015so called from the joyful acclamations of the people, when\nwater was brought into the square in 1343. It is surrounded by an\noblong basin of white marble, elegantly sculptured by Giacomo della\nQuercia, to whom was henceforth given the name of Del Fonte.\n\nSiena, being on a height, was, from the first, obliged to provide\nwater for its inhabitants at great expense. Aqueducts were constructed\nin the time of the Romans. But a still grander work was achieved in\nthe middle ages, when water was brought from the neighboring mountains\nby an aqueduct about twenty miles long, that passed beneath the city,\ngiving rise, perhaps, to the derisive report in Dante\u2019s time that the\nhill was tunnelled in search of the river Diana:\n\n \u201cThe fancied stream\n They sought, of Dian called.\u201d\n\nThese vast subterranean works so excited the admiration of Charles V.\nthat he said Siena was more wonderful below ground than above. Now\nthere are three hundred and fifty-five wells in the city, and eighteen\nfountains. The deep well in the cloister of the Carmine is called the\nPozzo di Diana.\n\nThe most noted of the fountains is Fonte Branda, whose waters were so\nfamous in Dante\u2019s time for their sweetness and purity that he makes\nAdamo of Brescia, the coiner of counterfeit money, exclaim, amid the\nflames of the Inferno, that to behold the instigators of his crime\nundergoing a like torture would be sweeter to him than the cool waters\nof Fonte Branda:\n\n \u201cFor Branda\u2019s limpid font I would not change\n The welcome sight.\u201d\n\nThis fountain has also been celebrated by Alfieri, who often came to\nSiena to visit his friend, Francesco Gori, with whom he remained\nmonths at a time. He liked the character of the people, and said, when\nhe went away, that he left a part of his heart behind. And yet Dante,\nperhaps because a Florentine, accused the Sienese of being light and\nvain:\n\n \u201cWas ever race\n Light as Siena\u2019s? Sure, not France herself\n Can show a tribe so frivolous and vain.\u201d\n\nFormerly, if not still, giddy people in Tuscany were often asked if\nthey had been drinking water from the Fonte Branda, as if that would\naccount for any excess.\n\nThe Sienese are proud of the fame and antiquity of this fount, which\nis known to have existed in 1081. It flows at the very bottom of one\nof the deep ravines which makes Siena so peculiar, between two\nprecipitous hills, one crowned by the Duomo, and the other by the\nchurch of St. Dominic, and you look from one to the other in silent\nwonder. The whole quarter is densely populated. The people are called\nFontebrandini\u2015\u2015mostly, as five centuries ago, tanners, dyers, and\nfullers, who are reputed to be proud, and are to Siena what the\nTrasteverini are to Rome. The streets around diverge from a\nmarket-place, on one side of which is the fount under a long, open\narcade of stone, of immense thickness, built against the hillside. You\ngo down to a paved court, as to something sacred, by a flight of steps\nas wide as the arcade is long. Here are stone seats around, as if to\naccommodate the gossips of the neighborhood. Three pointed archways,\nbetween which lions look out with prey between their outstretched\npaws, open into the arcade, where flow the waters, gathered from the\nsurrounding hills, by three apertures, into an enormous stone\nreservoir. The surplus waters pass off into other tanks beyond the\narcade, for the use of the workmen of the quarter. Lemon-trees hang\nover the fount, and grape-vines trail from tree to tree. The steep\nhillside is covered with bushes and verdure up to the church of San\nDomenico, which stands stern and majestic, with its crenelated tower\namid the olive-trees.\n\nAn old Sienese romance is connected with the Fonte Branda. Cino da\nPistoja, a poet and celebrated professor of jurisprudence at Siena in\nthe fourteenth century, whose death Petrarch laments in a sonnet,\npromised his daughter, a young lady of uncommon beauty, to any one of\nhis pupils who should best solve a knotty law-question. It was a young\nman, misshapen in form, to whom the prize was adjudged, and the poor\ngirl, in her horror, threw herself into the Fonte Branda. Her suitor,\nsensible of the value of the prize, plunged in after her, and not only\nsaved her life, but fortunately succeeded in winning her affections.\n\nTurning to the right, and ascending the Costa dei Tintori, you come in\na few moments to the house of St. Catharine of Siena, once the shop of\nher father, a dyer, but now a series of oratories and chapels,\nsanctified by holy memories and adorned by art. It is built of brick,\nwith two arched galleries, one above the other, of a later period.\n_Spos\u00e6 XPI. Katharin\u00e6 Domvs_ is on the front, with a small head of the\nsaint graven in marble, and another tablet styling her the Seraphic\nCatharine. Below hang tanned skins, probably for sale. The memories of\nthe place are truly seraphic, but the odors would by no means be\nconsidered so by those who do not believe in the dignity and\nsacredness of labor; for the whole quarter\u2015\u2015at least, when we were\nthere\u2015\u2015was redolent of tan. Skins hung on all the houses. Tan-cakes\nfor fuel were displayed on shelves for sale at every door. Everybody\nseemed industrious. There was none of the _far niente_ we like to\nassociate with Italy. It was a positive grievance to find great heaps\nof tan around the Fonte Branda, so poetical to us, because associated\nwith the Divine Poet. But it was still harder to have the same odors\nfollow us to the very house of the seraphic St. Catharine, the mystic\nBride of Christ. Very little change can have taken place during the\nlast five centuries in the neighborhood where bloomed this fair lily\nof the church, and, in one sense, this is a satisfaction. The house\nitself is of the most touching interest. There are the stairs\nCatharine, when a child, used to ascend, with an _Ave_ at every step,\nand over which the legend says she was so often borne by the angels.\nEverywhere through the passages are the emblematic lily and heart. An\noratory has been made of the kitchen which became to Catharine a very\nsanctuary, instead of a place of low cares, where she served Christ\nunder the form of her father, the Blessed Virgin under that of her\nmother, and the disciples in the persons of her brothers and sisters.\nHer father\u2019s _Bottega_ has also been converted into an oratory. In the\ngarden where she loved to cultivate the symbolic rose and lily and\nviolet for the altar, is a chapel in which hangs the miraculous\ncrucifix painted by Giunta of Pisa, framed in pillars of black marble,\nover the altar. Before this crucifix she received the stigmata in the\nchurch of St. Christina at Pisa. In these various oratories are a\nprofusion of paintings by Sodoma, Vanni, and other eminent artists.\nDel Pacchia has attained the very perfection of feminine beauty in his\npainting of St. Catharine\u2019s visit to the shrine of St. Agnes of Monte\nPulciano\u2015\u2015a genuine production of Christian inspiration. Salimbeni\nrepresents her calm amid the infuriated, ungrateful Florentines after\nher return from Avignon; and Sebastian Folli, her appearance before\nGregory XI.\n\nBut the most sacred part of the house is her chamber, a little, dark\ncell about fifteen feet long and eight or nine wide. A bronze door now\nopens into this sanctuary. Here you are shown the board on which she\nslept, and other relics of the saint. Here she passed nights in prayer\nand converse with the angels. Here she scourged her frail body,\nunconscious that her mother was weeping at the door. Here she wrote\nthe admirable letters so remarkable for their purity and elegance of\nstyle. Here took place the divine _Sposalizio_ which, immortalized by\nart, we see all over Italy. Here, when calumniated by the repulsive\nobject of her heroic charity, she came to pour out her pure soul, that\nshrank from the foul accusations, before the heavenly Bridegroom; but\nwhen he appeared with two crowns, one of gold set with jewels, and the\nother of thorns, she unhesitatingly chose the latter, pressing it deep\ninto her head, thus becoming for all time, in the world of art, the\nthorn-crowned Catharine. Pius IX., when he visited the house in 1857,\nprayed long in this cell, where lived five centuries ago the obscure\nmaiden who, for a time, almost guided St. Peter\u2019s bark.\n\nOn St. Catharine\u2019s day the house is richly adorned and resplendent\nwith light. The walls are covered with emblems and verses\ncommemorating her life. The altars have on their finest ornaments. The\nneighboring streets are strewn with flowers and hung with flags.\nHangings are at all the windows. A silver statue of the saint is borne\ninto the street by a long procession of clergy and people. The\nmagistrates join the _cort\u00e8ge_, and they all go winding up to San\nDomenico with chants, perfumes, and flowers, where a student from the\ncollege Tolomei pronounces a eulogy on their illustrious townswoman.\nWhen night comes on, the whole hill around Fonte Branda is\nilluminated, the rosary is said at the foot of the Madonnas, and hymns\nare sung in honor of the saint.\n\nSt. Catharine\u2019s life, in which everything transcends the usual laws of\nnature, has been written by her confessor, the Blessed Raymond of\nCapua\u2015\u2015the life of one saint by another. He was not a credulous man\neasily led away by fantasies of the imagination, but one of\nincontestable ability and knowledge, who relates what he witnessed in\nthe soul of whose secrets he was the depositary, who scrutinized every\nprodigy, but only to give additional splendor to the truth.\n\nRaymond was a descendant of Piero della Vigna (the celebrated\nchancellor of Frederick II.), whose spirit Dante finds imprisoned in\n\u201cthe drear, mystic wood\u201d of the Inferno, and, plucking a limb\nunwittingly from\n\n \u201cThe wild thorn of his wretched shade,\u201d\n\nto his horror brings forth at once cries and blood. For nineteen years\nRaymond was general of the Dominican Order. Pope Urban VI. confided\nthe most delicate and difficult missions to him; called him his eyes,\nhis tongue, his feet, and his hands; held him up to the veneration of\nprinces and people; and would have raised him to the highest dignities\nbut for the opposition of the saint. No one, therefore, could have\ngreater claims to our confidence.\n\nCatharine Benincasa was born in 1347. From her earliest years she was\na being apart, and favored with divine communications. Uncomprehended\nat first by those around her, her home became to her a place of\ntrials. Her parents tried to draw her into the world, and she cut off\nher long, golden hair. They wished her to marry, and she consecrated\nherself to a higher love. They then subjected her to household labor,\nbut she found peace in its vulgar details. She worked by day. At night\nshe prayed till lost in ecstasy, insensible to everything earthly. She\nwished to enter the Third Order of St. Dominic, but was refused\nadmission because she was too young and beautiful. It was only after\nan illness that made her unrecognizable that she was received; but she\ncontinued, like all the members, an inmate of her father\u2019s house. Her\nsoul was peculiarly alive to the sweet harmonies of nature. She liked\nto go into the woods, at springtime, to listen to the warbling of the\nbirds and watch the mysterious movements of awakening vegetation. She\nloved the mountain heights, with their wild melodies of winds and\ntorrents, as well as the gentle rustling of the air among the leaves,\nwhich seemed to her like nature\u2019s whispered prayer. She said, as she\nlooked at the ant, a thought of God had created it. She loved flowers.\nShe had a taste for music, and liked to sing hymns as she sewed. The\nname of Mary from her lips was said to leave a singular harmony in the\nears of her listeners. She sympathized in every kind of misery to aid\nit; lent a helping hand to every infirmity, and often served in the\nhospital, choosing those who were abandoned by the rest of the world\nas the objects of her care. She rose above the wants of the body. From\nher childhood she never ate meat, the very odor of which became\nrepugnant to her. For years she subsisted from Ash Wednesday till\nWhitsuntide solely on the Holy Eucharist, which she received every\nmorning. She entered into all the troubles of the times, diffusing\neverywhere the pure light of divine charity. Though without human\ninstruction, she astonished the doctors of the church by her profound\nknowledge of theology. \u201cThe purest Italian welled from her untutored\nlips.\u201d She wrote to popes, cardinals, princes, and republics. Some of\nher letters are to Sir John Hawkwood, or, as the Italians call him,\nGiovanni Aguto, the ferocious English _condottiere_, who stained the\nflag of the church, and then entered the service of her enemies. She\ntakes a foremost rank among the writers of the age\u2015\u2015that of Boccaccio,\nwho lacks her touching grace and simplicity.\n\nSiena, at the time of St. Catharine, was no longer the powerful,\nunited city it had been a century before, but in its turn had become\nthe prey of anarchy and division. The different classes of people were\nat war with each other. They proscribed each other; and private hatred\ntook advantage of the disorder to indulge in every kind of revenge.\nThe Macconi were at variance with the Rinaldini; the Salimbeni with\nthe Tolomei; the Malvotti with the Piccolomini.\n\nWar reigned all over Italy. Milan and all Lombardy were ravaged by the\nVisconti. Naples was a prey to the excesses caused by Queen Joanna.\nFlorence, that had been devoted to the church, was now governed by the\nGhibellines, who went to every extreme against the Guelphs, whose\ncause, says Dean Milman, \u201cwas more (!) than that of the church: it was\nthat of freedom and humanity.\u201d The States of the church were ravaged.\nRome itself, widowed and abandoned, \u201cwith as many wounds as she had\npalaces and churches,\u201d as Petrarch says, was in a complete state of\nanarchy.\n\nAmid all these horrors St. Catharine moved, an angel of peace. God\ngave her a wonderful power of appeasing private resentments and\ncalming popular tumults. Inveterate enemies clasped hands under her\ninfluence. Veteran warriors, and republics themselves, listened\nrespectfully to her voice. She wrote to Pope Gregory XI. at Avignon,\npleading the cause of all Italy, and urging him to return to Rome,\nwhere he could overrule the passions that agitated the country, and\nrestore dignity to the Apostolic See. Her heart bled at the sight of\nso much misery and crime. \u201cPeace! peace!\u201d she wrote to the\npope\u2015\u2015\u201cpeace for the love of a crucified God! Do not regard the\nignorance and blindness and pride of your children. You will perhaps\nsay you are bound by conscience to recover what belongs to holy\nchurch. Alas! I acknowledge it; but when a choice is to be made, it\nshould be of that which is most valuable. The treasure of the church\nis the Blood of Christ shed for the redemption of souls. This treasure\nof blood has not been given for temporal dominion, but for the\nsalvation of the human race. If you are obliged to recover the cities\nand treasures the church has lost, still more are you bound to win\nback the souls that are the true riches of the church, which is\nimpoverished by losing them. It is better to let go the gold of\ntemporal than the gold of spiritual wealth. You must choose between\ntwo evils\u2015\u2015that of losing grandeur, power, and temporal prosperity,\nand the loss of grace in the souls that owe obedience to your\nHoliness. You will not restore beauty to the church by the sword, by\nseverity and war, but by peaceful measures. You will combat more\nsuccessfully with the rod of mercy and kindness than of chastisement.\nBy these means you will recover what belongs to you both spiritually\nand temporally.\u201d\n\nNoble liberty on the part of the dyer\u2019s daughter! And it is to the\nhonor of Pope Gregory that he listened to her with respect. It was\ntime to pour oil on the troubled waters. The proud republic of\nFlorence, after revolting against all spiritual authority, torturing\nthe priests, declaring liberty preferable to salvation, and exciting\nthe papal cities to rebellion, had been laid under an interdict. The\npeople began to feel the disastrous effects on their commerce, and\ncame to solicit Catharine\u2019s intervention with the pope. She went to\nAvignon, where she made known her mission in a public consistory. \u201cShe\npassed from her father\u2019s shop to the court of princes, from the\ncalmness of solitude to the troubles of factions; and everywhere she\nwas in her place, because she had found in solitude a peace above all\nthe agitations of the world, and a profound charity.\u201d\n\nPope Gregory left her to dictate the terms of peace with the\nFlorentines, though he foresaw their ingratitude. Nay, more: after\nsome hesitation he decided to return to Rome. Nor was St. Catharine\nthe only woman that urged him to do so. St. Bridget of Sweden added\nthe influence of her prophetic voice. Ortensia di Gulielmo, one of the\nbest poets of the day, thus begins a sonnet:\n\n \u201cEcco, Signor, la greggia tua d\u2019intorno\n Cinta da lupi a divorla intenti.\n Ecco tutti gli onor d\u2019Italia spenti,\n Poich\u00e9 fa altrove il gran Pastore soggiorno.\u201d[108]\n\nCatharine\u2019s return to Siena was celebrated by festive songs:\n\n \u201cThou didst go up to the great temple,\n Thou didst enter the mighty consistory;\n The words of thy mouth were full of power;\n Pope and cardinals were persuaded to depart.\n Thou didst direct the course of their wings towards the See of\n Peter. O virgin of Siena! how great is thy praise\u2015\u2015soul prompt\n in movement, energetic in action.\u201d\n\nOn the tomb of Gregory XI., in the church of St. Francesca at Rome,\nSt. Catharine is represented walking before the pope\u2019s mule as he\nmakes his triumphal entrance into the city\u2015\u2015a symbol of her guiding\ninfluence. From this time she took a prominent part in all the affairs\nof Italy. But the re-establishment of the papal throne at Rome was her\nlast joy on earth. At the death of Pope Gregory fresh disorders broke\nout. Catharine\u2019s life slowly wasted away, inwardly consumed, as she\ndeclared, for the church. She died in Rome at the age of thirty-three,\nand lies buried under the high altar of the Minerva, surrounded by\nlamps and flowers. Her countryman, Pius II., canonized her, not only\nat the request of the magistrates of Siena, but of several of the\nsovereigns of Europe.\n\nSiena boasts of other saints: St. Ansano, the first apostle of the\ncountry, beheaded on the banks of the Arbia in the time of Diocletian;\nGalgano di Lolo, who led an angelic life in the mountains; the founder\nof Monte Oliveto, whose order sheltered Tasso; Ambrogio Sansedoni, the\nconfessor of Conradin, noted for his eloquence and sanctity; St.\nBernardin, on whose breast glows the potent Name; Beata Nera Tolomei,\nnoted for her ascetic charity; the poor Pietro Pettinajo, who devoted\nhimself to the plague-stricken in the hospital della Scala;\nAldobrandescha Ponzi, who wished to be crowned with thorns like\nChrist; the Blessed John Colombini, whose only passion was to be like\nJesus; and many more besides. But St. Catharine\u2015\u2015the heroine of divine\nlove\u2015\u2015is the most sublime expression of Sienese piety, and of her is\nthe city especially proud. Her statue was placed by the republic on\nthe front of its glorious cathedral, and she is represented in the\ngorgeous picture of Pinturicchio in the library, where, as Mrs. Stowe\nsays, \u201cborne in celestial repose and purity amid all the powers and\ndignitaries of the church, she is canonized as one of those that shall\nreign and intercede with Christ in heaven.\u201d\n\nFrom St. Catharine\u2019s house you go winding up under the mulberry-trees\nto San Domenico, soon leaving the tops of the houses below you. On the\nway is the place where Catharine, when a child, coming down the hill\none evening with Stefano, her favorite brother, turned to look back,\nand saw the heavens opened above the campanile of the church, and the\nGreat High-Priest seated on a radiant throne, around which stood SS.\nPeter, Paul, and John, who seemed with uplifted hands to bless her.\nKeeping on to the top of the hill, you come to a large green, silent\nand deserted, before the church. The street that properly leads to it\nis well named the _Via del Paradiso_. The church of St. Dominic is\nvast and imposing, though of severe simplicity of style, offering a\nmarked contrast to the richness of the Duomo. It is shaped like the\nletter T, without aisles or apsis. Rafters support the vault, but at\nthe entrance to the transepts is an enormous arch of singular\nboldness. There is something broad and expansive about the atmosphere\nof the church, as often found in the churches of the Dominican Order.\nEven with a considerable number of worshippers it would seem solitary.\nIn one of its chapels is a Madonna, celebrated in the history of art,\nlong attributed to Guido of Siena, but now proved to be by Guido di\nGraziano, a contemporary of Cimabue, whose Madonnas it resembles, with\nits oblique eyes, large head, and a certain angular stiffness. Among\nother noted paintings is one of Santa Barbara by Matteo da Siena, very\nbeautiful in expression. She sits, crowned by two angels, with a palm\nin one hand and a tower-like tabernacle in the other, in which the\nHost is exposed above a chalice. SS. Magdalen and Catharine are at her\nside.\n\nA domed chapel, protected by a balustrade of alabaster, has been built\non the east side of the church, in which is enshrined the head of St.\nCatharine\u2015\u2015evidently the most frequented part of the church, from the\nnumerous seats before it, mostly with coats of arms and carved backs.\nFramed prayers, as is common in Italy, are chained to a\n_prie-Dieu_\u2015\u2015one to St. Catherine with the anthem: _Regnum mundi et\nomnem ornatum s\u00e6culi contempsi propter amorem Domini mei Jesu Christi,\nquem vidi, quem amavi, in quem credidi, quem dilexi_. Three lamps were\nburning before the relics of St. Catharine. The walls are covered with\nexquisite paintings by Sodoma, which were lit up by the morning sun.\nNothing could be more lovely than St. Catharine swooning at the\nSaviour\u2019s apparition\u2015\u2015a figure full of divine languor, grace, and\nsoftness. Two nuns tenderly sustain her. Her stigmata are radiant. An\nangel bears a lily. The whole painting is delicate, ethereal, and\nheavenly as a vision. It is on the gospel side of the altar; on the\nother side she kneels between two nuns with her eyes raised to heaven,\nwhere, above the Virgin and Child, appears the _Padre Eterno_. Angels\nbear the cross and crown of thorns. Another brings the Host. A death\u2019s\nhead and lily are at her feet. The whole is of wonderful beauty.\n\nOn the left wall, as you enter the chapel, is painted the execution of\na young knight, beheaded at Siena for some slight political offence.\nSt. Catharine went to comfort him in his despair, and induced him to\nreceive the sacraments. She even accompanied him to the block, where\nhis last words were \u201cJesus\u201d and \u201cCatharine,\u201d leaving her inundated\nwith his blood, but in a state of ecstasy that rendered her insensible\nto everything but his eternal welfare. The odor of his blood seemed to\nintoxicate her. She could not resolve to wash it off. She only saw his\nsoul ransomed by the blood of the Lamb, and, in describing her state\nof mind to her confessor, she cries: \u201cYes, bathe in the Blood of\nChrist crucified, feast on this Blood, be inebriated with this Blood,\nweep in Blood, rejoice in Blood, grow strong in this Blood, then, like\nan intrepid knight, hasten through this Blood to defend the honor of\nGod, the liberty of the church, and the salvation of souls.\u201d Her\nletters often begin: \u201cI, Catharine, servant and slave of Jesus Christ,\nwrite you in his precious Blood,\u201d as if it was there she derived all\nher strength and inspiration. In the picture before us nothing could\nbe more peaceful than the face of the young knight just beheaded,\nwhose soul two beautiful angels are bearing to heaven.\n\nOn the pavement is traced in the marble Adam amid the animals in\nParadise, among whom is the unicorn, the ancient emblem of chastity.\n\nAt the extreme end of the church is the Chapel delle Volte, to which\nyou ascend by six steps. Over the door is this inscription:\n\n En locus hic toto sacer | et venerabile orbe,\n Hic Spons\u0169 Catharina suum | sanctissima sepe,\n Vidit ovans Christum | dictu mirabile, sed tu\n Quisquies ades hic funde | preces venerare beatam\n Stigmata gestantem | Divini insignia amoris;\u2015\u2015\n\nBehold this place, sacred and venerable among all on earth; here holy\nCatharine rejoicing often beheld, wondrous to say, the Christ, her\nspouse. But thou, whosoever approachest, here pour forth thy prayers,\nto venerate the holy one who bore the sacred stigmata, the insignia of\ndivine love.\n\nThis chapel, the scene of so many of St. Catharine\u2019s mystic visions,\nis long and narrow, with one window. The arches are strewn with gilt\nstars on a blue ground. The floor is paved with tiles, with tablets\nhere and there. On one, before the altar, are the words: _Cath\u00e2. cor\nmutat XPUS_\u2015\u2015Christ changes the heart of Catharine; for it was here\nshe underwent that miraculous change of heart which transformed her\nlife. Our Saviour himself appeared to her, surrounded by light, and\ngave her a new heart, which filled her with ecstatic joy, and inspired\na love for all mankind.\n\nOver the plain altar is an authentic portrait of St. Catharine by the\npoetic Andrea Vanni, a pupil of Sano di Pietro. He was one of her\ndisciples and correspondents, though a _Capitano del Popolo_. He\npainted this portrait in 1367, while she was in an ecstatic state in\nthis very chapel. It represents her with delicate features, a thin,\nworn face, and must have been a charming picture originally, but it is\nnow greatly deteriorated.\n\nOn one of the pillars of the chapel is the inscription: _Cat\u00e2. cruce\nerogat XPO_\u2015\u2015Catharine bestows the cross on Christ; referring to the\nsilver cross she one day gave a beggar in this church, which was\nafterwards shown her set with precious stones. And on another pillar\nis: _Cat\u00e2. vesti induit XPUM_\u2015\u2015Catharine clothes Christ with her\ngarment; in memory of the tunic she here gave our Saviour under the\nform of a beggar, who showed it to her some hours after, radiant with\nlight and embroidered with pearls\u2015\u2015acts of charity full of\nsignificance. Three lovely little paintings by Beccafumi, at the Belle\nArti, represent the three mystic scenes commemorated in this chapel.\n\nIn the adjoining convent, now a school-house, lived for a time St.\nThomas of Aquin and the Blessed Ambrogio Sansedoni, whose tomb is in\nthe cloister. Here, in 1462, was held a chapter of fifteen hundred\nDominicans, and here Pius II. blessed the standard of the Crusaders.\n\nOn our way to the Porta Camollia we turned down at the left, by a\nsteep, paved way, to the church of Fonte Giusta, erected in memory of\na victory over the Florentines. It is a small brick church with four\nsmall windows, four pillars to which are attached four bronze angels\nholding four bronze candlesticks, and on the walls hang four paintings\nof note. One is a beautiful coronation of the Virgin with four saints,\nby Fungai. Then there is a Visitation by Anselmi, in which two\nmajestic women look into each other\u2019s eyes, as if to fathom each the\nother\u2019s soul. In an arch of the right aisle is the sibyl of Peruzzi\u2015\u2015a\nnoble figure\u2015\u2015said to have been studied by Raphael when Agostino\nChigi, the famous banker of the Farnesina palace (a Sienese by birth),\ncommissioned him to paint the celebrated sibyls of the _Della Pace_ at\nRome\u2015\u2015sibyls that have all the grandeur of Michael Angelo, and the\ngrace that Raphael alone could give.\n\nBut what particularly brought us to this church was to see the Madonna\nof Fonte Giusta, to which Columbus made a pilgrimage after the\ndiscovery of America, and presented his sword, shield (a round one),\nand a whale\u2019s bone, which are still suspended over the entrance. The\nMadonna turns her fair, sweet face towards you, while the Child has\nhis eyes turned towards his mother, with his hands crossed on his\nbreast. Both have on silver crowns, and pearls around their necks. The\npicture is in a frame of cherubs\u2019 heads, surrounded by delicate\narabesques. Beneath is the inscription:\n\n Hic requies tranquilla,\n Salus hic dulce levamen:\n Hic est spes miseris \ua755sidi\u0169q reis\u2015\u2015\n\nHere is tranquil repose; here safety and sweet consolation; here is\nhope for the wretched, and for the guilty an unfailing refuge.\n\nColumbus\u2019 devotion to the Blessed Virgin is well known. It was under\nher auspices he undertook, in a vessel called by her name, the\ndiscovery of a new world. He daily said her office on board ship from\na valuable MS. given him by Alexander VI. before his departure and\nafterwards bequeathed to Genoa, and the _Salve Regina_ was sung every\nevening by his followers.\n\nPorta Camollia is not remarkable in an architectural point of view,\nbut it has its sacred associations. It was here St. Bernardin of Siena\nused to come every night, when a boy, to pray before the tutelar\nMadonna of the gate. His aunt, hearing him speak of going to see the\nfairest of women, followed him at a distance one night and discovered\nhis secret.\n\nThe chapel of the Confraternity of San Bernardin is a museum of art.\nThe walls are covered with fine frescoes of the life of the Virgin by\nBeccafumi, Sodoma, and Pacchia. One of the most beautiful is Sodoma\u2019s\n\u201cAssumption,\u201d in which Mary\u2015\u2015_pulchra ut luna_\u2015\u2015in a mantle like a\nviolet cloud, is borne up to her native heaven by angels full of\ngrace. The apostles, with thoughtful, devout, but not astonished\nfaces, stand around the tomb, out of which rise two tall lilies amid\nthe white roses. St. Thomas lifts his hands to receive the sacred\ngirdle.\n\nEverywhere about this chapel is the sacred monogram so dear to San\nBernardin. The holy name of Jesus is inscribed on the front, on the\nholy-water basin, on the walls; placed there in more devout times,\nwhen even genius sought to\n\n \u201cEmbalm his sacred name\n With all a painter\u2019s art and all a minstrel\u2019s flame.\u201d\n\nThere are more than sixty churches and chapels at Siena, but perhaps\nnot one without some work of art that is noteworthy. Siena was the\ncradle of art in the thirteenth century, and has its aureola of\nartists as well as of saints. The school of Florence only dates from\nthe fourteenth century. Guido da Siena, Bonamico, and Diotisalvi were\nthe glorious precursors of Cimabue, and Simone Memmi, a century later,\nshared with Giotto the friendship and admiration of Petrarch.\n\n \u201c_Ma cert\u00f2 il mio Simon f\u00fb in Paradiso._\u201d\n\nThe old Sienese artists were profoundly religious. In their statutes\nof 1355 they say: \u201cWe, by the grace of God, make manifest to rude and\nignorant men the miraculous events operated by virtue, and in\nconfirmation, of our holy faith.\u201d The efflorescence of the arts is one\nof the expressions of a profound faith. We have only to visit the\ngalleries of Italy, filled with the sad spoils of numberless churches\nand convents, to be convinced of this. And there is not a tomb of a\nsaint of the middle ages out of which does not bloom some flower of\nart, fair as the lilies that spring from the sepulchre of the Virgin.\nWhat wreaths of art entwine the tombs of St. Francis, St. Dominic, and\nSt. Antony of Padua!\n\nThe collection of paintings at the Academy of Siena is very\ninteresting. Here Beccafumi represents St. Catharine receiving the\nstigmata. She is in soft, gray robes, with a lovely face, kneeling\nbefore a crucifix under an archway, through which you see the\nlandscape. A dead, thorny tree is behind her. By way of contrast to\nher beauty and grace is the austere St. Jerome, haggard and worn, with\nhis lion, before one of the pillars of the arch. At the other is a\nDominican in black and white garments. Above are the Madonna and Child\nattended by angels. The whole picture is very soft and charming.\n\nSodoma has also here a St. Catharine with a delicate, thoughtful face,\nand a crucifix in her pierced hands.\n\nPerhaps the most striking picture in the gallery is Sodoma\u2019s \u201cChrist\nBound,\u201d which is wonderful in expression. The face and form are very\nhuman and of grand development. From under the crown of thorns flows\nthe long, amber hair. The eyes are sad, inexpressibly sad, and the\nbleeding form is infinitely pathetic. \u201cIt is a thing to stand and weep\nat,\u201d says Hawthorne.\n\n \u201cI suffer binding who have loosed their bands.\n Was ever grief like mine?\u201d\n\nSodoma\u2019s \u201cJudith,\u201d in a blue dress and orange mantle, stands beside a\nleafless tree, holding up the bloody knife with one hand, and the head\nof Holofernes with the other. She has a gleaming jewel on her\nforehead, though the old rabbis represent her with a wreath of lilies,\nbelieved by the ancients to be a protection against witchcraft and\nperil.\n\nThe university of Siena existed in the thirteenth century. Among its\nnoted members was Cisto da Siena, a Jew, who became a Catholic and a\nmonk, and finally a Calvinist. Condemned to death for his apostasy, he\nwas indebted for his life to the friendship of Pope Julius III. and\nCardinal Ghislieri, afterwards Pius V.\n\nM. Taine speaks of the deplorable ignorance of the present Sienese,\nand says there is no library, not a book, in the place.[109] As he\nseems, by his journal, to have been there only two days, he probably,\nlike many travellers, noted down his preconceived opinion. The library\nof Siena, one of the oldest in Italy, has always been famous. It was\nfounded by Niccolo Oliva, an Augustinian friar, and contains fifty\nthousand volumes\u2015\u2015a respectable number for an inland town. About seven\nhundred belong to the very first age of printing. There are also five\nthousand manuscripts, among which are a Greek Gospel of the tenth\ncentury that came from the imperial chapel at Constantinople, bound in\nsilver, and many other rare MSS. and documents, such as the original\nwill (in Latin) of Boccaccio, and autograph writings of Metastasio,\nSt. Catharine, and St. Bernardin.\n\nSiena has several charitable institutions. The asylum for deaf mutes,\nfounded by Padre Pendola is spacious and agreeable. The great hospital\ndella Scala, opposite the cathedral, founded by Fra Sorore, is one of\nthe most ancient in Italy. It is vast and sunny, with a fine view over\nthe valley around Siena. Its atmosphere is thoroughly religious, with\nits walls frescoed by the old masters, its numerous altars and\nreligious emblems. St. Catharine used to come here to attend the sick.\nIt is now served by Sisters of Charity.\n\nIt is dreadful to say, but the first glimpse we had of the Duomo, with\nits striped wall of black and white marble, reminded us of good old\nSarah Battles\u2015\u2015\u201cnow with God\u201d\u2015\u2015and her cribbage-board, which Charles\nLamb tells us was made of the finest Sienese marble, and brought by\nher uncle from Italy. But on coming nearer to it every trivial thought\nvanishes before its grandeur and expressive richness of detail. The\nimpression it makes on the mind is so profound, M. Taine says, that\n\u201cwhat we feel on entering St. Peter\u2019s at Rome cannot be compared to\nit.\u201d He calls it \u201ca most admirable Gothic flower, but of a new species\nthat has blossomed in a more propitious clime, the production of minds\nof greater cultivation and genius, more serene, more beautiful, more\nreligious, and yet healthy; and which is to the cathedrals of France\nwhat the poems of Dante and Petrarch are to the _chansons_ of the\nFrench _trouv\u00e8res_.\u201d\n\nOn the pavement before the entrance is represented the parable of the\nPharisee and the Publican who went up into the Temple to pray\u2015\u2015a\nlesson to ponder over as we enter the house of prayer. The fa\u00e7ade is\nof marvellous workmanship. Amid angels and prophets and symbolic\nsculpture, delicate as lace-work, are St. Ansano, St. Catharine, and\nSan Bernardin\u2015\u2015the special patrons of Siena. On entering the church\nyou are at first dazzled by its richness. The pavement is unrivalled\nin the world, with its pictures in niello, by an art now lost, where\nwe find page after page from the Scriptures, some written by the\npowerful hand of Beccafumi, whose cartoons are to be seen at the Belle\nArti; sibyls noble as goddesses; Trismegistus, who received his\nknowledge from Zoroaster, offering the Pimandra in which is written:\n\u201cThe God who created all things, the maker of the earth and starry\nheavens, so greatly loved his Son that he made him his Holy Word\u201d; and\nSocrates climbing the mountain of Virtue, who sits on its summit,\nholding forth a palm to him, while with the other hand she offers the\nbook of wisdom to Crates, who empties a casket of jewels to receive\nit. The walls are covered with paintings, by Duccio, of twenty-six\nscenes of the Passion, full of life and power, dramatic and yet\nstrictly Scriptural, forming a book one is never weary of studying as\nChristian or artist. The stalls by Fra Giovanni, the Olivetan monk,\nare the very perfection of intarsia work, which here, as Marchese\nsays, \u201calmost rises to the dignity of painting.\u201d The wondrous pulpit,\nwith its nine columns resting on lions, its sides covered with scenes\nfrom the life of Christ by Nicholas of Pisa, and the seven sciences on\nthe central octagonal pillar, is a prodigy of richness and elegance.\n\nThe frieze around the nave is adorned with the heads of the popes down\nto Alexander III. Among these, strange to say, was once Pope Joan,\nsuch hold had that popular error on the public mind. It was Florimond\nde Raymond, a counsellor of the parliament of Bordeaux, and a friend\nof Montaigne and Justus Lipsius, who, in the sixteenth century,\nprotested against such an insult to the Papacy, and by his efforts had\nit effaced. He wrote to the Sovereign Pontiff himself: \u201cAvenge the\ninjury done to your predecessors. Order this monster to be removed\nfrom the place where Satan, the father of lies, has had it set up. Do\nnot suffer an image to remain of that which never existed. If there\nwas no body, let there be no shadow\u201d; and he calls upon the pope to\ndestroy this idol, raised to the disgrace of the church. Besides this,\nhe wrote a book, now rare, completely exploding the fable, showing by\nincontestable documents there was not the least place for Joan in the\nsuccession of popes. This work, together with his appeal, produced\nsuch an effect as to procure the removal of her portrait from the\ncathedral of Siena. The illustrious Cardinal Baronius wrote to him in\n1600 that it had just been removed by order of the Grand Duke of\nTuscany according to his wishes, and he congratulated him in\nmagnificent terms on such a triumph.\n\nOn an altar in the left nave is the crucifix borne by the Sienese at\nthe battle of Monte Aperti, and beneath the arches are still\nsuspended, after so many centuries, the long flag-poles captured from\nthe Florentines Sept. 4, 1260, the most glorious day in the history of\nSiena.\n\nAt the right is the chapel of the Madonna del Voto, built by Alexander\nVII., a Sienese pope (Fabio Chigi), with its Byzantine-looking Virgin\namid paintings, bronzes, mosaics, and precious stones.\n\nThe family of Piccolomini is glorified in this church. To it belonged\nthe great \u00c6neas Silvius, as well as Pius III., also a lover of the\narts, and Ascanio Piccolomini, Archbishop of Siena, a friend of\nGalileo, to whom he gave hospitality when he came forth from what\npeople are pleased to call the dungeons of the Inquisition at\nRome\u2015\u2015that is, from pleasant apartments in the delightful palace of\nthe Tuscan ambassador on the Trinit\u00e0 de\u2019 Monti, now the French\nAcademy. The Piccolomini chapel has five statues sculptured by Michael\nAngelo, and the beautiful hall, known as the Library, is world-famous\nfor its frescoes of the life of Pius II. by Pinturicchio.\n\nThe whole church is a temple of art, with its sculptured altar, its\nbronze tabernacle, its rare paintings, its beautiful pillars of\ndifferently-colored marbles, and its rich windows of stained glass.\nNothing could be more serene and calm than the atmosphere of this\nglorious church. Amid the sacred silence, the struggling light, with\nthe grandest symbols of religion on every side, you feel lifted for a\nmoment out of your own mean imprisonments into a very heaven of art\nand piety.\n\n\n [108] Behold, O Lord! thy flock surrounded by wolves eager\n to devour it. Behold all the honor of Italy spent, because\n its Chief Pastor sojourns in a foreign land.\n\n [109] \u201c_Point de biblioth\u00e8que: aucun livre_,\u201d are his words.\n\n\n\n\nSIR THOMAS MORE.\n\n_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._\n\nFROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.\n\nXVI.\n\nWhilst Margaret and Pierre Gilles were thus conversing, above their\nheads, in a magnificent gallery flashing with gilt, and adorned with\nportraits of all the archbishops who had occupied this palace,\ndestined for their residence, the court had assembled, and there the\njury was called which was to try, or rather to condemn, Sir Thomas\nMore.\n\nAt the extremity of this hall, upon an elevated platform all covered\nwith carpet and fringe, were seated the new lord chancellor, Thomas\nAudley; near him, Sir John Fitz-James, Lord Chief-Justice; and beyond,\nCranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury; the Duke of Norfolk, several lords\nof the Privy Council, among them the Duke of Suffolk, the Abbot of\nWestminster, and Cromwell, who on this occasion acted as secretary. To\nthe left of the court, and near the jury, was seated Richard Rich, the\ncreature of Cromwell, and his worthy associate, newly appointed, on\naccount of his efficient services, solicitor-general.\n\n\u201cSir Thomas Palmer, knight?\u201d said the clerk. \u201cSir Thomas Peint,\nknight? George Lowell, esquire? Thomas Burbage, esquire? Geoffrey\nChamber, gentleman? Edward Stockmore, gentleman? Joseph Leake,\ngentleman? William Brown, gentleman? Thomas Bellington, gentleman?\nJohn Parnell, gentleman? Richard Bellam, gentleman? George Stokes,\ngentleman?\u201d\n\nAll responded to their names.\n\n\u201cSir Thomas More,\u201d said the lord chancellor, in a slow and hard tone,\n\u201cdo you challenge any one of these gentlemen of the jury?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, my lord,\u201d replied Sir Thomas, who was standing up before the\ncourt, leaning upon a cane he held in his hand, and which had been of\ngreat assistance to him during the long sessions he had already been\nobliged to endure in that fatiguing and inconvenient position.\nMeanwhile, he anxiously watched the door through which the accused\nentered, and was uneasy at not seeing the Bishop of Rochester; for\nthey met only in court, and it was a moment of relief when he beheld\nhis friend near him, although he every day remarked with sadness that\nRochester was failing in a lamentable manner.\n\n\u201cThe accused challenges none of the members of the jury,\u201d proclaimed\nthe lord chief-justice. He then arose, and began to recite the formula\nof the oath to be taken by each member of the jury.\n\n\u201cNow, Sir Thomas,\u201d said the chancellor, \u201cI desire to address you yet a\nlast observation, and I wish with all my heart that you may yield to\nit; because the king, not having forgotten your long services, is\ndeeply grieved at the perilous position in which your obstinacy, too\nevidently the result of malice, has placed you. He has ordered us to\nunbend again, and for the last time, so far as to implore you, in his\nown name and for the love of him, to take the oath of obedience which\nyou owe to the statute of Parliament, and of fidelity to his royal\nperson\u2015\u2015an oath he has a right to exact of you according to all laws,\ndivine and human.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn fidelity, my lord,\u201d replied Sir Thomas, \u201cin respect, in\nattachment, I have never been wanting to the king. It has been a long\ntime, a very long time, an entire lifetime, since I took the oath. It\ncannot be changed; therefore it can never be necessary to have it\nrenewed.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou persist, then, in your culpable obstinacy?\u201d said the lord\nchancellor.\n\n\u201cNay, my lord, I am not obstinate.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen say, at least,\u201d cried Cranmer, wishing to appear animated by an\nofficious zeal, \u201cwhat offends you in this oath, what word you would\nreject\u2015\u2015what is the reason, in fine, that prevents you from taking\nit.\u201d\n\nSir Thomas raised his head, and paused a moment to consider the court.\nThere was the Abbot of Westminster, who, during the days of his\nprosperity and favor, had overwhelmed him with visits and surfeited\nhim with flattery; by his side the Duke of Norfolk, who without\nemotion beheld him to-day near death, and yet he had formerly loved\nhim as a friend in whom he felt honored; Cromwell, whom he had always\ntreated with respect, in spite of the antipathy he felt for him; the\nDuke of Suffolk, who had solicited him unceasingly, and almost gone\ndown on his knees to him to obtain money from the king or a place for\none of his creatures; Sir John Fitz-James, finally, to whom he had\nrendered an eminent service, and who had in other times sworn eternal\ngratitude to him, and to remain devoted to him in life and in death.\nNow death was approaching him, and he counted Sir John Fitz-James\namong the judges who were going to demand his head. Absorbed in the\nsad and dolorous conviction that in this world he could rely upon no\none, he hesitated for a reply.\n\n\u201cYou have heard, prisoner?\u201d said Richard Rich brusquely.\n\n\u201cPardon me, sir,\u201d answered Sir Thomas gently; \u201cbut the lords have\nalready spoken so much about the king\u2019s displeasure that, if I should\nrefuse to take this oath of supremacy, I fear to augment it still more\nby giving the reasons.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! this is too much,\u201d cried all the lords. \u201cYou not only refuse to\ntake the oath, but you are not even willing to say why you refuse.\u201d\n\n\u201cI would rather believe,\u201d said Cromwell, \u201cthat Sir Thomas has returned\nto reason, and that he is no longer so sure that the oath may wound\nhis conscience. Sir Thomas, is it not the case that you are now rather\nin a state of doubt and uncertainty in this regard? You know,\u201d he\ncontinued, \u201cthat we owe entire obedience to the king; therefore you\nshould take the oath he demands of you, and the scruples you feel\nwould be removed by this imperious necessity.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is true, my lord,\u201d replied Sir Thomas, \u201cthat I ought to obey the\nking in all things as a faithful subject\u2015\u2015which I am, and will be\nuntil death. But this is a case of conscience, in which I am not bound\nto obey the prince. Listen to me, my lord of Canterbury,\u201d he said,\nfixing his eyes upon him with an expression full of benevolence. \u201cI\nwould blame none of those who have taken the oath; but, at the same\ntime, I must say, if your argument was solid, there would be no more\ncases of doubtful conscience, because it would be sufficient for the\nking to pronounce yes or no in order to annihilate them all.\u201d\n\n\u201cTruly,\u201d cried the Abbot of Westminster, hurriedly interrupting him,\n\u201cyou are very obstinate in your own opinions; you ought to see that,\nfrom whatever point you view this question, you are necessarily\nmistaken, since you are entirely in opposition to the chief council of\nthe kingdom, and that without doubt it possesses light enough to\nremove and destroy the scruples of your conscience.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d replied Sir Thomas, \u201cif it is true that I am alone in my\nopposition to the entire Parliament, I ought certainly to feel\nalarmed. Nevertheless, in refusing the oath I listen to and follow the\nvoice of the greatest of all counsellors\u2015\u2015one to which every man\nshould listen before any other; a monitor which he carries always\nwithin his own bosom. Besides, I will add that the opinion of the\nEnglish Parliament cannot overbalance that of the Council of all\nChristendom.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you blame the Parliament, and refuse to adhere to the act of\nsuccession it has established?\u201d angrily exclaimed Norfolk, the uncle\nof Anne Boleyn.\n\n\u201cMy lord,\u201d replied Sir Thomas, \u201cyour lordship knows that my intention\nis not, as I have already explained, to find fault either with the act\nor with the men who have drawn it up, nor to blame the oath nor those\nwho have taken it. As far as I am personally concerned, I cannot take\nthis oath without exposing myself to eternal damnation; and if you\ndoubt that it is my conscience which causes me to refuse, I am ready\nto swear to the sincerity of my declaration. If you do not believe\nwhat I say, it is a great deal better not to impose the oath; and if\nyou believe me, I hope you will not demand one in opposition to my\nconscience.\u201d\n\nNorfolk made a gesture of impatience. Then Audley, lord chancellor,\nturned toward his colleagues. \u201cYou see, you hear,\u201d he said, \u201cthat Sir\nThomas believes that he knows more than all the priests in\nLondon\u2015\u2015than the Bishop of Rochester himself!\u201d And he dwelt with a\nslight tone of irony on the last sentence.\n\n\u201cWhat! the Bishop of Rochester,\u201d cried Sir Thomas.\n\n\u201cWithout doubt, the Bishop of Rochester,\u201d repeated Audley. \u201cMr.\nSecretary,\u201d he said, turning towards Cromwell and giving him a\npreconcerted signal, \u201ccommunicate to the accused a certain fact in\nwhich he is interested.\u201d\n\nCromwell, descending from the platform, approached Sir Thomas and\nwhispered in his ear: \u201cThe Bishop of Rochester has consented to swear;\nthey have conducted him to the king, who has forgotten all his past\nconduct, and intends to load him with new favors.\u201d\n\n\u201cFisher has sworn!\u201d cried Sir Thomas; and he was struck with\nconsternation.\n\n\u201cCertainly!\u201d said Cromwell, with an ill-disguised expression of irony\nand satirical joy; \u201cthey concealed it from you, that it might not be\nsaid you had pinned your opinion to the sleeve of another.\u201d\n\n\u201cSir,\u201d answered More in a tone of profound sorrow, but with an\nexpression of dignity greater still, \u201crest perfectly satisfied they\nwill not say that. While bishops are appointed to do good and teach us\nto do it, it does not follow that, if they fall into error, we should\nimitate them. I am deeply afflicted by what you tell me, but do not\nchange my opinion for all that. My conscience alone has directed me;\nnow she alone remains with me, but I cannot, neither must I, cease to\nlisten to her. I blame nobody\u2015\u2015nobody! O my friend! what anguish has\nbeen reserved for me. My God! thou hast permitted it. Rochester has\nfallen!\u201d said More in a low voice. \u201cLord, if the cedars break, what,\nthen, will become of the reeds?\u201d\n\nSir Thomas was unable to comprehend how Fisher could have been induced\nto yield or become so weak, and he was reduced to a state of mortal\naffliction.\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d said Cromwell, \u201ccan you not make up your mind?\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, sir, nay; I cannot make up my mind to this. There remains\nnothing more for me to do in this world, and I pray the Lord to remove\nme from it!\u201d\n\n\u201cThe accused refuses everything,\u201d replied Cromwell in a loud voice, as\nhe turned away from him.\n\n\u201cWhat obstinacy!\u201d exclaimed the lords in one voice. \u201cSir Thomas,\nswear!\u2015\u2015we conjure you in the name of all you hold most dear.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas!\u201d said Sir Thomas to himself, \u201cthis is why he has not appeared.\nAlas! each day when I have suffered so much seeing him stand so long\nby my side, pale with fatigue and weakness, I was nevertheless happy.\nTo-day\u2015\u2015can it be? No, he has not been able to endure their tortures\nlonger. God forgive them and save this country! Your pardon, my\nlords,\u201d he said, remembering that they had addressed him. \u201cWhat were\nyour words to me?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe does not even listen,\u201d they remarked. \u201cWe conjure you to swear; we\nimplore you to do so with all our power.\u201d\n\n\u201cI cannot,\u201d replied Sir Thomas firmly, \u201cand I positively refuse.\u201d\n\nOn hearing him pronounce these words, which left them no alternative,\nthere was a sudden commotion among the lords; they regarded each other\nwith anxiety.\n\n\u201cA man of such merit, of such virtue,\u201d thought Fitz-James, filled with\nremorse\u2015\u2015\u201cwhat business have I here?\u201d\n\n\u201cTruly, Sir Thomas,\u201d cried Secretary Cromwell, feigning compassion, \u201cI\nam sorely grieved to hear you speak thus, and I declare here, before\nall this respectable assembly, that I would like better to lose an\nonly son than to see you refuse the oath in this manner. For very\ncertainly the king will be deeply wounded by it; he will conceive the\nmost violent suspicions, and will not be able to believe that you have\nhad no part in that affair of the Maid of Kent.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am very much moved by your affection,\u201d replied Sir Thomas; \u201cbut\nwhatever penalties I may have to undergo, it is impossible for me to\nredeem them at the price of my soul.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou hear him, my lords,\u201d said the chancellor, looking at his\ncolleagues. \u201cSir Thomas, deaf to all our prayers, forgetting the\nfavors with which the king has overwhelmed him for twenty years,\ntramples under foot the authority of Parliament, the laws of the\nkingdom, and persists traitorously, maliciously, and in your presence,\nin refusing to take an oath which every subject of this kingdom cannot\nand ought not to refuse. Consequently, I order the act of accusation\nto be read to the court, after which it will render judgment and\npronounce its sentence.\u201d\n\nThe clerk then began reading, in a nasal voice and monotonous tone, an\naccusation so long, the grievances of which were so multiplied,\ndivided, extended, and diluted by a crowd of words and phrases,\ninductions, prejudices, and all kinds of suspicions, that it would\nrequire too much time to report them; but it was easy to see that it\nhad been fabricated in bad faith and with the absence of all\nreasonable proofs.\n\nThis reading continued for two hours, and, when it was finished, the\nlord chancellor began: \u201cWhat have you to reply to all this?\u201d said\nAudley. \u201cYou see, Sir Thomas, and you should acknowledge, that you\nhave gravely offended his majesty; nevertheless, the king is so\nmerciful, and is so much attached to you, that he would pardon your\nobstinacy, if you changed your opinion, and we would be sure of\nobtaining your pardon, and even the return of his favor.\u201d\n\nHe looked at Sir Thomas to see if he was relenting; for, except\nCromwell, who desired More\u2019s death, all the others, while too\nambitious, too base, or too cowardly to dare sustain him, would have\npreferred seeing him yield to their entreaties.\n\n\u201cIt would rejoice us greatly!\u201d said Sir John Fitz-James.\n\n\u201cMost surely,\u201d cried the Duke of Norfolk.\n\n\u201cAy, verily,\u201d slowly repeated Cromwell.\n\n\u201cHe will listen to nothing!\u201d said the Abbot of Westminster.\n\n\u201cNoble lords, I am under infinite obligations to your lordships for\nthe lively interest you have manifested in my case; but, by the help\nof God, I wish to continue to live and die in his grace. As to the\naccusation I have just heard, it is so long, the hatred which has\ndictated it so violent, that I am seized with fear in realizing how\nlittle strength and understanding the sufferings of my body have left\nin my mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe should be permitted to sit down,\u201d said Sir John Fitz-James in a\nlow voice, the tears gathering in his eyes.\n\n\u201cNobody objects,\u201d said the Duke of Norfolk. \u201cI demand it, on the\ncontrary,\u201d he added, elevating his voice.\n\n\u201cThis will never end, then,\u201d murmured Cromwell.\n\n\u201cLet a chair be brought to the accused,\u201d said Audley, who dared not\nresist the Duke of Norfolk.\n\nSir Thomas seated himself for a moment, because he was able to stand\nno longer; then, summoning all his strength, he again arose to his\nfeet, and spoke: \u201cMy accusation can be reduced, it seems to me, to\nfour principal heads, and I will try and take them in order. The first\ncrime with which I am accused is of being in my heart an opponent of\nthe king\u2019s second marriage. I confess that I have said to his majesty\nwhat my conscience dictated, and in that I can see no treason. But, on\nthe contrary, if, being required by my prince to give him my opinion\non a matter of such great importance, and which so deeply concerns the\npeace of the kingdom, I had basely flattered him, then indeed I should\nhave been a treacherous and perfidious subject to God and to the king.\nI have not, then, offended, nor wished to offend, my king in replying,\nwith the integrity of my heart, to the question he has asked me;\nmoreover, admitting that I have been at fault in this, I have been\npunished for it already by the afflictions I have endured, the loss of\nmy office, and the imprisonment I have undergone. The second charge\nbrought against me, and the most explicit, is of having violated the\nact of the last Parliament, in this: that being a prisoner and\nexamined by the council, I have not been willing, through a spirit of\nmalice, of perfidy, of treachery, and obstinacy, to say whether or not\nthe king was supreme head of the church, and that I have not been\nwilling to confess whether that act was just or unjust, for the reason\nwhich I gave\u2015\u2015that, having no other rank in the church than that of a\nsimple layman, I had no authority to decide those things. Now, I will\navow to your lordships that this was my reply: \u2018I had neither done nor\nsaid anything which could be alleged and produced against me on the\nsubject of this statute\u2019; and I added that I no longer desired to\noccupy myself with anything here below, in order to be entirely\nabsorbed in meditating on the Passion of my Saviour Jesus Christ in\nthis miserable world, where I have such a short time to remain; that I\nwished ill to no one\u2015\u2015on the contrary, every kind of prosperity; and\nalso, if that was not sufficient to preserve my life, I did not desire\nto live; I had violated no law, and that I was not willing to\nsurrender myself as guilty of any crime of high treason\u2015\u2015for there are\nno laws in the world by which a man can be punished for his silence;\nthey can do no more than punish him for his words and actions, and it\nis God alone who judges the heart.\u201d\n\nAs Sir Thomas said these words, the advocate-general, Christopher\nHales, suddenly interrupted him: \u201cYou say you have not uttered a word\nnor committed an act against this law; but you admit that you have\nkept silence, which is a conclusive sign of the malice of your heart,\nno good subject being able to refuse without crime to reply to this\nquestion when it is set before him as the law ordains.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy silence,\u201d replied More, \u201cis not a sign of the malice of my heart,\nsince I have answered the king when he has consulted me on divers\noccasions; and I do not believe a man can be convicted of having\nattacked a law by keeping silence, since this maxim, \u2018_Qui tacet\nconsentire videtur_,\u2019 is adopted and recognized as true by all the\nmost learned and enlightened men of the law. With regard to what you\nsay about a good subject having no right to refuse a direct reply to\nthis question, I believe, on the contrary, that such is his duty,\nunless, indeed, he wish to be a bad Christian. Now, it is better to\nobey God than man, and it is better not to offend one\u2019s conscience\nthan everything else in the world, above all when this conscience\ncannot be the occasion of revolt against, or injury to, the king and\nthe country. I protest to you, on this subject I have not revealed my\nopinion to any man living.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know very well, on the contrary,\u201d said the Duke of Norfolk\nsharply, \u201cthat your example will be followed, and a great many will\nrefuse the oath on seeing you reject it.\u201d\n\n\u201cPardon me, my lord,\u201d replied Sir Thomas; \u201cbut I have the right to\nthink thus, since a moment ago my lord the chancellor reproached me\nwith being the only one of my opinion in the kingdom. I can say, then,\nthat my silence is neither injurious to the prince nor dangerous to\nthe state.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow can you assert,\u201d cried Christopher Hales, \u201cthat your refusal will\nnot be the cause of any sedition or of any injury toward the king? Do\nyou not know, then, that all his enemies have their eyes fixed on you,\nin order to confirm themselves by your audacity, and take advantage of\nthe malice of which you have given proof? What, then, would you call\nan injury, if not a refusal thus contemptuous and unlawful with\nrespect to the submission you owe to the will of your king, the living\nimage of God upon earth?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe king has no enemies, sir,\u201d replied Sir Thomas; \u201che has only some\nfaithful subjects who wish to sigh in silence over the perfidious\ncounsel which has been given him. I will dare almost to say,\u201d he\ncried, laying his hand on his breast, \u201csome tender and respectful\nfriends, who would have given all for his glory, sacrificed all for\nhis salvation, but who, for that same cause, cannot approve the error\ninto which he has been made to fall.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas! he is lost,\u201d thought Sir John; and he turned away his head.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Cromwell to himself, \u201cthe case becomes clear; they cannot\ndraw back.\u201d\n\nWhile a low murmur of surprise and admiration arose among the jury,\ntheir foreman leaned toward Mr. Rich, and whispered to him excitedly.\n\n\u201cTruly! It is so, sir!\u201d said the latter, looking fixedly at him. \u201cIt\nseems to me, Sir Thomas Palmer, that your remarks have much weight.\nHave you been called here to interpret the wishes of the king, or have\nyou, by chance, a mind to make a short sojourn in the Tower or some\npart of its environs?\u201d And he made his fingers crack. \u201cWith your\nshort-sighted justice,\u201d he replied, \u201cdo you believe that there are not\nsome great reasons, which they do not wish you to know, which have led\nSir Thomas to the bar of this tribunal? And if I should say to you\u2015\u2015\u201d\nHe paused. \u201cThe dogs!\u201d he murmured, looking at the faces of the\njurors. \u201cAnd if I should say to you,\u201d he continued, \u201cthat this is an\nextortioner, and that he has devoured the revenues of the\nstate\u2015\u2015sucked\u2015\u2015sucked the hearts\u2019 blood of the poor people!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt cannot be possible!\u201d said Palmer, awaiting each word of Rich,\nwhich seemed to fall drop by drop from his lips. \u201cWhat! like the\nother?\u201d\n\n\u201cExactly, precisely like the other! Wonderful!\u201d said Rich to himself.\n\u201cThey themselves furnish me with the words, the fools! I hope, indeed,\nthat I may be exalted a grade from this; for this herd of jurors make\nme sweat blood and water. They called them so well chosen! So it\nappears; one goes to the right, the other to the left, a third to the\nmiddle. To the death\u2015\u2015that is too hard; no, confiscation, or rather\nimprisonment. They wish to enter into the spirit of the law, as if\nthey regarded the law! Condemn him, sirs\u2015\u2015that is all they ask of\nyou\u2015\u2015and then go to your beds! Every one to his trade; theirs is not\nto inquire what we do, but what we wish them to do!\u201d And Rich, much\nexcited, shaking his great sleeves, leaned forward in order to listen.\n\n\u201cI come, then, to the third article of my accusation,\u201d said Sir\nThomas, \u201cby which I am accused of malicious attempts, efforts, and\nperfidious practices against the statute, because, since being\nconfined in the Tower, I have sent several packages of letters to\nBishop Fisher, and in those letters I have exhorted him to violate\nthis same law, and encouraged him in the resistance he has made to it.\nI have already demanded that those letters should be instantly\nproduced and read to the court; they could thus have acquitted me or\nconvicted me of falsehood. But as you say the bishop has burned them,\nI am only able to prove what I advance here by my own words; therefore\nI will state what they contained. The greater portion of those letters\nrelated to my private affairs, especially to our old friendship; in\none of them alone I responded to the demand he had made to know how I\nwould reply in my interrogatory upon the oath of supremacy, and I\nwrote to him thus: that I had examined this question in conscience,\nand he must be content with knowing that it was decided in my mind.\nGod is my witness, as I hope to save my soul, that I have made no\nother reply, and I cannot presume that this could be considered an\nattack upon the laws.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no, by no means,\u201d said several of the jurors. \u201cNevertheless, it\nwould be necessary to see these documents.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is the custom,\u201d said a voice loudly enough.\n\n\u201cThe jury examines the documents,\u201d said another; \u201cthat is always\ndone.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy lord judge! my lord advocate! it is necessary, it is\ncustomary\u2015\u2015indispensable\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\nAudley looked angrily at Rich. \u201cGentlemen, the jurors are perfectly\nright,\u201d he cried in a shrill voice; \u201cbut these letters have been\ndestroyed. They will proceed to examine other documents; then the\nwitnesses of these facts will be heard.\u201d\n\n\u201cSilence! silence!\u201d cried the court usher.\n\n\u201cGentlemen, do not interrupt the court,\u201d said Cromwell gravely; \u201cwe\nshould listen religiously to the least word of the prisoner\u2019s\ndefence.\u201d\n\nAnd thus he stifled by his awful voice the truth which had been\nexcited in those troubled hearts.\n\nFatigued and weary, More kept silence; he was thinking, moreover, of\nhis letters to the Bishop of Rochester. \u201cIf I had spoken more strongly\nto my friend,\u201d he sorrowfully reflected, \u201cperhaps he would not have\nsuccumbed. My God and my only Saviour! behold the afflictions that\noverwhelm my soul; for I fear I have only listened to the cowardly\nprudence of the children of men. And yet what could I do?\u201d\n\nMore reproached himself with not having done enough, with having been\nmistaken. He groaned in spirit and humbled himself to the dust before\nGod; whereas this tribunal by which he was being judged, in the face\nof which he found himself placed, before which he was traduced, was\ncomposed of men whom avarice, fear, and ambition caused to walk\nrapidly and firmly, without remorse and without shame, in the road,\nstrewn with thorns, of vice, falsehood, and slavery.\n\n\u201cSpeak on,\u201d said Cromwell, provoked by his silence; \u201cthey will not\ndare to interrupt you again.\u201d\n\nSir Thomas raised his eyes to his face, and regarded him fixedly. So\nmuch suffering, so many conflicting emotions, were weighing on his\nmind, that he no longer knew how to resume his discoveries or where he\nhad left the thread of his ideas.\n\n\u201cYou had replied to the third article,\u201d said Cromwell, promptly\nassisting him, for fear of giving the assembly time for reflection.\n\u201cNow, what else have you to say, and what have you to oppose to the\ntestimony of Master Rich, who has heard you say in the Tower that the\nstatute was a two-edged sword which killed necessarily either the soul\nor the body?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat I have to reply to that,\u201d said Sir Thomas, \u201cis that Master Rich\ncalled on me continually while they were removing the books I had in\nmy prison. Fatigued by his importunate demands, I replied to him\nconditionally (which makes the case very different) that, if it was\ntrue, it was equally dangerous to avow or disavow this act; and that\nif it was similar to a two-edged sword, it was very hard to make it\nfall on me, who had never contradicted the statute either by my words\nor my actions. As to their accusing me of having drawn the Bishop of\nRochester into my conspiracy, and induced him to make a reply similar\nto my own\u2015\u2015alas! no, I have not done so. I have nothing more to add.\u201d\nAnd he took his seat without a word more.\n\n\u201cYou have nothing more to say?\u201d repeated the chancellor.\n\n\u201cNo, my lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is well,\u201d said Audley.\n\n\u201cHe is here no longer,\u201d said More; and he looked around him. \u201cWhere\nhave they dragged him? To the king, perhaps. We should have received\nour sentence together. O Fisher! O my friend! No, it cannot be,\u201d said\nMore; \u201cthey are surely deceiving me! Does not falsehood flow naturally\nfrom their lips? Oh! how I would joy to see him, for one moment only.\nHowever, if he has not taken the oath, he will be here.\u201d And he sank\nagain into his silent sadness.\n\n\u201cWe will proceed to examine the witnesses,\u201d said the chancellor.\n\nMaster Rich, relieving himself immediately of his great robe, slowly\ndescended from the platform and the chair from which he had surveyed\nthe jury, and took his seat in the midst of the hall, in front of the\ntribunal.\n\nHe raised his hand and took the oath without hesitation. He then\nrelated how, having entered the prison cell of Thomas More with Palmer\nand Sir Richard Southwell, he had heard Sir Thomas express himself\nstrongly against the statute and declare that no Parliament in the\nworld would be able to submit to the question of the supremacy.\n\n\u201cYou hear, Sir Thomas!\u201d cried all the lords. \u201cThere is nothing to\nreply to this.\u201d\n\nSir Thomas arose immediately, and an expression of deep emotion showed\nitself on his weary features. \u201cMy lords,\u201d he replied, \u201cif I was a man\nwho had no regard for my oath, I would not be here before you as a\ncriminal. And you, Master Rich,\u201d he continued, turning toward him, \u201cif\nwhat you have declared be true, and the oath you have taken be not\nperjury, then may I never look upon the face of God!\u2015\u2015and this I would\nnot assert for all the world contains, if what you have testified was\nthe truth. Listen to me, my lords; judge between us, and learn what I\nhave said to Master Rich. When he came to carry away my books from the\ndreary prison where I was confined, he approached me, took my hands,\noverwhelmed me with compliments, and, protesting to me that he had no\ncommission touching the supremacy, during the course of a long\nconversation he recalled all the circumstances of our childhood, and\nproposed to me this question: \u2018If Parliament recognized me as king,\nwould you recognize me? and would it be treason not to do it?\u2019 I\nanswered that I would recognize him, but it was a _casus levis_. And\nin my turn I said to him: \u2018If an act of Parliament should declare that\nGod is not God, do you think it would be treason not to submit to that\nact?\u2019\n\n\u201cThen Master Rich said that this question was too remote, and they\ncould not discuss it. Whereupon he left me, and went away with those\nwhom he had brought with him.\n\n\u201cIn good faith, Master Rich,\u201d pursued Sir Thomas, \u201cI am more concerned\non account of your perjury than because of the danger into which you\nhave so heartlessly thrown me, and I must tell you that neither I nor\nany one else has ever regarded you as a man to whom they could confide\na thing of so much importance as this. You know that I am acquainted\nwith your life and conversation from your youth up to the present\ntime. We were of the same parish; and you know right well, although I\nam very sorry to say and speak of it, that you always bore the\nreputation of having a very flippant and very lying tongue, that you\nwere a great gambler, and you had not a good name in your parish and\nin the Temple, where you have been reared.\n\n\u201cYour lordships,\u201d continued Sir Thomas, \u201ccan you believe that, in an\naffair of so great moment, I would have had so little discretion as to\nconfide in Master Rich, entertaining the opinion I do of his want of\ntruth and honesty; that I would have disclosed to him the secret of my\nconscience touching the supremacy of the king\u2015\u2015a subject upon which I\nhave been so strongly pressed, and which I have always refused to\nreveal to any of his grave and noble counsellors, who, your lordships\nknow well, have been so often sent to the Tower to interrogate me? I\nsubmit it to your judgment, my lords: does this appear to you credible\nor possible?\n\n\u201cMoreover,\u201d he immediately continued, \u201csupposing Master Rich speaks\nthe truth, it should still be remarked that this might have been said\nin a secret and private conversation upon some supposed questions and\nwithout any offending circumstances. Therefore they cannot, at least,\nsay there was any malice on this occasion; and that being so, my\nlords, I cannot believe so many reverend bishops, honorable\npersonages, so great a number of wise and virtuous men of which the\nParliament is composed, would wish to punish a man with death when he\nhas had no malice in his heart\u2015\u2015taking, most certainly, this word\nmalice in the sense of ill-will and open rebellion. Finally, I would\nagain recall to your lordships\u2019 attention the inexpressible kindness\nhis majesty has manifested toward me during more than twenty years\nsince he called me into his service, constantly appointing me to some\nnew charge, some new office, and finally to the position of lord\nchancellor\u2015\u2015an honor he had never bestowed on any lawyer before, this\ndignity being the greatest in the kingdom, and coming immediately\nafter that of the crown; lastly, in relieving me of this charge, and\npermitting me to retire, and allowing me, at my own request, the\nliberty of passing the remainder of my days in the service of God, in\norder that I might occupy myself no more with aught but the salvation\nof my soul. And therefore I say that all the benefits his majesty has\nfor so long a time and so abundantly showered upon me, in elevating me\nfar beyond my merits, are enough, in my opinion, to break down the\nscandalous accusation so injuriously formulated by this man against\nme.\u201d Having said these words, Sir Thomas was silent.\n\nThe tribunal looked at him. This earnest and truthful attack on the\nreputation of Master Rich was hard to weaken, although the latter,\nafter having resumed his seat, had already cried out sneeringly three\nor four times: \u201cPalmer and Southwell will testify if I have told the\ntruth, yes or no.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes or no,\u201d repeated Cromwell to himself\u2015\u2015\u201cthe world is summed up in\nthose two words; only it is necessary to manage them well. Go, clerk,\u201d\nhe said, \u201ccall Master Southwell.\u201d\n\nAnd the clamorous voice of the clerk resounded through the vast\nenclosure where he kept the witnesses.\n\n\u201cMaster Palmer! Master Richard Palmer!\u201d he repeated; and Master Palmer\npresented himself.\n\n\u201cYou swear,\u201d said Audley to the witness, \u201cthat the testimony you are\nabout to render before this court, and before the jury interposed\nbetween your sovereign lord the king and the prisoner here present at\nthe bar, will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the\ntruth, so help you God!\u201d\n\nAs the chancellor said these words, they brought the book of the Holy\nEvangelists, and opened it, in order that Palmer might lay his hand on\nit to swear.\n\n\u201cBut, my lord,\u201d said Palmer, anxiously looking around him, \u201cI know\nnothing, nothing at all, about what you are going to ask me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, you need only tell what you know,\u201d said Audley brusquely.\n\n\u201cVery well, then,\u201d said Palmer in a low voice; and laying his hand on\nthe book, he was sworn in the usual manner.\n\n\u201cWhat did you hear while removing the books belonging to Sir Thomas?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing, my lord. I threw the books as fast as possible into a sack.\nThey made some noise in falling one upon the other, and I heard\nnothing else.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is not possible!\u201d said Audley. \u201cThe chamber is very small; you\nwould have been very near Sir Thomas and Master Rich, who were\nconversing together, and you must have heard their conversation.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have heard that Sir Thomas stooped down to pick up a book I let\nfall from my hands, and that it seemed to give him pain when they took\nhis books away from him; so that when I saw the dismal little cell,\nthe pallet they had given him for a bed, the broken earthen pitcher\nwhich was in one corner, with an old candle standing in the neck of a\nbottle, and that they had forbidden him for the future to light that\ncandle\u2015\u2015for fear, they said, that he might set fire to the prison\u2015\u2015the\ntears came into my eyes, and I felt my heart ache with sorrow as I\nthought I had seen him lord chancellor such a little while ago. That\nis all, my lord.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d said Cromwell, provoked by this recital, \u201cSir Thomas spoke; you\nhave declared that already.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! he spoke, without doubt. I do not deny that he could speak;\ncertainly he spoke. For instance, when he saw the sack of books\ncarried away he said: \u2018_Now that the tools are removed, there is\nnothing more to do but close the shop._\u2019 But we saw, in spite of this\npleasantry, that it distressed him very much,\u201d added Palmer after a\nmoment\u2019s silence.\n\n\u201cHow prolix is this witness!\u201d said the Abbot of Westminster in a\ncontemptuous tone.\n\n\u201cCome, that\u2019s enough,\u201d said Cromwell. \u201cYou know nothing more?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, my lord, nothing more\u2015\u2015nothing at all.\u201d And he hastened to\nwithdraw.\n\nAs he retired, Richard Southwell appeared.\n\nAudley immediately began to interrogate him.\n\n\u201cYour name?\u201d\n\n\u201cRichard Southwell.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour age?\u201d\n\n\u201cTwenty-four years.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour profession?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe king\u2019s clerk.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou swear,\u201d said the chancellor to the witness, \u201cthat the testimony\nyou are about to render before the court, and before the jury\ninterposed between our sovereign lord the king and the prisoner at the\nbar, will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so\nhelp you God.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have no testimony to offer,\u201d said Richard.\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d exclaimed Audley. \u201cHere is Master Rich, who cites you as\nhaving been present at a conversation he had in the Tower prison with\nSir Thomas More.\u201d\n\n\u201cMaster Rich says just what it suits him to say. The truth is, I went\nwith Master Palmer to remove the books of Sir Thomas because I was\nobliged to do it. I found Master Rich there, whereat I was surprised.\nEverybody knows what Rich is, and what confidence should be placed in\nanything he asserts. I will swear, then, to nothing, nor take any oath\non a matter of business in which he is mixed up, being well assured in\nadvance that it can only be something bad.\u201d\n\nRich\u2019s face became purple.\n\n\u201cMy lord chancellor,\u201d cried the new solicitor-general, \u201cthe witness\ninsults the court.\u201d\n\n\u201cMaster Rich, yes; but the court, no,\u201d growled Audley. He answered\nnothing, and had not the appearance of heeding what Richard Southwell\nwas saying, if even he was not pleased with it; for the vile and\ncorrupt men with whom Henry VIII. each day surrounded himself, in\norder to serve his frenzies, abhorred him and sought only his\ndestruction, or to elevate themselves one above another by crushing\neach other. \u201cYou refuse to swear, then?\u201d said he to the witness,\nwithout deigning to listen to the recriminations of Rich.\n\n\u201cYes, my lord,\u201d replied Southwell.\n\n\u201cThe witness will pay a fine.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well, my lord! I know that I owe it.\u201d\n\nAnd Southwell retired. Then a profound silence reigned throughout the\nassembly, because the decisive moment approached.\n\nMeanwhile, the lord chief-justice, the timid Fitz-James, arose at a\nsign given him by Audley, and in a trembling voice propounded the\nfollowing questions to the jury:\n\n\u201cHas Sir Thomas More rendered himself guilty of the crime of high\ntreason towards our lord the king in refusing, through a spirit of\nmalice, treachery, and obstinacy, the oath which he demands of him as\nsupreme head of the church on earth? Is Sir Thomas More guilty of\nresisting the statute of Parliament which has conferred this dignity\non our lord and master, King Henry VIII.?\u201d\n\nThe court officers struck a blow with their maces.\n\nThe judges all arose, and the court marched out majestically, while\nthe jury retired into another room.\n\n\u201cNow we shall see if Rich is sure of his jury,\u201d said Cromwell to\nhimself, following them with his eyes; and not looking before him, he\ntrod on the train of the chancellor\u2019s robe, who turned round,\nimpatiently saying that he had offended his dignity. Cromwell began to\nlaugh; for he cared little for the dignity of this chancellor of\nrecent date and mediocre worth\u2015\u2015and he continued to look behind him.\n\n\u201cWell! this will soon be ended,\u201d said Sir Thomas; and he asked the\nyeomen who guarded him permission to approach one of the windows\nlooking out on the courtyard.\n\nMore humane than the tigers who had just gone out, these rude men\ngranted his request.\n\nSir Thomas looked out, but a broad, sculptured cornice extending\naround the gallery prevented him from seeing if his daughter was still\nbelow, and his eyes rested only on the magnificent view to be enjoyed\nfrom the apartments of Lambeth Palace. The sun was reflected upon the\nsurface of the river, and he could see even the smallest boat that\nglided on the water.\n\n\u201cIs she still there?\u201d thought Sir Thomas, as he leaned his head\nagainst the window. \u201cWell, it is all over.\u201d He stepped back, and gazed\nout into the distance. \u201cThis whole city,\u201d he said, \u201ccomes, goes,\nstirs, agitates itself. What matters it to them that a man is\ncondemned in a corner? Had they need of my services, they would\nrun\u2015\u2015\u2018Sir Thomas! there is Sir Thomas!\u2019 They would follow; they would\ncall me. Now the crowd forgets us in two days! An immense abyss, an\nentire chaos, almost a generation, separates the evening from the\nmorrow! My friends are afraid\u2015\u2015those, at least, who remain to me. They\ngrieve in secret. The tears will be wiped from their eyes in\nobscurity; but my daughter, who will dry hers? She will pass away like\nmyself, alone in this world; she will have need to pass quickly, and\nwithout looking around her.\u201d\n\nHe wiped his forehead; for it was damp and hot.\n\n\u201cIt is impossible for them not to condemn me!\u201d And he leaned against\nthe window-sill, scarcely able to stand on his feet; he experienced a\nsort of faintness for which he could not account, and which obliged\nhim to change his posture every moment. \u201cNothing! There is no word\nfrom them. My God! they are a long time. And for what purpose, when\nall was decided in advance? O Rochester! where art thou? It is this\nthat lowers my courage. Well! they do not return. What can this jury\nbe doing? It seems to me that it is already two hours since they went\nout.\u201d He looked around him, and saw that the two guards had commenced\na game of cards.\n\n\u201cHow much a game?\u201d said the bigger of the two.\n\n\u201cA penny.\u201d\n\n\u201cA penny!\u201d cried the other. \u201cOf what are you dreaming, Scotchman? The\nprofit of a week! A half-penny now, and more on trust if\u2015\u2015You\nunderstand me?\u201d And he made a gesture as if drinking.\n\n\u201cAlways drinking, always drinking!\u201d replied his adversary.\n\nThey were dealing the cards, when the maces of the court officers\nresounded on the floor, announcing that the deliberations were ended\nand the court was returning.\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d cried the two gamesters, \u201cthey have finished already? How they\nhave hurried over this business! Ordinarily they take an hour, at\nleast.\u201d\n\nThey hastened to gather up their cards and conceal them under their\njackets.\n\nAt a signal given by the officers Sir Thomas came hurriedly out from\nthe deep embrasure of the window where he was leaning. He then\nobserved a man and a young girl, who, alone in the midst of this vast\nenclosure, were gazing in every direction, astonished at the solitude\nin which they found themselves, and seeking him whom their hearts\nloved.\n\n\u201cMargaret!\u201d cried Sir Thomas\u2015\u2015\u201cMargaret here at this fatal moment! No\ngrief must, then, be spared me!\u201d\n\nAt the voice of More his daughter rushed toward him. She covered his\nface with kisses and tears. Pierre Gilles was at her side.\n\n\u201cPierre Gilles here!\u201d cried More.\n\nMeanwhile, the heavy doors rolled on their hinges, and the judges\napproached.\n\n\u201cO More! O my friend! is the trial ended, that I see you alone and at\nliberty here?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes! it is over,\u201d said More; \u201cbut not as you think,\u201d he added,\nlowering his voice. \u201cMy friend, in the name of our tender friendship,\ntake Margaret away! I will see you again in a moment. I pray you, one\nminute, one minute only, go, take her out, if you love me, if you have\nloved me! Ah! Pierre Gilles, thou here? I confide her to thee!\u201d And\nSir Thomas cast on him a glance so imploring, and an expression so\ndeep, that the heart of one father was immediately comprehended by the\nother.\n\nPierre Gilles made a rapid movement to lead the young girl out. He was\ntoo late; the court had entered, and the judges had taken their\nplaces. The chancellor remained standing in the midst of them, and,\nturning to the foreman of the jury, who advanced, he put the terrible\nquestion:\n\n\u201cIs the accused guilty?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said the foreman, \u201cupon all the counts.\u201d And his voice failed\nin adding the last words.\n\n\u201cUpon all the counts!\u201d repeated Pierre Gilles.\n\n\u201cWhat did he say?\u201d cried Margaret, transfixed with expectation and\nterror. \u201cMy father guilty? No, never! Pierre Gilles, what did he say?\nGuilty? Oh! no, no. My father!\u201d\n\nThe young girl pronounced this word so tenderly, with a cry so\npiercing, an accent of despair so heartrending, that Sir Thomas\ntrembled from head to foot, and it seemed his soul was shaken to its\nvery depths.\n\n\u201cIn mercy take her away!\u201d he said in a faint voice.\n\n\u201cGuilty!\u201d repeated Margaret\u2015\u2015\u201cguilty! They have dared say it. Guilty!\nThen all is finished! He is lost, condemned! O cowardice! O horror!\nGuilty!\u201d\n\nAnd a change so horrible came over her features that Margaret was\nunrecognizable.\n\n\u201cSir Thomas More guilty before God and before man!\u201d she pursued with a\nsmile of frightful bitterness, while her eyes remained dry. \u201cPierre\nGilles, you have heard it; have I not told you? O ignoble creatures!\nBehold them, these bloody judges\u2015\u2015this Cromwell, with his livid face,\nand envy corroding his heart; this Audley, vender of consciences; this\nCranmer, renegade archbishop! No, you do not know them! There they are\nbefore your eyes, and they invoke the name of Almighty God! One day,\nyes, one day, we also will see them before the tribunal of the\nSovereign Judge\u2015\u2015before that tribunal without appeal and without\nmercy\u2015\u2015to receive the reward of perjury and of murder. May Heaven hear\nmy cry; may my tears mount to the skies, and fall back upon them to\nadd new strength to the remorse which they have so long sought to tear\nfrom their hearts!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat woman is this,\u201d said Cromwell, \u201cwho dares to disturb the court?\u201d\n\n\u201cNay, Master Cromwell,\u201d replied More in a stifled voice, \u201cpardon her!\nShe is a child. Alas! you know her well.\u201d\n\n\u201cBear her away,\u201d said Audley instantly.\n\n\u201cOfficer, lead that woman out!\u201d exclaimed Cromwell in a voice of\nthunder.\n\n\u201cMy daughter, my cherished daughter, follow Pierre Gilles! My friend,\ntake her out!\u201d cried Sir Thomas.\n\n\u201cI will not go!\u201d exclaimed Margaret, bracing her feeble feet against\nthe long stone slabs.\n\n\u201cWill you suffer a varlet to lay his hands on you, Margaret?\u201d said\nPierre Gilles, whose tears streamed down his cheeks and stifled his\nvoice.\n\n\u201cYes, anything! If I leave him, they will let me see him no more.\u201d\n\n\u201cSheriff, do you hear?\u201d cried Cromwell.\n\n\u201cO Master Cromwell!\u201d exclaimed Margaret, falling on her knees and\nraising her suppliant hands toward him. \u201cBut, no,\u201d she said,\nimmediately rising again, \u201cI will not descend so low! Implore him? You\nmay annihilate but never demean me!\u201d And casting a withering glance\nupon Cromwell, she seized the arm of Pierre Gilles, and, dragging him\naway, left the place without even looking toward her father.\n\nThis scene created some disturbance in the horrible assembly, and a\nmoment of silence and hesitation followed, when Cromwell made a sign\nto the lord chancellor not to let it be prolonged.\n\nAudley then began to pronounce the formula of the sentence, but Sir\nThomas interrupted him.\n\n\u201cMy lord chancellor,\u201d he said, \u201cwhen I had the honor of being at the\nhead of justice, the custom was to demand of the prisoner, before\npronouncing sentence, if he had anything to say that might arrest the\njudgment about to be rendered against him. I ask, then, to say a few\nwords.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what can you have to say?\u201d asked Audley brusquely.\n\n\u201cMuch, my lord,\u201d answered Sir Thomas; \u201cfor, now that I have been\ncondemned, and it can no more seem like presuming on my own strength\nin exposing myself to death, I can discharge my conscience, and speak\nfreely and without restriction. I therefore declare, in the presence\nof your lordships here present, that I regard the statute of\nParliament as entirely illegal and contrary to all laws, divine and\nhuman, and my accusation, consequently, as being completely null.\nParliament has no right, and cannot in any manner have the power, to\ngive the church a temporal head. In conferring the spiritual\ngovernment of one portion of Christendom on another than the Bishop of\nRome, whose universal supremacy has been established in the person of\nSt. Peter, chief of the apostles, by the mouth of our Lord Jesus\nChrist himself when he was present and visible on earth, Parliament\nhas exceeded the limits of its authority. There are not, therefore,\nand there cannot be, among Catholic Christians, laws sufficient to\noblige a Christian to obey a power which might have been usurped in\norder to prove this assertion. I will say, moreover, that the\nParliament of this kingdom can no more bind all Christendom by such an\nact than one small portion of the church can make a law in opposition\nto the general law of the church universal; or than the city of\nLondon, which is only a member in comparison with the body of the\nstate, can make a law against an act of Parliament which would bind\nthe whole kingdom. I will add, furthermore, that this law is contrary\nto all the statutes and to all the laws in force until this day, and\nany yet reported, especially to these words written in the great\ncharter: \u2018The English Church is free, her rights shall remain\nuntouched, and none of her liberties shall be cut off\u2019; finally, that\nit is contrary to the oath taken by the king at his consecration, in\npresence of all the assembled people. And I say that there is far more\ningratitude in the English Parliament refusing to acknowledge the\nauthority and spiritual supremacy of the pope than there would be in a\nchild refusing to obey its father; because it is to Pope St. Gregory\nthat we are indebted for the knowledge of the Holy Gospel; it is he\nwho regenerated us\u2015\u2015a heritage richer and more desirable than that\nwhich any father according to the flesh can bequeath to his children.\nYes, noble lords, I confess before you that, since this question has\nbeen raised among us, I have spent days and nights in examining it,\nand I have been unable to find in the centuries passed, or in the\nworks of any doctors, a single example, or even a sentiment, which may\nauthorize a temporal king to usurp the spiritual government of the\nchurch. And consider: this divine authority, necessary to the unity\nand the purity of the Christian faith, would then be committed, in the\ncourse of time, in following the order of succession established in\nthis kingdom, to the feeble hands of a woman or the blind keeping of\nan infant in its cradle! Truly, my lords, it is a thing which shocks\nnot only the unchangeable rule followed up to our day, but even the\nmost ordinary judgment and common sense.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen,\u201d said Audley, interrupting him with a smile of mockery and\ndisdain, \u201cyou esteem yourself wiser than, and believe you possess a\nknowledge and degree of enlightenment far above that of, the bishops,\nthe reverend doctors, the nobility, and the people of the kingdom\ngenerally!\u201d\n\n\u201cI doubt, my lord,\u201d replied Sir Thomas firmly, \u201cof there having been\nthis unanimity between them in which your lordship appears to believe;\nbut, supposing it existed, if we are to judge by the number, it must\nbe very much less even than that of the Christians who are spread\nthroughout the whole world, and of those who, having gone before them\nin life, are now among the glorious saints in heaven.\u201d\n\n\u201cSir Thomas,\u201d cried the Duke of Norfolk, reddening, \u201cyou show clearly\nhow far your malice and obstinacy extend.\u201d\n\n\u201cNoble duke,\u201d replied More, \u201cyou are mistaken: it is neither malice\nnor obstinacy which makes me speak thus, but rather the desire and the\nnecessity of clearing my conscience; and I call upon God, who sees and\nhears us, to witness that this is the only sentiment inspiring my\nheart!\u201d\n\nCromwell, in the meantime, grew very impatient at this debate, and\nmade signals in vain to Audley that he should impose silence on Sir\nThomas; but the former hesitated, stammered, and delayed pronouncing\nhis sentence, resolving in his mind not to take upon himself the\nresponsibility of the proceeding. All at once he turned toward the\nlord chief-justice, Fitz-James.\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d said he, \u201cSir John, do you not assist me with your opinion?\nCould it be true that our sentence were unlawful? Speak! Are you not\nthe lord chief-justice?\u201d\n\nAt this question a frightful apprehension arose in the soul of the\nweak judge; he was conscious of the adroit snare into which he had\nbeen drawn. They questioned him directly; they placed in the hollow of\nhis hand the weights which were to turn the balance and decide the\nfate of Sir Thomas, his benefactor and friend. He paled visibly and\nanswered nothing.\n\n\u201cWell!\u201d said Cromwell, \u201cthe chancellor interrogates you, my lord, and\nit seems you hesitate in your reply!\u201d\n\nIf he had had courage, he might, perhaps, have saved More; it failed\nhim. \u201cI think,\u201d he answered in an evasive way, less odious perhaps,\nbut none the less criminal, \u201cthat if the statute of Parliament was\nillegal, the process of law would be equally so.\u201d\n\n\u201cAssuredly,\u201d said Cromwell with a bitter smile, \u201cthis is very\njudicious. If there was no law, there could be no criminal; and if\nthere was no day, there would be no night\u2015\u2015there are some things which\nreason themselves so naturally that we cannot but concede them.\u201d As he\nsaid these words, he passed to the chancellor the sentence of\ncondemnation.\n\nAudley read it in a very loud tone, which he lowered, however, when he\ncame to the details of the execution, which set forth that Sir Thomas,\nafter having been carried back to the Tower by Lieutenant Kingston,\nshould be dragged through the streets of the city on a hurdle; led\nafterward to Tyburn, where, after having been hanged by the neck, he\nshould be taken down, when half dead, from the gallows, to be\ndisembowelled and his entrails cast into the fire; after which his\nbody should be cut into four pieces, to be placed above the gates of\nthe city, the head excepted, because the head must be exposed on\nLondon Bridge in an iron cage.\n\nWhile the sentence was being read the face of Sir Thomas More remained\nimpassible. At the end only a slight start seemed to denote some\nfeeling. He lowered his head, and it was seen, by an almost\nimperceptible movement of his lips, that he prayed.\n\nA profound silence reigned around him, and it seemed that no human\nvoice or respiration dared be raised in the presence of such cool\natrocity.\n\nAfter a moment a slight sigh was heard.\n\n\u201cA death of infamy may not be,\u201d murmured the Duke of Norfolk; \u201che has\nbeen lord chancellor!\u201d\n\nHe leaned over toward Cromwell. \u201cYou have deceived me,\u201d he said.\n\u201cDecapitation is the only punishment which can be inflicted on him. He\nhas been lord chancellor! Have you thought of that?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d replied Cromwell, \u201cthe law is positive; such is the penalty\nthat follows the refusal of the oath.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe king will dispense with the gibbet,\u201d said Norfolk angrily, \u201cor I\nam not chief of his council!\u201d\n\n\u201cWe will see,\u201d said Cromwell. \u201cThat will matter nothing, provided he\ndies,\u201d he added to himself.\n\nLord Fitz-James had heard Norfolk\u2019s remark, and, unable to restrain\nhis tears, addressed him. \u201cMy lord,\u201d he said in an oppressed voice,\n\u201cthe king might be willing to grant his pardon. Ask Sir Thomas if he\nhave not yet something to say. Perhaps, alas! perhaps he may be\ninduced to make some act of submission.\u201d\n\nNorfolk made a sign of approval. \u201cSir Thomas,\u201d he said, \u201cyou have\nheard what are the rigors of the law, and the penalty that your\ninconceivable obstinacy calls down upon your head. Speak, then; have\nyou nothing to reply that may give us the means of mitigating it?\u201d\n\nSir Thomas raised his head, and looked at him for a moment with an\nexpression of calmness, of gentleness, benevolence, and dignity which\nit is impossible for any human pen to describe. \u201cNoble duke,\u201d he\nanswered, \u201cno, I have nothing more to say; I have only to submit to\nthe sentence you have passed on me. There was a time when you honored\nme with the name of friend; I dare believe that I still remain worthy\nof it. I regard the words you have addressed to me as a souvenir of\nthat good-will, old and proven, which you have felt for me. I would\nthank you for it at this last moment; for I hope that we may meet\nagain in a better world, where all these dissensions shall have passed\naway. And even as the holy Apostle Paul, who was one of those who\nstoned St. Stephen, is now united with him in heaven, where they love\nwith an eternal love, so I hope also that your lordships, who have\nbeen my judges here on earth, and all those who have participated in\nany way in my death, may be eternally reunited and happy in possession\nof the salvation which our divine Saviour Jesus Christ has merited for\nus on the cross. To this end I will pray from my heart for your\nlordships, and above all for my lord the king, that God may accord him\nfaithful counsellors, and that the truth may no longer remain hidden\nfrom him.\u201d\n\nAnd saying these words with much sweetness and fulness of heart, Sir\nThomas was silent.\n\nAs soon as he had ceased speaking the guards, by Cromwell\u2019s order,\npressed around him. An axe was raised, the edge of which was turned\ntoward the condemned by a man who walked before him. And so he was led\nback on foot, through the streets, to the Tower, there to wait until\nthe hour of execution should be appointed by the king, after he had\naffixed his signature to the death-warrant.\n\n\nTO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.\n\n\n\n\nTESTIMONY OF THE CATACOMBS TO PRAYERS FOR THE DEAD AND THE INVOCATION\nOF SAINTS.[110]\n\nMr. Withrow claims to have produced the only English book on the\nCatacombs in which the latest results of exploration are fully given\nand interpreted from a Protestant point of view. We must decline to\nacknowledge the justice of his claim. His book is very far indeed from\ngiving the latest results of exploration, and he certainly is not the\nfirst who has attempted to interpret them from a Protestant point of\nview. He is, however, as far as we know, the last; and as he has\npretty faithfully repeated all the misstatements and mistakes of his\nvarious predecessors in the same subject, only adding a few more of\nhis own, it will be worth while to set before our readers a short\nrefutation of some of them. Indeed, this work of refutation is the\nmore necessary because \u201cthe testimony of the Catacombs relative to\nprimitive Christianity\u201d is daily increasing in value, as our knowledge\nof the Catacombs is becoming more exact and scientific. Some years\nago, and to some intelligences even now, a painting or an inscription\nfrom the Catacombs was \u201ca monument of ancient Christianity,\u201d and one\nsuch monument was as good evidence as another of primitive Christian\ndoctrine. It has been reserved to the labors of De Rossi to introduce\nlight and order into this chaos; and those who profess to publish the\nfruits of his discoveries ought not to withhold this most important\nportion of them; at least, they ought scrupulously to follow the lines\nof chronology which he has established, or else themselves to\nestablish others on surer foundations. Mr. Withrow\u2019s neglect of these\ndistinctions\u2015\u2015indeed, of all chronological order whatever\u2015\u2015is quite\nunpardonable. Whilst in the title of his work he promises to examine\n\u201cthe testimony of the Catacombs relative to primitive Christianity,\u201d\nwe sometimes find that the greater portion of the evidence he adduces\non some of the most important questions of Christian doctrine is not\neven taken from the Catacombs at all. Let us look, by way of example,\nat a single doctrine\u2015\u2015the elementary doctrine of the Resurrection\u2015\u2015and\nsee how he deals with it. \u201cThis glorious doctrine,\u201d he says, \u201cwhich is\npeculiarly the characteristic of our holy religion as distinguished\nfrom all the faiths of antiquity, was everywhere recorded throughout\nthe Catacombs. It was symbolized in the ever-recurring representations\nof the story of Jonas and of the raising of Lazarus, and was strongly\nasserted in numerous inscriptions\u201d (p. 431). But of the inscriptions\nwhich he proceeds to quote, one is spurious (_Alexander mortuus non\nest_, etc.); others belong to the years 449, 544, etc., long after the\npractice of burial in the Catacombs had ceased. And we shall presently\nhave occasion to notice other sins, scarcely less flagrant, against\nevery canon of chronology belonging to the subject which he professes\nto handle. But first let us say a few words as to what those canons\nare, and how they have been established.\n\nIt is only in our own day that the study of inscriptions generally,\nand especially of Christian inscriptions, has received that\ndevelopment which entitles it to a place among real sciences. It has\nnow acquired a light and a solidity which constitute it one of the\nmost trustworthy founts of ancient history. To confine ourselves,\nhowever, strictly within the limits of our present argument, we will\nspeak only of the method which has been followed by De Rossi during\nthe thirty years he has devoted so assiduously to this subject, and\nwhereby he has been enabled to discover the laws which regulated the\ngradual development of Christian epigraphy. If we must summarize his\nmethod in a single word, we should say that his secret consists in a\nminute study of the topography of all inscriptions. In every fresh\nexcavation\u2015\u2015_i.e._, in every reopening of the galleries and chambers\nof the Catacombs, and clearing away the _d\u00e9bris_ with which they have\nbeen so long encumbered\u2015\u2015he has carefully marked and registered every\nstone, and even every fragment of every stone, bearing so much as a\nsingle letter or symbol engraved upon it, and taken note of the\nprecise spot where it has been found. When a sufficient space has been\ncleared to enable him to make a study of its contents, he collects all\nthe stones that have been discovered within this _area_; carefully\neliminates all those which have evidently fallen through the\n_luminaria_, or in other ways have been introduced from the upper\nworld; next, makes a separate class of those whose place of origin is\ndoubtful\u2015\u2015those which there is some reason, either from their size,\ntheir shape, or for some other cause, to suspect may have come from\noutside; and then there remain, finally, those only which beyond all\nquestion belong to the subterranean cemeteries. Many of these he has,\nperhaps, discovered _in situ_, still closing the graves to which they\nwere originally attached\u2015\u2015and these, of course, are cardinal points in\nhis system of arrangement; of many others he knows the chamber or\ngallery whence they came; and of all he minutely examines the\nlanguage, the symbols, monograms or other ornaments, the form of the\nletters, the names, and, finally, the style and epigraphic _formul\u00e6_;\nand the minute study of the inscriptions of innumerable _are\u00e6_ of\nvarious cemeteries according to this strict topographical system has\nled to wonderfully interesting and important discoveries, both as to\ntheir history and chronology. This process of examination, it need\nhardly be said, is laborious and wearisome in the extreme; even the\nmaterial difficulties which surround it are not slight. It sometimes\nhappens that within the limits of a single _area_\u2015\u2015_e.g._, in that of\nSt. Eusebio\u2019s monument in the cemetery of San Callisto\u2015\u2015there are\nupwards of a thousand fragments of epitaphs to be sifted and\nclassified. De Rossi, therefore, occasionally gives utterance to a\npathetic lament as to the dry and tedious character of the task he has\nimposed upon himself. Nevertheless, he has persevered in it with the\nmost conscientious fidelity, even when at times the attempt at\narrangement seemed almost desperate, and the results have in the end\nabundantly rewarded his labors. It is with these results that we are\nat present concerned; and it is obvious that in these pages we can\nonly reproduce them: we cannot enter into an examination of the\nevidence upon which they rest. This is the less necessary, however,\nsince even the most bitter of Protestant controversialists admit that\n\u201cDe Rossi has the rare merit of stating his facts exactly and\nimpartially, precisely as he finds them,\u201d and that \u201chis assiduous\nresearches have been conducted with a sincere zeal for truth.\u201d\n\nLet us proceed, then, to state some of the conclusions to which De\nRossi\u2019s researches have led him\u2015\u2015first, upon the general subject of\nthe chronology of the inscriptions which have come to us from the\nCatacombs, and next as to the dogmatic allusions contained in them.\nAnd first, as to the inscriptions, it is patent that not one in ten\nbears its date on the face of it. Are the other nine (speaking\ngenerally) older or more recent? De Rossi pronounces quite positively\nin favor of their greater antiquity. He says that the _most_ ancient\nChristian epitaphs make no mention either of the day or year of\ndecease; that during the time of the first emperors there are very few\nexceptions to this rule; that in the third century the mention of the\nday and month of the decease was not uncommon, though the year was\nstill passed over in silence; finally, that in the fourth century this\nalso was added.[111] But he says that there are other tokens, such as\nthe number and character of the names or of the symbols employed, the\nstyle of diction, the form of the letters, etc., which, if carefully\nexamined and compared with one another, enable us not unfrequently to\nmake a very probable statement as to the age of undated inscriptions\n(_probabili non raro sententi\u00e2 definies_); if, in addition to this, we\nknow the place where the inscription was found, and have had the\nopportunity of examining other inscriptions found in the same\nneighborhood, then it will rarely happen that there is any doubt at\nall about the age to which it belongs. It is not, of course, meant\nthat it is possible to fix the year, or even the decade or score of\nyears, perhaps, to which it belongs; but De Rossi would certainly fix\nits chronology within the limits of half a century or less (_tum de\n\u00e6tate lat\u00e8 saltem sumpt\u00e2 vix unquam grave dubium supererit_); he\ncertainly would never be in doubt with reference to any particular\ninscription, still less with reference to a whole class of\ninscriptions, whether it belongs to the ages of persecution or to the\nend of the fourth century.\n\nNow, Mr. Withrow is either aware of these canons whereby the\nchronology of the inscriptions from the Catacombs is fixed, or he is\nnot. If he is not, he is quite incompetent to follow by their means\n(as he professes to do, p. 415) \u201cthe development of Christian thought\nfrom century to century, and to trace the successive changes of\ndoctrine and discipline.\u201d If he is aware of them, his reasoning is\nmost disingenuous when he first seeks to settle a disputed question by\nthe testimony of the dated inscriptions of the first three centuries\n(p. 426)\u2015\u2015which are not more than thirty in number altogether\u2015\u2015and\nthen proceeds to argue that \u201cif those inscriptions which apparently\nfavor Romish dogmas, of which we know the date, are all of a late\nperiod, we may assume that those of a similar character which are\nundated are of the same relative age, and therefore valueless as\nevidence of the antiquity of such dogmas\u201d (p. 446). There is no\nnecessity, and indeed no room, for \u201cassumption\u201d at all. The question\ncan be decided by scientific rules whether such and such inscriptions\nbelong to the third century or the fifth, and he ought honestly to\nhave told his readers as much, and to have stated what that decision\nis. As he has failed to do so, we must supply the omission.\n\nFirst, however, let the limits of our task be clearly defined. We are\nnot undertaking to establish any point of Christian doctrine by the\nunaided evidence of inscriptions or paintings from the cemeteries,\nthough we are far from saying that there are none which might be so\nestablished. But at present we are only concerned to refute Mr.\nWithrow\u2019s Protestant interpretation of these monuments, and to show\nthat they at least favor, if they do not demand, a Catholic\ninterpretation. We know that not even the writings of the Fathers\npresent a complete picture of the whole doctrinal system of the age to\nwhich they belong, but must be studied by the light reflected upon\nthem from the more developed and systematic expositions of those who\ncame after them. Still less do we think it reasonable to look in a\ncollection of epitaphs for a clear statement of the articles of faith\nprofessed by those who wrote them; the utmost that can be expected\nis that they should contain what De Rossi calls \u201cdogmatic\nallusions\u201d\u2015\u2015more or less distinct, if you will, but always, or at\nleast generally, merely indirect and casual. And as to drawing any\ntrustworthy conclusions with reference to the antiquity of this or\nthat Christian doctrine from the supposed absence of all allusion to\nit in the dated tombstones of the first three centuries, the mere\nenunciation of such a theory is enough to demonstrate its absurdity.\n\nYet we are sorry to say that Mr. Withrow has been guilty of even worse\nabsurdity than this, if it ought not rather to be called dishonesty.\nIt is certainly worse than mere literary or dialectic trifling\u2015\u2015it\nlooks like a wilful throwing of dust in the reader\u2019s eyes\u2015\u2015to assert\nin the text (p. 517) that the order of acolytes, \u201cdiscontinued in the\nProtestant communion,\u201d was \u201cprobably the offspring of the increasing\npomp and dignity of the bishops to whom they acted as personal\nattendants, especially in public processions and religious festivals,\u201d\nand that \u201cthe only dated epitaphs of acolytes are of a comparatively\nlate period,\u201d whilst forced to acknowledge in a note that \u201cCornelius,\nBishop of Rome in the third century\u201d (A.D. 250)\u2015\u2015_i.e._, at a time\nwhen \u201cthe pomp and dignity of bishops\u201d consisted in their being the\nspecial objects of imperial persecution, and the only \u201cpublic\nprocessions\u201d in which they can have taken part were those in which\nthey were led forth to public execution\u2015\u2015that Cornelius, Bishop of\nRome in the middle of the third century, \u201csays there were in that\nchurch forty-two acolytes.\u201d What does Mr. Withrow mean by placing\nthese two statements together in the way we have described? Does he\nreally wish to insinuate that the absence of an ancient dated epitaph\nof a deceased acolyte ought to counterbalance the testimony of the\nbishop to the existence of forty-two living ones? or does he think\nthat the Protestant public, for whose tastes he so unscrupulously\ncaters, will read his text and overlook his notes? or, finally, that,\nreading the notes, they will nevertheless give greater weight to the\nuncharitable suggestion of a Protestant clergyman in the nineteenth\ncentury than to the testimony of an eye-witness, who was also pope, in\nthe third? Had the order of acolytes been retained instead of being\nrejected by the Protestant communion, doubtless Mr. Withrow would have\nrecognized the conclusiveness of the evidence of Pope Cornelius; he\nwould have seen that the forty-two acolytes who were alive in A.D. 250\nmust sooner or later have died, and been buried in Christian\ncemeteries, and consequently that the non-discovery there of any dated\nepitaphs recording their decease is \u201cvalueless as evidence\u201d against\nthe antiquity of their order.\n\nBut we will not detain our readers any longer by pointing out the\ncuriosities with which Mr. Withrow\u2019s volume abounds, but proceed at\nonce to redeem our promise of setting before them the real state of\n\u201cthe testimony of the Catacombs relative to primitive Christianity\u201d on\none or two of the more prominent doctrines of the Catholic faith. We\nhave said that it is unreasonable to look for a profession of faith in\nan epitaph. But there is one point on which we should be disposed to\nmake an exception to this remark. We think it is quite natural to\nexpect from a large collection of sepulchral inscriptions considerable\ninformation as to the belief of those to whom they belonged with\nreference to the present condition or future prospects of the dead,\nand their relations with the survivors; and in this expectation the\ninscriptions from the Catacombs do not disappoint us. Let us call them\ninto court, and hear what evidence they can give.\n\nMr. Withrow shall open the pleadings, and it must be allowed that he\ndoes so with a very loud blast of his trumpet, and one which \u201cgives no\nuncertain sound\u201d (p. 418). \u201cThere is not a single inscription,\u201d he\nsays, \u201cnor painting, nor sculpture, before the middle of the fourth\ncentury, that lends the least countenance to the erroneous dogmas of\nthe Church of Rome. All previous to this date are remarkable for their\nevangelical character, and it is only after that period that the\ndistinctive peculiarities of Romanism begin to appear.\u201d Presently he\nquotes what he calls \u201cthe first dated inscription possessing any\ndoctrinal character.\u201d It belongs to the year 217, and states of the\ndeceased that he was \u201creceived to God\u201d (_receptus ad Deum_) on such a\nday; whereupon our author exclaims: \u201cWe have here the earliest\nindication of doctrinal belief as to the condition of the departed. It\nis not, however, a dark and gloomy apprehension of purgatorial fires,\nbut, on the contrary, the joyous confidence of immediate reception\ninto the presence of God.\u201d Twenty pages later, however, he is obliged\nto acknowledge that \u201cthere occur in the Catacombs frequent examples of\nacclamations addressed to the departed, expressive of a desire for\ntheir happiness and peace; and these acclamations have been quoted by\nRomanist writers as indicating a belief in the doctrine of purgatory\nand in the efficacy of prayers on behalf of the dead\u201d; and he proceeds\nto give a score of examples, such as these: _Vivas in Deo, in Deo\nChristo_\u2015\u2015Mayest thou live in God, in God Christ; _Vivas inter\nsanctos_\u2015\u2015Mayest thou live among the saints; _Deus tibi refrigeret,\nspiritum tuum refrigeret_\u2015\u2015God refresh thee, or refresh thy spirit;\n_Pax tibi_\u2015\u2015Peace be to thee, etc. But, he says, \u201cit will be perceived\nthat these are not intercessions _for_ the dead, but mere apostrophes\naddressed _to_ them; they were no more prayers for the souls of the\ndeparted than is Byron\u2019s verse, \u2018Bright be the place of thy rest.\u2019\u201d\nMr. Withrow continues, and is presently obliged to make a still\nfurther concession\u2015\u2015viz., that \u201cthe wish _does_ sometimes take the\nform of a prayer for the beloved one,\u201d and he gives half a dozen\nexamples, one of which he curiously misunderstands, and another we do\nnot recognize as belonging to the Catacombs. However, five at least\nare genuine, and we could have furnished him with a score or two of\nothers, all containing distinct prayers \u201cto God,\u201d \u201cto the Lord,\u201d \u201cto\nthe Lord Jesus,\u201d \u201cto remember the deceased,\u201d \u201cto remember him for\never,\u201d \u201cto refresh his spirit,\u201d \u201cnot to suffer his spirit to be\nbrought into darkness,\u201d etc. How is such evidence as this to be\nwithstood? Mr. Withrow shows himself quite equal to the occasion:\n\u201cThey are intense expressions of affection of the ardent Italian\nnature, that would fain follow the loved object beyond the barrier of\na tomb\u201d (p. 443). \u201cThey are the only witnesses that keen Roman\nCatholics can adduce from the Christian inscriptions of the first six\ncenturies,\u201d but \u201cno accumulation of such evidence affords the\nslightest warrant for the corrupt practice of the Church of Rome.\u201d\n\nWe need hardly say that Mr. Withrow is not the first who has thus\n\u201cinterpreted\u201d these epitaphs \u201cfrom a Protestant point of view.\u201d Mr.\nBurgon had long since given the same explanation, and even quoted the\nsame poetical illustration from Byron. But we must confine ourselves\nto Mr. Withrow, and follow him through his graduated scale of\nconfessions. They may be cast in this form: the earliest inscription\nbearing on the subject of prayers for the dead discountenances them;\nthere are frequent examples of acclamations or good wishes for the\ndeparted, but these are not prayers; moreover, they are, comparatively\nspeaking, few in number\u2015\u2015Bishop Kip puts them as \u201chalf a dozen among\nthousands of an opposite character\u201d\u2015\u2015and, being undated, we may\n\u201cassume\u201d that they are of a late age; finally, there are a few\nprayers, but these are only the untutored outburst of the ardent\nItalian nature. Let us set side by side with these the statements of\nDe Rossi on the same subjects. And, first, as to the antiquity of\nthese _formul\u00e6_. He says: \u201cThere are two distinct classes of epitaphs\nto be found in the Catacombs; the one, brief and simple, written\napparently without a thought of handing down anything to the memory of\nposterity, but designed by the survivors mainly as a means of\nidentifying, amid so many thousands of graves of the same outward\nform, those in which they were specially interested.[112] These are\nthe more ancient, and most of them contain nothing beyond the name of\nthe deceased and some of those short acclamations or prayers of which\nwe have just given examples. Inscriptions of the second class record\nthe age of the deceased, the day of his death, or more specially of\nhis burial, and, in fact, omit nothing which is wont to be found on\nsepulchral monuments. They are also often defaced by bombastic\nexaggerations of praise and flattery; and _the pious acclamations or\nprayers we have spoken of are rarely or never found_.\u201d It appears,\nthen, according to the evidence of De Rossi\u2015\u2015which on this question is\nsurely of supreme authority\u2015\u2015that the presence on a tombstone of\nacclamations or prayers for the dead, so far from being evidence of\nthe corruption of a later age, is an actual test or token of primitive\nantiquity. Some indication of this may be gathered, by a careful\nobserver, even from an inspection of the volume of dated inscriptions\nalready published. \u201cMay you live among the saints\u201d is engraved on a\ntombstone of the year 249, and \u201cRefresh thyself, or Be thou refreshed,\nwith the holy souls,\u201d on another of 291; that is to say, there are two\ndistinct examples out of the 32 dated inscriptions prior to the\nconversion of Constantine. Among the 1,340 dated inscriptions\nsubsequent to that event you will scarcely find another.\n\nAnd next, as to the relative numbers of the epitaphs which speak\npositively (in the indicative mood) of the present happiness of the\ndeceased, and of those which speak only optatively and breathe the\nlanguage of prayer. We cannot, indeed, give any exact statement of\nfigures until De Rossi\u2019s great work on the inscriptions shall have\nbeen completed and the whole number brought together in print. But\nwherever we have had an opportunity of instituting a comparison, we\nhave always found the optative or deprecatory form in the ascendant.\nIt is so in the epitaphs collected in the Lapidarian Gallery of the\nChristian Museum at the Lateran in Rome; it is so in the inscriptions\nof each separate _area_ of the great cemetery of San Callisto, so\nminutely registered by De Rossi in his _Roma Sotterranea_; and he\nhimself writes as follows: \u201cSome of these acclamations are\naffirmative, and these may be considered as salutations to the\ndeceased, full of faith and Christian hope, substituted for the cold,\nhopeless dreariness of the pagan _vale_;[113] but _for the most part_\nthey are optative, and ask for the deceased life in God, peace, and\nrefreshment. We should inquire whether these have not often a real\ndeprecative value, and were not uttered or written with the intention\nof praying to God for the peace and refreshment of the departed\nsouls.\u201d A full and satisfactory answer to this question, he says,\ncannot be given till all the inscriptions of this class have been\nbrought together, so that they may mutually explain and illustrate one\nanother. Nevertheless, he refers to what he had said in another\nplace[114] on the same subject; and there we read: \u201cThese auguries or\ngood wishes are not mere apostrophes, giving vent to the feelings of\nnatural affection (_sfoghi d\u2019affetto_); some of them express\nconfidence that the soul received into the heavenly peace of God and\nhis saints is already in the enjoyment of a life of bliss, and these\nspeak positively\u2015\u2015_vives_; others, again, are equivalent to real\nprayers to obtain that peace, and are expressed in another\nmood\u2015\u2015_vivas_.\u201d\n\nMr. Withrow, however, and his co-religionists, may plead that, though\nconstrained to yield to De Rossi\u2019s statement of facts, they are not\nbound by his interpretation of them. Waiving, therefore, all dispute\nas to the number and antiquity of the inscriptions which seem to favor\nthe practice of prayers for the dead, they may still persist that they\nshould be taken, not as the voice of the church, but the errors of\nindividuals; or, as Mr. Withrow himself expresses it, \u201cthey are not a\nformulated and authoritative creed formed by learned theologians, but\nthe untutored utterances of humble peasantry, many of whom were recent\nconverts from paganism or Judaism, in which religions such expressions\nwere a customary sepulchral formula.\u201d If Mr. Withrow merely means to\nsay that Christian epigraphy was the spontaneous growth of the natural\nfeelings and supernatural faith of the people, rather than the result\nof any written or traditional law devised and imposed by\necclesiastical authority, we are heartily at one with him. We do not\ndoubt that it was the natural fruit of the religious feeling which\npervaded all classes of the new society, that was reflected in their\nepigraphy as in a mirror. But Mr. Withrow clearly meant something\ndifferent from this; he intended to insinuate that these inscriptions\nwhich are distasteful to himself would have been disapproved of also\nby all well-instructed members of the church, especially by her\npastors and doctors. Yet Tertullian, at least, could hardly have\ndisapproved, who takes for granted in one of his treatises, and uses\nit as the foundation of an argument, that every Christian widow will\nbe continually praying for the soul of her departed husband, and\nasking for him refreshment (_refrigerium_), and offering sacrifice for\nhim on the anniversary of his decease. Neither could such prayers have\nbeen deemed either objectionable or useless by St. Cyprian and his\npredecessors in the see of Carthage, who decreed the loss of them as a\nfitting punishment for any man who should presume to leave the care of\nhis children or of his property after his decease to a cleric, because\n\u201che does not deserve to be named in the prayer of the priest at the\naltar of God who has done what he could to withdraw a priest from the\nservice of the altar.\u201d[115] However, it is not worth while, easy as\nthe task would be, to justify the inscriptions in question by a catena\nof venerable authorities from among the bishops and teachers of the\nprimitive church; we will only mention one fact about them which seems\nto us conclusive\u2015\u2015viz., that they are in exact accordance, not to say\nin verbal and literal agreement, with the most authoritative\nformularies that have come down to us from ancient days; we mean the\nancient liturgies. The language of the public offices of the\nchurch\u2015\u2015if not an apostolic tradition, which Mr. Withrow would not\neasily admit\u2015\u2015was surely formulated by somebody and formulated\naccording to the dogmas of the faith, and not in a spirit of weak\nindulgence to any poetical fancies or excess of passionate feeling,\nwhether of affection or of grief. We turn, then, to the oldest\nsacramentaries,[116] and the prayers we find there run as follows: \u201cWe\npray that thou wilt grant to all who rest in Christ a place of\nrefreshment, light, and peace\u201d; \u201cGrant to our dear ones who sleep in\nChrist refreshment in the land of the living\u201d; \u201cRefresh, O Lord! the\nspirits of the deceased in peace\u201d; \u201cCause them to be united with thy\nsaints and chosen ones\u201d\u2015\u2015the very words and phrases which we have read\non the ancient tombstones, and which we still hear from the lips of\nall devout Catholics when they pray, either in public or in private,\nfor those who are gone before them.\n\nNot without reason, then, does De Rossi describe these prayers for the\ndead, which are of such frequent recurrence in the Catacombs, as a\nfaithful echo of the prayers of the liturgy. Of such an inscription as\nthis, _In pace Spiritus Silvani, amen_, he says very truly that one\nseems to hear in it the last words of the solemn burial rite, just as\nthe tomb is being closed and the sorrowing survivors bid farewell to\nthe grave.[117]\n\nBut Mr. Withrow would have us look for the original of these prayers,\nnot to the Christian liturgy, but to the monuments of \u201cpaganism and\nJudaism, in which religions such expressions were a customary\nsepulchral formula.\u201d No doubt there was in many pagan epitaphs an\naddress, or acclamation, or apostrophe\u2015\u2015call it what you will\u2015\u2015to the\ndeceased. But it was either a brief and sad farewell\u2015\u2015an \u201ceverlasting\nfarewell,\u201d as they mournfully felt it to be\u2015\u2015or it was an idle wish\n\u201cthat his bones might rest well,\u201d or (far more commonly) \u201cthat the\nearth might lie lightly upon him\u201d; or there was a still more unmeaning\nand unnatural interchange of salutations between the living and the\ndead. The passer-by was exhorted to salute the deceased with the\ncustomary _Ave_ or _Salve_, and the imaginary response of the dead man\nstood engraven on the stone, ready for all comers. Surely it is\nimpossible that anybody (\u03b5\u1f30 \u03bc\u1f74 \u03b6\u03ad\u03c3\u03b9\u03bd \u03b4\u03b9\u03b1\u03c6\u03c5\u03bb\u03ac\u03c4\u03c4\u03c9\u03bd, as old Aristotle has\nit) can be so blind as to confound this empty trifling of the pagan\nwith the hearty yet simple and touching prayers of the Christian.\nBetween the Christian epitaphs and those of the ancient Jews we might\nnaturally have expected a somewhat closer degree of affinity; and so\nthere is. Yet even here the closest point of resemblance that we are\nable to find is this: that the Jews ordinarily spoke of death as\nsleep, and very commonly wrote on the grave-stones, \u201cHis sleep is in\npeace.\u201d We do not remember ever to have seen one of ancient date in\nwhich peace is _prayed for_, neither does Mr. Withrow produce one,\nthough it has suited his purpose to give a deprecatory form to his\ntranslation of _Dormitio in bonis_. The Christian epitaphs, then, have\nthis in common with Jewish epitaphs: that they speak of the dead as\nsleeping in peace; it still remains as peculiar to themselves that\nthey supplicate for the deceased life\u2015\u2015life in God, life everlasting,\nlife with the saints\u2015\u2015light, and refreshment.\n\nBut we must pass on to another point of doctrine connected with the\ndead, on which inscriptions in the Catacombs might reasonably be\nexpected to throw some light, and on which the testimony they give is\nsometimes disputed. Mr. Withrow shall again be permitted to make his\nown statement of the case: \u201cAssociated with the Romish practice of\npraying _for_ the dead is that of praying _to_ them. For this there is\nstill less authority in the testimony of the Catacombs than for the\nformer. There are, indeed, indications that this custom was not\nunknown, but they are very rare and exceptional. In all the dated\ninscriptions of the first six centuries there is only one invocation\nof the departed.\u201d It is of the year 380, and by an orphan. \u201cBut the\nyearning cry of an orphaned heart for the prayers of a departed mother\nis a slight foundation for the Romish practice of the invocation of\nthe saints. Previous to this date we have found not the slightest\nindication of Romish doctrine.\u2026 The few undated inscriptions of a\nsimilar character are probably of as late, or it may be of a much\nlater, date than this.\u201d\n\nWe have already had occasion to expose the fallacy of this favorite\nargument of Mr. Withrow\u2019s founded on the paucity and relative\nantiquity of dated inscriptions. We have pointed out its direct\ncontradiction to all the canons of chronology so laboriously and\nconscientiously established by De Rossi. Here, however, we must be\nallowed again to quote his testimony, given precisely upon this\nparticular subject: \u201cInvocations of the deceased,\u201d he says, \u201casking\nthem to pray for the survivors, are found only in the subterranean\ncemeteries, not in those made above ground; always in epitaphs without\ndates, never in those bearing dates of the fourth and fifth centuries.\nThey belong to the period before peace was given to the church, and\nthe new style inspired by the changed conditions of the times sent\nthem quickly into disuse.\u201d The simple and natural character of earlier\nChristian epigraphy gave place to colder and more artificial\nannouncements. But whilst the more ancient and more religious style\nprevailed the following are fair specimens of the epitaphs that were\nwritten: _Vivas in pace et pete pro nobis. Christus spiritum tuum in\npace et pete pro nobis. Bene refrigera et roga pro nos. Spiritus tuus\nbene requiescat in Deo petas pro sorore tu\u00e2. Vincentia in Christo\npetas pro Ph\u0153be et pro Virginio ejus. Vivas in Deo et roga. Spiritus\ntuus in bono, ora pro parentibus tuis. In orationis tuis roges pro\nnobis quia scimus te in Christo_\u2015\u2015\u201cMayest thou live in peace, and pray\nfor us. May Christ refresh thy spirit in peace, and pray for us.\nMayest thou be well refreshed, and pray for us. May thy spirit rest\nwell in God; pray for thy sister. Vincentia in Christ, pray for Ph\u0153be\nand for her husband. Mayest thou live in God, and pray. Thy spirit is\nin good; pray for thy parents. In thy prayers make petition for us,\nbecause we know thee to be in Christ.\u201d\n\nIn all these instances\u2015\u2015and many more might easily be given, in Greek\nas well as in Latin, some edited, others still inedited\u2015\u2015it is clear\nthat the survivors had a firm hope that their departed friends had\nbeen called by the ministry of angels to the enjoyment of the promised\nbliss and heavenly peace, and this faith was the foundation of these\nfervid petitions for their prayers. But, objects our author, \u201cthese\ninvocations are almost invariably uttered by some relative of the\ndeceased, as if prompted by natural affection rather than by religious\nfeeling.\u201d No doubt the invocations that have been quoted are the\nutterances of loving and sorrowing relatives; for to them it usually\nbelongs to bury their dead and to write the epitaphs on their\ntombstones. But does it therefore follow that they were extravagant,\nunwarranted, and out of harmony with the teaching of the church?\nFirst, their very number and antiquity is _prim\u00e2 facie_ evidence\nagainst so unjust a suspicion; and, next, they in no way go beyond the\neloquent invocations of the martyrs, whether in the _graffiti_ on the\nwalls near their tombs or in the more formal inscriptions of the\nbishops themselves\u2015\u2015_e.g._, of Pope Damasus at the tomb of St. Agnes;\nbut, lastly and above all, these again are in exact agreement with the\npublic liturgy of the church. In a fragment of a very ancient liturgy,\nonly published in our own day, and bearing internal evidence of having\nbeen used during the days of persecution, the priest is instructed to\npray \u201cfor grace to worship God truly in times of peace, and not to\nfall away from him in times of trial,\u201d and then, after the accustomed\nreading of the diptychs\u2015\u2015_i.e._, reading the names of the martyrs, the\nbishops, and the dead for whom the Holy Sacrifice was being\noffered\u2015\u2015he proceeds as follows: \u201cMay the glorious merits of the\nsaints excuse us or plead for us, that we may not come into\npunishment; may the souls of the faithful departed who are already in\nthe enjoyment of bliss assist us, and may those which need consolation\nbe absolved by the prayers of the church.\u201d The different gradation of\nranks and the different sense of the liturgical commemoration of the\nsaints, the faithful who are dead and those who are still living,\ncould hardly be defined with greater distinctness in \u201ca formulated and\nauthoritative creed formed by learned theologians.\u201d We need hardly add\nthat the same doctrine is to be found more or less explicitly in all\nthe old liturgies\u2015\u2015_e.g._, in a prayer that \u201cChrist will, through the\nintercession of his holy martyrs, grant to our dear ones who sleep in\nhim refreshment in the abode of the living\u201d; \u201cthat the prayers of the\nblessed martyrs will so commend us to Christ that he will grant\neternal refreshment to our dear ones who sleep in him,\u201d and several\nother petitions to the same effect. But we are already exceeding the\nlimits of space assigned to us, and we must be content with a general\nreference to the old sacramentaries; neither can we find room for the\npassages which are at hand from St. Cyril, St. Chrysostom, and other\npatristic authorities containing the same doctrine.\n\nWe must not, however, altogether omit another branch of evidence\nbelonging to the Catacombs themselves\u2015\u2015namely, the frescoes and other\nmonuments in which the saints are represented as receiving and\nwelcoming the deceased into heaven, conversing with them, lifting up\nthe veil, and introducing them into the garden of Paradise, etc.\nEverybody knows the inscription scratched in the mortar round a grave\nin the cemetery of Pretextatus fifteen centuries ago, and now brought\nto light again some twenty years since, in which the martyrs\nJanuarius, Agapetus, and Felicissimus are invoked to refresh the soul\nof some departed one, just buried near their own tombs; and the\nanxiety of the faithful of old to obtain a place of burial near the\ngraves of the martyrs is too notorious to need confirmation in this\nplace. This practice had, of course, a doctrinal foundation. St.\nGregory Nazianzen, Paulinus of Nola, or other Christian poets may use\nthe language of mere poetical fancy when they talk of the blood of the\nmartyrs penetrating the adjacent sepulchres; but the spiritual meaning\nthat underlies their words is plain\u2015\u2015viz., that the merit of the\nmartyrs\u2019 pains and sufferings, and the intercession of their prayers\nthus sought by the living, were believed to profit the souls of the\ndeceased. In a recently-discovered fresco in the cemetery of SS.\nNereus and Achilleus, a deceased matron, Veneranda, is manifestly\ncommended to the patronage of St. Petronilla, who is represented\nstanding at her side; and there are not wanting inscriptions in which\nthe survivors distinctly commend the souls of their children or others\nwhom they have buried to the care of that particular martyr in whose\ncemetery they have been laid. We do not quote them at length, not only\nfrom want of space, but also because this class of monuments belongs,\ngenerally speaking, to the fourth century, when no one doubts that\ninvocation of the saints was in common use; and we have already quoted\na large class of inscriptions, more ancient and quite as conclusive to\nall minds of ordinary candor. We mention them, however, because they\nare links in the chain of evidence we have been inquiring\nabout\u2015\u2015evidence given by the Catacombs\u2015\u2015and yet more especially\nbecause they remind us of the beautiful language of our ritual, which\nnone can forget who have ever heard it sung to the solemn chant of the\nchurch: _In Paradisum deducant te angeli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te\nmartyres, et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Jerusalem_. We cannot\nhelp suspecting that these prayers or acclamations are as old as the\nmonuments which they so faithfully interpret. The invocation of the\nmartyrs, and of them only amongst \u201cthe spirits of the just made\nperfect\u201d who have already \u201ccome to Mount Sion, and to the city of the\nliving God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to the company of many\nthousands of angels,\u201d seems to point to such a conclusion; it has a\nflavor of quite primitive times about it, certainly of the age of\npersecution. It may well have been contemporary with the following\ninscription, at present in a private museum, but originally taken from\nthe Catacombs: \u201c_Paulo filio merenti in pacem te suscipiant omnium\nispirita sanctorum_.\u201d\n\n\n [110] _The Catacombs of Rome, and their Testimony relative\n to Primitive Christianity._ By the Rev. W. H. Withrow, M.A.\n New York: Nelson & Phillips. 1874.\n\n [111] _Inscr. Christ._, i. c. ix.\n\n [112] _Inscr. Christian._, i. c. x.\n\n [113] _R. S._, ii. 305.\n\n [114] Ib., i. 341.\n\n [115] Epist. i. aliter 66.\n\n [116] Bullett. 1875, pp. 17-32. Muratori, _Liturg. Rom._, i.\n 749, 916, 981, 996, 1002; ii. 4, 694, 702, 779, 642, 653,\n 646.\n\n [117] _R. S._, ii. 305.\n\n\n\n\n ON OUR LADY\u2019S DEATH\n\n I.\n\n\n \u201cAnd didst thou die, dear Mother of our Life?\n Sin had no part in thee: then how should death?\n Methinks, if aught the great tradition saith\n Could wake in loving hearts a moment\u2019s strife\u201d\n (I said\u2015\u2015my own with Her new image rife),\n \u201c\u2019Twere this.\u201d And yet \u2019tis certain, next to faith,\n Thou didst lie down to render up thy breath:\n Though after the Seventh Sword no meaner knife\n Could pierce that bosom. No, nor did. No sting\n Of pain was there, but only joy. The love,\n So long thy life ecstatic, and restrained\n From setting free thy soul, now gave it wing:\n Thy body, soon to reign with it above,\n Radiant and fragrant, as in trance, remained.\n\n II.\n\n Yes, Mother of God, though thou didst stoop to die,\n Death could not mar thy beauty. On thy face\n Nor time nor grief had wrinkle left or trace:\n It had but aged in God-like majesty:\n Mature, yet, save the mother in thine eye,\n As maiden-fresh as when, of all our race,\n Thou, first and last, wast greeted \u201cfull of grace\u201d\u2015\u2015\n Ere thrice five years had worshipped and gone by.\n Mortal thy body; yet it could not know\n Mortality\u2019s decay. Like sinless Eve\u2019s,\n It waited but the change on Thabor shown.\n And when, at thy sweet will, \u2019twas first laid low,\n Untainted as a lily\u2019s folded leaves\n It slept\u2015\u2015the angels watching by the stone.\n\n III.\n\n \u201cAt thy sweet will.\u201d Then wherefore didst thou will\n To pass death\u2019s portal? To the outward ear\n There comes no answer; but the heart can hear.\n Thy Son had passed it. Thou upon the hill\n Of scorn hadst stood beside his cross; and still\n Wouldst \u201cfollow the Lamb where\u2019er he went.\u201d Of fear\n Thou knewest naught. The cup\u2019s last drop, so dear\n To Him, thy love must share\u2015\u2015or miss its fill.\n But more. Thy other children\u2015\u2015even we\u2015\u2015\n Must enter life through death. And couldst thou brook\n To watch our terrors at the dark unknown,\n Powerless to stay us with a sympathy\n Better than any tender word or look\u2015\u2015\n Bidding our steps tread firmly in thine own?\n\n\n\n\nAMID IRISH SCENES.\n\nThe very thought of a journey to distant lands is invigorating. We\nthrow off the dust of old habits, quit the routine of daily life, shut\nout the customary thoughts of business, and, with hearts that in some\nmysterious way seem suddenly to have grown younger, turn towards other\nworlds. Even the uncertainty which is incident to travel has a\npeculiar charm. The love we bear our country and friends grows warmer\nand assumes unwonted tenderness when we leave them, not knowing\nwhether it will be given us to look upon them again; and as the\ndistance widens, the bonds of affection are drawn closer. Amid strange\nfaces we reflect how sweet it is to dwell with those who love us; a\nthousand thoughts of home and friends come back to us, the heart is\nhumanized, and we resolve to become more worthy of blessings for which\nwe have been so little grateful. Indeed, I think that the chiefest\npleasure of travel is in the thought and hope of communicating to\nothers our own impressions of all the lovely things we see.\n\nWho would care to look on blue mountains, or ocean sunset, or green\nisles, if he might never speak of their beauty, never utter the deep\nfeelings which they awaken? All strong emotion, whether of joy or\nsorrow, seeks to express itself. Nature is beautiful only when we\nassociate it with God or man. No greater torment can be imagined than\nto think and feel, and yet to live alone for ever with that which has\nno thought or feeling. I remained in Ireland too short a time to be\nable to form well-founded opinions or to reach just conclusions\nconcerning the present condition or the future prospects of the\ncountry. I was compelled to travel hurriedly, and therefore observed\nsuperficially; and in my haste I doubtless often failed to remark what\nwas most worthy of attention. At least, I approached the sacred island\nwith reverence. Whatever I might see, I knew that my feet were upon\nholy ground, and that I was in the midst of the most Catholic people\non earth; I felt that if sympathy could give insight or reveal beauty,\nI should not look in vain.\n\nAnd now, with the liberty and quickness of thought, passing the vast\nexpanse of ocean, I shall place myself at Oban, on the western coast\nof Scotland, opposite the island of Mull; for though we are not here\non Irish soil, yet this whole region is so full of Irish memories and\nIrish glories that we may not pass it in silence. The scenery is\nsombre, bleak, and wild. It is not lovely nor yet sublime, though\nthere is about it a kind of gloomy and desolate grandeur; and, indeed,\nthis is the general character of all scenery in the Scotch Highlands.\nIt is rugged, harsh, and waste. It does not invite to repose. Amid\nthese barren moors and fog-covered hills we are chilled, driven back\nupon ourselves. We involuntarily move on, content with a passing\nglance at dark glens and lochs from whose waters crags and peaks lift\ntheir heads and frown in stern defiance. The gloomy tales of murder\nand treachery, of war and strife, and the ruined castles which tell of\nbattles of other days, deepen the impressions made by nature\u2019s harsh\naspect. Even in summer the air is heavy with mist and fog. A day\nrarely passes without rain, and in the middle of August the traveller\nfinds himself in an atmosphere as damp, cold, and dreary as that of\nLondon in November. Before us is the dark sea of the Hebrides, from\nwhose sullen waters a hundred naked and desert islands rise in rough\nand jagged outlines. As we sail through the narrow straits of this\narchipelago, we see nothing but barren rocks, covered with black fog.\nThere is no grass, there are no pleasant landscapes, no cultivated\nfields. We hear only the moaning of the waves, the howling wind, and\nthe hoarse cry of the sea-bird. Nothing could be less beautiful or\nless attractive; and yet it is in this wild sea and among these rocky\nislands that we find the sacred spot from which Scotland and northern\nEngland received religion and civilization. During the summer a boat\nleaves Oban every morning to make the tour of the island of Mull,\ntaking Staffa and Iona in the route. The steamer stops at Staffa to\npermit tourists to visit the Cave of Fingal, of which so much has been\nwritten. This cave, which is about seventy feet high and forty feet in\nwidth, with a depth of two hundred and thirty feet, opens into the\nocean on the southern coast of the little island of Staffa. Its front\nand sides are formed of innumerable columns of basaltic rock,\nprecisely similar to those which are found in the Giant\u2019s Causeway.\nThey are perfectly symmetrical, and one is almost tempted to think\nthey must have been shaped by the hand of man. But, apart from this\npeculiarity, the only thing which struck me as very remarkable in this\ncelebrated cave is the mighty surge of the ocean, whose angry waves,\nrushing into this gloomy vault, dash against its everlasting columns,\nand, with wild and furious roar that reverberates along the high arch\nin tones of thunder, are driven back, to be followed by others, and\nstill others. And so all day long and through the night, from year to\nyear, this concert of the waves far from human ears chants God\u2019s awful\nmajesty and infinite power.\n\nNine miles south of Staffa lies Iona, St. Columba\u2019s blessed isle. \u201cWe\nwere now,\u201d wrote Dr. Johnson one hundred years ago, \u201ctreading that\nillustrious island which was once the luminary of the Caledonian\nregions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the\nbenefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract the\nmind from all local emotion would be impossible if it were endeavored,\nand would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from\nthe power of our senses, whatever makes the past, the distant, or the\nfuture predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of\nthinking beings. Far from me and from my friends be such frigid\nphilosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground\nwhich has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is\nlittle to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the\nplain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the\nruins of Iona.\u201d\n\nIt was in 563, more than thirteen hundred years ago, that Columkille,\na voluntary exile from Erin, which he loved with more than woman\u2019s\ntenderness, landed upon this island. Twelve of his Irish monks had\naccompanied him, resolved to share his exile. Others soon followed,\ndrawn by the fame of his sanctity, and in a little while Columkille\nand his apostles issued forth from Iona to carry the religion of\nChrist to the pagans who dwelt on the surrounding islands and on the\nmainland of Scotland; and from this little island the light of faith\nspread throughout the Caledonian regions. All the churches of Scotland\nlooked to it as the source whence they had received God\u2019s choicest\ngifts, and for two hundred years the abbots who succeeded St. Columba\nheld spiritual dominion over the whole country. The Scottish kings\nchose Iona as their burial-place, in the hope of escaping the doom\nforetold in the prophecy:\n\n \u201cSeven years before that awful day\n When time shall be no more,\n A watery deluge will o\u2019ersweep\n Hibernia\u2019s mossy shore;\n The green-clad Isla, too, shall sink,\n While with the great and good\n Columba\u2019s happy isle shall rear\n Her towers above the flood.\u201d\n\nIn an age of ferocious manners and continual war this holy and\npeaceful isle, far removed from scenes of strife and blood, might well\nbe regarded not only as the fit resting-place of the dead, but as the\nhappiest home of the living.\n\nEven to-day, in its loneliness and desolation, there is a calm, sweet\nlook about it that makes one linger as loath to quit so sacred a spot.\nBut the simple, great ones of old are gone; their bones lie buried\nbeneath our feet.\n\n \u201cTo each voyager\n Some ragged child holds up for sale a store\n Of wave-worn pebbles.\u2026\n How sad a welcome!\n Where once came monk and nun with gentle stir,\n Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer.\u201d\n\nA few poor fishermen with their families dwell upon the island. They\nare all Protestants. After the Reformation, the Calvinistic Synod of\nArgyll handed over all the sacred edifices of Iona to a horde of\npillagers, who plundered and destroyed them. During the seventeenth\nand eighteenth centuries these ruins were given up to the ignorant\ninhabitants of the island, who turned the cathedral into a stable,\nused the church of the convent of canonesses as a quarry, and broke\nand threw into the sea nearly all of the three hundred and sixty\ncrosses which formerly covered the island.\n\nAs late as 1594 the three great mausoleums of the kings were to be\nseen, with the following inscriptions:\n\n Tumulus regum Scoti\u00e6,\n Tumulus regum Hiberni\u00e6,\n Tumulus regum Norwegi\u00e6.\n\nBut these have also disappeared, and nothing remains but the site.\nHere were buried forty-eight kings of Scotland, four kings of Ireland,\nand eight kings of Norway; and it is even said that one of the kings\nof France found here a last resting-place. Macbeth closes the line of\nScottish kings who were buried in Iona. His successor, Malcolm\nCanmore, chose the Abbey of Dunfermline as the royal cemetery.\nShakspere does not fail to send Duncan\u2019s body to Iona:\n\n \u201cROSSE. Where is Duncan\u2019s body?\n\n MACDUFF. Carried to Colmekill,\n The sacred storehouse of his predecessors,\n And guardian of their bones.\u201d\n\nThere are still many tombs in this cemetery, most of which are covered\nwith slabs of blue stone upon which figures are sculptured in relief.\nHere a bishop or an abbot, in cope and mitre, holds the pastoral staff\nof authority, and by his side lies some famous chieftain in full\narmor. On one of these slabs the traveller may behold the effigy of\nAngus MacDonald, Scott\u2019s Lord of the Isles, and the contemporary of\nRobert Bruce.\n\nIn the centre of the graveyard stands the ruin of a chapel which was\nbuilt at the close of the eleventh century by St. Margaret of\nScotland, and dedicated to St. Oran, the first Irish monk who died in\nIona after the landing of St. Columba. Near by is the ancient Irish\ncross which is said to mark the spot where St. Columba rested on the\neve of his death, when he had walked forth to take a last view of his\nwell-beloved island. A little farther north lies the cathedral, ruined\nand roofless, with its square tower, which is the first object to\nattract the eye of the pilgrim as he approaches the sacred isle. Iona\nis but three miles in length and about two miles wide. Unlike the\nislands by which it is surrounded, it has a sandy beach, which slopes\nto the water\u2019s edge, and its highest point is but little over three\nhundred feet above the level of the sea. The ruins all lie on the\neastern shore, and are but a few paces from one another. Some little\ncare is taken of them, now that the facilities of travel have turned\nthe attention of travellers to this former home of learning and\nreligion. The chapel of the nunnery is no longer used as a cow-house,\nnor the cathedral as a stable, as in the time of Dr. Johnson\u2019s visit.\nNevertheless, many interesting relics which he saw have since\ndisappeared. Still, enough remains to awaken emotion in the breasts of\nthose whom the thought of noble deeds and heroic lives can move. In\ntreading this sacred soil, and walking among the graves of kings and\nprinces of the church, surrounded by broken walls and crumbling arches\nwhich once sheltered saints and heroes, we are lifted by the very\ngenius of the place into a higher world. The present vanishes. The\npast comes back to us, and throws its light into the dim and awful\nfuture. How mean and contemptible seem to us the rivalries and\nambitions of men! This handful of earth, girt round by the sea, holds\nthe glories of a thousand years. All their beauty is faded. They are\nbare and naked as these broken walls, to which not even the sheltering\nivy clings. The voice of battle is hushed; the song of victory is\nsilent; the strong are fallen; the valiant are dead, and around\nforgotten graves old ocean chants the funeral dirge. Monuments of\ndeath mark all human triumphs. And yet St. Columba and his grand old\nmonks are not wholly dead. To them more than to the poet belongs the\n_non omnis moriar_. Their spirit lives even in us, if we are\nChristians and trust the larger hope. What heavenly privilege, like\nthem, to be free, and in the desert and ocean\u2019s waste to find the\npossibility of the diviner life; like them, to be strong, leaning upon\nGod only! The very rocks they looked upon seem to have gained a human\nsense; in the air is the presence of unseen spirits, and the waves\napproach gently as in reverence for the shore pressed by their feet.\nTo have stood, though but for a moment and almost as in a dream, amid\nthese sacred shrines, is good for the soul. It is as if we had gone to\nthe house of one who loved us, and found that he was dead. The world\nseems less beautiful, but God is nearer and heaven more real.\n\nWe have lingered too long among the ruins of Iona. Our ship puffs her\nsail, and we must go; but our faces are still turned towards the\nblessed isle; the cathedral tower rises sadly over the bleak shore,\nand in a little while the rough and rock-bound coast of the Ross of\nMull takes the vision from our eyes. And now I am in Ireland. Landing\nat Belfast, I went south to Dublin; thence to Wicklow, where I took a\njaunting-car and drove through the Devil\u2019s Glen, to Glendalough,\nthrough Glenmalure and the Vale of Avoca, and back to Wicklow.\n\nReturning to Dublin, I went southwest to the Lakes of Killarney,\npassing through nearly the entire extent of the island from east and\nwest. Having made the tour of the lakes and visited Muckross Abbey and\nRoss Castle, I went to Cork, where I took the train for Youghal, on\nthe Blackwater. I sailed up this beautiful river to Cappoquin, near\nLismore. From this point I visited the Trappist monastery of Mt.\nMelleray. Again taking a jaunting-car, I drove over the Knockmeledown\nMountains into Tipperary, along the lovely banks of the river Suir,\ninto Clonmel, thence to Cashel, to Holy Cross Abbey and to Thurles.\nReturning to Cork, I of course visited Blarney Castle, and then,\nsailing down the noble sea-avenue that leads to Queenstown, went\naboard the steamer which was to bring me home again.\n\nIn Rome, it has been said, none are strangers. So much of what is\ngreatest and best in the history of the human race centres there that\nall men instinctively identify themselves with her life and are at\nhome. In Ireland a Catholic, no matter whence he come, forgets that he\nis in a foreign land; and in proportion to the love with which he\ncherishes his faith is the sympathy that draws him to the people who\nhave clung to it through more suffering and sorrow than have fallen to\nthe lot of any other. More than other races they have loved the\nchurch; more than others they have believed that, so long as faith and\nhope and love are left to the heart, misery can never be supreme. The\nforce with which they realize the unseen world leaves them unbroken\namid the reverses and calamities of this life. They are to-day\nwhat they were in ages past\u2015\u2015the least worldly and the most\nspiritual-minded people of Europe.\n\nThey live in the past and in the future; cling to memories and cherish\ndreams. The ideal is to them more than the real. Their thoughts are on\nreligion, on liberty, honor, justice, rather than upon gold. They fear\nsin more than poverty or sickness. When the mother hears of the death\nof her son, in some distant land, her first thought is not of him, but\nof his soul. Did he die as a Catholic should die, confessing his sins,\ntrusting in God, strengthened by the sacraments? When he left her\nweeping, her great trouble was the fear lest, in the far-off world to\nwhich he was going, he should forget the God of his fathers, the God\nof Ireland\u2019s hope; and when in her dreams she saw him back again, her\nheart leaped for joy, not that he was rich or famous, but that the\nsimple faith of other days was with him still.\n\nThe life that is to be is more than that which is. The coldest heart\nis warmed by this strong faith. In the midst of this simple and\npure-hearted people, so poor and so content, so wronged and so\npatient, so despised and so noble, one realizes the divine power of\nreligion. Whithersoever our little systems of thought may lead us,\nwhatsoever mysteries of nature they may reveal, nothing that they can\ngive us could compensate for the loss of honest faith and child-like\ntrust in God. Whatever may be, this is the best. Better to die in a\nhovel, yearning for God and trusting to him, than without hope \u201cto\nwalk all day, like the sultan of old, in a garden of spice.\u201d The first\nand deepest impression made upon me in travelling through Ireland was\nthat it is a country consecrated by unutterable suffering. The shadow\nof an almost divine sorrow is still upon the land. Each spot is sacred\nto some sad memory. Ruined castles tell how her proudest families were\ndriven into exile or reduced to beggary; roofless cathedrals and\ncrumbling abbeys proclaim the long martyrdom of her bishops and\npriests; tenantless cottages and deserted villages speak of the\nmultitudes turned upon the road to die, or, with weary step, to seek\nshelter in a foreign land. We pass through desolate miles of waste\nlands that might be reclaimed, through whole counties that have been\nturned into sheep and cattle pastures, through towns once busy, now\ndead; and John Mitchel\u2019s cry of anguish, when last year, in triumphal\nfuneral march, he went to meet the electors of Tipperary, strikes upon\nthe ear: \u201cMy God, my God, where are my people?\u201d\n\nGo to the abandoned ports of Wexford, of Youghal, of Waterford, of\nGalway, and you will be told of ships, freighted with human souls,\nthat sailed away and never returned. It seemed to me on those silent\nshores that I could still hear the wail of countless mothers, wringing\ntheir hands and weeping for the loss of children whom a cruel fate had\ntorn from them. Was ever history so sad as Ireland\u2019s? Great calamities\nhave befallen other nations\u2015\u2015they have been wasted by war and famine,\ntrodden in the dust by invading barbarians; but their evils have had\nan end. In Ireland the sword has never wearied of blood. \u201cThe wild\ndeer and wolf to a covert may flee,\u201d but her people have had no refuge\nfrom famine and danger. Without home and country, they have stood for\ncenturies with the storm of fate beating upon their devoted heads, and\nin their long night of woe some faint glimmer of hope has shone out,\nonly suddenly to disappear, leaving the darkness blacker. True were\nthe poet\u2019s words of despair:\n\n \u201cThere are marks on the fate of each clime, there are turns in the\n fortunes of men,\n But the changes of realms or the chances of time shall never\n restore thee again.\n Thou art chained to the wheel of the foe by links which the world\n cannot sever;\n With thy tyrant through storm and through calm shalt thou go,\n And thy sentence is\u2015\u2015\u2018Banished for ever.\u2019\n\n Thou art doomed for the vilest to toil; thou art left for the proud\n to disdain;\n And the blood of thy sons and the wealth of thy soil shall be\n lavished, and lavished in vain.\n Thy riches with taunts shall be taken; thy valor with gibes is\n repaid;\n And of millions who see thee now sick and forsaken, not one shall\n stand forth in thy aid.\n In the nations thy place is left void; thou art lost in the list of\n the free.\n Even realms, by the plague or the earthquake destroyed, are revived;\n but no hope is for thee.\u201d\n\nI stood in Glendalough, by the lake\n\n \u201cWhose gloomy shore\n Skylark never warbles o\u2019er.\u201d\n\nThe sun was just sinking to rest behind St. Kevin\u2019s Hill, covered with\nthe purple heather-bloom. There was not a sound in the air, but all\nthe mountains and the valley held their breath, as if the spirits of\nthe monks of old were felt by them in this hour, in which, in the ages\ngone, the song of prayer and praise rose up to God from the hearts of\nbelieving men, and all the plain and the hillsides were vocal with\nsweet psalmody. Here, a thousand years ago and more, a city grew up,\nraised by the power of holiness. To St. Kevin flocked men who sought\nthe better way, and the Irish people, eternally drawn to religion and\nto their priests, gathered round, and Glendalough was filled with the\nmultitude of believers. Those were the days which St. Columba sang\nwhen in far-off Iona he remembered his own sweet land: \u201cFrom the high\nprow I look over the sea, and great tears are in my gray eye when I\nturn to Erin\u2015\u2015to Erin, where the songs of the birds are so sweet, and\nwhere the monks sing like the birds; where the young are so gentle and\nthe old so wise; where the great men are so noble to look at, and the\nwomen so fair to wed.\u201d\n\nFrom St. Kevin to St. Lawrence O\u2019Toole, Glendalough was the home of\nsaints. When the Norman came, in the twelfth century, there was a\nbishop there. The hills were dotted with the hermitages of anchorets,\nand above the seven churches rose the round tower in imperishable\nstrength. To-day there is left only the dreariness and loneliness of\nthe desert. The hills that once were covered with rich forests of oak\nare bare and bleak; the cathedral is in ruins; the churches are\ncrumbling walls and heaps of stones; the ground is strewn with\nfragments of sculptured crosses and broken pillars; and amid this\nwreck of a world are mingled in strange confusion the tombs of saints\nand princes and the graves of peasants. Still stands the round tower\nin lonely majesty, like a sentinel of heaven, to watch for ever over\nthe graves of God\u2019s people. What a weight of awe falls upon us amid\nthese sacred monuments! We speak not, and scarcely breathe. An unknown\npower draws us back into the dread bosom of the past. The freshness of\nlife dies out of us; we grow to the spot, and feel a kinship with\nstones which re-echoed the footsteps of saints, which resounded with\nthe voice of prayer. It seems almost a sacrilege to live when the\ngreat and the good lie dead at our feet.\n\nBut why stop we here? Is not Ireland covered with ruins as reverend\nand as sad as these? Throughout the land they stand\n\n \u201cAs stands a lofty mind,\n Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd,\n All tenantless, save to the crannying wind,\n Or holding dark communion with the cloud.\u201d\n\nWhat need of history\u2019s blood-stained page to tell the sad story of\nIreland\u2019s wrongs and Ireland\u2019s woes? O\u2019Connell never spoke as speak\nthese roofless cathedrals, these broken walls and crumbling arches,\nthese fallen columns and shattered crosses. The traveller who in\nJerusalem beholds the weary and worn children of Israel sitting in\nhelpless grief amid the scattered stones of Solomon\u2019s Temple, need not\nbe told how the enemies of the Holy City compassed her about; how the\nsword and famine and the devouring flame swallowed up the people; how\nher walls were broken down, her holy of holies profaned, her priests\nslaughtered, her streets made desolate, until not a stone was left\nupon a stone.\n\nThe massacres of Wexford and Drogheda; the confiscation in a single\nday of half the land of Ireland; the driving her people into the ports\nof Munster to be shipped to regions of pestilence and death; the\nexpulsion of every Catholic from the rich fields of Ulster; the exile\nof the whole nation beyond the Shannon; the violated treaty of\nLimerick, are but episodes in this tragedy of centuries. Even the\nPenal Code, the most hideous and inhuman ever enacted by Christian or\npagan people, tells but half the story.\n\nThat the Irish Catholic had for centuries been held in bondage by a\nlaw which violated every good and generous sentiment of the human\nheart, I knew. He could not vote, he could not bear witness, he could\nnot bring suit, he could not sit on a jury, he could not go to school,\nhe could not teach school, he could not practise law or medicine, he\ncould not travel five miles from his home; he could own nothing which\nhe might not be forced to give up or renounce his faith; he could not\nkeep or use any kind of weapon, even in self-defence; his children\nwere offered bribes to betray him; he could not hear Mass, he could\nnot receive the sacraments; in his death-agony the priest might not be\nnear to console him. All this I knew, and yet I had never realized the\ncondition to which such inhuman legislation must reduce a people. That\nthis Code, which Montesquieu said must have been contrived by devils,\nand which Burke declared to be the fittest instrument ever invented by\nman to degrade and destroy a nation, had failed to accomplish its\nfiendish purpose, I also knew. The Irish people, deprived of\neverything, and almost of the hope of ever having anything in this\nworld, remained superior to fate. With a fidelity to religious\nconviction without example in the history of the world, they retained\nthe chastity, the unbroken courage, the cheerful temper and generous\nlove which had always distinguished them; and that in travelling among\nthem I should find it more and more impossible to doubt of this was\nbut what I had expected. But the generous, pure, and simple character\nof the people only made the impression which I received of the\nfrightful wrongs and sufferings which have been and are still\ninflicted upon them the more painful.\n\nThere is not in the civilized world another country where the evils of\ntyranny and misrule are so manifest. One cannot help but feel that\nIreland does not belong to the Irish. It is not governed in their\ninterest; it is not made to contribute to their welfare or happiness.\nThey are not taken into account by its rulers; their existence is\nconsidered accidental; a fact which cannot be ignored, but which it is\nhoped time, with famine, poverty, and petty persecution such as the\nage allows, will eliminate. The country belongs to a few men who have\nno sympathy with the mass of the people, who do not even desire to\nhave any. They are for the most part the descendants of needy\nadventurers who, under Elizabeth, Cromwell, and William of Orange,\nobtained as a reward of their servility or brutality the confiscated\nlands of Ireland; or if they belong to the ancient families, they\ninherit their wealth from ancestors who owed it to a double apostasy\nfrom God and their country. It was these men, and not England, who\nenacted the Irish Penal Code. They are the traditional enemies of\nIreland, sucking out her lifeblood and trampling in contempt upon her\npeople. They have filled the land with mourning and death, with the\nwail of the widow and the cry of the orphan; they have freighted the\nships which have borne the Irish exiles to every land under heaven;\nthey have within our own memory crowded her highways with homeless and\nstarving multitudes; have pushed out her people to make room for sheep\nand cattle; in ten years have taken from her three millions of her\nchildren. My heart grew sick of asking to whom the domains through\nwhich I was passing belonged. It seemed to me that the people owned\nnothing, that the _paucis vivitur humanum genus_ was truer here than\never in ancient Rome. The very houses in which the Irish peasantry\nlive tell the sad tale that in their own country they are homeless.\nLike the Israelites in Egypt, they must stand with loins girt and\nstaff in hand, ready to move at a moment\u2019s warning. If the little hut\nshelter them for a season, it is enough; for another year may find\nthem where rolls the Oregon or on the bitter plains of Australia. Ask\nthem why they build not better houses, plant not trees and flowers, to\nsurround with freshness and beauty that family-life which to them is\nso pure and so sweet; they will answer you that they may not, they\ndare not. The slightest evidence of comfort would attract the greedy\neye of the landlord; the rent would be raised, and he who should\npresume to give such ill-example would soon be turned adrift. The\ngreat lord wants cabins which he can knock down in a day to make room\nfor his sheep and cattle; he wants arguments to prove that the Irish\npeople are indolent, improvident, an inferior race, unfit for liberty.\nI know that there are landlords who are not heartless. The people will\ntell you more than you wish to hear of the goodness of Lord\nNincompoop, of the charity of Lord Fiddlefaddle. The intolerable evil\nis that the happiness or misery of a whole people should be left to\nthe chance of an Irish landlord not being a fool and yet having a\nheart. To any other people who had suffered from an aristocracy the\nhundredth part of what has been borne by the Irish, the very name of\n\u201clord\u201d would carry with it the odium of unutterable infamy; among any\nother people the state of things which, in spite of all the progress\nthat has been made, still exists in Ireland, would breed the most\nterrible and dangerous passions. For my own part, I could not look\nupon the castles and walled-in parks which everywhere met my view\nwithout feeling my heart fill with a bitterness which I could rarely\ndetect in those with whom I spoke. What it was possible to do has been\ndone to hide the land itself from the eyes of the people. Around\nDublin you would think almost every house a prison, so carefully is it\nwalled in. The poor, who must walk, are shut in by high and gloomy\nwalls which forbid them even the consolation of looking upon the green\nhills and plains which surround that city. In the same way the\nlandlords have taken possession of the finest scenery of the island.\nIf you would see the Powerscourt waterfall, you must send your card to\nthe castle and graciously beg permission. People who have no cards are\nnot supposed to be able to appreciate the beauty of one of the most\npicturesque spots in Ireland. At the entrance to the Devil\u2019s Glen the\ntraveller is stopped by huge iron gates, symbolical of those which\nMilton has described as grating harsh thunder on their turning hinges;\nand when he thinks he is about to issue forth again into the upper\nair, suddenly other gates frown upon him to remind him of the\n_lasciati ogni speranza voi ch\u2019entrate_, of Dante. Mr. Herbert has\ntaken possession of half the Lakes of Killarney, and exacts a fixed\ntoll from all who wish to see what ought to be as free to all as the\nair of heaven. If ten thousand dollars added to his annual income be a\ncompensation for such meanness, he is no doubt content. It is on the\ndemesne of this gentleman that lies the celebrated ruin of Muckross\nAbbey. It stands embosomed in trees on a green slope, overlooking the\nLower Lake, and commanding one of the loveliest views to be had\nanywhere. The taste of \u201cthe monks of old\u201d in selecting sites for their\nmonasteries was certainly admirable. A church was erected on this spot\nat a very early date, but was consumed by fire in 1192. The abbey and\nchurch, the ruins of which are now standing, were built in 1340, by\none of the MacCarthys, Princes of Desmond, for Franciscan monks, who\nstill retained possession of them at the time of Cromwell\u2019s invasion.\nA Latin inscription on the north wall of the choir asks the reader\u2019s\nprayers for Brother Thadeus Holen, who had the convent repaired in the\nyear of our Lord 1626. That such a place should have remained in the\npossession of the monks for more than a century after the introduction\nof Protestantism is of itself enough to show to what extent the\nCatholic monuments of Ireland had escaped the destroyer\u2019s hand\nprevious to the incursion of the Cromwellian vandals. The ruins of\nMuckross Abbey have successfully withstood the power of Time\u2019s\neffacing finger. The walls, which seem to have been built to stand for\never, are as strong to-day as they were five hundred years ago; and to\nrender the monastery habitable nothing would be required but to\nreplace the roof.\n\nThe library, the dormitories, the kitchen, the cellars, the refectory\nwith its great fire-place, seem to be patiently waiting the return of\nthe brown-robed sons of St. Francis; and in the corridors the silence,\nso loved of religious souls, is felt like the presence of holy\nspirits. In the centre of the court-yard there is a noble yew-tree,\nplanted by the monks centuries ago. Its boughs droop lovingly over the\nroofless walls to shelter them from the storm. In the church the dead\nare sleeping, and among them some of Ireland\u2019s princes. In the centre\nof the choir a modern tomb covers the vault where in ancient times the\nMacCarthys Mor, and later the O\u2019Donoghue Mor of the Glens, were\ninterred. These are the opening lines of the lengthy epitaph:\n\n \u201cWhat more could Homer\u2019s most illustrious verse\n Or pompous Tully\u2019s stately prose rehearse\n Than what this monumental stone contains\n In death\u2019s embrace, MacCarthy Mor\u2019s remains?\u201d\n\nThis abbey, like most of the other sacred ruins of Ireland, is now\nused as a Catholic cemetery. No Protestant is buried here. Mr.\nHerbert, however, has got possession of it, and has secured the\nentrance with iron gates, which open only to golden keys. The living\nwho enter here pay this needy gentleman a shilling, the dead half a\ncrown. Elsewhere we find the same state of things. Even the most\nsacred relics of Ireland are in the hands of Protestants. It is not\neasy to find a more interesting collection of antiquities than that of\nthe museum of the Royal Irish Academy in Dublin; but the pleasure\nwhich we experience in contemplating these evidences of the ancient\ncivilization of the Irish people is mingled with pain when we see that\neven their holiest relics have been taken from them and given to those\nwho have no sympathy with the struggles and triumphs with which these\nobjects are associated. We have here, for instance, the\n\u201cSweet-sounding\u201d bell of St. Patrick, together with its cover or\nshrine, which is a fine specimen of the art of the goldsmith as it\nflourished in Ireland before the Norman invasion. Here, too, is\npreserved the famous \u201cCross of Cong,\u201d upon which is inscribed the name\nof the artist by whom it was made for Turlough O\u2019Conor, father of\nRoderick, the last native king of Ireland. No finer piece of work in\ngold is to be found in any country of Western Europe. Those who\nexamine it will be able to form an opinion of the state of the\nmetallurgic and decorative arts in Ireland before she had been blessed\nby English civilization. Another object of even greater interest is a\ncasket of bronze and silver which formerly enclosed a copy of the\nGospels that belonged to St. Patrick. The leaves of this, the most\nancient Irish manuscript, have become agglutinated through age, so\nthat they now form a solid mass. Another manuscript, almost as ancient\nand not less famous, is a Latin version of the Psalms which belonged\nto St. Columba. This is the copy which is said to have led to the\nexile of the saint and to the founding of his monastery. This was the\nbattle-book of the O\u2019Donnells, who in war always bore it with them as\ntheir standard.\n\nOne cannot contemplate the exquisite workmanship and precious material\nof these book-shrines without being struck by the extraordinary care\nwith which the ancient Irish preserved their manuscripts. These sacred\nrelics bear testimony at once to their religious zeal and to their\nlove of learning. They carry us back to the time when Ireland was the\nhome of saints and doctors; when from every land those who were most\neager to serve God and to improve themselves flocked to her shores, to\nreceive there the warm welcome which her people have ever been ready\nto give to the stranger who comes among them with peaceful purpose.\nThose were the days of her joy and her pride; the glorious three\ncenturies during which she held the intellectual supremacy of the\nworld; during which her sons were the apostles of Europe, the founders\nof schools, and the teachers of doctors. Never did a nation give more\ngenerously of its best and highest life than Ireland in that age.\nThese emblems of her faith and her science are in the hands of her\ndespoiler.\n\nThe great schools of Lismore and Armagh are no more. No more in the\nstreets of her cities are heard all the tongues of Europe, which at\nmatin hymn and vesper song lose themselves in the unity and harmony of\nthe one language of the church. They who were eager to teach all men\nwere forbidden to learn. Knowledge was made impossible, and they were\nreproached with ignorance. But the end is not yet. In contemplating\nthe past we must not forget the present, nor the future which also\nbelongs to Ireland. The dark clouds which so long have wrapped her\nlike a shroud are breaking. In the veins of her children the full tide\nof life is flowing, warm and strong, as in the day when Columba in his\nwicker-boat dared the fury of the waves, or Brian drove the Dane into\nthe sea, or Malachi wore the collar of gold. They are old and yet\nyoung; crowned with the glories of two thousand years, they look with\neyes bright with youthful hope to a future whose splendor shall make\nthe past seem as darkness.\n\n\n\n\nLETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.\n\nFROM THE FRENCH.\n\n\nJUNE 1, 1868.\n\nWhat a beautiful Whitsuntide, _carissima_! Only a minute ago Marcella\nwas singing to me the _Tarantella della Madonna, \u201cPie di Grotta.\u201d_ Do\nyou recollect the pretty child in rags who used to make such long\ntrills and quavers as she tossed back her dark tresses? How far off\nnow, dear Kate, seems our time at Naples!\n\nMargaret sends me a _summons_ to go to her. I answer by telling her\nhow it is that we are detained in Brittany until July. You can\nunderstand what the family journey will then be. Oh! it is so sweet\nand good a thing to be together that it costs much to each one of us\nto absent ourselves from the rest even for a day.\n\nWe have had High Mass and Vespers worthy of a cathedral. On leaving\nthe chapel Anna, whose musical organization leaves nothing to desire,\nthrew herself into my arms, exclaiming: \u201cIt must be like that in\nParadise!\u201d We all had the same impression. What worldly festivities\nare worth ours?\n\nThis morning a walk with Ren\u00e9 in the woods, among the thyme and early\ndew. Made a resolution to go out in this way every day, quietly,\nbefore a single shutter is opened. We pray and meditate. Ren\u00e9 draws me\non to heights of faith and love. If you heard him when he walks out\nwith the twins! And how they listen to him, with their large eyes\nfixed on his!\n\nWould you like to have news of Isa? \u201cShe is very thin,\u201d Margaret tells\nme, \u201cbut is still beautiful; she personifies the angel of charity. The\ngood she does all around her will never be known. Make haste, then,\ndear, and come; it is not good of you thus to refuse yourself to our\ndesires.\u201d\n\nGod keep you, my dear Kate!\n\n\nLA TARANTELLA DELLA MADONNA, PIE DI GROTTA.\n\n(_Neapolitan Ballad._)\n\n O lark that singest sweetly\n At the rising of the sun,\n Whose blithe wing bears thee fleetly\n To where the day\u2019s begun!\n Rise, rise through rosy skies\n To the gate of Paradise.\n\n At that gate so fair\n What should be my quest?\n Shall I enter Paradise\n With the angels blest?\n\n Thou shalt pray our Mother fair,\n With azure eyes and golden hair,\n To touch our fruits with ripening hand,\n And bless the harvests of our land.\n By her soft eyes bending down,\n Watching over field and town\u2015\u2015\n Eyes more fair than fairest day\n That from heaven hath strayed away\u2015\u2015\n Entreat her from her throne above\n Thus to recompense our love.\n\n O my friends! I will do so,\n At the gate of Paradise:\n To Mary with the brow of snow\n I will breathe your ardent sighs.\n\n O lark that singest sweetly\n At the rising of the sun,\n Whose blithe wing bears thee fleetly\n To where the day\u2019s begun!\n Rise, rise through rosy skies\n To the gate of Paradise.\n\n While at that gate so dear\n Your Mother I do pray\n To bless your hopes alway,\n Friends, what will appear?\n\n Thou shalt see our Mother there,\n On her throne of rubies rare;\n On her head the diamond crown\n Set thereon by Christ, her Son;\n Queen is she of Paradise.\n Mercy raineth from her eyes,\n Pity flows from out her hands\n Unto all the furthest lands.\n Heaven makes music round her throne,\n Happiness dwells there alone.\n Thou shalt see her shining fair,\n More bright than envied princes are\u2015\u2015\n Our Queen all powerful, yet all sweet,\n With the sun beneath her feet.\n\n O friends! my heart would leave its place,\n The brightness daze my eyes.\n Were I to look on Mary\u2019s face,\n The Queen of Paradise.\n\n O lark that singest sweetly\n At the rising of the sun,\n Whose blithe wing bears thee fleetly\n To where the day\u2019s begun!\n Rise, rise through rosy skies\n To the gate of Paradise.\n\n And at that threshold dread\n Where all the angels throng,\n When the golden gates are open spread,\n What theme shall wake my song?\n\n To our Mother shalt thou say\n That for her hearts burn alway;\n That to us her love\u2019s more sweet\n Than native flowers to exiles\u2019 feet;\n That her image graven deep\n On our hearts doth never sleep;\n That gazing from this earthly shore,\n Above its tumult and its roar,\n In dreams that come like blessed balm,\n We see her heaven\u2019s unshaken calm.\n\n I go, I go! Sweet friends, good-by;\n For you to Paradise I fly.\n\nDearest, the French is not equal to the naive language of the brown\nlittle Neapolitan girl.\n\n\nJUNE 12, 1868.\n\nI have been ill, my beloved sister. What trouble they have all been\ngiving themselves on my account! Happily, it was nothing\u2015\u2015fever,\nheadache, and general indisposition. The doctor orders much exercise,\nand from to-morrow we organize a cavalcade. Adrien has had some superb\nhorses brought here; what riding parties we shall have!\n\nBut sadness mingles with joy. Lucy\u2019s mother is very ill. They have\njust set out; will they arrive too late? Oh! this journey, how full it\nwill be of anxiety and apprehension.\n\nA despatch.\u2026 Poor Lucy! the goodness of God has spared her that last\nmoment, so full of cruel distress and yet of ineffable hope\u2015\u2015she did\nnot see her mother die! What mourning! Why is death like our shadow,\npitilessly mowing down the existences which are dearer to us than our\nown? But to what purpose is it to ask _why_? There is more true wisdom\nin a _fiat_ than in curious researches. On Whitsunday, at the\n\u201cdrawing\u201d of the gifts of the Holy Spirit, my lot was the _Gift of\nPiety_\u2015\u2015love of God and of all that belongs to his service; and the\n_Fruit of Patience_\u2015\u2015generous acceptance of the crosses God sends us.\nMust I own to you that this gift made me afraid? Oh! if my happiness\nwere to be destroyed. You will be scolding me for this dreaming, and\nyou will say to me with Mgr. Landriot: \u201cIf you would keep mind and\nbody in a healthy condition, avoid with extreme care these states of\nreverie\u2015\u2015the habit of taking aerial flights in which the heart and\nunderstanding exhaust themselves on emptiness.\u201d Dear Kate, my dreams\nspeak but of heaven.\n\nMarcella, so long a captive beneath the yoke of others, regards\nindependence as the first of terrestrial benefits; on this subject our\nopinions differ. The poor _Prisoner_ was quite right when he said to\nthe swallows:\n\n Il n\u2019est dans cette vie\n Qu\u2019un bien digne d\u2019envie:\n La libert\u00e9![118]\n\nYes, assuredly, liberty is a great good, and therefore it is that our\nsoul has been made free, perfectly free. And how sweet it is to feel\none\u2019s self free, and to bend generously beneath the yoke of love and\nsacrifice! One of our first instincts is the need of liberty, and even\nthe word alone has in it a magic which carries the mind away with it,\nand at critical times becomes the rallying word of revolutions. O my\nGod! grant that I may love only the holy freedom of thy children\u2015\u2015that\nfreedom which can never be taken from me. Deliver the captives\u2015\u2015the\ncaptives of the world, and above all of sin! Deliver also Ireland!\n\nVisits: an entire family, antique in dress and appearance, but modern\nin language, grace, and heart. Good Bretons!\u2015\u2015I love them. This\nvaliant faith, this sublime indignation, these courageous\nprotestations for the church and her Head in a race of granite, is an\nincomparable spectacle. Brittany has indeed done well to preserve its\ncustoms, its manners, and its ancient faith eternally young and\nliving. One of these ladies questioned us about Paris, whither she\nwishes to accompany her son, who is attacked by the fever of the\ntimes. I admire her maternal devotion. Imagine the astonishment of\nthis _Bretonne_ in the capital of _mud and gold_!\n\nDear Kate, Marcella and Ren\u00e9 have some _secrets_ to tell you. Love\nfrom us all.\n\n\nJUNE 16, 1868.\n\nOur first ride has been most prosperous, dear sister. It was a\nnineteen\u2015\u2015an unlucky day, declares the superstitious Marianne. What\nmatters?\u2015\u2015God protects us. \u201cWho loves me follows me!\u201d cried Adrien,\nand away we went, cantering after him through the thickets. Don\u2019t\nsuppose our expedition was for nothing but pleasure, however\nlegitimate, but to make a wide circuit of poor. What store of\nbenedictions we gathered on our way! A worthy _tad coz_[119] in his\nenthusiasm kissed the hem of Marcella\u2019s riding-habit, saying: \u201cIt is\ncertainly a saint who is come to us.\u201d (Marcella already speaks Breton\nas if it were Italian.)\n\nWe had taken provisions with us, and did not get home until nine\no\u2019clock, tired out, but so happy! My mother followed us in the\ncarriage. She must be interested and have a little variety at any\nprice; the death of her friend (the mother of our sister) has greatly\nimpressed her. \u201cIt is,\u201d she says, \u201cthe herald to warn me of the\napproach of my own death.\u201d May God spare her to us!\n\nYesterday, soon after day-break, the carriages were in readiness in\nfront of the entrance for a visit to the old _divor_, as the Poles\nwould call it: a sort of pilgrimage \u2026 to the _saint of the sea-coast_.\nIt is so distant that we accepted an invitation to stay the night, and\nare come home this evening, not at all fatigued. We are to go there\nagain, but have meanwhile obtained a kind promise. The _ch\u00e2telaine of\nthe lake_ will be here on the 2d of July. How shall I describe her to\nyou? On our way back we were speaking of the _prestige_ of beauty, and\nAdrien quoted the words of an educational professor who says: \u201cI have\npassionately loved both nature and study; the fine arts have also made\nme feel the power of their charms; but among all things under the sun\nI have found nothing comparable to man when he unites noble sentiments\nto physical beauty. He is truly the _chef-d\u2019\u0153uvre_ of the creation.\u201d\n\u201cI have often thought,\u201d observed Ren\u00e9, \u201cthat, God being infinite and\nsovereign Beauty, physical beauty is a reflection of the divine.\nWithout sin man would never have been ugly or plain. We have in the\nsoul the instinct of beauty, the love of the beautiful under every\nform; and although we say and know very well that human beauty passes\nin a day, that it is nothing, nevertheless there is no one living who\nhas not some time in his life experienced the unique and irresistible\ncharm which is shed around her by a creature who to high qualities of\nmind and heart joins the attraction of beauty and regularity of\ncountenance.\u201d And my mother: \u201cThe saints have a kind of beauty which I\nprefer to every other; it is like a transfiguration. This miserable\nmortal envelope which covers the soul becomes in some sort\ntransparent, so that one can see the peace, the calm and serenity, of\nthis interior in which God dwells by his grace and love. The sight of\na saint is a foretaste of Paradise. Oh! how beautiful must the angels\nbe. Why cannot our mortal eyes behold those who are here, near to us?\u201d\n\u201cAs Lamartine says,\u201d added Marcella:\n\n \u201cTout mortel a le sien; cet ange protecteur,\n Cet invisible ami veille autour de son c\u0153ur;\n L\u2019inspire, le conduit, le rel\u00e8ve s\u2019il tombe,\n Le re\u00e7oit au berceau, l\u2019accompagne \u00e0 la tombe,\n Et portant dans les cieux, son \u00e2me entre ses mains,\n La pr\u00e9sente en tremblant au Ma\u00eetre des humains.\u201d[120]\n\nDear Kate, do you not love these pious natures amongst whom God has\nplaced me? \u201cGreat souls, great souls,\u201d exclaimed a bishop\u2015\u2015\u201cI seek\nthem, but I find them not; I call them, and none answer!\u201d Yet some\nthere are in France, and especially in Brittany.\n\nIn the midst of the refinement of luxury and effeminacy of the times\nin which we live, everything dwindles and diminishes; people act in\nthe midst of narrow and despicable interests; the life of the heart is\ndaily deteriorating, and \u201csoon we shall know no longer how to love\nwith that generous love which thinks not of self, but whose\nself-devotion places its happiness in the felicity of others.\u201d How\nhappy a thing, then, is it to take refuge near to God, and within a\ncircle where he is loved!\n\nI spoke of you to the _saint of the sands_. Let us love each other,\ndear Kate.\n\n\nJUNE 22, 1868.\n\nF\u00e9nelon said: \u201cEducation, by a capable mother, is worth more than that\nwhich is to be had at the best of convents.\u201d This often comes into my\nmind when I see Berthe cultivating with so much care the two choice\nplants whose fragrance mounts so sweetly up to God. The surname of\n_duchesse_ is abandoned for ever. At Mass, on the 1st of January,\nTh\u00e9r\u00e8se made the resolution to acquire humility; and she has attained\nit. How many charming actions the angels must have seen with joy! Her\ncountenance, naturally haughty and self-asserting, has gained an\nexpression of sweetness and gentleness. She is delightful; and what\nefforts it has cost her! Her mother has seconded, helped, and\nsustained her. Raoul, the greater part of whose time is absorbed in\nhis literary labors, has not transferred to any one his own share in\nthe education of his daughters. Kate, since my marriage I have\nregretted more deeply than ever that I never knew my father. I did not\nknow before from what strength of affection we had been severed. Thank\nGod! so long as my mother lived her heart was enough for us. Kind,\nsaintly mother! how I bless her memory. The twins no longer wear\nanything but white. It reminds me of the early Christians\u2019 preparation\nfor baptism. Their thoughtfulness is my admiration. They count the\ndays with a holy eagerness; they ask us for the hymns of Expectation.\nWe are making a retreat with them, and all our friends of Brittany\nwill fill the chapel on the 2d of July. This is a memorable date in\nthe family\u2015\u2015the birthday of Raoul, Berthe, and the twins. What a\ncoincidence!\u2015\u2015the wedding-day of the former, and the anniversary of\nour mother\u2019s First Communion. Marcella is singing:\n\n \u201cO jour trois fois heureux! O jour trois fois b\u00e9ni!\n Viens remplir tous nos c\u0153urs d\u2019un bonheur infini!\u201d[121]\n\nAnna has this year shared in the life of the twins; she is only eleven\nyears old. Her mother hesitated, but M. le Cur\u00e9 has just given his\ndecision, and the delicate child embraced me with transports. She also\nwill be at the holy table; she also, clothed in white. \u201cEntreat Mme.\nKate to pray for me.\u201d Sweet little dove!\n\n_Evening._\u2015\u2015Do you know what I have just heard? The good little\nhearts! Unknown to every one, even to the vigilant Berthe, the twins\nand Anna rise every night to pray; and, besides this, they regularly\ndeprive themselves of their _go\u00fbter_[122] for the benefit of a poor\nchild who is also preparing herself for her First Communion. This\nchild has on her arm a horrible wound, and our little saints kiss it\non their knees. Do you not think you are reading the _Acta Sanctorum_?\n\nOf the three, Picciola is still the most fervent. I am suspected of\npartiality with regard to her. Oh! if you saw her kneeling in the\nchapel, when a ray of sunshine plays upon her fair locks, you would\nsay she was an angel. Dearest Kate, the great day draws near! I say\nnothing about our processions, our lovely _reposoirs_, the babies\nscattering roses\u2015\u2015I should write until to-morrow. Pray with me.\n\n\nJUNE 26, 1868.\n\nDearest, I feel tired after my walk on the sands, and would fain rest\nmyself with you, and talk to you again of the twins and of Anna, whose\njoy makes me fear for her, so fragile is her pretty frame. Marcella\nhas given me a holiday from my Greek; she and Berthe no more quit\ntheir darlings. And I, who have no maternal rights over these almost\ncelestial souls, leave them a little to their mutual happiness, and\nisolate myself the more with Ren\u00e9. Our subjects of conversation are\nalways grave\u2015\u2015God, heaven, eternity. We had visitors on the 24th;\nbeautiful fires of St. John in the evening. O son of Elizabeth and\nZacharias, voice of one crying in the desert, the greatest among the\nchildren of men! give me of your humility, your love of penitence and\nsacrifice.\n\nIsa sends me a few lines, all enkindled with the love of God. Sarah,\nreturned from Spain, is much amused at certain _hidalgos_, and quotes\nme the words of Shakspere: \u201cWere it only for their noses, one would\ntake them for the counsellors of Pepin or Clothair, so high do they\ncarry them and so imposing is their mark.\u201d\n\nI have not told you of our _f\u00eate_ on the 19th for the twenty-second\nanniversary of the elevation of the holy and venerated Pius IX to the\npontificate. What will arise out of all the trials of the Papacy?\nSolomon, after tasting every kind of enjoyment and happiness,\nexclaimed: \u201cVanity of vanities! all is vanity.\u201d It is deeply sad\nhitherto, but consolation will come at last; it is like a ray from\nheaven. \u201cAll is vanity, except to love God and serve him.\u201d Let us\nlove, then, let us serve, God, who is so full of love. Everything is\nthere! Isa writes to me: \u201cWhen shall we say, _Quotidie morior_?\u201d Alas!\nI have not arrived at this perfection.\n\nMy good Ren\u00e9 has published, in an English periodical, a remarkable\narticle, about which I want to have your opinion. We are convinced\nhere that no means ought to be neglected that may serve the cause of\nGod, and that every Catholic\u2019s sphere of action is wider than he\nthinks. Oh! how right you are, dear Kate. \u201cAll our actions ought to\npreach the Gospel.\u201d\n\nWas present at a funeral yesterday evening\u2015\u2015a young girl of fifteen. I\nthought of the beautiful verses by Brizeux on the death of Louise.\nWhat a picture!\u2015\u2015the poor and lowly funeral train amid the\nmagnificence of Nature, who gave to the youthful dead that which was\nnot afforded her by men. I seem still to behold the scene. The place,\nalso, is suitable. I am in presence of God\u2019s fair creation; a thousand\nbirds are singing around me. Oh! these nests, these poor little nests,\n_chef-d\u2019\u0153uvres_ of love. They showed me lately a goldfinch\u2019s nest\nsuspended as if by miracle at the extremity of a branch at an immense\nheight.\n\n Ce nid, ce doux myst\u00e8re,\n C\u2019est l\u2019amour d\u2019une m\u00e8re,\n Enfants, n\u2019y touchez pas![123]\n\nChildren have an innate inclination for destruction. There are very\nfew who think of the mother of the nestlings when they take possession\nof the nests; and the poet has reason to say to them:\n\n Ne pouvant rien cr\u00e9er, il ne faut rien d\u00e9truire,\n Enfants, n\u2019y touchez pas![124]\n\nMay the angel of mercy spread his wing over the cradles and the nests,\nand may he protect you also, my beloved, and all of us with you!\n\n\nJUNE 30, 1868.\n\nThe retreat and the singing take up all my time, dear Kate, but I want\nto tell you that Lucy has come back to us, pale and weak, and\nrecommends herself to your prayers. Gaston was asking for me down\nthere. There is something so sad in this deep mourning; but Lucy looks\nabove this earth. Edouard\u2019s voice was wanting to our choir; it will be\ncomplete after to-morrow. Three poor children, clothed by your\nGeorgina, will accompany our chosen ones.\n\nThe SAINT OF THE SEA-COAST arrives to-morrow. She will be lodged near\nto me. I wish she could be there always! Why cannot one gather\ntogether in one same place those whom one loves?\n\nKate dearest, Ren\u00e9 and all _Brittany_ are for you.\n\n\nJULY 2, 1868.\n\n_Quam dilecta tabernacula tua, Domine!_\n\nO Kate! what a day. And the vigil\u2015\u2015the pious tears, the pardons, the\nbenedictions, the _watching of the arms_ in the chapel\u2015\u2015how sweet it\nwas! This morning Berthe asked me _to be the mother_ of Madeleine. The\nsweet child was clad in her virginal robes in my room. She was\ntouched, but not afraid. When ready to go down, she asked my blessing.\nOh! it is I rather who would have wished for hers. Then the Mass, the\nhymns, the exhortations; then, as in a dream, these fair apparitions\nprostrate before the altar, and God within our souls. What happiness\nfor one day to contain!\n\nThe saintly _ch\u00e2telaine_ was there, absorbed in God. The day has gone\nby like a flash of lightning. It is now eleven o\u2019clock, and I say with\nyou the _Te Deum_. One of our neighbors was telling me this evening of\na lady whose little daughter, pious as an angel, shed tears, the\nevening of her First Communion, for regret that the day was at an end.\nThis circumstance inspired the happy mother to write a charming poem,\nwhich ended something as follows:\n\n Peu de jours dans la vie offrent assez de charmes\n Pour qu\u2019on pleure le soir en les voyant finir![125]\n\nMarcella wept in the chapel. Happy mother; beloved children; blessed\nhouse; incomparable day!\n\n_The saint_ is really a saint. Hear this: \u201cJesus in the Blessed\nSacrament visits me every morning; I know not how it is that I do not\ndie of love. God has allowed me everywhere to meet with souls who\nunderstand mine, and who have loved me!\u201d\n\nGood-night, my sister.\n\nI whispered to _my daughter_:\n\n My own sweet child, O soul all pure and fair!\n Pray, pray with me where holy feet have trod,\n And let thy sinless pleading on the air\n Mount like a perfume upwards to thy God!\n\n For the poor mother who her son doth weep\n A last farewell in tears that rain like blood,\n Let thy prayer, angel, mount the starry steep\u2015\u2015\n Mount like a perfume upwards to thy God!\n\n For the poor orphan, who in dire distress\n Alone by fireless hearth hath famished stood,\n Oh! let thy prayer, with sister\u2019s tenderness,\n Like a sweet perfume mount towards thy God!\n\n For the poor sinner who from God would flee,\n Who dies and turns him from the saving Rood,\n Oh! let thy prayer rise upward pleadingly\u2015\u2015\n Like a sweet perfume mount towards thy God!\n\n For all the weary souls who weep and wail\n To the sweet Virgin raise thy voice aloud;\n Let thy clear tones for those who die and fail\n Like saving perfume rise towards thy God!\n\nI used to say this at Venice to the pretty little Rutti, the little\nAmerican girl; do you remember her? Oh! how well she used to pray,\nthis little dove from the New World. Dear, I should like to cross the\nocean to have a nearer view of that unknown land which attracts me so\nmuch, with its freedom, its immense spaces, its splendid vegetation,\nand its beautiful sun! But, nevertheless, it is not Ireland, my\ncountry, and the land of memories!\n\nGod keep you!\n\n\nJULY 6, 1868.\n\nDear Kate, in two days we start for my dear green Erin, to the great\njoy of Marcella, who is an enthusiast about O\u2019Connell. Margaret feels\na _thrill_, she tells me, at the sound of a carriage. It is high time\nto make acquaintance with the handsome baby. Ren\u00e9 has left me to\naccompany _the saint_, whom I would fain have taken with us. She\nsmiled sadly in answer to my proposal: \u201cThe aged tree that grows in\nlonely places cannot thus be rooted up.\u201d\n\nThe _Annales Orl\u00e9anaises_ speak of nothing but deaths: the Abb\u00e9\nDebeauvais, Cur\u00e9 of St. Thomas d\u2019Aquin, has just died at Mgr.\nDupanloup\u2019s; Madame de Bannand; the Abb\u00e9 Rocher, almoner of the\nprisons, etc., etc. Prince Michael of Servia has been assassinated: it\nis almost ancient history. I must see to my packages; so good-by for\nthe present, until we are with _la belle Anglaise_.\n\n\nJULY 19, 1868.\n\nIt is from England, and from Margaret\u2019s magnificent residence, that I\nnow think of you, dear Kate. A quick passage, splendid weather,\neverybody well and strong, including baby Gaston. Lord William was\nwaiting for us on the pier; we were soon in the carriage, and next day\nin the arms of Margaret, who cannot _f\u00eate_ us enough. The children\nhave already become used to English ways, to this people of many\nfootmen, to this pomp and splendor, and to the beauties of the _Isle\nof Saints_. Margaret is in the full bloom of her happiness; her child\nis superb, and resembles her.\n\nDear, dear Kate, how much I enjoy being here! What emotion I felt on\nsetting foot on this soil, Breton also, but different from the other!\nI wept much, and feel ready to weep again. What is wanting to me? You,\nyou, and the best beloved of mothers! But you are both of you with\nGod\u2015\u2015my mother in the heaven of heavens, and you in the heaven upon\nearth! _Laus Deo_, nevertheless, and for ever.\n\nMarcella understood the inward grief I felt, and delicately offered me\nher friendly consolations. We shall soon see Isa. I shall undertake\nthe _pilgrimage of friendship_ with Ren\u00e9, in which all the family will\njoin us: Mme. de T\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 has so arranged it, you can imagine with what\nthought. Meanwhile, we are enjoying Margaret\u2019s splendid hospitality.\nHer mother-in-law pleases me. These few lines are only to say good-day.\n\n\nJULY 24, 1868.\n\nAdrien has brought here the numbers of the magazine containing the\narticles on \u201cNotre Dame de Lourdes,\u201d by Henri Lasserre. We want to\npersuade our dear English friends to make this pilgrimage with us in\nNovember.\n\nWe have just come from London. How many things to see and to show!\n\nThis morning, our dear convent of \u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015. I was very happy and\ndelighted; I love so much to meet friends again, and especially these\nconvent meetings\u2015\u2015there is something so heavenly about them. Under\nthese black veils it seems as if nothing changes. When a child I used\nto wonder because nuns did not seem to me to grow older.\n\n Ici viennent mourir les derniers bruits du monde:\n Nautonniers sans rivage, abordez, c\u2019est le port.[126]\n\nThis life of union with God, and devotion to souls, has within it\nsomething divine. We know not how great is the calm and serenity\nresulting from the lofty choice of these hearts. To belong to God in\nthe religious life is heaven begun. Doubtless there, as elsewhere,\nthere are sufferings, trials, and crosses; the separation from all\nthose most dear to one, the crushing of nature, the complete and\nabsolute separation from everything which can charm in this world, to\ngive one\u2019s self exclusively to God, in prayer and love, is a beautiful\nthing, but no one, I think, can say that it is free from pain.\nAssuredly the exchange of terrestrial affections for those which are\nimperishable cannot be regarded as a loss, and yet what tears there\nare in this last farewell of the religious, who while living consents\nto die to all her affections!\n\nDear Kate, we spoke of you. How they love us in this peaceful place of\nrefuge!\n\n Oui, c\u2019est un de ces lieux, o\u00f9 notre c\u0153ur sent vivre\n Quelque chose des cieux qui flotte et qui l\u2019enivre;\n Un de ces lieux qu\u2019enfant j\u2019aimais et je r\u00eavais,\n Dont la beaut\u00e9 sereine, in\u00e9puisable, intime,\n Verse \u00e0 l\u2019\u00e2me un oubli s\u00e9rieux et sublime\n De tout ce que la terre et l\u2019homme ont de mauvais![127]\n\n16th.\u2015\u2015Prayed much for France. \u201cSince this morning,\u201d my mother said to\nme, \u201cI have continually before my eyes the scaffold and the pale and\nnoble countenance of Marie Antoinette.\u201d Poor saintly queen! what a\nlife and what a martyr\u2019s death. After the first days of enchantment\nwhich followed her arrival in France, what a long succession of\ntroubles! This Dauphine of fifteen years old was so exquisitely\nbeautiful that the Mar\u00e9chal de Brissac could say to her, in his\nchivalrous language: \u201cMadame, you have there before your eyes two\nhundred thousand men enamored of your person\u201d; and a few years later\nthe people cried, \u201cDeath to the Austrian!\u201d Never had woman such a\ndestiny. The Greeks could not imagine a great soul in a body that had\nno beauty, nor beauty of person without a noble soul. Marie Antoinette\nwould have been their idol, their goddess. O holy martyrs of the\nTemple! pray for France.\n\nThe magazine contains a story still more interesting than _Fabiola_,\nif that is possible: _Virginia; or, Rome under Nero_.\n\n19th.\u2015\u2015Feast of St. Vincent de Paul, this man of miracles, this humble\nand great saint, whose memory will live as long as the world, who\nfounded admirable works, who created the Sister of Charity\u2015\u2015this\nmarvel, whom even the impious admire, whom the poor and needy, the\naged, the infirm, the wounded, call \u201csister\u201d; whom one finds tending\nabandoned children; at the asylum, the hospital, on the field of\nbattle, and in the prison. O charity!\n\nLetter from Sister Louise, who is, it seems to me, drawing near to her\nEternity. She tells me that labor has worn out her strength, that she\ncannot write any more, and sends me two very beautiful little\npictures, which have a sacredness in my eyes as the gift of a dying\nperson. Is Heaven so soon about to claim this sweet cloister-flower?\n\nKate, darling, you see that I cannot lose my favorite habit of\nconfiding to you my thoughts. Oh! why are you not here, admiring\nMargaret, resplendent with youth, freshness, and joy? She is going to\nwrite to you, to ask news of Zo\u00eb, etc.\n\nGod keep you, my beloved sister!\n\n\nJULY 29, 1868.\n\nHave I said anything to you about Margaret\u2019s park? of her\nconservatory, worthy of Italy, and where Marcella would like always to\nremain? of her birds? of all the fairy-land which she knows so well\nhow to make us enjoy? Lucy\u2019s mourning prevents our hosts from issuing\nmany invitations; but how much I prefer our home-party as it is!\n\nLong excursions among the mountains. Many projects for next year.\nMargaret desires that a friendly compact should be agreed to, which\nwould be a continual interchange of visits: Brittany, England,\nIreland, Orleans, and Hy\u00e8res would by turns receive our Penates. O\ndreams of youth, O balmy days, which never will return! stay with us\nlong.\n\nYesterday Lord B\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015, who had heard of my arrival, hastened to come\nand see us. \u201cWhat! so soon grown up, Miss Georgina?\u201d he exclaimed, to\nthe exceeding amusement of Alix.\n\nTo-morrow we start for Ireland, for my own home, where everything is\nin readiness for our arrival. What a sorrowful happiness! Gertrude\nlets me look through her manuscript books; the following lines which I\nfound there you will read with as much admiration as myself:\n\n\u201cThis morning H\u00e9l\u00e8ne asked to speak with me, and this day and hour I\nshall ever remember. The beloved child of my soul, of my thoughts, and\nof my heart desires to become a daughter of St. Teresa; she wishes to\ngo, and speedily. I shall, then, see her no more but at long intervals\nand behind a threatening grating; another mother will give her her\nlove, other hands than mine will guide her towards God. But she will\nbe thine, O Lord! and, while yet young, I have felt too much the\nsorrows of this world not to be happy at seeing thee give to her the\nbetter part. Her avowals, her innocent confidence, her purity of soul\nand intention\u2015\u2015all these appeared to me so peaceful that I also\nexperienced an ineffable sense of inward peace. Go, then, since God\ncalls thee, sweet angel of this home, in which thou wilt leave so\ngreat a void\u2015\u2015go; father and mother will not refuse thee to God, and\nour prayers and blessings will follow thee!\u201d\n\nAfter these heavenly thoughts, dear Kate, I leave you.\n\n\nAUGUST 6, 1868.\n\nI have received your letter, dear sister, joy of my soul, and to-day\nmust not pass away without my writing to you. _O deliciosa!_ I behold\nIreland again, my country, my universe, the first place in my heart,\nwhere I have loved my mother and you. O these memories!\u2015\u2015the past and\npresent uniting their happiness, their harmonies, and their sweetness.\n\nThe house is the same as ever\u2015\u2015a bit of heaven fallen upon the earth!\nPrayed on our dear tombs. The rose-trees flourish which you planted\nthere. The good Reginald does everything as well as possible, as he\nalways does. But oh! to live here without you, to see your room\u2015\u2015a\nreliquary which no one enters without me, and where I have put\ntogether whatever belonged to you. Dear, dear Kate, you say well that\nGod has given me other sisters\u2015\u2015sisters loving and beloved, but who\ncannot replace my Kate.\n\nAll the village came out to meet us. There were no songs\u2015\u2015there were\ntears: the Irish understand one another. Poor martyr-country! I am\nseized with a longing desire to stay here to console these poor\npeople. Our dogs were wild with delight, like that of Ulysses. Dear\nfriend and sister, do not be uneasy; that which surmounts all else in\nmy heart is peace, and peace founded on hope, as on a foundation of\ngold. God will deliver Ireland! He will give us back our forests and\nour hills, and we shall no more return to the condition of the\nproscribed. Do you remember the last book we read together, in the\ngreat drawing-room on the venerated spot where we used to see our\nmother? This book is still on a side-table, marked at the last page.\nIt is Rosa Ferrucci, the charming Italian, who so loved Milton.\nNothing is changed; the wide meadows, the splendid landscape, the\nsunsets behind the _giants of the park_, the gold-dust gleaming\nthrough the foliage, the decline of day which we used so to admire\ntogether\u2015\u2015I have seen it again in its fantastic magnificence\u2015\u2015all is\nthere, even to the smallest tufts of ivy: but the absent and the dead!\n\n\u201cAnd they also are present,\u201d Ren\u00e9 assures me. \u201cThey wish you to be\ncourageous and truly Christian. Death does not separate souls.\u201d\n\nA fraternal letter from Karl. \u201cMy heart feels all the impressions of\nyours in Ireland. I pray God that he may shed happiness upon your\npath, and I join in all your memories.\u201d\n\nIsa, Lizzy, Mme. D\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015, and all our friends must come in turn, and all\ntogether. Isa is with me, pale as a marble Madonna, with a heavenly\nexpression in her eyes. Her mother almost adores her, and clings to\nher in order to live. Mme. D\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 fainted away on seeing me. Lizzy has\nrecovered her gayety and petulance, and would fain enliven Isa. Where\nhave I read some words of a Breton who, in speaking of a young girl\ncalled to the religious life, says, \u201cHer heart is like a desert\u201d? Such\nis Isa, athirst for God, in love with the ideal, a soul wounded with\nthe thorny briers of life.\n\nMargaret takes in several French newspapers. We are reading in the\n_Ouvrier, Les Faucheurs de la Mort_\u2015\u2015the \u201cMowers of Death\u201d\u2015\u2015a\nhistorical drama of unhappy Poland. It is heartrending. Poland and\nIreland, the two martyrs, understand each other. Will not God raise\nthem up a liberator?\n\nDarling Kate, what benedictions are showered upon you in return for\nyour liberalities! What touching questions are put to me! O these good\npeople! how I love them.\n\nFor the _first time_ I am mistress of the house. Ren\u00e9 calms my\nscruples, and tells me that he is proud of me. O the evening prayers\nin our own tongue! Yesterday I thought I saw you in your old place,\nand nearly cried out.\n\nSend me your good angel, O best-beloved of sisters! Send him to me in\nthe land of O\u2019Connell\u2015\u2015\n\n \u201cFirst flower of the earth, first gem of the sea.\u201d\n\nDear Kate, I am going to enclose in my letter some beautiful lines by\nMarie Jenna, the sweet poetess who delights me so much. This poetry is\nalmost _Irish_ to my heart:\n\n\n LE RETOUR.\n\n Oui, je te reconnais, domaine de mon p\u00e8re,\n Vieux ch\u00e2teau, champs fleuris, murs tapiss\u00e9s de lierre,\n O\u00f9 de mes jeunes ans s\u2019abrita le bonheur;\n Votre image a partout suivi le voyageur.\u2026\n Vous souvient-il aussi des quatre t\u00eates blondes\n Qui si joyeusement formaient de folles rondes?\n De nos rires bruyants, de nos \u00e9clats de voix,\n Nous faisions retentir les \u00e9chos des grands bois,\n Sans craindre d\u2019offenser leur majest\u00e9 sereine,\n Et plus insouciants que l\u2019oiseau de la plaine.\n Mais, ainsi qu\u2019un parfum goutte \u00e0 goutte \u00e9panch\u00e9,\n Le bonheur s\u2019est tari dans mon sein dess\u00e9ch\u00e9.\n De ces bois, chaque \u00e9t\u00e9 rajeunit la couronne,\n La mienne est pour toujours fl\u00e9trie au vent d\u2019automne;\n Au murmure des vents dans leurs rameaux touffus,\n Au concert gracieux de leurs nids suspendus.\n Au doux bruit du ruisseau qui borda leur enceinte,\n Aujourd\u2019hui je n\u2019ai rien \u00e0 m\u00ealer qu\u2019une plainte:\n Je ne ris plus.\u2026\n\n Puis sous le marronnier voici le banc de pierre\n O\u00f9, pour nous voir de loin, s\u2019asseyait notre m\u00e8re.\n Oh! comme elle \u00e9tait belle et comme nous l\u2019aimions!\n Oh! comme son regard avait de chauds rayons!\n J\u2019\u00e9tais le plus petit: souvent lorsque mes fr\u00e8res\n Gravissaient en courant les coteaux de bruy\u00e8res,\n Bien las, tra\u00eenant des fleurs et des branches de houx,\n Je revenais poser mon front sur ses genoux.\n Alors en doux accents vibrait sa voix ch\u00e9rie,\n Et dans mon sein d\u2019enfant tombait la r\u00eaverie.\n Et maintenant tra\u00eenant mes pas irr\u00e9solus,\n Parmi les chers d\u00e9bris de mes bonheurs perdus,\n Et les pieds tout meurtris des cailloux de la route,\n Je me retourne encor, je m\u2019arr\u00eate et j\u2019\u00e9coute:\n Je n\u2019entends plus.\u2026\n\n Et ce vieux monument, c\u2019est toi, ma pauvre \u00e9glise,\n A l\u2019ombre d\u2019un sapin cachant ta pierre grise.\n J\u2019ai salu\u00e9 de loin le sommet de ta croix\n Qui scintille au soleil et domine les bois.\n Ici, je m\u2019en souviens, j\u2019eus de bien belles heures,\n Qui me faisaient r\u00eaver des celestes demeures;\n Je contemplais, ravi, les s\u00e9raphins ail\u00e9s,\n Les gothiques vitraux, les lustres \u00e9loign\u00e9s.\n J\u2019entendais \u00e0 la fois la pri\u00e8re du pr\u00eatre,\n Et les petits oiseaux jasant \u00e0 la fen\u00eatre,\n Les cantiques de l\u2019orgue et des enfants de ch\u0153ur,\n Et l\u2019ineffable voix qui parlait dans mon c\u0153ur.\u2026\n Oh! que Dieu soit b\u00e9ni! que les mains de l\u2019enfance\n Au pied de son autel, sainte arche d\u2019alliance,\n Des fleurs de nos sentiers r\u00e9pandent le tr\u00e9sor!\n Qu\u2019on br\u00fble devant lui l\u2019encens des urnes d\u2019or!\n Que tout vive et tressaille et chante en sa pr\u00e9sence!\n Le bonheur en fuyant m\u2019a laiss\u00e9 l\u2019esp\u00e9rance:\n Je prie encor.\u2026[128]\n\n\n _Translation of the foregoing._\n\n Yes, domain of my father, well I know thee again\u2015\u2015\n Old _ch\u00e2teau_, flowery fields, walls tapestried with ivy,\n Which sheltered the happiness of my youthful years;\n Everywhere your image has followed the wanderer.\u2026\n Also, remember ye the four flaxen headed children\n Who danced so joyously their merry rounds?\n Our noisy laughter and our cries and shouts\n Made the wide woods re-echo; nor did we fear\n Thus to offend their majesty serene.\n More careless we than wild birds of the plain;\n But like a perfume poured out drop by drop,\n So happiness is dried up in my breast.\n Each summer, of these woods renews the crown,\n The autumn winds for ay have withered mine.\n With the breeze murmuring in their tangled boughs,\n With the sweet warblings from their hanging nests,\n With the soft ripple of their engirdling stream,\n Now can I mingle nothing but a moan:\n I laugh no more.\n\n See the stone bench beneath the chestnut shade,\n Where mother sat, and watched us from afar.\n How beautiful she was, and how we loved her!\n And what warm rays beamed on us from her eyes!\n I was the youngest; often, when my brothers\n Climbed up and ran upon the heathy banks,\n I, wearily dragging my flowers and holly boughs,\n Would go and lean my head against her knees,\n And hear the gentle accents of her voice,\n While on my childish heart a reverie fell.\n Now I return again, I stop and listen;\n But hear no more.\u2026\n\n And this old building\u2015\u2015it is thou, poor church,\n Hiding thy gray stones \u2018neath the pine-tree\u2019s shade.\n The summit of thy cross I hailed from far,\n In sunshine gleaming, rising o\u2019er the wood.\n Here, I remember, happy hours I spent,\n Which made me dream of heavenly abodes;\n I gazed, admiring, at the cherubim,\n The Gothic windows, candelabra high.\n I heard, together with the prayer of the priest,\n The little birds about the windows chirping,\n The organ, and the children of the choir,\n And the ineffable voice within my heart.\u2026\n Blessed be God! Ever may childhood\u2019s hands,\n Before his altar, the sacred Ark of the Covenant,\n Scatter the treasure of our way-side flowers!\n May incense burn in golden urns before him!\n May all things live, sing, gladden in his Presence!\n Happiness, fleeing, still has left me hope:\n And still I pray.\u2026\n\nI have wept over every line, dear sister; but as for me, I laugh\nstill, alas! Oh! what a treasure of memories hoarded within my soul of\nthose fair years which your love made so sweet.\n\nWould you like to have one of my relics, dearest?\n\n\n SOUVENIR D\u2019ENFANCE.\n\n C\u2019\u00e9tait dans un bois, \u00e0 l\u2019ombre des ch\u00eanes\n Et de nos sept ans, fi\u00e8res toutes trois,\n N\u2019ayant pas encor ni chagrin ni peines,\n Nous remplissions l\u2019air du bruit de nos voix.\n\n Nous chantions toujours, cherchant l\u2019\u00e9glantine,\n La fraise sauvage et le joyeux nid,\n Jouant follement sur la mousse fine,\n Et dans ces \u00e9bats la nuit nous surprit.\n\n Tremblantes de peur, dans la for\u00eat sombre,\n Et pleurant tout bas, craignant de mourir,\n Quand autour de nous s\u2019\u00e9paississait l\u2019ombre,\n Nous ne songions plus \u00e0 nous r\u00e9jouir.\n\n Dieu! quelle terreur! Tout faisait silence.\n Sur le vert gazon tombait par instants\n Un rameau jauni, pour nous chute immense!\n Ah! quelle \u00e9pouvante et quels grands tourments!\n\n Mais un cri lointain, le cri de nos m\u00e8res,\n Un appel du c\u0153ur parvint jusqu\u2019\u00e0 nous;\n Nous v\u00eemes l\u00e0-bas briller des lumi\u00e8res.\n Oh! que ce moment pour toutes fut doux!\n\n Quels tendres baisers, quels aim\u00e9s sourires\n Calm\u00e8rent soudain nos folles terreurs!\n Apr\u00e8s les sanglots nous e\u00fbmes les rires,\n Et de nos r\u00e9cits trembl\u00e8rent nos s\u0153urs.\n\n Seigneur, que toujours, \u00e0 l\u2019heure d\u2019alarmes,\n Quand gronde l\u2019orage, un ange gardien,\n Une m\u00e8re tendre arr\u00eate nos larmes,\n Et pour nous guider nous donne la main![129]\n\nWhat memories, dear sister! I had lost my way with Lizzy and Isa. My\nmother was living then! How pale and trembling she was when I fell\ninto her arms! And you\u2015\u2015you, my Kate!\n\n\nAUGUST 12, 1868.\n\nYou have comforted me, dear sister. This place pleases me: everybody\nlikes it. Saw yesterday Karl\u2019s family, as well as that of Ellen; the\nday before yesterday, the W\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2019s. Fanny is going to marry a German\nwith a great name, a fervent Catholic, in love with England, where he\nintends to remain.\n\nOur evenings are delightful. I had promised Margaret not to read _P\u00e8re\nLacordaire_, by the P\u00e8re Chocarne, without her. It is admirably fine.\nThe introduction is the definition of the priest such as is given by\nthe great orator of Notre Dame himself: \u201cStrong as the diamond,\ntenderer than a mother.\u201d There are a thousand things in this book\nwhich make my heart beat: \u201cO paternal home! where, from our earliest\nyears, we breathed in with the light the love of all holy things, in\nvain we grow old: we return to you with a heart ever young; and were\nit not Eternity which calls us, in separating us far from you, we\nshould be inconsolable at seeing your shadow daily lengthen and your\nsun grow pale!\u201d \u201cThere are wants for which this earth is sterile.\u201d\nWhat a spring there is of faith and love in words like these: \u201cRiches\nare neither gold nor silver, nor ships which bring back from the ends\nof the earth all precious things, nor steam, nor railways, nor all\nthat the genius of men can extract from the bosom of nature; one thing\nalone is riches\u2015\u2015that is love. From God to man, from earth to heaven,\nlove alone unites and fills all things. It is their beginning, their\nmiddle, and their end. He who loves knows; he who loves lives; he who\nloves sacrifices himself; he who loves is content; and one drop of\nlove, put in the balance with the universe, would carry it away as the\ntempest would carry away a straw.\u201d The P\u00e8re Lacordaire speaks\nadmirably of cloisters: \u201cAugust palaces have been built, and\nmagnificent tombs raised on the earth; dwelling-places well-nigh\ndivine have been made for God: but the wisdom and the heart of man\nhave never gone further than in the creation of the monastery.\u201d The\nfirst disciple and brother of P\u00e8re Lacordaire, the saintly young\nHippolyte R\u00e9qu\u00e9dat (whose soul was so pure that when, at twenty years\nof age, he threw himself at the feet of a priest, owning that he had\nnever, since his First Communion, been to confession, having nothing\nof which to accuse himself, unless that he wished much evil to all the\nenemies of France) used every day to say to the Blessed Virgin:\n\u201cObtain for me the grace to ascertain my vocation\u2015\u2015to learn the way in\nwhich I could do the greatest possible amount of good, lead back the\ngreatest number of souls to the church, and be most chaste, humble,\ncharitable, active, and patient.\u201d\n\nHe died of consumption at the age of twenty-two, and his death made a\ndeep wound in the heart of the P\u00e8re Lacordaire. \u201cR\u00e9qu\u00e9dat was a soul\nas impassioned in its self-devotion as others are in selfishness. To\nlove was his life, but to love to give rather than to receive; to give\nhimself always, and to the greatest number possible\u2015\u2015this was his\ndream, his longing, his martyrdom. Devoted to an ardent pursuit of\nthat which is good, tyrannized over by this noble love, he had not\ntime to see any evil.\u201d A friend of his was Piel, an eminent architect,\nwho joined him to become also a son of St. Dominic\u2015\u2015\u201cA lofty soul, an\nheroic heart, incapable of a divided affection, and from the first\nmoment aspiring after the highest perfection, admirably formed to be a\ngreat orator as well as a saint, of whom his friends used to say that\nhis language reminded them of the style of Pascal.\u201d With the P\u00e8re\nLacordaire was also Hernsheim, a converted Jew, a frank, intelligent,\nand profound mind, from whence issued from time to time thoughts which\nhad a peculiar charm about them, mingled with a sweet and penetrating\nunction. The P\u00e8re Besson, an artist like Piel, and the _Fra Angelico_\nof France, was also of the number; and, lastly, the P\u00e8re Jandel, now\ngeneral of the order. Mme. Swetchine was like the good genius of P\u00e8re\nLacordaire: \u201cWho does not know this, now?\u201d asks the P\u00e8re Chocarne.\n\u201cWho has not read the life and works of this woman, whom death has\ncrowned with a glory all the more pure and radiant because she had so\ncarefully concealed it during her life? Who does not know this Russian\nwith a heart so French, this convert to the Catholic faith, so gentle\ntowards beliefs and opinions differing from hers, the masculine\nunderstanding in the woman\u2019s heart, the spirit of Joseph de Maistre in\nthe soul of F\u00e9nelon, the charity, so delicate and tender, of this\nwoman who said of herself: \u2018I would no more be made known to the\nchildren of men but by these words: She who believes; she who prays;\nshe who loves\u2019!\u201d\n\nThis is beautiful. Can you picture to yourself the impression made\nupon us while Adrien is reading this aloud? Every one is breathless;\nthe twins and Anna, their eyes wide open, their hands joined, seem to\n_devour_ this eloquence. The soul of the orator of Notre Dame has\npassed into that of his son in Jesus Christ. All is magnificent, and\nmakes one deeply regret that the grand figure which appeared among us\nwith the double aureole of sanctity and genius so soon disappeared\nfrom the world. A great and wonderful history is this, too little\nreally known! Have we not heard the most absurd fables told in\nreference to P\u00e8re Lacordaire?\n\nI want your prayers, dear Kate, for a grand project: we wish to bring\nIsa\u2019s mother to agree to live with her sister. Lizzy would be the\ndaughter of the two, and the Lord\u2019s dear chosen one would go to \u201cthe\nplace of repose which she has chosen.\u201d It will be difficult to manage,\nbut I have a presentiment of victory.\n\nGood-by, dear Kate, for the present.\n\n\nAUGUST 20, 1868.\n\n O Temps! suspends ton vol, et vous, Heures propices,\n Suspendez votre cours;\n Laissez-nous savourer les rapides d\u00e9lices\n Des plus beaux de nos jours.[130]\n\nWe have been singing this while floating on the lake. Picciola\nproposes to take up her abode for a year at Aunt Georgina\u2019s. I have\ninstalled her as dame and mistress of my little school. What joy!\n\nIsa\u2019s mother is beginning to understand. I have been getting so many\nprayers for this! She yesterday said, after having listened very\ncalmly to what I had to say: \u201cDear Georgina, I feel that God inspires\nyou; but only think how I have been broken down, and what need I have\nof Isa!\u201d Poor mother! O these vocations!\u2015\u2015a terrible secret which\nrends so many souls. \u201cLet the dead bury their dead!\u201d I need all my\nfaith in the Gospel to admit that these words were said by our\nmerciful Saviour. St. Bernard, the _saint of Mary_, the _honey of\nMary_, will succeed in gaining this material heart, which hesitates\nbefore the greatness of the sacrifice.\n\nWe have finished our splendid reading. This evening we shall take\n_Klopstock_. We all find that nothing equals this intellectual\npleasure of interchanging our impressions while reading together. We\nseparate at eleven. I am taking some views, being desirous of\ntransporting my part of Ireland into France.\n\nMargaret has written to Mistress Annah to offer her the post of\ngoverness to the charming baby. We expect her answer to-day. The\nbaptism took place on the 15th. It was splendid.\n\nHave seen Sarah, whose son has been ill\u2015\u2015always amiable, with a tinge\nof melancholy, caught, no doubt, by the side of the cradle.\n\nMy _duties_ are so multiplied that I should be quite unequal to them\nwithout Ren\u00e9. What a pleasure it is to do for others what they have\ndone for me!\n\nSend me always your good angel, my best beloved.\n\n\nAUGUST 26, 1868.\n\nWhat a _f\u00eate_ for my mother, the evening of the 24th! All the echoes\nresounded with it. In two days hence we are to go to Fanny\u2019s marriage,\nwhich takes place in Dublin. Great preparations; but Anna is unwell,\nand this spoils our joy. Marcella has suffered so much that she\ntrembles at the least shock. Lucy will remain here with our Italians;\nwe cannot return for a week. But the great piece of news I have to\ntell you is this: Isa enters the convent of \u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 on the 8th of\nOctober. I have obtained this exchange. Carmel alarmed the poor mother\ntoo much; and, besides, the health of our friend is too much shaken to\nbe able to support the austerities of St. Teresa. The two families of\nthe D\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 will go with us to Dublin, and we shall accompany Isa. What\na _Te Deum_ we ought to sing! The timid child had never owned to her\nmother the ardor which consumed her; the death of George\u2015\u2015the nephew\nso passionately loved, sole heir of so noble a name, and betrothed to\nIsa from childhood\u2015\u2015appeared to Mme. D\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 the death of everything,\nand she lived \u201c_extinguished_.\u201d Oh! how I rejoice at this success.\nMargaret and Isa, both once so sad, and now with their hearts in an\neternal spring!\n\nLet us bless God together, dear Kate! Do you recollect Mgr.\nDupanloup\u2019s words: \u201cOne breathes, in this land of Ireland, I know not\nwhat perfume of virtue which one finds not elsewhere.\u201d\n\n\nAUGUST 31, 1868.\n\nRen\u00e9 is writing to you. We know that Anna is well, and we are enjoying\nthe _worldlinesses_ of Dublin. Fanny was touching under her veil. Your\ndear name, my beloved Kate, was mentioned, I know not how often. O\nkind Ireland! If I had to tell you all the graceful things that were\nsaid to me, I should fill my paper. How pleasant it is to be loved!\nFanny did not weep on seeing me; she and her mother are unequalled in\ntheir serenity; consolation has been sent them from on high. A\n_vision_ is spoken of. I did not like to ask any questions, but it is\ncertain that something extraordinary has occurred.\n\nO dear Kate! how fair is life. I was saying so yesterday to Ren\u00e9 while\nwe were looking at the stars; for the night was splendid. Do you know\nwhat he answered? \u201cHeaven is fairer; earth is but its echo, its\nfar-off image, its imperfect sketch; and it is death which opens\nheaven to us.\u201d Words like these from the lips of Ren\u00e9 make me shudder.\nOh! to die with him would be sweet, but not to live without him. P\u00e8re\nLacordaire said: \u201cDeath is man\u2019s fairest moment. He finds assembled\nthere all the virtues he has practised, all the strength and peace he\nhas been storing up, all the memories, the cherished images and sweet\nregrets of life, together with the fair prospect of the sight of God.\nIf we had a lively faith, we should be very strong to meet death.\u201d\n\nFanny starts to-morrow for France, Switzerland, and Germany\u2015\u2015a long\njourney; we remain at present, so as in some measure to fill up the\nvoid a little. Why are you not here to witness our reunion? Oh! how\nstrong is the love of one\u2019s country. I am _inebriated_ with my native\nair; we sing our old ballads; we turn over with Adrien the history of\nthe past. Ask of our good God that this may last a long time, dear\nKate! _Erin mavourneen! Erin go bragh!_\n\n\nSEPTEMBER 6, 1868.\n\nMistress Annah is come, dear sister. I wept with all my heart on\nembracing her. Dear old mistress Annah! how wrinkled and thin she has\nbecome; always upright and stiff as an Englishwoman, and her memory\nenriched with Italian stories which will charm baby\u2019s childhood.\nMargaret has chosen for the beautiful innocent the name of\n_Emmanuel_\u2015\u2015a blessed name, which well bespeaks the happiness of our\nfriend. Lord William made royal largesses to the poor in the name of\nthe new-born heir. Twelve orphans will be provided for at the expense\nof _Emmanuel_. Mistress Annah is longing to see and hear you. Margaret\npromises her this happiness for next spring. You may be sure that no\nfatigue will be imposed on the dear old lady. The pension given her by\nLord William made her independent; but our _belle Anglaise_ feared the\nisolation of old age for her devoted heart, and it will be a happiness\nto both to watch the growth of baby. A messenger has just arrived. _Te\nDeum_, dear Kate!\u2015\u2015a little daughter is born to Lizzy. Everybody is\ndelighted; they have sent for us; I am going with Ren\u00e9.\n\n7th _September_.\u2015\u2015In an hour the baptism, so that Isa may be present;\nthen she says farewell to her family, and we take her away. The angel\nfallen from heaven is to be called Isa. Marcella, Adrien, and Gertrude\nhave joined us. Joy and grief meet at this moment. You will be\nastonished at the sudden departure of our Isa; but Lizzy wishes it\nthus, hoping that the poor mother will let herself be interested by\nthe festivities and the visitors.\n\nThe last number of the magazine has caused me a sensation. In it is an\naccount of the beautiful scene on the Pincio, in October, 1864, \u201cat\nthe hour when the sun, sinking towards the sea of Ostia, lights with a\ngolden gleam the cross which surmounts the dome of St. Peter.\u201d Do you\nremember, dear Kate, the Pope appearing in the midst of the crowd,\nwhich bent before him with so much reverence, and the long shouts of\n_Viva Pio Nono_ which saluted his departure? O Rome, Rome, my other\ncountry, the eternal country of those who believe, hope, and\nlove\u2015\u2015Rome of St. Peter and of Pius IX.\u2015\u2015I salute thy image and thy\nmemory!\n\nDear sister, Lizzy requests your prayers. She is well, radiant, and\nfull of gratitude to God. Her good husband is in transports, and the\nlittle one so pretty under her gauzy curtains. She has not cried yet,\nso we think she will resemble Isa, her godmother. Do you not like this\nprognostic?\n\nLet us both pray, dear Kate! Adrien has again read us the two _fair\ncontemporary pages_ about Ireland\u2015\u2015Mgr. Dupanloup at St. Roch, and\nMgr. Mermillod at St. Clotilde. O these words!\u2015\u2015\u201cThe first powers of\nour time, the two most illustrious and rich, are a Prince despoiled\nand a people in rags\u2015\u2015Pius IX., who extends to you his royal hand, and\nIreland, who asks you for bread!\u201d\n\n\n [118] There is in this life but one possession worthy of\n envy\u2015\u2015Liberty.\n\n [119] Good or worthy father (old).\n\n [120] Each mortal has his own; this protecting angel,\n This invisible friend, keeps watch around his heart;\n Inspires and guides, uplifts him if he fall,\n Receives him at the cradle, stays by him to the tomb,\n And, bearing up to heaven his soul within his arms,\n Presents it, trembling, to the Lord of all.\n\n [121] O thrice happy, thrice blessed day! come to fill all\n our hearts with infinite happiness.\n\n [122] A slight refreshment taken by French children between\n the morning and evening meal.\n\n [123] This nest, this soft mystery, is a mother\u2019s love.\n Children, touch it not!\n\n [124] Being unable to create anything, you must destroy\n nothing. Children, touch it not!\n\n [125] Few are the days in life which offer charms enough\n To make us weep when evening brings their close.\n\n [126] Hither the world\u2019s last echoes come to die:\n Land, shipwrecked mariners; the port is here.\n\n [127] \u201cYes, \u2019tis one of those abodes where our heart feels\n itself enlivened by something of heaven which floats around\n it\u2015\u2015one of those abodes which as a child I loved and of\n which I used to dream, whose beauty, serene, inexhaustible,\n penetrating, sheds upon the soul a serious and sublime\n forgetfulness of all that is evil on earth or in man.\u201d\n\n [128] Marie Jenna, _El\u00e9vations Po\u00e9tiques et Religieuses_.\n\n [129] MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD.\n\n \u2019Twas in a wood, in the shadow of the oaks,\n We children three, all proud of our seven years,\n Unknowing yet of trouble or of care,\n With our resounding voices filled the air.\n\n Singing we wandered seeking the eglantine,\n Wild strawberries, and nests of singing birds,\n Gambolling wildly on the fine, soft moss,\n Till night o\u2019ertook us in our careless play.\n\n Trembling with fear, within the forest dark\n We wept in silence, fearing we should die;\n And when around us thicker shadows fell,\n Never, we thought, should we see joy again.\n\n Heavens! what terror. Everything was still.\n On the green, mossy turf at times there fell\n A withered branch, to us a fall immense;\n For oh! what fear and torment were we in.\n\n But hark! a distant cry, our mother\u2019s call,\n And loving voices reached our listening ears,\n While through the wood we saw the gleam of lights\u2015\u2015\n Oh! to us all what sweet relief and joy.\n\n What tender kisses, and what welcome smiles,\n Now quickly tranquillized our foolish fears!\n After our sobs, we laughed for very joy,\n E\u2019en while our sisters trembled at our tale.\n\n Lord, grant that ever, in our anxious hours\n And stormy days, an angel guardian,\n A tender mother\u2019s hand, may dry our tears,\n And guide our steps along the path of life.\n\n [130] O Time! suspend thy flight, and ye, propitious Hours,\n Suspend your course;\n Suffer us to enjoy the swift delights\n Of these our fairest days.\n\n\n\n\nAPHASIA IN RELATION TO LANGUAGE AND THOUGHT.\n\nThe relation of language to thought as a theme of discussion has\nbusied the pens of philosophical writers from very early times, and\nthe later aspects of the controversy do not promise a speedy agreement\nof views. Whatever new light, therefore, recent discoveries in science\nmay shed on this much-vexed question ought to be welcomed as helping\nto increase of knowledge concerning a matter which cannot escape the\nserious consideration of the teachers of philology. At present Messrs.\nMax M\u00fcller and Whitney most strongly incline to opposite views; and\nbefore coming to the subject of aphasia as affecting the question, it\nmay be well to take a cursory view of the field of controversy.\n\nThe old or scholastic belief is that language was in the first\ninstance divinely communicated, and this opinion its upholders strove\nto maintain by a variety of reasons. Authority and tradition were\nchief among these, though they did not by any means neglect\nphilological and ethnological considerations. In France the Vicomte de\nBonald undertook the support of this view on the same line as that now\nheld by Max M\u00fcller\u2015\u2015viz., that it is impossible to have a purely\nintellectual conception without a corresponding word or series of\nwords to represent it; whence, according to him, it follows that the\nword must have accompanied the thought, and, man being unable to\noriginate the one without the other, both must have been originally\ncommunicated. Max M\u00fcller says: \u201cAs a matter of fact, we never meet\nwith articulate sounds, except as wedded to determinate ideas: nor do\nwe ever, I believe, meet with determinate ideas, except as bodied\nforth in articulate sounds.\u201d He strongly insists on the correctness of\nthis view, and argues it at length. Professor Whitney takes direct\nissue with him, and maintains that there is the widest separation\nbetween language and thought. According to him, language can be said\nto be of divine origin only in so far as man was created with the\ncapacity for its formation just as he was created capable of making\nclothes for himself, and of wearing them. Such being the state of the\nquestion, we will proceed to consider that abnormal condition of the\nnervous system which has been denominated aphasia, and afterwards\nindicate our opinion as to which view the facts established by it go\nto sustain.\n\nAphasia, defined by Dr. Hammond as a diseased condition of the brain,\nwas not understood till quite recently. It is an affection of that\norgan by which the idea of language or of its expression is impaired.\nIt is not mere paralysis of the vocal chords, nor of the muscles of\narticulation, nor the result of hysteria\u2015\u2015which conditions are\ndenominated aphonia, or voicelessness\u2015\u2015but depends on a lesion or\ninjury wrought in that portion of the brain which presides over the\nmemory of words and their co-ordination in speech. The loss of the\nmemory of words is styled amnesic aphasia, the other ataxic\naphasia\u2015\u2015two Greek derivatives which explain very clearly the two\nseparate conditions. A single typical case will exhibit the usual\nmanner of the approach of this trouble, its development and\ntermination. An English banker, a resident of Paris, recently went out\nin his carriage well as usual, and on his return, as he was stepping\nto the sidewalk, fell heavily forward, but did not lose consciousness.\nHis whole right side was paralyzed, and, on attempting to speak, he\ncould not articulate a word; he barely succeeded in uttering a few\nunintelligible sounds. During twelve days the paralysis continued, but\nafter that gradually subsided, till in the course of a few months he\nwas able to move about. Strange to say, however, the power of speech\ndid not return, and for eight months he could no more than articulate\na few words incoherently. Nothing in the case of this gentleman openly\nindicated an impairment of the intellect; for he could neither read\nnor write in consequence of his paralyzed condition. There was\nundoubted loss of the memory of words, since his vocabulary was\nlimited to two or three; and there was likewise ataxic aphasia, since\nhis words were jumbled unmeaningly together. The recorded cases of\nthis disease are very numerous, many of them differing in their\nindividual features, but all exhibiting a greater or less degree of\nboth forms mentioned. The case just cited will suffice to enable the\nreader to understand the interest felt by psychologists and\nphysiologists alike to ascertain whether, by the discovery of a\nuniform and constantly-recurring lesion in a certain portion of the\nbrain, the seat of language in that organ might be determined. Dr.\nGall, with the view of completing his system of phrenology, referred\nspeech-function to that part of the brain lying on the supra-orbital\nplate behind the eye. Spurzheim, Combe, and others of the\nphrenological school held the same view. But this was a mere\nconjecture on their part, and it was not till minute anatomy had\nalready localized several other important functions that a fair\npromise was held out that the brain-organ of speech might be likewise\nlocated. Experiments without number were made by Bouillaud,\nCruveilhier, Velpeau, Andral, Broca, and Dax in France; Hughlings,\nJackson, Sanders, Moxon, Ogle, Bateman, and Bastian in England; Von\nBenedict and Braunwart in Germany; Flint, Wilbur, Seguin, Fisher, and\nHammond in America\u2015\u2015all tending to confirm the localization of the\nfunction, though not agreeing as to the exact spot. The mode of\nprocedure usually consisted in making a post-mortem examination of\nthose who during life had suffered from aphasia; and though it was an\nextremely difficult matter to bring all the cases under a uniform\nstandard, enough was discovered to assign the function in question to\nthe left anterior lobe of the brain. We do not pretend to regard the\nquestion as settled; for no less authorities than Hammond in our own\ncountry, and Prof. Ferrier in England, seem to consider both\nhemispheres of the brain as equally concerned. Still, it is\nsignificant that out of 545 cases examined by different authorities,\n514 favor the left anterior lobe of the brain, while but 31 are\nopposed to such a conclusion. Assuming, then, as amply demonstrated\nthat some portion of the anterior convolutions of the brain is the\nseat of the faculty of speech, the question arises, Can that part of\nthe brain which is concerned in the process of ideation continue to\nperform its functions\u2015\u2015_i.e._, originate true ideas of which the mind\nis conscious\u2015\u2015without the memory of the words which usually represent\nthose ideas or the power to co-ordinate them? It is evident that, no\nmatter how the question may be met, we possess in the discoveries to\nwhich aphasia has led a most important contribution to the controversy\nconcerning the relation of language to thought; for if it can be shown\nthat the mental faculties are unimpaired during the existence of the\naphasic condition, the conclusion would go to favor Prof. Whitney\u2019s\nview that thought is independent of speech; whereas if it can be shown\nthat during the same condition the mental powers are very much\ndebilitated or frequently suspended, we find an unexpected support\ngiven to Max M\u00fcller\u2019s opinion that without language there can be no\nthought. We would state in advance that the portion of the cerebral\nsubstance which is concerned in the production of thought\u2015\u2015or, as\nneurologists have it, is the centre of ideation\u2015\u2015entirely differs from\nthat which is the reputed seat of the faculty of speech; so that the\nquestion may read: Does the centre of ideation continue to operate\nwhile the speech-centres are in a diseased condition? Aphasic\nindividuals usually retain all the appearances of intelligence: their\neyes are full of expression; their manner of dealing with surrounding\nobjects is quite the same as if they were in possession of all their\nfaculties; when asked to point out material objects, they\nunhesitatingly do so\u2015\u2015in a word, to the extent that objects are their\nown language their intellect remains unimpaired. But they exhibit a\nremarkable deficiency in the power of co-ordination, since this is a\npure relation not symbolized by anything material. Material objects\npossess in their outlines and sensible qualities enough to\ndiscriminate and individualize them; and hence, through perception,\nthey reach the centres of ideation, and are as readily understood by\nthe aphasic as though their names were fully known. This is made\nmanifest in their writing when, as occurs only in a few cases, the\naphasic retain the power of using the pen. Thus we read in Trousseau\nof the case of an aphasic named Henri Gu\u00e9nier, who could not write the\nword \u201cyes,\u201d though capable of uttering it in an automatic way without\nseeming in the least to understand its meaning. Yet he could write his\nown name, though nothing else, evidently for the reason that the \u03c4\u1f78\n\u1f10\u03b3\u03ce was the object of most frequent recurrence to his mind, and that\nwhich consequently he could most readily apprehend through its\nsensible characteristics, and could thereby connect with his own name;\nwhereas \u201cyes,\u201d as the symbol of affirmation, found no counterpart in\nthe sensible order. The same author relates the case of a man who, so\nfar as he could make himself intelligible, boasted of retaining his\nintellective and memorative powers unimpaired, and yet, on being put\nto the test, he could not construct the shortest sentence coherently.\nWhen a spoon was held before him, and he was asked what it was, he\ngave no answer; when asked if it was a fork he made a sign of denial,\nbut when asked if it were a spoon he at once replied in the\naffirmative. It must be remembered that in all these cases the power\nof utterance, so far as it is a muscular process, remained unimpaired,\nbut there was true amnesic aphasia\u2015\u2015_i.e._, the recollection of the\nwords was lost.\n\nThere are some cases of partial aphasia which possess an interest\nquite peculiar, since its victims frequently regain the entire power\nof speech, and are able to relate the results of their experience. A\ncelebrated professor in France spent a vacation-day reading\nLamartine\u2019s literary conversations, when towards evening he was\nattacked with partial aphasia. Fearing lest he was threatened with\nparalysis, he moved his arms and walked up and down the room, in doing\nwhich he experienced no difficulty; but when he resumed his reading,\nhe found it scarcely possible to understand a sentence. The individual\nwords were intelligible enough, but he could not follow out the\nsequence of the thoughts. Of course during the attack he could not\nutter a word, though able partially to comprehend what was said to\nhim, as he afterwards declared. Here indeed is a most instructive\ninstance of impaired intellect, occurring as it did in a man whose\nbrain was usually in a very active state, and whose mind was highly\ncultivated. Does it not strongly confirm the belief that, even while\nthe organic instrument of thought was unimpaired, its functions were\ntemporarily suspended?\n\nAnother case is that of a man of good literary attainments, who\npretended that he could still understand what he read, but who could\nnot discover the mistake when the book was presented to him reversed.\nThere can be no doubt, then, that aphasia unerringly points to a most\nintimate dependence between language and thought, and that, as Max\nM\u00fcller says, without language there can be no thought.\n\nBut why is it that in regard to objects possessing sensible qualities\naphasic individuals exhibit no impairment of intellectual power? We\nwill answer, Because with regard to such objects these are their own\nlanguage, and the functions of the perceptive and ideational centres\nare as active in their regard as though the faculty of speech were\nintact. A tree is known by its branches and leaves to the deaf mute as\nwell as it is by its name to those possessing all their faculties.\nWhatever circumscribes and differentiates an object of thought is its\nlanguage. For, after all, is not language conventional and arbitrary,\nthe outer symbol of a subjective phenomenon? The symbol may be of any\nsort whatsoever, but the thought cannot be known without a symbol of\nsome sort. Now, the qualities of sensible objects, in so far as they\nserve to circumscribe the objects and to discriminate them from all\nothers, become their language. This is rendered more evident when we\nreflect that Locke\u2019s theory, according to which sensible objects are\nbut an aggregate of sensible qualities, is generally rejected, and the\nopinion admitted that under these qualities there resides a true\nsubstance impervious to the senses and known to us only as inference\nfrom the former. Therefore the sensible qualities are the symbol of\nthe substance identified with it; of course in so far these are but\nthe substance modified in such or such a manner. This is why aphasics\nfind no trouble in forming ideas of material things, though they may\nforget their names. But why is aphasia ataxic\u2015\u2015that is, incapable of\nco-ordinating words? Because co-ordination expresses the relation\nbetween the objects co-ordinated, and relation is not represented, and\ncannot be represented, by anything in the sensible order. They belong\nto the purely intellectual order, and the only symbol that existed by\nwhich they were known being lost, there remains no longer any means of\ncircumscribing and differentiating them. Paul and Peter may be well\nknown to the aphasic\u2015\u2015Paul as such, and Peter as such\u2015\u2015because the\nsensible qualities of both render them recognizable; and not only\nthat, but the different qualities pertaining to both enable him\nclearly to distinguish the one from the other. But if he is told that\nPeter is taller than Paul, he understands nothing. And why? Because\nthe proposition implies the relation of comparison, in which there is\nnothing sensible. Indeed, he perceives Peter to be tall and Paul to be\ndiminutive, but he does not perform the intellectual process called\njudgment, which is interpreted in the proposition, Peter is taller\nthan Paul. In like manner, when there is question of purely\nintellectual conceptions which can be symbolized by nothing sensible\nexcept names, the aphasic are incapable of reaching them. Virtue,\npower, and malice are meaningless sounds in their ears, and equally\nunintelligible is what these words represent. The reason is because\nthe symbols by which these ideas were conveyed to the mind are lost,\nand there is nothing left by which virtue can be known or\ndiscriminated from power and malice. Whatever circumscribes and\ndifferentiates a thought is its language, and this can be done only by\na symbol. Now, if we consult our own consciousness, we will find\nthat it is impossible for us to conceive of what is purely\nintellectual\u2015\u2015_i.e._, possessing no sensible traits\u2015\u2015if we lose sight\nof the word which represents it. Affirmation and negation are of this\nsort, and it is entirely impossible to disconnect the idea of either\nfrom some word or series of words. The idea, indeed, is not the spoken\nword, but is painted by it as it were on the canvas of the mind, and\nhence was called by Aristotle the word of the mind. All this is\nattested in the case of aphasics. The language-mechanism of the brain\nis disarranged; there is forgetfulness of words, accompanied by\ninability to arrange them in proper order so as to be remembered; the\nideational centre remains intact, but is inoperative with regard to\nsuch thoughts as have their sole symbol in words.\n\nIt is true that some aphasic individuals retain for a time certain\nimpressions which belong to the purely intellectual order; but this\ncan be accounted for only by supposing that the brain centres of\nideation are endowed with certain registering powers capable of\nretaining impressions for a short while after their active operation\nis suspended. But when the disease is of long continuance those\nimpressions gradually fade, and the patient is reduced to the\ncondition of an untaught deaf mute. He has lost the formul\u00e6 of\nthought, and therefore cannot think. Trousseau says: \u201cA great thinker,\nas well as a great mathematician, cannot devote himself to\ntranscendental speculations unless he uses formul\u00e6 and a thousand\nmaterial accessories which aid his mind, relieve his memory, and\nimpart greater strength to thought by giving it greater precision.\u201d\nBut where the sole \u201cmaterial accessory,\u201d as Trousseau calls it, is\nabsent, how can a person think? We use the word in a higher sense; for\nchildren incapable of speech, and animals, exercise a certain amount\nof thought in respect to surrounding objects; but thinking, in the\nsense of reasoning, abstracting, and comparing, outlies their\ncapacity, just as it does that of aphasic individuals. \u201cWithout\nlanguage,\u201d says Schelling, \u201cit is impossible to conceive\nphilosophical, nay, even any human, consciousness; and hence the\nfoundations of language could not have been laid consciously.\nNevertheless, the more we analyze language, the more clearly we see\nthat it surpasses in depth the most conscious workings of the mind.\u201d\nAnd Hegel says: \u201cIt is in names that we think.\u201d This exactly explains\nwhat occurs in the case of aphasics. The principles of science, the\nsequence of ideas, the links of an argument, are not understood by\nthem; for they are, as children and animals, capable merely of\nreceiving the impressions which material objects make on their sensory\norgans. It is true that a few aphasics have been known to be expert\nchess-players; and though this is as hard to account for as the\napparent feats of reasoning accomplished by animals of the lower\norder, still we would no more rank expertness at such a game among the\nhigher attributes of reason than we would the sagacity of a dog or of\nan elephant.\n\nThis point is well touched upon by Trousseau, who says: \u201cI believe\nthat the same thing obtains in metaphysics as in geometry. In the\nlatter case a man may vaguely conceive space and infinity without any\nprecision or measure; but if he wishes to think of the properties of\nspace, and more particularly of the special properties of the figures\nwhich bound space\u2015\u2015as, say, conic sections\u2015\u2015it is impossible that his\nmind does not immediately see the curves proper to a parabola, a\nhyperbola, and an ellipse. In metaphysics, on the other hand, I\nbelieve that a man cannot think of the special properties of beauty,\njustice, and truth, for instance, without immediately giving a\nmaterial form, as it were, to his thoughts, by using concrete\nexamples, and without associating words together\u2015\u2015words which\nrepresent concrete ideas, and which then stand in the same relation to\nparticular metaphysical ideas as figures do to determinate geometric\nideas.\u201d\n\nThe same may be said of universal ideas. These are, subjectively\nviewed, mere concepts of the mind; objectively they have a foundation\nin the object. Now, that object is present to the aphasic, and he\nrecognizes it by its sensible properties; but when there is question\nof viewing one or two properties as possessed in common by a number of\nobjects, he finds himself unequal to the task. In a word, he cannot\ngeneralize, and this is one of the highest acts of reason.\n\nWe would insist upon the distinction between words representing purely\nmaterial objects and those which interpret to us supersensible\nthoughts; for not a few physiologists have fallen into error by not\nobserving this distinction. Thus Prof. Ferrier, of the West Riding\nLunatic Asylum, says: \u201cIn aphasia, consequent as it usually is on\ndisease of the left hemisphere, the memory of words is not lost, nor\nis the person incapable of appreciating the meaning of words uttered\nin his hearing.\u201d From this it is evident that the learned professor\nneglected to note the distinction alluded to; and because an aphasic\ndid not fail to appreciate the meaning of certain words representing\nmaterial things, therefore he concluded in a general way that he did\nnot fail to appreciate the meaning of words. Indeed, we have nowhere\nnoted the distinction, and it is curious that, in all the cases\nrecorded of the clinical history of this disease, physicians have\ninvariably propounded to their patients as test-words such words as\nfork, spoon, pen, boots, and all such as pertain to the material order\nof things. Prof. Whitney certainly did not take note of these facts\nwhen he asserted the entire independence between language and thought.\nHe regards man as capable of conceiving new thoughts apart from all\nrepresentative symbols, and then finding for them a vocal expression.\nThis, as we have seen, is in direct antagonism with the data of\naphasia. The chief flaw in Prof. Whitney\u2019s reasoning is that he starts\nfrom false premises when he limits language to mere spoken or\narticulate sounds. He seems to ignore the question when he says: \u201cIn\nall our investigations of language we find nothing which should lead\nus to surmise that an intellectual apprehension could ever, by an\ninternal process, become transmuted into an articulated sound or\ncomplex of sounds.\u201d The implied premise in this sentence is erroneous,\nsince it is entirely possible that it be associated with some other\nsymbol, borrowed from a material source, which is its language, its\nexpression, and makes it something entirely distinct from the\nintellectual apprehension. Indeed, here lies the secret of\nmetaphorical language, and of its extensive use among those tribes of\nmen whose philosophical vocabulary is limited.\n\n\n\n\n LIGHT AND SHADOW.\n\n\n In golden pomp at morn and eve\n The purple mountains rise,\n With banners bright of waving green\n Gay flaunting to the skies;\n But upward toiling, panting, slow,\n Patient the fleetest step must go.\n\n A winding pathway through the vale\n Entices weary feet;\n The shining waters sing of peace,\n The morning breeze is sweet;\n But nook or covert there is none\n To shelter from the noonday sun.\n\n The fainting trav\u2019ller turns aside\n To seek the woodland shade\u2015\u2015\n Beyond the thicket, stretching cool,\n Invites the mossy glade\u2015\u2015\n But thorny is the tangled way,\n And devious paths his steps betray.\n\n The fleeciest cloud that graceful floats\n In summer skies of light,\n Within a veil of tender mist\n Conceals the tempest\u2019s might;\n And winds that stir with softest breath\n Are freighted with the seeds of death.\n\n The loveliest blossom that unfolds\n Its beauty to the day\n Must yield its treasured fragrance up,\n Then droop and fade away;\n And greenwood birds that sweetest sing\n Are soonest gone on flitting wing.\n\n The undertone of earth\u2019s delights\n In sorrow\u2019s pensive sigh\n Is mingled with the echoing breeze\n Ere joy\u2019s glad accents die\u2015\u2015\n Of all the strains that saddest float\n Are requiems blent with triumph\u2019s note.\n\nCHICAGO, October 14.\n\n\n\n\nJEAN INGELOW\u2019S POEMS.[131]\n\nJean Ingelow is now over fifty years of age. For some time past she\nhas devoted herself chiefly to graceful prose, in which her pure and\nplayful imagination seems to have found sufficient vent. She can never\nbe removed from the company of the poets, however, notwithstanding her\napparent purpose of withdrawal, so far as we may surmise a possible\ndesign by her neglect of versification.\n\nThat she has demonstrated her possession of genuine poetic feeling\ncannot be denied. The volume before us is sufficient proof of this.\nWhenever she has permitted herself to be simple, lucid, and natural,\nher verses\u2019 not only please\u2015\u2015they charm. She is one of the minor poets\nsincerely beloved\u2015\u2015not in so great a degree as Adelaide Procter, or\nChristina Rossetti, because she is not equally successful in\nexpressing the universal sentiments of the heart, and because she\nwanders from the unambitious poetry of natural feeling into the tricky\nand artificial, whither the multitude will not voluntarily follow. She\nis not always in one mood, as Adelaide Procter is; and her joy, when\nsincere, and not fictitious and artful, is sometimes exceedingly\nattractive and\u2015\u2015what is its truest test\u2015\u2015becomes infectious, pervading\nthe reader\u2019s mind and carrying the emotions away into its own\natmosphere.\n\nWe never smile at Adelaide Procter\u2019s joy. Her smiles are sadder than\nher tears. She smiles like a dying saint, whose pallid features\nproclaim that the effort is inspired by something higher and more\nmysterious than the pleasure of the world. It is as Shakspere says:\n\u201cSeldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort, as if he mocked himself,\nand scorned his spirit, that could be moved to smile at anything.\u201d\n\nJean Ingelow possesses enough perception of real humor to throw, here\nand there, winsome flashes of merriment over very sombre pictures,\nespecially in _genre_ scenes like that depicted in \u201cThe Supper at the\nMill.\u201d Indeed, it may be safe to say that if she unloosed the flimsy\nchains of artificiality in which she has bound her muse, that very\naffected maid would prove frolicsome and mischievous; but her mistress\nprefers a decorousness of behavior which, by this time, must have\ndulled her own sense of the ludicrous, while supplying additional\nkeenness in that direction to her critics, and furnishing new and\nirresistible models for hilarious parody, as we shall see.\n\nIt is impossible to read through a volume of her poems without coming\nto this conclusion: that she has a poetic stock-in-trade. Let us make\nan inventory of it. First, there are the birds; secondly, certain\nflowers and grasses; thirdly, a set of stereotypes composed of\npeculiar comminglings of sea, sky, ships, and stars. This poetic stock\nis, as it were, all duly classified and labelled, and the whole is\narranged with scientific calculation as to drafts, at intervals, upon\nthe several departments. Matthew Arnold,[132] modestly defending his\nown attempts toward translating Homer into English hexameter, hopes to\nmake it clear that he at least follows \u201ca right method,\u201d and that, if\nhe fail, it is \u201cfrom weakness of execution, not from original vice of\ndesign.\u201d Jean Ingelow is guilty, we think, of \u201coriginal vice of\ndesign.\u201d \u201cWeakness of execution\u201d is infallibly certain to follow. In\nselecting her poetic stock\u2015\u2015which is, in itself, vice of design\u2015\u2015she\ndeepens the folly by being persistently fantastical. It is not enough\nto choose birds, grasses, and particular flowers\u2015\u2015these are an\nintegral part of all descriptive poetry; but, in order to make them\nher especial poetic stock, she calls them by a curious and grotesque\nnomenclature, whose terms were undoubtedly devised with an ultimate\nview toward picturesque artificial composition. Her birds are not the\nsweet-syllabled singers of classic song; she eschews the nightingale\nand lark for jackdaws, wagtails, grouse, coot, rail, cushat, and mews.\nHer grasses and flowers are less grotesque and better adapted to\nsentimentalism in style: marigolds, foxglove, heather, daffodils\u2015\u2015very\nfond is she of daffodils\u2015\u2015orchis, bluebells, golden-broom, vetches,\nanemone, clover\u2015\u2015her muse is very often in clover\u2015\u2015ling, marybuds,\ncowslips, and cuckoo-pint. The bee appears with industrious frequency;\nhis colors and his business are alike serviceable in a kind of\ncomposition both picturesque and fantastic, He is as full of available\nverbal suggestion as of honey. The ships are invariably bowing to each\nother, to the land, or to the port. The figure is a good one, and\ntrue, but its recurrence soon renders it tiresome and exposes the\ndryness of the poet\u2019s fancy. And after all Shakspere has been\nbeforehand with her. In the _Merchant of Venice_ Antonio is told that\nhis mind is tossing on the ocean, where his argosies with portly sail,\nlike signiors and rich burghers of the flood,\n\n \u201cDo overpeer the petty traffickers,\n _That curt\u2019sy to them_, do them reverence,\n As they fly by them with their woven wings.\u201d\n\nThe sea\u2015\u2015which has supplied all the poets, from Homer down, with noble\nand beautiful images, lofty, grand, awful, terrible, or simply\nlovely,\u2015\u2015the sea to Jean Ingelow is as a sleek servant who comes in to\nfill up a gap in the discourse or provide a necessary digression in\nthe narrative. \u201cA Sea Song\u201d contains nothing of the sea except \u201csalt\nsea foam\u201d repeated. Her sea, stars, sun, and moon are all domestic.\nThey perform no higher functions than the pipes of parsley or \u201cthe\ngreen ribbon\u201d that \u201cpranks the down.\u201d Her sun either \u201cstoops\u201d or is\n\u201clevel\u201d; her moon \u201cdroops\u201d; the sea is usually \u201clevel,\u201d and when\ndisturbed, never awakens any sense of the sublime. Nothing more than\nher apparent imbecility in poetic treatment of the sea is wanting to\ndispose of the hope that Jean Ingelow can ever become a better poet\nthan she appeared to be in her first volume.\n\nMrs. Browning, in one of her earlier efforts, \u201cThe Seraphim,\u201d makes\nAdor and Zerah speak of \u201cthe glass sea-shore.\u201d But we do not remember\nnoting a recurrence of the expression throughout her tens of thousands\nof lines. Mrs. Browning seems to have been conscious that she was\nunequal to an adequate depicting of marine grandeur, and she rarely\nattempts it, except in an instant\u2019s lofty sweep remindful of Homer\u2015\u2015as\nif she caught a single breath of his inspiration, and pressed it into\nher verse. She had more imagination than Jean Ingelow; Jean has the\nreadier fancy. Mrs. Browning\u2019s conceptions of the awe and beauty of\nthe sea were far above her power of description, whose efforts are\noften turgid and swell into bombast; so she does not attempt, except\nin modest discretion, to write of the sea at all. Miss Ingelow, on the\ncontrary, discovers the ocean only at her feet, or through the limited\nvision of a pretty opera-glass. Thus it becomes a mere commonplace in\nher stanzas; she is frivolous where Mrs. Browning would have been\nturgid had she not been cautious.\n\nThe sea, indeed, has wrecked most of the poets who did not hug the\nshore. Only the few greatest of the number have been able, like Jason,\nto tempt its unknown breadth, and fewer still return from Colchis\nwithout a Medea to torment them. The sea will always be the final\ntouchstone of poetic genius. Of recent poets, Tennyson has been most\nambitious and most successful; but his best ocean views may be seen\nfrom along the shores of the _\u00c6neid_. The little \u2019scapes which are\nstrictly his own are artificial and under-done; his pigment is only\nthe residuum of lapis-lazuli\u2015\u2015ultramarine ashes.\n\nJean Ingelow\u2019s \u201cvice of design\u201d is very sadly shown, too, in her\nvocabulary. She wanders about in dusty, unused dictionaries, searching\nout odd, obsolete, obscure, and ambiguous words. Because a term is\nconfessedly obsolete is no sound reason why it should not be revived;\nbut there is no justification for inserting it in a text where it must\nplay the unbecoming part of a conspicuous intruder who can make no\nsatisfactory excuse for his presence in uncongenial company. Where the\nsilenced lexicons do not afford the desired material, she is not loath\nto make new combinations, and we are harassed by \u201cbewrayed,\u201d \u201camerce,\u201d\n\u201cancientry,\u201d \u201cthrid,\u201d \u201cscorpe,\u201d \u201ceygre,\u201d \u201cchine,\u201d \u201cbrattling,\u201d etc.\nThe best illustration of the artificiality and affectation of her\nstyle is found in one of her most pleasing and most popular poems, and\nit would be deservedly much more popular were these blemishes of\netymology and simperings of rhetoric removed. We quote stanzas enough\nof \u201cDivided\u201d to exhibit her individuality both of thought and diction:\n\n \u201cAn empty sky, a world of heather,\n Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom;\n We two among them, wading together,\n Shaking out honey, treading perfume.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cFlusheth the rise with her purple favor,\n Groweth the cleft with her golden ring,\n \u2019Twixt the two brown butterflies waver,\n Lightly settle, and sleepily swing.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cHey the green ribbon! We kneeled beside it,\n We parted the grasses, dewy and sheen;\n Drop over drop there filtered and slided\n A tiny bright beck that trickled between.\n\n \u201cTinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us,\n Light was our talk as of fa\u00ebry bells,\u2015\u2015\n Fa\u00ebry wedding bells faintly rung to us\n Down in their fortunate parallels.\u201d\n\nThe \u201cbeck\u201d grows into a widening stream and divides them.\n\n \u201cA shady freshness, chafers whirring,\n A little piping of leaf-hid birds;\n A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring,\n A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cStately prows are rising and bowing\n (Shouts of mariners winnow the air),\n And level sands for banks endowing\n The tiny green ribbon that shows so fair.\u201d\n\nIn the last two verses Miss Ingelow, unconsciously forgetting her\nprevious straining after literal effects, writes these true thoughts,\nwhich are the most finely poetical in the entire poem:\n\n \u201cAnd yet I know past all doubting, truly\u2015\u2015\n A knowledge greater than grief can dim,\n I know, as he loved, he will love me duly,\n Yea better, e\u2019en better than I loved him.\n\n \u201cAnd as I walk by the vast, calm river,\n The awful river so dread to see.\n I say, \u2018Thy breadth and thy depth for ever\n Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me.\u2019\u201d\n\nOnly artificial poems can be well parodied, and the parody holds the\nmirror up to the artifices, so that even the author must make\nconfession. The cleverest burlesques which have reached the public of\nlate, reproducing in an exaggerated form the faults of the modern\naffected school of poetry, are those of C. S. Calverley.[133] The\nmerit of his rhymed farces\u2015\u2015which is precisely what he makes of his\nmodels\u2015\u2015is nowhere more happily illustrated than in the following,\nwhich needs no introduction. It is entitled \u201cLovers, and a Reflection\u201d:\n\n \u201cIn moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter\n (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;\n Meaning, however, is no great matter),\n Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;\n\n \u201cThrough God\u2019s own heather we wonned together,\n I and my Willie (O love, my love!);\n I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,\n And flitterbats wavered alow, above;\n\n \u201cBoats were curtsying, rising, bowing\n (Boats in that climate are so polite),\n And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,\n And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!\n\n \u201cThrough the rare red heather we danced together\n (O love, my Willie!), and smelt for flowers;\n I must mention again it was gorgeous weather\u2015\u2015\n Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:\u2015\u2015\n\n \u201cBy rises that flushed with their purple favors,\n Thro\u2019 becks that brattled o\u2019er grasses sheen,\n We walked or waded, we two young shavers,\n Thanking our stars we were both so green.\n\n \u201cWe journeyed in parallels, I and Willie\u2015\u2015\n In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,\n Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly\n Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes;\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cAnd Willie \u2019gan sing (O, his notes were fluty;\n Wafts fluttered them out to the white winged sea)\u2015\u2015\n Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,\n Rhymes (better to put it) of \u2018ancientry\u2019;\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cOh! if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,\n And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,\n Could be furled together this genial weather,\n And carted, or carried, on wafts away,\n Nor ever again trotted out\u2015\u2015ay me!\n How much fewer volumes of verse there\u2019d be!\u201d\n\nMiss Ingelow\u2019s most pretentious poem, next to \u201cDivided,\u201d is the\n\u201cLetter L.\u201d It has all her characteristic faults, intensified by a\ncurious jog-trot metre:\n\n \u201cWe sat on grassy slopes that meet\n With sudden dip the level strand;\n The trees hung overhead\u2015\u2015our feet\n Were on the sand.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cAnd let alighting jackdaws fleet\n Adown it open-winged, and pass\n Till they could touch with outstretched feet\n The warm\u00e8d grass.\u201d\n\nAnd so on. Calverley has a little versification entitled \u201cChanged.\u201d\nMark how ingeniously adroit he is in getting the jog-trot:\n\n \u201cI know not why my soul is racked\n Why I ne\u2019er smile as was my wont;\n I only know that, as a fact,\n I don\u2019t.\n\n \u201cI used to roam o\u2019er glen and glade,\n Buoyant and blithe as other folk:\n And not unfrequently I made\n A joke.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cI cannot sing the old songs now!\n It is not that I deem them low;\n \u2019Tis that I can\u2019t remember how\n They go.\u201d\n\nCalverley\u2019s exhilarating volume, by the way, is not all parody; many\nof its numbers are original expressions of as pure fun, capitally\nexpressed, as mirth ever conceived or art wove into verse.\n\nJean Ingelow is not altogether artificial. Occasionally she writes a\nterse truth:\n\n \u201cOne striking with a pickaxe thinks the shock\n Shall move the seat of God\u201d;\n\nor falls into a simple, unaffected strain:\n\n \u201cFar better in its place the lowliest bird\n Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song,\n Than that a seraph strayed should take the word\n And sing His glory wrong.\u201d\n\nHers is that oft-quoted couplet:\n\n \u201cIs there never a chink in the world above\n Where they listen for words from below?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Carpenter,\u201d relating the touching story of his wife\u2019s death to\n\u201cThe Scholar,\u201d says with happy directness:\n\n \u201c\u2019Tis sometimes natural to be glad;\n And no man can be always sad,\n Unless he wills to have it so.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire\u201d is widely popularized by\nlyceum readers, who find its energy well fitted for semi-dramatic\nrecitation; and certain divisions of the \u201cSongs of Seven,\u201d notably\n\u201cLove\u201d and \u201cGiving in Marriage,\u201d possess lyrical richness.\n\nThe thought of Jean Ingelow\u2019s poems is always clean-of-heart; she\neschews\u2015\u2015generally\u2015\u2015psychological tendencies, and, although far from\nlucid, her longer flights of speculation are merely curious, obscure,\nand fanciful rather than vicious or misleading. Indeed, according to\nher measure of grace, she is abjectly devout, worshipping with Eastern\nblindness a Deity of whose attributes she conceives only one\u2015\u2015Love;\nand, in the humble resignation of a sightless child, she casts herself\ninto the arms of her notion of what that Love is, and rests there,\ncontent to seek no knowledge outside herself. But even within these\nsacred limits her disposition to artificiality in expression\nunconsciously enters, to mar, with incongruous ornament, the limpid\nthought:\n\n \u201cFor, O my God! thy creatures are so frail,\n Thy bountiful creation is so fair,\n That, drawn before us, like the Temple veil,\n It hides the Holy Place from thought and care,\n Giving man\u2019s eyes instead its sweeping fold.\n Rich as with cherub wings and apples wrought of gold.\n\n \u201cPurple and blue and scarlet\u2015\u2015shimmering bells\n And rare pomegranates on its broidered rim,\n Glorious with chain and fretwork that the smell\n Of incense shakes to music dreamy and dim,\n Till on a day comes loss, that God makes gain,\n And death and darkness rend the veil in twain.\u201d\n\nLiteral criticism of Jean Ingelow is, however, abashed and almost\nsilenced by the essence of her verse, which, in its chastity and\nbeauty, is above the touch of cavil. She is one of our few\ncontemporaneous poets who can look upon the face of her own work\nwithout a blush. Apparently past the zenith of her productive talent,\nshe may look gratefully back upon her modest and constant rise, and\nsay:\n\n \u201cNothing is here for tears, nothing to wail\n Or knock the breast.\u201d\n\nShe need not avert her gaze from any line, and plead that the public\nforgets it was hers and a woman\u2019s. Wanting the genius of poetry, her\ninspiration has been only that of intense poetic feeling wrought out\nby the canons of verse; but, although only one of many in this\nrespect, the work itself is far above the average of its class.\n\n \u201cMany fervent souls\n Strike rhyme on rhyme who would strike steel on steel,\n If steel had offered, in a restless heat\n Of doing something. Many tender souls\n Have strung their losses on a rhyming thread,\n As children cowslips\u2015\u2015the more pains they take,\n The work more withers \u2026\n \u2026 Alas! near all the birds\n Will sing at dawn, and yet we do not take\n The chaffering swallow for the holy lark.\u201d\n\nWhile the popular magazines and the newspapers are daily lowering the\nstandard of taste, and degrading and corrupting the sources of\nliterary enjoyment as well as of personal honor and actual virtue, the\nregret is irresistible that a pleasing versifier like Jean Ingelow\nshould not contribute more to a total of general reading into which\nwhat is known as \u201cpopular poetry\u201d so largely enters.\n\n\n [131] _Jean Ingelow\u2019s Poems._ Boston: Roberts Brothers.\n\n [132] _Essays in Criticism_, p. 334.\n\n [133] _Fly-Leaves._ By C. S. C.\n\n\n\n\nNEW PUBLICATIONS.\n\n\n TERRA INCOGNITA; OR, THE CONVENTS OF THE UNITED KINGDOM. By John\n Nicholas Murphy. London: Burns & Oates. (For sale by The Catholic\n Publication Society.)\n\nAn unknown land indeed is this that Mr. Murphy traverses\u2015\u2015unknown, it\nis to be feared, not only to his \u201cProtestant fellow-subjects of Great\nBritain and Ireland, for whose information it has been written\u201d and to\nwhom it is dedicated by the author, but also to too many of his\nCatholic fellow subjects, as well as to Catholics generally. The book\nis, in brief, a history of the growth and spread of the religious\nOrders in Great Britain and Ireland, the greater portion of it being\ndevoted to their work and increase since a removal of the penal\nstatutes enabled them to return in safety to the United Kingdom. The\ninterest of the narrative is simply absorbing. The work accomplished\nby the Orders in face of a multitude of difficulties and dangers seems\nlittle short of the miraculous. They crept back singly or in little\ngroups from France and Belgium, whence the first French Revolution\ndrove them out. Thither they had flown for refuge when the greater\nrevolution of the sixteenth century banished them and their faith from\nwhat had been a land of saints. Units gathered units, brothers\nbrothers, sisters sisters, Congregations other Congregations, Orders\naffiliated Orders, and within less than a century we behold the\nconsecrated yet desecrated soil of England and Ireland dotted with\nreligious houses, asylums, schools, colleges, where the old faith is\ntaught and practised. Those who are in search of the heroic, the\nsensational, the pathetic, the marvellous, should read this book.\nTheir appetite will be satisfied with a healthy food. It is the old\nstory over and over again of what can be accomplished by those who are\nreally inflamed with a love of God and their neighbor. No one can rise\nfrom the story of St. Vincent de Paul or Nano Nagle without a\nmoistening of the eye and a better feeling in his heart.\n\nMr. Murphy\u2019s book was published some years ago, and the extracts from\nsecular and Protestant journals in Great Britain and Ireland show how\ntruly he met a popular want at a time when men like Mr. Newdegate were\nbent on satisfying their own morbid curiosity and insane hatred of\nCatholicity by forcing themselves on the peaceful communities of\nCatholic ladies. If we have any Newdegates among us, they would do\nwell to take up Mr. Murphy\u2019s volume, and see for themselves how these\n\u201cdark and cloistered women\u201d spend their lives. The present volume is a\nnew and improved edition. As the author tells us in the preface, \u201cThe\nstatistics of convents have been largely amplified and brought down to\nthe present day. Several chapters have been re-written, and eleven new\nchapters have been introduced.\u201d\n\n\n THE CATHOLIC\u2019S LATIN INSTRUCTOR IN THE PRINCIPAL CHURCH OFFICES AND\n DEVOTIONS. For the use of choirs, convents, and mission schools,\n and for self-teaching. By the Rev. E. Caswall, of the Oratory.\n London: Burns & Oates. 1876. (For sale by The Catholic Publication\n Society.)\n\nFather Caswall has done the Catholic laity a great service by this\n_Instructor_. As he truly observes in his preface, \u201cA knowledge of\nLatin is not needed for Catholic worship.\u2026 Nevertheless, to those\nwhose education admits of it an acquaintance with those portions of\nthe Latin Liturgy which are in most frequent public use must ever be a\nlegitimate and worthy object of interest.\u201d Accordingly, he has put\nhimself to the very considerable trouble of preparing a manual, which,\nalthough an experiment, will be found, we have no doubt, all that is\nneeded for enabling the laity of either sex, who have an English\neducation, to make themselves familiar with the language of the\nchurch\u2019s liturgy. It deals with grammar as little as possible, he\nsays, yet there will be found in Part II. more grammar than his words\nmay lead us to suppose. Moreover, there are ample directions given, at\nevery turn, for the right use of the book.\n\nThe work is primarily designed, as the title-page indicates, for\nchoirs and mission-schools. With regard to choirs, it is superfluous\nto observe how much better and more pleasing to God is an intelligent\nthan a non-intelligent singing of the Latin. With regard to schools,\nespecially those where elementary instruction in secular Latin is\ngiven, \u201cCatholics will enjoy,\u201d says our author, \u201cin the _living_\ncharacter of the language as used in the church offices, a great and\nsingular advantage.\u201d And further, \u201cWhat better _food for the mind_ can\nwe offer to our children,\u201d he asks, \u201cthan the simple translation from\nLatin into English\u2015\u2015after a method easy alike to girls or boys\u2015\u2015of\nwhat they constantly hear and often join in singing in church?\u201d Then,\nas to the adult laity, there is \u201ca large class of persons who, while\nprovided with missals and prayer-books abounding in Latin text and\nside-by-side translations, yet, from want of a very little practical\ninsight, fail to derive from these manuals the advantage intended.\nOthers there are, devout persons of either sex, who might greatly\nprofit by the occasional use of Latin prayers, but are restrained (and\nladies especially) by an idea that in order to this they must first\nhave a complete knowledge of Latin. Such a bugbear\u2015\u2015for it is little\nelse\u2015\u2015will, let us hope, quickly yield to a steady practice of the\npresent exercises.\u201d\n\nThe work consists of two Parts: \u201cPart I. containing Benediction, the\nchoir portions of Mass, the Serving at Mass, and various Latin prayers\nin ordinary use; Part II. comprising additional portions of the Mass,\nRequiem Mass, Litany of the Saints, Vespers, Compline, and other\noffices and devotions, with a short Grammar and Vocabulary.\u201d\n\nThe only stricture we have to make regards the pronunciation of _A_.\nThe author says: \u201c_A_, when fully sounded, is to be pronounced as _a_\nin _far_. Examples: Pater, _Par_ter; laudamus, laud_ar_mus; ora,\nor_ar_.\u201d This is a very strange mistake. Had he heard, as we have,\n\u201cGlori_ar_ _r_in in excelsis,\u201d \u201cBenedict_ar_ _r_es,\u201d \u201csuper omni_ar_\n_r_est,\u201d etc., he would never have directed that \u201c_a_ should be\npronounced as _a_ in _far_.\u201d We are aware that the English _r_ is\nfainter than the Irish or American. Still, should not _h_ be\nsubstituted for _r_ in the above? P_ah_ter, laud_ah_mus, or_ah_ are\nthe exact sounds.\n\nWith this very small exception, then, we can only speak of Father\nCaswall\u2019s manual with unqualified praise, and hope it may obtain the\nwide circulation it deserves.\n\n\n ECCLESIASTICAL DISCOURSES DELIVERED ON SPECIAL OCCASIONS. By Bishop\n Ullathorne. London: Burns & Oates. 1876. (For sale by The Catholic\n Publication Society.)\n\n\u201cThese discourses,\u201d says their distinguished author in his preface,\n\u201care called ecclesiastical because they were either addressed to\necclesiastics or treat on ecclesiastical subjects. They form a volume\nembracing certain points of pastoral theology\u2015\u2015a subject on which we\nhave very little that is Catholic in our language, if we except the\nexcellent little book by Canon Oakeley.\u201d They will therefore be\nspecially valuable to our clergy, while, at the same time, the bishop\n\u201ctrusts there is much in them which may offer solid instruction to\nthoughtful Catholic laymen.\u201d One of the most important, and the one to\nwhich we particularly invite the attention of our readers, both\nclerical and lay, is that on mixed marriages, \u201cdelivered on occasion\nof the Fourth Diocesan Synod of Birmingham.\u201d Bishop Ullathorne is not\nafraid to speak plainly on this subject. Indeed, his language is\nstartling but leaves no room for question of its truth. He speaks,\ntoo, from an extensive experience of the evils resulting from mixed\nmarriages. Here is a passage (the italics are our own), p. 89:\n\n\u201cIt would be as unjust as ungenerous not to admit that there _are_\nProtestants who loyally keep the promises they have made in marriage\nwith Catholics, and who truly respect the faith and religious\nexercises of their Catholic spouse, and fulfil their pledges\nrespecting the education of their children. _But_ prudence looks to\n_what generally happens_, and not to the exceptional cases. And wisdom\nnever runs any serious risks in matters of the soul. _The individuals,\nand even the families, that have fallen from the church through mixed\nmarriages, amount to numbers incredible to those who have not examined\nthe question thoroughly_; and the number of Catholics bound at this\nmoment in mixed marriages, who live in a hard and bitter conflict for\nthe exercise of their religion, for that of their children, and in\ncertain cases for the soundness of their moral life, could they, with\nall the facts, be known, would deter any thoughtful Catholic from\ncontracting a mixed marriage.\u201d\n\nThe bishop has extended this discourse in order to give the early\ndiscipline of the church on the matter. He further makes his argument\nimpregnable by citations from popes and councils. Moreover, he\nconcludes the instruction \u201cwith an admirable passage from the synodal\naddress published by the hierarchy of Australia\u201d; and the condition of\nCatholics in Australia, as regards the ordinary excuses for mixed\nmarriages, bears striking resemblance, be it remembered, to their\nposition here.\n\n\n EVERY-DAY TOPICS: A Book of Briefs. By J. G. Holland. New York:\n Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1876.\n\nTo one person at least, and to one only, this volume of _Topics_ is\nlikely to be of lasting interest. That person is the author. The\n_Topics_ are short articles on a variety of subjects which have\nappeared from month to month in Scribner\u2019s magazine. They are of about\nthe average length of an ordinary newspaper article, and of about\nequal depth. They lack the newspaper liveliness, however, and the\nEnglish is in great part of that slipshod style that is mistaken by so\nmany nowadays for an evidence of careless strength. \u201cFamiliarly\ndidactic\u201d is the character that Dr. Holland in his preface seems to\nclaim for this and others of his books, and the very phrase stamps the\nman. The book is tiresome, prosy, and fussy. Any one of the articles\nis too long for its purpose; what, then, must a volume of them be?\n\nDr. Holland is apparently a Christian or nothing. He is for ever\nprating about \u201cthe church\u201d and attacking \u201cthe world.\u201d It is to be\nfeared that his Christianity is of a very vague character. His zeal is\nunfortunately without knowledge. He is constantly making grave\nmistakes with the most solemn confidence in his own infallibility, and\nthunders away on every kind of subject with a \u201ctrenchant ignorance\u201d\nthat would be amusing did it not touch such grave matters. Dr. Holland\nmay have the best intentions in the world, but he would do well to\nweigh his words a little before undertaking to champion \u201cthe church.\u201d\nWhat particular \u201cchurch\u201d is he for ever defending? The Christian\nChurch, he would doubtless reply. But which is the Christian Church?\nThis is a question that Dr. Holland is quite capable of undertaking to\ndecide in a future \u201cTopic,\u201d and he would do not only his own readers\nbut the world at large infinite service by making this matter clear\nonce for all.\n\nWe are quite justified in putting this question to Dr. Holland; for\neverybody knows what a Catholic means when he speaks of \u201cthe church.\u201d\nBut in Dr. Holland\u2019s \u201cchurch\u201d it is doubtful whether Catholics are\nallowed a place. At least, we should judge so from the manner in which\nhe treats of them whenever their name occurs in the _Topics_.\n\n\n LINKED LIVES. By Lady Gertrude Douglas. New York: Benziger Brothers.\n 1876.\n\nThe English Catholic journals greeted this story with such an unusual\nflourish of trumpets that we were led to expect something\nextraordinary in the way of novel-writing. It is extraordinary in no\nsense. It is not even extraordinarily bad. It is eminently dull,\naltogether commonplace, and only saved from utter insipidity by here\nand there an indication of real power.\n\nOf course it relies for its main interest on the good old English\nCatholic story-theme\u2015\u2015conversion. To relieve the monotony of this\nsubject, probably, the author sprinkled the narrative with dashes of\nwhat is meant for sensation. She takes us to the dens of thieves, to\nthe reformatory, the prison, the court of justice. Such scenes may be\nrendered exciting\u2015\u2015by a Dickens or a Victor Hugo. We are very happy to\nsee that Lady Gertrude Douglas is not at all at home among them. All\nthis portion of the book reads pretty much like an ordinary police\nreport, and all the desire in the world on the reader\u2019s part cannot\ninvest Katie McKay or any of her companions with even a touch of the\ninterest that Dickens threw around Nancy Sykes. Such themes should not\nbe touched at all unless they can be made elevating. It takes a very\nexperienced, strong, yet tender hand to bare the ulcers and foul sores\nof society. The process is a most delicate one. If well done, it\nexcites pity, remorse, sorrow, indignation, that such things can be\namong Christian peoples; if ill done, it is revolting and only excites\ndisgust.\n\nGreat pains have been bestowed on the delineation of the character of\nMabel Forrester, and not without success. Indeed, she and her brother\nGuy, who is killed off too early, are almost the only interesting\npersons in the volume. By the way, what a lugubrious story it is!\nEverybody is constantly down at the mouth. Poor Guy is killed at a\nyacht-race, which he has just won. Katie McKay throws herself into the\nsea with her babe, which has been chloroformed (!) by Katie\u2019s sister;\nand we could almost wish that Katie had been left in the sea. She is\ndragged out, however, to receive two years\u2019 imprisonment. The rascal\nwhom she married dies in prison. Her sister dies in her bed, but with\na strong intimation that she is likely to be consigned to the lower\nregions. There are several other deaths of minor consequence; and\nfinally, after being induced to accompany Mabel on a voyage to\nAustralia, to assist at her wedding with her elderly lover, Hugh\nFortescue\u2015\u2015who, of course, is in the last stage of consumption at the\ntime\u2015\u2015the vessel takes fire and Mabel perishes. Equally of course,\nHugh, as soon as he receives the news, dies also, \u201caged fifty-three,\u201d\nas the tombstone erected to his memory in Australia informs us.\nSurely, after all this, we may say with Macbeth that we have \u201csupped\nfull of horrors,\u201d and, like him also, we feel none the better for\nthem.\n\nA great fault with the book, too, is that the fate of every one is\nforeshadowed early in the story, and the recurrence of such remarks as\n\u201cBut we must not anticipate,\u201d \u201cBut of that anon,\u201d is peculiarly\nexasperating when the whole murder is out in the very sentence that\noccasions such a remark. The convert-making is far too labored, and\nthere is too much of it.\n\nWe should not have been at the unpleasing pains to write of this book\nas we have done, did we not see signs in it of a really good Catholic\nstory-writer, who is likely to be spoiled for any future work worthy\nof the name by the injudicious praise which has been lavished on this,\nwhich we take to be her first book. The lady can describe natural\nscenery well, can touch a tender chord with true pathos, can display\nstrength at times. She only needs more interest of plot, and to avoid\nscenes and characters of which she knows little or nothing. All the\nplot in the present volume consists of the slowly-dragged-out\nconversion of Mabel to Catholicity\u2015\u2015which religion clashes with the\ncreed of the elderly and by no means pleasant parson to whom she is\naffianced\u2015\u2015and the consequent breaking off of the match. Finally he\nalso is converted, and the _d\u00e9no\u00fbment_ is as given above. To tag five\nhundred and twenty-five pages of a story on a plot of such very\nslender device is rather overweighting it. The French scenes are the\nbest in the book, and even they are needlessly marred by what the\nauthor doubtless considers a beauty\u2015\u2015the supposed literal translation\nof the French characters\u2019 speech into English, which is a barbarism.\n\n\n THE ILLUSTRATED CATHOLIC FAMILY ALMANAC for the United States, for\n the Year of Our Lord 1877. New York: The Catholic Publication\n Society. 1877.\n\nThe season would scarcely be itself without this admirable little\nannual. It is always bright, instructive, and amusing, and the number\nfor the present year shows no falling off in these qualities. The\nfirst portion of the _Almanac_ contains the usual calendars,\nastronomical and ecclesiastical, with the information respecting\nCatholic feasts and fasts necessary for the coming year. Among the\nbiographical sketches, that of Dr. Brownson claims the first place. It\nis illustrated by an admirably-executed portrait. There are excellent\nportraits also of Bishop Verot, Archbishop Connolly of Halifax, N. S.,\nVery Rev. Dr. Moriarty, O.S.A., Rev. Francis Piquet, Pius VII.,\nVittoria Colonna, all accompanied by brief but interesting sketches.\nThere are, as usual, pictures of old Catholic landmarks in this\ncountry, Ireland, and other lands, with pleasing descriptions. Among\nthese, that of St. Joseph\u2019s Church, in Philadelphia, is especially\ninteresting. In addition to the complete and very valuable list of the\npopes, which was published for the first time last year, and is wisely\nretained in the present number, there is a complete catalogue of the\nkings of Ireland, from the Firbholg conquest down to the landing of\nHenry II. of England. To this is appended some valuable historical\nremarks. Indeed, there is not a page of this _Almanac_ that can be\ncalled dull, and its cheapness happily places it within easy reach of\nevery reader. We only wish that such cheapness and real excellence\ncould be oftener combined in Catholic books.\n\n\n THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF SIR THOMAS MORE. By Agnes M. Stewart,\n authoress of _Margaret Roper_, etc. 8vo, pp. 365. London: Burns &\n Oates. 1876.\n\nThe lot of Sir Thomas More was cast in troublous times. He lived amid\nstorms that wrecked many a noble life, and yet no man ever bore\nthroughout a serener soul or a happier and gayer disposition. His\ncharacter is a study of the most healthful sort; for it exhibits the\nrare picture of a man who deemed the sacrifice of power, wealth,\nplace, friends, and life itself, to principle and conscience, too\nordinary a duty to excite surprise. On whatever side we view the man,\nthe hero comes to light. He lived in an atmosphere of his own\ncreation, and whoever came within its influence left it a better and\nwiser mortal. He was, in the best sense of the word, a Christian\nphilosopher and statesman. He would jest with Erasmus in antique\nphrase as though he had but returned from the portico, while a\nhair-shirt nettled his skin and his soul communed in frequent\nejaculation with its Creator.\n\nAs a letter-writer he will ever hold a foremost rank because of his\nsense, humor, wit, and grace of expression. Even the careless\nconstruction of some of his letters possesses a charm; for there you\nsee the man disclosing himself without reserve\u2015\u2015careful, indeed, that\nthe picture be a true one, but indifferent as to the setting. What\ncould be more delightful than his letters to his children while these\nwere under the care of a tutor at home and he was engrossed by the\nweighty concerns of office? He flies to the pen as a refuge from\ndistracting thoughts, and pours out his soul to his little ones with a\nsweet _abandon_; he is sportive and grave by turns and veils deep\nphilosophy and wise counsels beneath the garb of a fresh and mirthful\nphraseology. He evidently believed with Horace:\n\n \u201cQuamquam ridentem dicere verum\n Quid vetat?\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how can you want matter of writing to me, who am delighted to\nhear either of your studies or your play, whom you may then\nexceedingly please when, having nothing to write of, you write as\nlargely as you can of that nothing, than which nothing is more easy\nfor you to do, especially being women, and therefore prattlers by\nnature, amongst whom a great story riseth out of nothing.\u201d He then\nadvises them to be careless in nothing, but to bestow conscientious\npains on all their performances. The homelife of Sir Thomas affords us\nthe best glimpse of the true character of this great man, and lends a\nnew and sad significance to the scene which occurred between his\nheart-broken daughter and himself, as he tottered, haggard and\nemaciated, to the block. He loved his home as the pupil of his eye,\nand sighed for it when duty called him away. With even such a shrew as\nhis second wife he contrived to make his a model household, where\nrefinement, piety, and cheerfulness ever reigned. Smart retort and\nrepartee, brilliant things and witty sayings, were the salt which lent\nsavor to many a pious reflection and devout allusion while the family\nshared their daily meals. Thus did Sir Thomas, by being a devout\nCatholic and a lover of learning, convert a possible home of bickering\nand discontent into one which nurtured peace, contentment, happiness,\nand hope.\n\nUnless we pause to study Sir Thomas More in his home at Chelsea, we\nwill fail to discern the peerless knight, the virtuous man, the lover\nof religion, the sententious philosopher (all which he was), amid the\ngrime and lustful air of Henry\u2019s court,\n\n \u201cWhere the individual withers, and the world is more and more.\u201d\n\nNext to Sir Thomas as father, friend, and husband, the reader loves to\nview him in his exalted capacity of chancellor. From him indeed, the\ntitle has acquired its synonymous meaning with unblemished integrity\nand purity immaculate; for throughout his whole political career he\nnever recognized friend or foe as such; he treated all alike with\nunswerving impartiality. And in pursuing this course he obtained the\nreward which he especially desired: the testimony of a good\nconscience. He felt that, though \u201cthere are innumerable hopes to\ninnumerable men, he is happy who is happy day by day\u201d; and this is\njust the sort of happiness which is born of a good conscience. His\ndecisions bore the mark of his sterling sense and unyielding will, and\nthough many exceptions had been taken to his renderings by those whose\ninterests he countered, not a single reversal could be obtained, while\nothers degraded their high offices and stooped to pander to the\nlustful instincts of the king. More studied to grace the chancellor\u2019s\ngown by the practice of every virtue pertaining to the dignity of his\nposition, and shone forth more brilliantly by contrast with the pliant\ntools of Henry.\n\n \u201cVelut inter ignes\n Luna minores.\u201d\n\nThe speech which he delivered on the occasion of his investiture will\never remain a model of dignity and modesty. While deprecating the\npraise bestowed on him by the Duke of Norfolk, he failed not to\nexpress his just appreciation of the high and important trust to which\nhe had been called, and this in language so fitting and graceful that\nhis admirers likened him to Cicero.\n\nMiss Stewart, who but a short time ago gave to the world a charming\nnovelette with the title of the _Chancellor and his Daughter_,\naddressed herself to the task of compiling these memoirs with laudable\nenthusiasm, such, indeed, as no one acquainted with the subject could\nfail to experience. Here is a hero-worship of the right sort, growing\nout of the virtues and learning of her idol, and so far not to be\nreckoned with Macaulay\u2019s stupid admiration of William III. or\nCarlyle\u2019s still more fatuous veneration for Frederick of Prussia. She\nhas earned a new title to the esteem in which she is held in England.\nThe book contains an admirable autotype fac-simile of the celebrated\npicture of the meeting between the chancellor and his daughter.\n\n\n THE SCIENCE OF THE SPIRITUAL LIFE. By Father Francis Neumayr, S.J.\n London: Burns & Oates. (For sale by The Catholic Publication\n Society.)\n\nThis is a poor translation of an excellent little book on ascetical\ntheology. Francis Neumayr was born in Munich in 1697. Early in life he\nentered the Society of Jesus, and, having finished his studies, taught\ntheology with great success during a number of years. He was then sent\nto fill the pulpit of the Cathedral of Augsburg, and during the ten\nyears in which he held this position acquired an extraordinary\nreputation as an orator. He did not, however, confine himself to\npreaching, but wrote on various subjects relating to the religious\ncontroversies of his age. His writings were very popular in Germany,\nand some of them made their way throughout Catholic Europe. _The\nScience of the Spiritual Life_, which is one of his most widely-known\nworks, is a compendium of what has been called the \u201cscience of the\nsaints.\u201d It is written with good judgment and a thorough knowledge of\nthe subject, in a style which is concise without being obscure. There\nis nothing in it which the simplest cannot readily understand, and yet\nthere is everything that the most learned could desire.\n\n\n MISSALE ROMANUM ex Decreto Sacros. Concilii Tridentini restitutum,\n S. Pii V. Pontificis Maximi jussu editum, Clementis VIII. et\n Urbani VIII. auctoritate recognitum. Editio Ratisbonensis X. hujus\n forma altera missis novissimis aucta. Cum textu et cantu a\n Sacrorum Rituum Congregatione adprobato. 1876. Ratisbon\u00e6, Neo\n Eboraci, et Cincinnatii: Sumptibus, chartis, et typis Frederici\n Pustet, S. Sedis Apost. et Sacr. Rituum Congreg. typographi.\n\nThis beautiful and finely-printed Missal fully sustains the reputation\nthat Mr. Pustet has already gained for his liturgical books. The paper\non which it is printed is of the finest quality, and the type by far\nthe best we have yet seen. Special praise is due to the printing of\nthe notation in the prefaces and other musical portions of the work,\nwhich is singularly distinct and clear. The Missal is adorned with\nmany fine and artistic pictures, and all the introits are embellished\nwith finely executed initial letters. The proof-sheets have all been\nread by the Sacred Congregation and approved.\n\n\n MARGARET ROPER; OR, THE CHANCELLOR AND HIS DAUGHTER. By Agnes\n Stewart, Authoress of _Florence O\u2019Neill_, _The Foster-Sisters_,\n etc. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1876.\n\nThis little book will amply repay perusal. The heroine, Margaret\nRoper, the favorite daughter of Sir Thomas More, was the model of a\nnoble Christian woman, worthy in every way of her gifted and heroic\nfather. Sir Thomas More was, in the truest and broadest sense of the\nwords, a grand character, a peerless Christian knight without fear and\nwithout reproach, true to his honest convictions, to his friends, true\nto the faith for which he died with the calm heroism of the early\nmartyrs. His murder\u2015\u2015to borrow the language of one of his\nbiographers\u2015\u2015was one of the blackest crimes ever perpetrated in\nEngland under the form of law. Time has only increased the admiration\nwhich his grand virtues extorted from his bitterest enemies, and the\nmost bigoted Protestants venerate his name more than that of Cranmer\nor Cromwell, the unprincipled tools of the heartless tyrant, Henry\nVIII., who deluged England with innocent blood. His letters to his\ndaughter, skilfully interwoven into the narrative, form a very\ninteresting feature of the volume before us. The character of the\ngreatest of English chancellors is sketched by the authoress with\nhistorical fidelity, and the picture of his celebrated daughter is\ndrawn with equal devotion to historic truth.\n\n\n A PREPARATION FOR DEATH. Done out of French. Chicago: W. F. Squire.\n 1876.\n\nThis is an excellent little book, quite cheap, and well adapted for\nthe sick room. It was originally \u201cdone out of French\u201d by a writer in\nDublin and has been reprinted in this country by the present\npublisher. It consists of short prayers, exhortations, and reflections\non the Passion of Our Lord. The _imprimatur_ of Bishop Foley is\nattached.\n\nAnother work, though larger, which is peculiarly adapted for spiritual\nreading during the month of the Holy Souls is the _Life of St.\nCatherine of Genoa_, published by the Catholic Publication Society.\nThis is not only a beautiful and interesting life of one of those\ngreat women who adorn the history of the Church in all ages, but\ncontains in addition St. Catherine\u2019s treatise on Purgatory, which\ntogether with her spiritual dialogues, as is said in the introduction,\n\u201cSt. Francis of Sales, that great master in spiritual life, was\naccustomed to read twice a year.\u201d And \u201cFrederick Schlegel, who was the\nfirst to translate St. Catherine\u2019s dialogues into German, regarded\nthem as seldom, if ever, equalled in beauty of style; and such has\nbeen the effect of the example of Christian perfection in our saint,\nthat even the American Tract Society could not resist its attraction,\nand published a short sketch of her life among its tracts, with the\ntitle of her name by marriage, Catherine Adorno.\u201d The words of the\nsaints are always golden. One can never repeat them too often or\nponder on them too long.\n\n\n SONGS IN THE NIGHT, AND OTHER POEMS. By the author of _Christian\n Schools and Scholars_. London: Burns & Oates. 1876.\n\nSongs with a meaning are these, and full of sweet melody. The singer\nevidently feels. The feelings are deep, the thought deep also, and\nsteeped in the purest well of religion. The versification is as varied\nas it is happy; and, indeed, for both thought and expression\nthroughout this small volume we have nothing but praise. The title\nowes its meaning to the fact that \u201cseveral of the poems were\noriginally suggested by passages in the _Spiritual Canticles_ of St.\nJohn of the Cross, whose use of the word _night_, in a mystic sense,\nis too well known to need explanation.\u201d The opening poem, \u201cThe\nFountain of the Night; or, the Canticle of the Soul rejoicing to know\nGod by Faith,\u201d gives a good idea of the tone and excellence of the\nvolume:\n\n There is a Fount whence endless waters flow;\n There zephyrs play and fairest flowerets blow.\n Full well that crystal Fountain do I know,\n Though of the night.\n\n I know the verdant hills that gird it round;\n Its source I know not, for no thought can sound\n The Spring whence all things first their being found\n In the dark night.\n\n I know no earthly beauty to compare\n With that mysterious Fount, so calm and fair;\n All things in heaven and earth are pictured there,\n Though of the night.\n\n The tide wells forth in many a flowing river,\n Yet is the Fountain-head exhausted never;\n Onward it flows, for ever and for ever,\n On through the night.\n\n No cloud obscures, no passing shadows rest\n Upon that Fountain\u2019s clear, unruffled breast,\n Itself the very source of light confessed,\n Though of the night.\n\n Forth from this spring a sparkling Torrent flows;\n Who shall the secret of its birth disclose?\n And yet I know the source from whence it rose,\n Though of the night.\n\n I see from both a mighty River run,\n Yet dare not say when first its course begun;\n For Fountain, Torrent, River\u2015\u2015all are one,\n Though of the night.\n\n I know that all are ours\u2015\u2015all hidden lie\n In form of Bread, hid from the curious eye\n To give us life. O love! O mystery\n Of deepest night!\n\n And the Life seeks all living things to fill,\n To quench our thirst with water from the rill,\n To feed, to guide us, though in darkness still,\n As of the night.\n\n And ever of that Fount I long to drink,\n And ever of that living Bread I think,\n And linger by that flowing River\u2019s brink\n Through the long night.\n\n\n THE FIRST CHRISTMAS FOR OUR DEAR LITTLE ONES. By Miss Rosa\n Mulholland. New York and Cincinnati: Fr. Pustet.\n\nThis beautiful book will be welcomed by the little ones, for whom it\nis intended, because, from the cover all the way through, it is bright\nand attractive, and each picture is a pleasant surprise. All the\ncharacters of the holy tale are made life-like and familiar, and the\nchildren may feel themselves at home with the white-winged angels, the\neager shepherds, the stately Magi, and those nearer and dearer ones\nwho attended the Blessed Infant\u2019s earliest years.\n\nBy parents this book should be welcomed, because anything that\nillustrates home-lessons and makes them charming is a valuable friend\nin the household, and because it provides an acceptable gift which\nwill bring home to children\u2019s hearts the true meaning of the holiday\nseason. The verses are appropriate and not too difficult for the\nlittle ones to enjoy.\n\n\n LECTURES ON SCHOLASTIC PHILOSOPHY. By Father John Cornoldi, S.J.\n Part I. Logic. London: Burns & Oates. 1876.\n\nQuite a number of persons have recently undertaken the laudable but\ndifficult task of preparing elementary works on philosophy. Cornoldi\u2019s\nLectures or Lessons in Philosophy are to be speedily published entire,\nin an English translation, making two small volumes of from 300 to 350\npages each. A large part of the work is devoted to Rational Physics.\nThe Logic, just now issued, contains the simplest and most necessary\npart of pure and applied logic in a _brochure_ of less than one\nhundred pages. It seems to be made as simple and intelligible to\nbeginners as the nature of the subject permits. It is a defect,\nhowever, in the translation, that Latin terms are sometimes used\nwithout the least necessity, and Latin quotations are left\nuntranslated. We hope this defect will be supplied in a second edition.\n\n\n AN ESSAY CONTRIBUTING TO A PHILOSOPHY OF LITERATURE. By B. A. M.\n Second revised edition. Philadelphia: Claxton, Remsen &\n Haffelfinger. 1876.\n\nThe first edition of this solid and genial essay was noticed in THE\nCATHOLIC WORLD. We are happy to see that its merit has received a\ngeneral recognition which must be gratifying to the author. It is a\nbook which grows upon one the more carefully it is perused, and we\nhave now an even higher esteem of its originality, sound learning,\ndiscriminating judgment and taste than we had when we first commended\nit as a work of genuine and rare excellence.\n\n\n THE VOICE OF JESUS SUFFERING, TO THE MIND AND HEART OF CHRISTIANS,\n ETC. By a Passionist Missionary Priest. New York: P. O\u2019Shea, 37\n Barclay Street.\n\nAnother excellent book on our Lord\u2019s Passion; but it differs from the\ngenerality of such works in making our Lord himself relate the history\nof his sufferings first, and then helping the auditor to \u201cPractical\nReflections.\u201d This is an admirable plan, in that it enables the reader\nto bring the divine Object of his thoughts so much more really before\nhis imagination. This, together with the character of the \u201cPractical\nReflections,\u201d will be found, we are sure, to make meditation easy to\nthose who have hitherto given it up as requiring too great an effort.\nAnd if the pious author shall have done no more than succeed in thus\nfacilitating devotion to the Passion, he will not have labored in vain.\n\n\n THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT. (To the end of the Lord\u2019s Prayer.) By Henry\n James Coleridge, of the Society of Jesus. London: Burns & Oates.\n 1876.\n\nThis is the third division of Father Coleridge\u2019s treatise on the\nPublic Life of our Lord Jesus Christ. We are glad to learn that the\nreception of the preceding volume on the Beatitudes has \u201cencouraged\nhim to attempt a somewhat fuller treatment of the rest of the Sermon\non the Mount than he had originally thought of.\u201d Those who have read\nthe volume on the Beatitudes need no insurance from us that they will\nfind in this new work an abundance of beautiful lessons, and\nparticularly some we much need at the present time. The nine chapters\non the Lord\u2019s Prayer (chapters xv.-xxiii.) will furnish the devout\nwith many helps to meditation on the clauses of this summary of prayer.\n\n THE LIFE OF THE VERY REVEREND MOTHER MADELEINE LOUISE SOPHIE BARAT,\n FOUNDRESS OF THE SOCIETY OF THE SACRED HEART OF JESUS. By M.\n l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Baunard. Translated by Lady Georgiana Fullerton.\n Roehampton: 1876. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\nThe original French edition of this admirable work has already been\nnoticed at length in THE CATHOLIC WORLD. The English edition is\nbrought out in two handsome volumes, and the distinguished name of the\ntranslator furnishes every guarantee for a faithful and excellent\nrendering of the original. So great has been the demand for the work\nthat a large order was exhausted almost immediately on its arrival in\nthis country.\n\n\n THE DEVOTION OF THE HOLY ROSARY. By Michael M\u00fcller, C.S.S.R. New\n York: Benziger Brothers.\n\nFather M\u00fcller is a tireless writer. His works are for the most part\naddressed to those who are too often forgotten by Catholic\nwriters\u2015\u2015the ordinary classes. He who provides the people with books\nof devotion which they will _read_, and not put on the shelf, does a\ngreat and good work. Under a modest appearance Father M\u00fcller\u2019s books\nconceal much learning and knowledge, the fruit evidently of very\nextensive reading, while the whole is pervaded with a spirit of piety\nand zeal. The present volume is devoted to an explanation of that most\npopular of devotions\u2015\u2015the rosary. Those who care to satisfy themselves\nas to what the rosary is, what it is intended for, what it has done in\nthe service of the church and for the salvation of souls, will find in\nthis volume much to interest and instruct them, as well as to increase\ntheir fervor. The concluding chapter treats of the \u201cDevotion of the\nScapular.\u201d\n\n\n SHORT SERMONS PREACHED IN THE CHAPEL OF ST. MARY\u2019S COLLEGE, OSCOTT.\n Collected and edited by the President. London: Burns & Oates.\n 1876. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\nThese sermons will be found very serviceable to our clergy, who are\noften sorely pressed for time to prepare their discourses. One\ninstruction such as these is better than ten ordinary sermons of twice\nor thrice its length. Lay persons also will benefit greatly by making\ntheir spiritual reading from this volume. The subjects are wisely\nselected. There are twenty-seven in all, with two funeral sermons in\nan appendix.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLIC WORLD.\n\nVOL. XXIV., No. 142.\u2015\u2015JANUARY, 1877.\n\nCopyright: Rev. I. T. HECKER. 1877.\n\n\n\n\nJOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.[134]\n\n\nA national literature is the most perfect expression of the best\nthoughts and highest sentiments of the people of which it is born, and\nof whose life it is the truest record. No other Englishman may have\never written or thought like Shakspere, but he wrote and thought from\nthe fulness of a mind and heart that drew their inspiration from the\nlife of the English people. He may be great nature\u2019s best interpreter,\nbut she was revealed to him through English eyes, and spoke in English\naccents. The power to take up into one\u2019s own mind the thoughts of a\nwhole people; to give a voice to the impressions made upon them by\nnature, religion, and society; to interpret to them their doubts,\nlongings, and aspirations; to awaken the chords of deep and hidden\nsympathy which but await the touch of inspiration\u2015\u2015is genius. Every\ngreat author is the type of a generation, the interpreter of an age,\nthe delineator of a phase of national life. Between the character of a\npeople, therefore, and its literature there is an intimate relation;\nand one great cause of the feebleness of American literature is\ndoubtless the lack of conscious nationality in the American people. We\nhave not yet outgrown the provincialism of our origin, nor assimilated\nthe heterogeneous elements which from many sources have come to swell\nthe current of our life. The growth of a national literature has been\nhindered also, by our necessary intellectual dependence on England.\nFor, though it was a great privilege to possess from the start a rich\nand highly-developed language, with this boon we received bonds which\nno revolution could break. When the British colonies of North America\nwere founded, Shakspere and Bacon had written, Milton was born, and\nthe English language had received a form which nor power nor time\ncould change; and before our ancestors had leisure or opportunity to\nturn from the rude labors of life in the wilderness to more\nintellectual pursuits, it had taken on the polish and precision of the\nage of Queen Anne. Henceforward, to know English, it was necessary to\nstudy its classics; and in them Americans found the imprint of a\nmental type which had ceased to be their own. And being themselves as\nyet without strongly-marked or well-defined national features of\ncharacter, they became fatally mere imitators of works which could not\nbe read without admiration, or studied without exciting in those who\nhad thoughts to express the strong desire of imitation. Their\nexcellence served to intimidate those who, while admiring, could not\nhope to rival their ease and elegance; and thus, in losing something\nof native vigor and freshness, our best writers have generally\nacquired only an artificial polish and a foreign grace.\n\nIt must be remembered, too, that more than any other people we have\nbeen and are practical and utilitarian; and this is more specially\ntrue of the New Englanders, whose mental activity has been greater\nthan that of any other Americans. We have loved knowledge as the means\nof power and wealth, and not as an element of refinement and culture.\nIf evidence of this were needed, it would suffice to point to our\nschool system, which is based upon the notion that the sole aim of\neducation should be to fit man for the practical business of life. As\nthe result, knowledge has been widely diffused, but the love of\nexcellence has been diminished. Education, when considered as merely a\nhelp to common and immediate ends, neither strengthens nor refines the\nhigher qualities of mind. If we may rely upon our own experience in\ncollege, we should say that the prevailing sentiment with young\nAmericans is that it is waste of time to study anything which cannot\nbe put to practical use either in commercial or professional life; and\nthis in spite of the efforts very generally made by the professors to\ninspire more exalted ideas. We have known the wretched sophism that it\nis useless to read logic, because in the world men do not reason in\nsyllogisms, to pass current in a class of graduates. This low and\nutilitarian view of education does not affect alone our notions of the\nvalue of literature, in the stricter sense of the word, but exerts\nalso a hurtful influence upon the study of science. For science, like\nliterature, to be successfully cultivated, in its higher developments\nat least, must be sought for its own sake, without thought of those\nulterior objects to which certainly it may be made to conduce. The\nlove of knowledge for itself, the conviction that knowledge is its own\nend, is rarely found among us, and we therefore have but little\nenthusiasm for literary excellence or philosophic truth. The noblest\nthoughts spring from the heart, and he who seeks to know from a\ncalculating spirit will for ever remain a stranger to the higher and\nserener realms of mind.\n\nAnother cause by which the growth of American literature has been\nunfavorably affected may be found in the unlimited resources of the\ncountry, offering to all opportunities of wealth or fame. The demand\nfor ability of every kind is so great that talent is not permitted to\nmature. The young man who possesses readiness of wit and a sprightly\nfancy, if he does not enter one of the learned professions or engage\nin commerce, almost fatally drifts into a newspaper office, than which\na place more unfavorable to intellectual pursuits or to true culture\nof mind cannot easily be imagined. If a book is the better the farther\nthe author keeps away all thought of the reader, under what\ndisadvantages does not he write whose duty it is made to think only of\nthe reader! To be forced day by day to write upon subjects of which he\nknows little; to give opinions without having time to weigh arguments\nor to consider facts; to interpret passing events in the interests of\nparty or in accordance with popular prejudice; to exaggerate the\nvirtues of friends and the vices of opponents; to court applause by\nadapting style to the capacity and taste of the crowd; and to do all\nthis hurriedly and in a rush, is to be an editor. When we reflect that\nit is to work of this kind that a very considerable part of the\nliterary ability of the country is devoted, it is manifest that the\nresult must be not only to withdraw useful laborers from nobler\nintellectual pursuits, but to lower and pervert the standard of taste.\nThey who accustom their minds to dwell upon the picture of human life\nas presented in a daily newspaper, in which what is atrocious, vulgar,\nor startling receives greatest prominence, will hardly cultivate or\nretain an appreciation of elevated thoughts or the graces of\ncomposition.\n\nAs the public is content with crude and hasty writing, the crowd, who\nare capable of such performance, rush in, eager to carry off the prize\nof voluminousness, if not of excellence; and, in consequence, we\nsurpass all other nations in the number of worthless books which we\nprint. In fact, the great national defect is haste, and therefore a\nwant of thoroughness in our work.\n\nBut we have no thought of entering into an extended examination of the\ncauses to which the feebleness of American literature is to be\nattributed. The very general recognition of the fact that it is\nfeeble, even when not marred by grosser faults, is probably the most\nassuring evidence that in the future we may hope for something better.\n\nOur weakness, however it may be accounted for, is most perceptible in\nthe highest realms of thought\u2015\u2015philosophy and poetry. To the former\nour contributions are valueless. No original thinker has appeared\namong us; no one who has even aspired to anything higher than the\noffice of a commentator. This, indeed, can hardly be matter for\nsurprise, since we may be naturally supposed to inherit from the\nEnglish their deficiency in power of abstract thought and metaphysical\nintuition. But in poetry they excel all other nations, whether ancient\nor modern; and as they have transmitted to us their mental defects, we\nmight not unreasonably hope to be endowed with their peculiar gifts of\nmind. Deprived of the philosophic brow, we might hope for some\ncompensation, at least, in the poet\u2019s eye in a fine frenzy rolling.\nBut even in this we seem not to have been highly favored. Nothing\ncould well be more wretched than American verse-making during the\ncolonial era. We doubt whether a single line of all that was written\nfrom the landing of the Pilgrims down to the war of Independence is\nworth preserving. Pope, when he wrote his _Dunciad_, found but one\nAmerican worthy even of being damned to so unenviable an immortality.\n\nFreneau, who was the most popular and the most gifted poet of the\nRevolution, is as completely unknown to this generation as though he\nhad never written; and, indeed, he wrote nothing which, without great\nloss to the world, may not be forgotten. And to this class, whom nor\ngods nor columns permit to live, belong nearly all who in America have\ncourted the Muse. In our entire poetical literature there are not more\nthan half a dozen names which deserve even passing notice, and the\ngreatest of these cannot be placed higher than among the third-rate\npoets of England.\n\nWithout adopting the crude theory of Macaulay that as civilization\nadvances poetry necessarily declines, we shall be at no loss for\nreasons to account for this absence of the highest poetic gifts.\nNeither the character of the early settlers in this country, nor their\nreligious faith, nor their social and political conditions of life,\nwere of the kind from which inspiration to high thinking and flights\nof fancy might naturally be expected to spring. The Puritans were\nhard, unsympathetic, with no appreciation of beauty. In their eyes art\nof every kind was at best useless, even when not tending to give a\ndangerous softness and false polish to manners. Their religious faith\nintensified this feeling, and caused them to turn with aversion from\nwhat had been so long and so intimately associated, as almost to be\nidentified, with Catholic worship. Their sour looks, their nasal\ntwang, their affected simplicity, their contempt of literature, and\ntheir dislike of the most innocent amusements, would hardly lead the\nMuse, even if invited, to smile on them. Habits of thought and feeling\nnot unlike theirs had, it is true, in Milton, been found to be not\nincompatible with the highest gifts of imagination and expression. But\nMilton had not the Puritan contempt of letters. He was, on the\ncontrary, a man of extensive reading and great culture; and his proud\nand lofty spirit was not too high to stoop to flattery as servile and\nas elegant as ever a tyrant received. His lines on ecclesiastical\narchitecture and music in _Il Penseroso_ prove that he had a keen\nperception of the beauty and grandeur of Catholic worship. He was, in\nfact, in many respects more a Cavalier than a Roundhead. He had,\nbesides, in the burning passions of his age, the bitter strife of\nparty and sect, in the scorn and contempt of the nobles for the\nlow-born\u2015\u2015which in the civil wars had been trodden beneath the iron\nheel of war, only to rise with the monarchy in more offensive\nform\u2015\u2015that which fired him to the adventurous song \u201cthat with no\nmiddle flight intends to soar,\u201d and made him deify rebellion in Satan,\nwho, rather than be subject, would not be at all.\n\nIn the primitive and simple social organization of the American\ncolonies there was nothing to fire the soul or kindle the indignation\nthat makes poets. And even nature presented herself to our ancestors\nrather as a shrew to be conquered than as a mistress to be wooed with\nharmonious numbers and sweet sounds of melody. If to this we add, what\nfew will deny, that the equality of conditions in our society, however\ndesirable from a political or philanthropic point of view, is to the\npoetic eye but a flat and weary plain, without any of the inspiration\nof high mountains and long-withdrawing vales, of thundering cataracts\nthat lose themselves in streams that peacefully glide all unconscious\nof the roar and turmoil of waters of which they are born, we will find\nnothing strange in the practical and unimaginative character of the\nAmerican people. We know of no better example of the tameness of the\nAmerican Muse than Whittier. He is one of our most voluminous writers\nof verse, and various causes, most of which are doubtless extrinsic to\nthe literary merit of his compositions, have obtained for him very\ngeneral recognition. He lacks, indeed, the culture of Longfellow, his\nwide acquaintance with books and the world, and his careful study of\nthe literatures of the European nations. He lacks also his large\nsympathies and catholic thought, his elevation of sentiment and power\nof finished and polished expression.\n\nBut if Whittier\u2019s garb is plain, his features hard, and his voice\nharsh, his poetry, both in subject and in style, seems native here and\nto spring from the soil. He has himself not inaptly described his\nverse in the lines which he has prefixed to the Centennial edition of\nhis complete poetical works:\n\n \u201cThe rigor of a frozen clime,\n The harshness of an untaught ear,\n The jarring words of one whose rhyme\n Beat often Labor\u2019s hurried time\n Or Duty\u2019s rugged march through storm and strife, are here.\n\n \u201cOf mystic beauty, dreamy grace,\n No rounded art the lack supplies;\n Unskilled the subtle lines to trace\n Or softer shades of Nature\u2019s face,\n I view her common forms with unanointed eyes.\u201d\n\nWhittier is, however, far from being a representative American or\nAmerican poet. He is a Quaker. The broad-brimmed hat, the neat and\nsimple dress, the sober gait, the slow and careful phrase with thee\nand thou, could not more truly denote him than his verse. Now,\nwhatever idea we may form to ourselves of the typical American, or\nwhether we think such a being exists at all, no one would ever imagine\nhim to be a Quaker.\n\nThe American is eager; the Quaker is subdued. The American is loud,\nwith a tendency to boastfulness and exaggeration; the Quaker is quiet\nand his language sober. He shuns the conflict and the battle, does not\nover-estimate his strength; while the American would fight the world,\ncatch the Leviathan, swim the ocean, or do anything most impossible.\nThe Quaker is cautious, the American reckless. The American is\naggressive, the Quaker is timid. But it is needless to continue the\ncontrast. A great poet is held by no bonds. His eye glances from earth\nto heaven\u2015\u2015the infinite is his home; and that Whittier should be only\na Quaker poet is of itself sufficient evidence that he is not a great\npoet. But in saying this we affirm only what is universally\nrecognized. He is, indeed, wholly devoid of the creative faculty to\nwhich all true poetry owes its life; and yet this alone could have\nlifted most of the subjects which he has treated out of the dulness\nand weariness of the commonplace. To transform the real, to invest\nthat which is low or mean or trivial with honor and beauty, is the\ntriumph of the poet\u2019s art, the test of his inspiration. His words,\nlike the light of heaven, clothe the world in a splendor not its own,\nor, like the morning rays falling on the statue of Memnon, strike from\ndead and sluggish matter sounds of celestial harmony.\n\n \u201cTo him the meanest flower that blows can give\n Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.\u201d\n\nWhittier certainly has no fear of trivial and commonplace subjects,\nbut in his treatment of them he rarely, if ever, rises above the level\nof the verse-maker.\n\nIt was the opinion of Keats that a long poem is the test of invention;\nand if we accept this as a canon of criticism, we shall want no other\nevidence of Whittier\u2019s poverty of imagination. All his pieces are\nshort, though few readers, we suppose, have ever wished them longer.\nHe cannot give sprightliness or variety to his verse, which like a\nsluggish stream creeps languidly along. There is no freshness about\nhim, none of the breeziness of nature, none of its joyousness,\nexuberance, and exultant strength. In his youth, even, he had all the\nstiffness and slowness of age with its want of graceful motion. His\nnarrations are interrupted and halting, interspersed with commonplace\nreflections and wearisome details; and when we have jogged along with\nhim to the end, we are less pleased than fatigued. He never with\nstrong arm bears us on over flood and fell, through hair-breadth\nescapes, gently at times letting us down amidst smiling homes and\npleasant scenes, and again, with more rapid flight, hurrying us on\nbreathless to the goal.\n\nSome of his descriptive pieces have been admired, but to us they seem\nartificial and mechanical. They are the pictures of a view-hunter.\nThey lack life, warmth, and coloring\u2015\u2015the individuality that comes of\nan informing soul. He remains external to nature, and with careful\nsurvey and deliberate purpose sketches this and that trait, till he\nhas his landscape with sloping hills and meadows green, with flower\nand shrub and tree and everything that one could wish, except that\nindefinable something which would make the scene stand out from all\nthe earth, familiar as the countenance of a friend or as a spot known\nfrom childhood. He has too much the air of a man who says: Come, let\nus make a description. In fact, he has taken the trouble to tell us\nthat he has considered the story of Mogg Megone only as a framework\nfor sketches of the scenery of New England and of its early\ninhabitants. His own confession proves his art mechanical. He gets a\nframe, stretches the canvas, and deliberately proceeds to copy. The\ntrue poet fuses man and nature into a union so intimate that both seem\npart of each. He dreams not of framework and sketches, but of the\nunity and harmony of life. Where the common eye sees but parts, his\nsees the living whole. He does not copy, but transforms and\nre-creates. Before his enraptured gaze the immeasurable heavens break\nopen to their highest, and every height comes out and jutting peak.\nFrom him not the humblest flower or blade of grass is hidden; and\nwhatever he beholds becomes the minister of his thought, the slave of\nhis will; passing through his mind receives its coloring, and rises\nfrom his page as though some eternal law of harmony had fitted it to\nthis and no other purpose.\n\nWhittier is even feebler in his attempts to portray character than in\nhis description of scenery. To Ruth Bonython he gives \u201cthe sunny eye\nand sunset hair.\u201d \u201cSunny eye\u201d is poor enough; but who will tell us\nwhat \u201csunset hair\u201d is like? Is it purple or gold or yellow or red? She\nis \u201ctall and erect,\u201d has a \u201cdark-brown cheek,\u201d \u201ca pure white brow,\u201d \u201ca\nneck and bosom as white as ever the foam-wreaths that rise on the\nleaping river\u201d;\n\n \u201cAnd her eye has a glance more sternly wild\n Than even that of a forest child.\u201d\n\nAnd she talks in the following style:\n\n \u201cA humbled thing of shame and guilt,\n Outcast and spurned and lone,\n Wrapt in the shadows of my crime,\n With withering heart and burning brain,\n And tears that fell like fiery rain,\n _I passed a fearful time_.\u201d\n\nThe artifice by which Ruth quiets the suspicion of Mogg Megone, roused\nby the sight of her tearful eye and heaving bosom, is as remarkable\nfor shrewdness as for poetic beauty:\n\n \u201cIs the sachem angry\u2015\u2015angry with Ruth\n Because she cries with an ache in her tooth\n Which would make a Sagamore jump and cry\n And look about with a woman\u2019s eye?\u201d\n\nThe same weak and unskilful hand is visible in the characters of Mogg\nMegone, John Bonython, and Father Rasle, the Jesuit missionary. The\ndescriptive portions of Mogg Megone are disfigured by mere rhetoric\nand what critics call \u201cnonsense-verses.\u201d As Mogg Megone and John\nBonython are stealing through the wood, they hear a sound:\n\n \u201cHark! is that the angry howl\n Of the wolf the hills among,\n Or the hooting of the owl\n On his leafy cradle swung?\u201d\n\nThe only reason for hesitating between the wolfs howl and the hooting\nof the owl was the poet\u2019s want of a rhyme. But it is needless to load\nour page with these nonsense-verses, since Hudibras claims them to be\na poet\u2019s privilege:\n\n \u201cBut those that write in rhyme still make\n The one verse for the other\u2019s sake;\n For one for sense, and one for rhyme,\n I think that\u2019s sufficient at one time.\u201d\n\nWhittier\u2019s Quaker faith inspired him early in life with an abhorrence\nof slavery, and drew him to the abolitionists, by whom, in 1836, he\nwas appointed secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society. It was\nabout this time that he began to publish his anti-slavery rhymes,\nwhich he afterwards collected in a volume entitled, _Voices of\nFreedom_. These verses are not remarkable for thought or expression.\nThey have the dull, monotonous ring of all Whittier\u2019s rhymes, and are\nhardly more poetic than a political harangue. They are partisan in\ntone and manner; breathe rather hatred of the \u201chaughty Southron\u201d than\nlove of the negro; and are without polish or elegance. Read to\npolitical meetings during the excitement of the anti-slavery\nagitation, they were probably as effective as ordinary stump-speeches.\nWorthless as they are as poetry, they brought Whittier to public\nnotice. He became the laureate of the abolitionist party, and with its\ngrowth grew his fame. The circumstances which made _Uncle Tom\u2019s Cabin_\nthe most popular novel of the day made him a popular poet. His verses\nfound readers who cared but little for inspired thought or expression,\nbut who were delighted with political rhymes that painted the Southern\nslave-owner as the most heartless and brutal of men, who \u201cin the vile\nSouth Sodom\u201d feasted day by day upon the sight of human suffering\ninflicted by his own hand. Pieces like that which begins with the\nwords,\n\n \u201cA Christian! Going, gone!\n Who bids for God\u2019s own image?\u201d\n\nwere at least good campaign documents in the times of anti-slavery\nagitation.\n\n \u201cA Christian up for sale;\n Wet with her blood your whips, o\u2019ertask her frame,\n Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame:\n Her patience shall not fail.\u201d\n\nThis is very commonplace and vulgar, we grant, but it has the merit of\nnot being above the intellectual level of an ordinary political\nmeeting.\n\nAnd then, in the metre of Scott\u2019s \u201cBride of Netherby,\u201d we have the\n\u201cHunters of Men\u201d:\n\n \u201cHave ye heard of our hunting o\u2019er mountain and glen,\n Through canebrake and forest, the hunting of men?\n Hark! the cheer and the halloo, the crack of the whip,\n And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip.\n All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match\u2015\u2015\n Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to catch.\u201d\n\nAll we maintain is that this is not poetry, fair sample though it be\nof Whittier\u2019s _Voices of Freedom_.\n\nSlavery undoubtedly is hateful, and to denounce it cannot but be\nright. A preacher, however, need not be a poet, even though he should\ndeclaim in rhymes; nor is hate of the slave-owner love of the slave,\nmuch less love of liberty. We fail to catch in these _Voices_ the\nswelling sound of freedom. They are rather the echoes of the fierce\nwords of bitter partisan strife. The lips of him who uttered them had\nnot been touched by the burning coal snatched from the altar of\nliberty, however his heart may have rankled at the thought of Southern\ncruelty.\n\nWhittier\u2019s rhymes of the war are the natural sequel of his\nanti-slavery verses. The laureate of abolitionism could but sing,\nQuaker though he was, the bloody, fratricidal strife which he had\nhelped to kindle. At first, indeed, he seemed to hesitate and to doubt\nwhether it was well to light\n\n \u201cThe fires of hell to weld anew the chain\n On that red anvil where each blow is pain.\u201d\n\nSafe on freedom\u2019s vantage-ground, he inclined rather to be the sad and\nhelpless spectator of a suicide.\n\n \u201cWhy take we up the accursed thing again?\n Pity, forgive, but urge them back no more\n Who, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion\u2019s rag\n With its vile reptile-blazon.\u201d\n\nBut soon he came to recognize that God may speak \u201cin battle\u2019s stormy\nvoice, and his praise be in the wrath of man.\u201d\n\nWhittier\u2019s war rhymes are not so numerous as his _Voices of Freedom_,\nnor are they in any way remarkable as poetical compositions. The lines\non Barbara Frietchie derive their interest from the incident narrated,\nand not from any beauty of thought or language with which it has been\nclothed. They are popular because old Barbara Frietchie waving the\nflag of the Union above Stonewall Jackson\u2019s army as it passed, with\nmeasured tread, through the streets of Frederick, is a striking and\ndramatic figure. There could be no more convincing proof of the\nbarrenness of Whittier\u2019s imagination than the poor use which he has\nmade of so poetical an episode.\n\n \u201cIn her attic window the staff she set\n To show that one heart was loyal yet.\u201d\n\nAnd yet of all his poems this is probably the best known and the most\npopular.\n\nThe _Voices of Freedom_ and the _Songs in War Time_ both belong to the\nclass of occasional poetry which more than any other kind is apt to\nconfer a short-lived fame upon authors whose chief merit consists in\nbeing fortunate. He who sings the conqueror\u2019s praise will never lack\nadmirers.\n\nWe are sorry to perceive, in so amiable a man as Whittier is generally\nsupposed to be, the many evidences which this edition of his complete\npoetical works affords of intense and bitter anti-Catholic prejudice.\nIf he were content with manifesting, even with damnable iteration, his\nQuaker horror of creeds, we could excuse the simple mind that is\ncapable of holding that men may believe without giving to their faith\nform and sensible expression; though the mental habit from which alone\nsuch a theory could proceed is the very opposite of the poetical. The\nCatholic Church, which is the groundwork and firm support of all\nChristian dogmas, cannot be understood by those who fail to perceive\nthat without doctrinal religion the whole moral order would be\nmeaningless. But Whittier\u2019s prejudice carries him far beyond mere\nprotest against Catholic teaching. He cannot approach any subject or\nperson connected with the church without being thrown into mental\nconvulsions. Let us take, for example, the character of Father Rasle,\nthe martyr, in \u201cMogg Megone,\u201d one of his earliest and longest poems.\nThis noble and heroic missionary is represented as a heartless and\nsenseless zealot, who \u201cby cross and vow\u201d had pledged Mogg Megone\n\n \u201cTo lift the hatchet of his sire,\n And round his own, the church\u2019s, foe\n To light the avenging fire.\u201d\n\nWhen Ruth Bonython, half mad with fear and grief, comes to confess to\nFather Rasle that, seeing the scalp of her lover hanging to Mogg\nMegone\u2019s belt, she had killed him in his drunken sleep, the Jesuit\nstarts back\u2015\u2015\n\n \u201cHis long, thin frame as ague shakes,\n And loathing hate is in his eye\u201d\u2015\u2015\n\nnot from horror of the crime, but because in the death of Megone he\nrecognizes the extinction of his long-cherished hopes of revenge.\n\n \u201cAh! weary priest!\u2026\n Thoughts are thine which have no part\n With the meek and pure of heart.\u2026\n Thoughts of strife and hate and wrong\n Sweep thy heated brain along\u2015\u2015\n Fading hopes for whose success\n It were sin to breathe a prayer;\n Schemes which Heaven may never bless;\n Tears which darken to despair.\u201d\n\nHis heart is as stone to the pitiful appeal of the contrite and\nbroken-hearted girl. \u201cOff!\u201d he exclaims\u2015\u2015\n\n \u201c\u2018Off, woman of sin! Nay, touch not me\n With those fingers of blood; begone!\u2019\n With a gesture of horror he spurns the form\n That writhes at his feet like a trodden worm.\u201d\n\nAnd in the death-scene of the martyr, as painted by Whittier, the\ncoward and the villain, with forces equally matched, strive for the\nmastery.\n\nThe ode \u201cTo Pius IX.\u201d will furnish us with another example of\nreligious hate driving its victim to the very verge of raving madness.\n\u201cHider at Gaeta,\u201d he exclaims\u2015\u2015\n\n \u201cHider at Gaeta, seize thy chance!\n Coward and cruel, come!\n\n \u201cCreep now from Naple\u2019s bloody skirt;\n Thy mummer\u2019s part was acted well,\n While Rome, with steel and fire begirt,\n Before thy crusade fell.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cBut hateful as that tyrant old,\n The mocking witness of his crime,\n In thee shall loathing eyes behold\n The Nero of our time!\n\n \u201cStand where Rome\u2019s blood was freest shed,\n Mock Heaven with impious thanks, and call\n Its curses on the patriot dead,\n Its blessings on the Gaul;\n\n \u201cOr sit upon thy throne of lies,\n A poor, mean idol, blood-besmeared,\n Whom even its worshippers despise\u2015\u2015\n Unhonored, unrevered!\u201d\n\nIt is some consolation to know that Whittier himself, in reading over\nthese ravings, has been forced to acknowledge their unworthiness by a\nlame attempt at apology. \u201cHe is no enemy of Catholics,\u201d he informs us\nin a note to this effusion; \u201cbut the severity of his language finds\nits ample apology in the reluctant confession of one of the most\neminent Romish priests, the eloquent and devoted Father Ventura.\u201d What\nis this but making calumny an ally of outrage?\n\nIn the \u201cDream of Pio Nono\u201d he introduces St. Peter, who upbraids the\nvenerable Pontiff in the following style:\n\n \u201cHearest thou the angels sing\n Above this open hell? _Thou_ God\u2019s high-priest!\n Thou the vicegerent of the Prince of Peace!\n Thou the successor of his chosen ones!\n I, Peter, fisherman of Galilee,\n In the dear Master\u2019s name, and for the love\n Of his true church, proclaim thee Antichrist.\u201d\n\nIn a poem on \u201cItaly\u201d Whittier hears the groans of nations across the\nsea.\n\n \u201cTheir blood and bones\n Cried out in torture, crushed by thrones\n And sucked by priestly cannibals.\u201d\n\n\u201cRejoice, O Garibaldi!\u201d he exclaims,\n\n \u201cThough thy sword\n Failed at Rome\u2019s gates, and blood seemed vainly poured\n Where in Christ\u2019s name the crown\u00e8d infidel\n Of France wrought murder with the arms of hell.\n\n * * * * *\n\n God\u2019s providence is not blind, but, full of eyes,\n It searches all the refuges of lies;\n And in his time and way the accursed things\n Before whose evil feet thy battle-gage\n Has clashed defiance from hot youth to age\n Shall perish.\u201d\n\nWe crave the reader\u2019s indulgence for this disfigurement of our page,\nand wish with all our heart it had been possible to fill it with more\nworthy matter.\n\nLongfellow, breathing the same air as Whittier, the disciple of a\nfaith commonly supposed to be less mild and sweetly loving than a\nQuaker\u2019s, has found the tenderest thoughts, the noblest images, and\nthe highest forms of character in the church which our poet cannot\neven think of without raving.\n\nBut possibly we should be wrong to complain that the mystic beauty\nwhich has in all ages appealed with irresistible power of fascination\nto the highest and most richly-gifted natures should fail to impress\none all of whose thoughts are cast in a straitened and unyielding\nmould. Whittier has not the far-glancing eye of the poet to which all\nbeauty appeals like the light itself. The partisan habit of an\ninveterate abolitionist has stiffened and hardened a disposition which\nwas never plastic. It was so long his official duty to write\nanti-slavery campaign verses that, in treating subjects which should\ninspire higher thoughts, he is still held captive to the lash of the\nslave-driver, hears the clanking of chains and the groans of the\nfettered; and these sights and sounds drive him into mere rant and\nrhetoric.\n\nWe willingly bear testimony to the moral tone and purity which pervade\nWhittier\u2019s verse. There is nothing to offend the most delicate ear;\nnothing to bring a blush to a virgin\u2019s cheek. He lacks the power to\nportray passion, and was not tempted into doubtful paths. He delights\nin pictures of home, with its innocent joys and quiet happiness; sings\nof friendship and the endearing ties that bind the parent to the\nchild; or, if he attunes his harp to love, he does it in numbers so\nsadly sweet that we only remember that the fickle god has wreathed his\nbowers with cypress boughs and made his best interpreter a sigh.\n\nWhat could be more harmless than the little scene between Maud Muller\nand the judge\u2015\u2015though Heaven only knows what the judge, and above all\nthe American judge, can have done that he should be condemned to play\nthe _r\u00f4le_ of a lover. Possibly it may have been the judicious nature\nof the love that induced the poet to think such a _deus ex machin\u00e2_\nnot out of place. At all events, nothing could be more inoffensive.\n\n \u201cShe stooped where the cool spring bubbled up\n And filled for him her small tin cup.\n \u2018Thanks!\u2019 said the judge; \u2018a sweeter draught\n From a fairer hand was never quaffed.\u2019\u201d\n\nAnd how refreshing it is to find a judge making love by talking\n\n \u201cOf the grass and flowers and trees,\n Of the singing birds and humming bees\u201d!\n\nWe are less edified, however, when, in after-years, we find him a\nmarried man, sipping the golden wine but longing for the wayside well\nand the barefoot maiden:\n\n \u201cAnd the proud man sighed, with secret pain:\n \u2018Ah! that I were free again!\u2019\u201d\n\nIn reading Whittier we seldom come upon a thought so perfectly\nexpressed that it can never after occur to us except in the words in\nwhich he has clothed it. It is a poet\u2019s privilege thus to marry\nthoughts to words in a union so divine that no man may put them\nasunder; and where this high power is wanting the _mens divinior_ is\nnot found. For our own part, we hardly recall a line of Whittier that\nwe should care to remember. Nothing that he has written has been more\nfrequently quoted than the couplet:\n\n \u201cFor of all sad words of tongue or pen.\n The saddest are these: \u2018It might have been.\u2019\u201d\n\nTo our thinking, this is meaningless. \u201cIt might have been\u201d is neither\nsad nor joyful, except as it is made so by that with which it is\nassociated. He who is drowned may thus have escaped hanging\u2015\u2015\u201cIt might\nhave been.\u201d The judge might have been Maud\u2019s husband; but she might\nhave thought of sadder things than that she was not his wife.\n\n\u201cSnow-Bound,\u201d a winter idyl, is, in the opinion of several critics,\nWhittier\u2019s best performance. A more hackneyed theme he would probably\nhave found it difficult to choose; nor has he the magic charm that\nmakes the old seem as new. It is the unmistakable snow-storm with\nwhich our school-readers made us familiar in childhood. The sun rises\n\u201ccheerless\u201d over \u201chills of gray\u201d; sinks from sight before it sets;\n\u201cthe ocean roars on his wintry shore\u201d; night comes on, made hoary\n\u201cwith the whirl-dance of the blinding storm,\u201d and ere bedtime\n\n \u201cThe white drift piled the window-frame\u201d;\n\nand then, of course, we have the horse and cow and cock, each in turn\ncontemplating the beautiful snow. Even the silly ram\n\n \u201cShook his sage head with gesture mute,\n And emphasized with stamp of foot.\u201d\n\nThe boys, with mittened hands, and caps drawn down over ears, sally\nforth to cut a pathway at their sire\u2019s command. And when the second\nnight is ushered in, we are quite prepared for the blazing fire of\noaken logs, whose roaring draught makes the great throat of the\nchimney laugh; while on the clean hearth the apples sputter, the mug\nof cider simmers, the house-dog sleeps, and the cat meditates. The\ngroup of faces gathered round are plain and honest, just such as good,\nsimple country folk are wont to wear, but feebly drawn. In the fitful\nfirelight their features are dim. The father talks of rides on\nMemphremagog\u2019s wooded side; of trapper\u2019s hut and Indian camp. The\nmother turns her wheel or knits her stocking, and tells how the Indian\ncame down at midnight on Cocheco town. The uncle, \u201cinnocent of books,\u201d\nunravels the mysteries of moons and tides. The maiden aunt, very sweet\nand very unselfish, recalls her memories of\n\n \u201cThe huskings and the apple-bees,\n The sleigh-rides and the summer sails.\u201d\n\nIt would be unkind to leave the village schoolmaster out in the biting\nair, and he is therefore brought in to make us wonder how one small\nhead could contain all he knew.\n\nIn the very thought of home there is an exhaustless well-spring of\npoetic feeling. The word itself is all alive with the spirit of sweet\npoesy which gives charm to the humblest verse; and it would be strange\nindeed if, in an idyl like \u201cSnow-Bound,\u201d there should not be found\npassages of real beauty, touches of nature that make the whole world\nkin. The subject is one that readily lends itself to the lowly mood\nand unpretending style. Fine thoughts and ambitious words would but\ndistract us. Each one is thinking of his own dear home, and he but\nasks the poet not to break the spell that has made him a child again;\nnot to darken the dewy dawn of memory, that throws the light of heaven\naround a world that seemed as dead, but now lives.\n\n \u201cO Time and Change!\u2015\u2015with hair as gray\n As was my sire\u2019s that winter day,\n How strange it seems, with so much gone\n Of life and love, to still live on!\n Ah! brother, only I and thou\n Are left of all that circle now\u2015\u2015\n The dear home faces whereupon\n That fitful firelight paled and shone.\n Henceforward, listen as we will,\n The voices of that hearth are still;\n Look where we may, the wide earth o\u2019er,\n Those lighted faces smile no more.\n We tread the paths their feet have worn;\n We sit beneath their orchard trees;\n We hear, like them, the hum of bees\n And rustle of the bladed corn;\n We turn the pages that they read,\n Their written words we linger o\u2019er.\n But in the sun they cast no shade,\n No voice is heard, no sign is made,\n No step is on the conscious floor!\n Yet love will dream, and faith will trust\n (Since He who knows our need is just),\n That somehow, somewhere, meet we must.\n Alas! for him who never sees\n The stars shine through his cypress-trees;\n Who hopeless lays his dead away,\n Nor looks to see the breaking day\n Across the mournful marbles play;\n Who hath not learned in hours of faith\n The truth to flesh and sense unknown\u2015\u2015\n That Life is ever Lord of Death,\n And Love can never lose its own!\u201d\n\nThis is true poetry, sad and sweet as a mother\u2019s voice when she lulls\nher sick babe to rest, knowing that, if he sleep, he shall live.\n\nIn Whittier\u2019s verse we often catch the unmistakable accent of genuine\nfeeling, and his best lyrics are so artless and simple that they\nalmost disarm criticism. In many ways his influence has doubtless been\ngood; and the critic, whose eye is naturally drawn to what is less\nworthy, finds it easy to carp at faults which he has not the ability\nto commit.\n\n\n [134] _The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf\n Whittier._ Boston: Osgood & Co. 1876.\n\n\n\n\nMONSIEUR GOMBARD\u2019S MISTAKE.\n\n\nM. Gombard was a short, stout, pompous man, with a flat nose, and\nsharp gray eyes that did their very best to look fierce through a pair\nof tortoise-shell spectacles. They succeeded in this attempt with very\nyoung culprits and with the female prisoners who appeared before M.\nGombard in his official capacity of mayor of the town of Loisel; they\nsucceeded in a lesser degree with functionaries, such as clerks and\npolicemen, who were to a certain extent under the official eye of the\nmayor; but with the general, independent public the attempt at\nferocity was a failure. M. Gombard passed for being a good man, a man\nwith high principles, an unflinching sense of duty, and a genuine\nrespect for law, but also a man whose heart was as dry as a last\nyear\u2019s nut. He was fifty years of age, and it had never been said,\neven as a joke, that M. Gombard had had a \u201csentiment\u201d; it had never\nentered into the imagination of anybody who knew him to suggest that\nhe might have a sentiment, or even that he might marry some day. He\nwas looked upon by his fellow-townsmen as a trusty, intelligent\nmachine\u2015\u2015a machine that never got out of order, that was always ready\nwhen wanted, that would be seriously missed if it were removed. He\nsettled their differences and saved them many a costly lawsuit; for M.\nGombard had studied the law, and understood its practical application\nbetter than any lawyer in Loisel; he made marriages, and drew out\nwills, and dispensed advice to young and old with the wisdom of\nSolomon and the stoical impartiality of Brutus. Everybody trusted him;\nthey knew that if their case was a good case, he would decide it in\ntheir favor; if it was a bad case, he would give it against them: no\nman could buy him, no man could frighten him. Antoine Grimoire, the\nbiggest bully in all the country round\u2015\u2015even Antoine Grimoire shook in\nhis shoes when one day a suit in which he was defendant was sent up\nbefore M. Gombard. M. Gombard gave judgment against him; and this was\nmore than the united magistrates in Loisel would have dared do, for\nAntoine would have \u201clicked them\u201d within an inch of their lives, if\nthey had tried it; but he never said _boo_ when M. Gombard pronounced\nthe plaintiff an injured man, and ordered the defendant to pay him one\nhundred and fifty-three francs, ten sous, and three centimes damages.\nEverybody in the place held their breath when this sentence went\nforth. They fully expected Antoine to fly at the audacious judge, and\nbreak every bone in his body on the spot; but Antoine coolly nodded,\nand said civilly, \u201c_C\u2019est bon, Monsieur le Maire_,\u201d and walked off.\nPeople made sure he was bent on some terrible vengeance, and that he\nwould never pay a sou of the damages; but he deceived them by paying.\nThis incident added fresh lustre to the prestige of M. Gombard, whose\nword henceforth was counted as good as, and better than, law, since\neven Antoine Grimoire gave in to it, which was more than he had ever\nbeen known to do to the law.\n\nM. Gombard had some pressing business on hand just now; for he had\nleft Loisel before daybreak in a post-chaise, and never once pulled\nup, except when the wheels came off and went spinning right and left\ninto the ditch on either side, and sent him bumping on over the snow\nin the disabled vehicle, till at last the horses stopped and M.\nGombard got out, jumped on to the back of the leader, and rode on into\nCabicol. There he is now, his wig awry and pulled very low over his\nforehead, but otherwise looking none the worse for his adventurous\nride, as he walks up and down the best room in the _Jacques Bonhomme_,\nthe principal inn of Cabicol.\n\n\u201cYou said I could have a post-chaise?\u201d said M. Gombard to the waiter,\nwho fussed about, on hospitable cares intent.\n\n\u201cI did, monsieur.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd it is in good condition, you say?\u201d\n\n\u201cExcellent, monsieur. It would take you from Cabicol to Paris without\nstarting a nail.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood,\u201d observed M. Gombard, sitting down and casting a glance that\nwas unmistakably ferocious on the savory omelet. \u201cI can count on a\nstout pair of horses?\u201d he continued, helping himself with the haste of\na ravenous man.\n\n\u201cHorses?\u201d repeated the waiter blandly. \u201cMonsieur said nothing about\nhorses.\u201d\n\nM. Gombard dropped his knife and fork with a clatter, and looked round\nat the man.\n\n\u201cWhat use can the chaise be to me without horses?\u201d he said. \u201cDoes it\ngo by steam, or do you expect me to carry it on my head?\u201d\n\n\u201cAssuredly not, monsieur; that would be of the last impossibility,\u201d\nreplied the waiter demurely.\n\n\u201cThe aborigines of Cabicol are idiots, apparently,\u201d observed M.\nGombard, still looking straight at the man, but with a broad,\nspeculative stare, as if he had been a curious stone or an unknown\nvariety of dog.\n\n\u201cYes, monsieur,\u201d said the waiter, with ready assent. If a traveller\nhad declared the aborigines of Cabicol to be buffaloes, he would have\nassented just as readily; he did not care a dry pea for the\naborigines, whoever they might be; he did not know them even by sight,\nso why should he stand up for them? Besides, every traveller\nrepresented a tip, and he was not a man to quarrel with his bread and\nbutter.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s to be done?\u201d said M. Gombard. \u201cI must have horses; where am I\nto get them?\u201d\n\n\u201cI doubt that there is a horse in the town to-day which can be placed\nat monsieur\u2019s disposal. This is the grand market day at Luxort, and\neverybody is gone there, and to-morrow the beasts will be too tired to\nstart for a fresh journey; but on Friday I dare say monsieur could\nfind a pair, if he does not mind waiting till then.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is nothing at the present moment I should mind much more,\nnothing that could be more disagreeable to me,\u201d said M. Gombard.\n\n\u201cWe would do our best to make monsieur\u2019s delay agreeable,\u201d said the\nwaiter; \u201cthe beds of the _Jacques Bonhomme_ are celebrated; the food\nis excellent and the cooking of the best; the landlord cuts himself\ninto little pieces for his guests.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood heavens!\u201d ejaculated M. Gombard.\n\n\u201cIt is a figure of speech, monsieur, a figure of rhetoric,\u201d explained\nthe waiter, who began to heap up blocks of wood on the hearth, as if\nhe were preparing a funeral pyre for his unwilling guest.\n\n\u201cTell the landlord I want to speak to him,\u201d said M. Gombard.\n\nBefore he had finished his meal the landlord knocked at the door. M.\nGombard said \u201cCome in,\u201d and the landlord entered. He was a solemn,\nmelancholy-looking man, who spoke in a sepulchral voice, and seemed\ncontinually struggling to withhold his tears. He loved his inn, but\nthe weight of responsibility it laid upon him was more than he could\nbear with a smiling countenance. Every traveller who slept beneath his\nroof was, for the time being, an object of the tenderest interest to\nhim; it was no exaggeration to say, with the rhetorical waiter, that\nhe cut himself into little pieces for each one of them. He made out\nimaginary histories of them, which he related afterwards for the\nentertainment of their successors. He was guided as to the facts of\neach subject by the peculiar make and fashion of their physiognomies;\nbut he drew his inspiration chiefly from their noses: if the traveller\nwore his beard long and his nose turned up, he was set down as a\nphilosopher travelling in the pursuit of knowledge; if he wore his\nbeard cropped and his nose hooked, he was a banker whose financial\ngenius and fabulous wealth were a source of terror to the\nmoney-markets of Europe; if he carried his nose flat against his face\nand wore a wig and spectacles, he was a desperate criminal with a huge\nprice on his head, and the police scouring the country in pursuit of\nhim; but he was safe beneath the roof of the _Jacques Bonhomme_, for\nhis host would have sworn with the patriot bard: \u201cI know not, I care\nnot, if guilt\u2019s in that heart; I but know that I\u2019ll hide thee,\nwhatever thou art!\u201d All the pearls of Golconda, all the gold of\nCalifornia, would not have bribed him into delivering up a man who\nenjoyed his hospitality. Many and thrilling were the tales he had to\ntell of these sinister guests, their hair-breadth escapes, and the\nsilent but, to him, distinctly manifest rage of their baffled\npursuers. This life of secret care and harrowing emotions had done its\nwork on the landlord; you saw at a glance that his was a heavily-laden\nspirit, and that pale \u201cmelancholy had marked him for her own.\u201d He\nbowed low, and in a voice of deep feeling inquired how he could serve\nM. Gombard.\n\n\u201cBy getting me a pair of good post-horses,\u201d replied his guest. \u201cIt is\nof the utmost importance that I reach X\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 before five o\u2019clock\nto-morrow afternoon, and your people say I have no chance of finding\nhorses until Friday.\u201d\n\nThe landlord stifled a sigh and replied: \u201cThat is only too true,\nmonsieur.\u201d\n\nM. Gombard pushed away his plate, rose, walked up and down the room,\nand then stood at the window and looked out. It was a bleak look out;\neverything was covered with snow. Snow lay deep on the ground, on the\ntrees, on the lamp-post, on the chimneys and the house-tops; and the\nsky looked as if it were still full of snow.\n\nJust opposite there was a strange, grand old house that arrested M.\nGombard\u2019s attention; it was a gabled edifice with turrets at either\nend, and high pointed, mullioned windows filled with diamond-paned\nlattices. The roof slanted rapidly from the chimneys to the windows,\nand looked as if the north wind that had howled over it for centuries\nhad blown it a little to one side and battered it a good deal; for you\ncould see by the undulations of the snow that it was full of dints and\nruts. Close under the projecting eaves in the centre of the house\nthere was a stone shield, on which a family coat of arms was engraved;\nbut the ivy, which grew thick over the wall, draped the escutcheon,\nand, with the snow, made it impossible to read the story it set forth.\nThere was a balcony right under it, from the floor of which an old man\nwas now engaged sweeping the snow; on either side were set huge stone\nvases, in which some hardy plants grew, defying all weathers,\napparently. When the old man had cleared away the snow, he brought out\nsome pots of wintry-looking flowers, and placed them on the ledge of\nthe balcony. M. Gombard had been watching the performance, and taking\nin the scene with his eyes while his thoughts were busy about these\npost-horses that were not to be had in the town of Cabicol. He turned\nround suddenly, and said in his abrupt, magisterial way: \u201cCurious old\nhouse. Whose is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt belongs now to Mlle. Aim\u00e9e Bobert,\u201d replied the landlord; and the\nquestion seemed to affect him painfully.\n\n\u201cWhom did it belong to formerly?\u201d inquired M. Gombard.\n\n\u201cTo the brave and illustrious family of De Valbranchart. The\nRevolution ruined them, and the mansion was bought by a retired\nmanufacturer, the grandfather of Mlle. Aim\u00e9e, who is now the sole\nheiress of all his wealth.\u201d\n\n\u201cStrange vicissitudes in the game of life!\u201d muttered M. Gombard; he\nturned again to survey the old house, that looked as if it had been\ntransplanted from some forest or lovely fell-side to this commonplace\nlittle town. As he looked, the window on the balcony opened, and the\nslight figure of a woman appeared, holding a flower-pot in her hand.\nHe could not see her face, which was concealed by a shawl thrown\nlightly over her head; but her movements had the grace and suppleness\nof youth. M. Gombard mechanically adjusted his spectacles, the better\nto inspect this new object in the picture; the same moment a\ngentleman, hurrying down the street, came up, and lifted his hat in a\nstately salutation as he passed before the balcony. M. Gombard could\nnot see whether the greeting was returned, or how; for when he glanced\nagain towards the latticed window, it had closed on the retreating\nfigure of the lady. The old church clock was chiming the hour of noon.\n\u201cThe ancient house has its modern romance, I perceive,\u201d observed M.\nGombard superciliously; and as if this discovery must strip it at once\nof all interest in the eyes of a sensible man, he turned his back upon\nthe old house, and proceeded to catechise the landlord concerning\npost-horses. There was clearly no chance of his procuring any that\nday, and a very doubtful chance of his procuring any the next. There\nwas no help for it: he must spend at least one night at the _Jacques\nBonhomme_. He was not a man to waste his energies in useless\nlamentation or invective. One exclamation of impatience escaped him,\nbut he stifled it half way, snapped his fingers, and muttered in\nalmost a cheerful tone, \u201c_Tantpis!_\u201d The landlord stood regarding him\nwith a gaze of compassion mingled with a sort of cowed admiration.\nThere was a strange fascination about these criminals, murderers or\nforgers, flying for dear life; the concentrated energy, the reckless\ndaring, the heroic self-control, the calm self-possession they evinced\nin the face of danger and impending death, were wonderful. If these\ngrand faculties had been ruled by principle, and devoted to lawful\npursuits and worthy aims, what might they not have accomplished! The\nlandlord saw the stigma of crime distinctly branded upon the\ncountenance of this man, though the low, bad brow was almost entirely\nconcealed at one side by the wig; and yet he could not but admire,\nnay, to a certain extent, sympathize, with him. M. Gombard noticed his\nsingular air of dejection, his immovable attitude\u2015\u2015standing there as\nif he were rooted to the spot when there was no longer any ostensible\nreason for his remaining in the room. He bent a glance of inquiry upon\nhim, which said as plainly as words: \u201cYou have evidently something to\nsay; so say it.\u201d\n\n\u201cMonsieur,\u201d said the landlord in a thick undertone, \u201cI have been\ntrusted with many secrets, and I have never been known to betray one.\nI ask you for no confidence; but, if you can trust me so far, answer\nme one question: Is it a matter of life and death that you go\u2015\u2015that\nyou reach your destination by a given time?\u201d\n\nM. Gombard hesitated for a moment, perplexed by the tone and manner of\nhis host; then he replied, deliberately, as if weighing the value of\neach word: \u201cI will not say \u2018life and death,\u2019 but as urgent as if it\nwere life and death.\u201d\n\n\u201cHa! That is enough. I understand,\u201d said the landlord. His voice was\nhusky; he shook from head to foot. \u201cNow tell me this: will you\u2015\u2015will\nthe situation be saved, if you can leave this to-morrow?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo-morrow?\u2026 Let me see,\u201d said M. Gombard; and thrusting both hands\ninto his pockets, he bent his head upon his breast with the air of a\nman making a calculation. After a prolonged silence he looked up, and\ncontinued reflectively: \u201cIf I can leave this to-morrow at four\no\u2019clock, with a good pair of horses, I shall be at X\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 by ten; and\nstarting afresh at, say, five next morning, I shall be\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\n\u201cSaved!\u201d broke in the landlord.\n\n\u201cI shall be saved, as you say,\u201d repeated M. Gombard.\n\n\u201cMonsieur, if the thing is possible it shall be done!\u201d protested the\nlandlord. This coolness, this superhuman calm, at such a crisis, were\nmagnificent; this felon, whoever he was, was a glorious man.\n\n\u201cVery peculiar person our host seems,\u201d was the hero\u2019s reflection, when\nthe door closed behind that excited and highly sensitive individual.\nM. Gombard then drew a chair towards the fire, pulled a newspaper from\nhis pocket, and poked his feet as far out on the hearth as he could\nwithout putting them right into the blaze.\n\nWhen he had squeezed the newspaper dry, he threw it aside, and\nbethought to himself that he might as well go for a walk, and\nreconnoitre this extremely unprogressive town, where a traveller might\nwait two days and two nights for a pair of post-horses. He pulled on\nhis big furred coat and sallied forth. The snow was deep, but the\nnight\u2019s sharp frost had hardened it, so that it was dry and crisp to\nwalk on. There was little in the aspect of Cabicol that promised\nentertainment; it was called a town, but it was more like a village\nwith a disproportionately fine church, and some large houses that\nlooked out of place in the midst of the shabby ones all round though\nthe largest was insignificant beside the imposing old pile opposite\nthe inn. They looked quaint and picturesque enough, however, in their\nsnow dress, glistening in the beams of the pale winter sun that shone\nout feebly from the milky-looking sky. The church was the first place\nto which M. Gombard bent his steps, not with any pious intentions, but\nbecause it was the only place that seemed to be open to a visitor, and\nwas, moreover, a stately, Gothic edifice that would have done honor to\na thriving, well-populated town. The front door was closed. M. Gombard\nwas turning away with some disappointment, when an old woman who was\nfrying chestnuts in the angle of the projecting buttress, with an\numbrella tied to the back of her chair as a protest rather than a\nprotection against the north wind that was blowing over the deserted\nmarket-place, called out to him that the side door was open, and\npointed to the other side of the church. When the visitor entered it,\nhe was struck by the solemnity and vastness of the place. It was quite\nempty. At least he thought so; for his eye, piercing the sombre\nperspective, saw no living person there. In the south aisle the rich\nstained glass threw delicate shadows of purple and gold and crimson on\nthe pavement, on the stern medi\u00e6val statues, on the slim, groined\npillars; but the other aisle was so dark that it was like night until\nyour eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. M. Gombard walked slowly\nthrough the darkened aisle, peering up at the massive carving of the\ncapitals, and into the quaint devices of the basements, and wondering\nwhat could have brought this majestic, cathedral-like church into so\nincongruous a frame as Cabicol. Suddenly he descried coming towards\nhim from the farthest end of the aisle, like a dimly visible form\nemerging from total darkness, the figure of a man. He supposed at\nfirst it was a priest, and he thought he would ask him for some\ninformation about the church; but, as the figure drew near, he saw he\nhad been mistaken, and presently he recognized the tall, erect bearing\nand hurried step of the lover of Mlle. Bobert. There was no reason why\nM. Gombard should not have accosted him just as readily as if he had\nbeen the priest he had taken him for, but something checked him at the\nfirst moment; and when the young man had passed, he was loath to call\nhim back. He had not the kind of face M. Gombard expected; there was\nnone of the levity or mawkishness that almost invariably characterized\nthe countenances of men who were in love; neither was there any trace\nof coxcombry or conceit in his dress and general appearance; he had a\nfine head, well shaped, and with a breadth of forehead that announced\nbrains; his face was thoughtful and intelligent. M. Gombard was sorry\nfor the poor fellow, who was evidently not otherwise a fool. The sound\nof the lover\u2019s footfall died away, and the great door closed behind\nhim with a boom like low thunder. M. Gombard continued his walk round\nthe church undisturbed. He came to the Lady Chapel behind the high\naltar, and stood at the entrance, filled with a new admiration and\nsurprise. The chapel was as dimly lighted as the rest of the building;\nbut from a deep, mullioned window there came a flood of amber light\nthat fell full upon a kneeling figure, illuminating it with an\neffulgence to which the word heavenly might fitly be applied. M.\nGombard\u2019s first thought was that this new wonder was part of the\nwhole; that it was not a real, living female form he beheld, but some\nbeautiful creation of painter and sculptor, placed here to symbolize\nfaith and worship in their loveliest aspect. But this was merely the\nfirst unreasoning impression of delight and wonder. He had not gazed\nmore than a second on the kneeling figure when he saw that it was\nneither a statue nor an apparition, but a living, breathing woman. The\nworshipper was absorbed in her devotions, and seemed unconscious of\nthe proximity of any spectator; so M. Gombard was free to contemplate\nher at his ease. It was the first time in his life that he ever stood\ndeliberately to contemplate a woman, simply as a beautiful object; but\nthere was something in this one totally different from all the women,\nbeautiful or otherwise, that he had ever seen. It may have been the\ncircumstances, the place and hour, the obscurity of all around, except\nfor that yellow shaft of light that shot straight down upon the lovely\ndevotee, investing her with a sort of celestial glory; but whatever it\nwas, the spectacle stirred the fibres of his heart as they had never\nbeen stirred before. Who was this lovely creature, and why was she\nhere in the deserted church, alone and at an hour when there was\nneither chant nor ceremony to call her thither? M. Gombard\u2019s habit of\nmind and his semi-legal and magisterial functions led him to suspect\nand discover plots and sinister motives in most human actions that\nwere at all out of the usual course; but it never for an instant\noccurred to seek any such here. This fair girl\u2015\u2015she looked in the full\nbloom of youth\u2015\u2015could only be engaged on some errand of duty, of\nmercy, or of love. Love! Strange to say, the word, as it rose to his\nlips, did not call up the scornful, or even the pitying, smile which\nat best never failed to accompany the thought of this greatest of\nhuman follies in the mayor\u2019s mind. He repeated mentally, \u201cLove,\u201d as he\nlooked at her, and something very like a sigh rose and was not\nperemptorily stifled in his breast. While he stood there gazing, a\ndeeper gloom fell upon the place, the yellow shaft was suddenly\nwithdrawn, the golden light went out, and the vision melted into brown\nshadow. M. Gombard started; high up, on all sides, there was a noise\nlike pebbles rattling against the windows. The lady started too, and,\ncrossing herself, as at a signal that cut short her devotions, rose\nand hurried from the chapel. She took no notice of the man standing\nunder the archway, but passed on, with a quick, light step, down the\nnorth aisle. M. Gombard turned and walked after her. He had no idea of\npursuing her; he merely yielded to an impulse that anticipated thought\nand will.\n\nOn emerging into the daylight of the porch he saw that the rain was\nfalling heavily, mixed with hail-stones as big as peas. The lady\nsurveyed the scene without in blank dismay, while M. Gombard\nstealthily surveyed her. She struck him as more wonderful, more\nvision-like, now even than when she had burst upon him with her golden\nhalo amidst the darkness; her soft brown eyes full of light, her\nsilken brown curls, her scarlet lips parted in inarticulate despair,\nthe small head thrown slightly back, and raised in scared\ninterrogation to the dull gray tank above\u2015\u2015M. Gombard saw all these\ncharms distinctly now, and his dry, legal soul was strangely moved.\nShould he speak to her? What could he say? Offer her his umbrella,\nperhaps? That was a safe offer to make, and a legitimate opportunity;\nhe blessed his stars that he had brought his umbrella.\n\n\u201cMadame\u2015\u2015mademoiselle\u2015\u2015pardon me\u2015\u2015I shall be very happy\u2015\u2015that is, I\nshould esteem myself fortunate if I could\u2015\u2015be of any service to you in\nthis emergency\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you; I am much obliged to you, monsieur,\u201d replied the young\nlady; she saw he meant to be polite, but she did not see what help he\nintended.\n\n\u201cIf you would allow me to call a cab for you?\u201d continued M. Gombard\ntimidly.\n\n\u201cOh! thank you.\u201d She broke into a little, childlike laugh that was\nperfectly delicious. \u201cWe have no cabs at Cabicol!\u201d\n\nThe young merriment was so contagious that M. Gombard laughed too.\n\n\u201cOf course not! How stupid of me to have thought there could be! But\nhow are you to get home in this rain, mademoiselle? Will you accept my\numbrella? It is large; it will protect you in some degree.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! you are too good, monsieur,\u201d replied his companion, turning the\nbrown eyes, darting with light, full upon him; \u201cbut I think we had\nbetter have a little patience and wait until the rain stops. It can\u2019t\nlast long like this; and if I ventured out in such a deluge, I think I\nshould be drowned.\u201d\n\nThere was nothing very original, or poetical, or preternaturally wise\nin this remark, but coming from those poppy lips, in that young,\nsilvery voice, it sounded like the inspiration of genius to M.\nGombard. He replied that she was right, that he was an idiot; in fact,\nhad not his age and his business-like, dry, matter-of-fact appearance\noffered a guarantee for his sobriety and an excuse for his attempt at\nfacetiousness, M. Gombard\u2019s jubilant manner and ecstatic air would\nhave led the young lady to fear he was slightly deranged or slightly\ninebriated. But ugly, elderly gentlemen who wear wigs are a kind of\nprivileged persons to young ladies; they may say anything, almost,\nunder cover of these potent credentials.\n\n\u201cThis is a fine old church,\u201d observed M. Gombard presently.\n\n\u201cYes; we are proud of it at Cabicol. Strangers always admire it,\u201d\nreplied his companion.\n\n\u201cThey are right; it is one of the best specimens of the Gothic of the\nRenaissance I remember to have seen,\u201d said M. Gombard; \u201cthis portico\nreminds one of the cathedral of B\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015. Have you ever seen it,\nmademoiselle?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; I have never travelled farther from Cabicol than Luxort.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed! How I envy you!\u201d exclaimed the mayor heartily. He was a new\nman; he was fired with enthusiasm for beauty of every description, in\nart, in nature, everywhere.\n\n\u201cIt is you, rather, who are to be envied for having seen far places\nand beautiful things!\u201d returned the young girl na\u00efvely. \u201cI wish I\ncould see them too.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why should you not?\u201d demanded M. Gombard; he would have given\nhalf his fortune to have been able to say there and then: \u201cCome, and I\nwill show you these strange places, and beautiful things!\u201d\n\n\u201cI am alone,\u201d replied his companion in a low tone; the merry\nbrightness faded from her face, the sweet eyes filled with tears.\n\nM. Gombard could have fallen at her feet, and cried, \u201cForgive me! I\ndid not mean to give you pain.\u201d But he did not do so; he did better:\nhe bowed gravely and murmured, almost under his breath: \u201c_Pauvre\nenfant!_\u201d He had never pitied any human being as he pitied this\nbeautiful orphan; but then he was a man, as we know, who passed for\nhaving no heart. His young companion looked up at him through her\ntears, and her eyes said, \u201c_Merci!_\u201d It was like the glance of a dumb\nanimal, so large, so pathetic, so trustful. The rain still fell in\ntorrents, lashing the ground like whip-cords; but the hailstones had\nceased. The two persons under the portico stood in solemn silence,\nwatching the steady downpour. Presently, as when, by a sudden jerk of\nthe string, the force of a shower-bath is slackened, it grew lighter;\nthe sun made a slit in the tank, and gleamed down in a silver line\nthrough the lessening drops. The young girl went to the edge of the\nsteps, and looked up, reconnoitring the sky.\n\n\u201cIt is raining heavily still,\u201d said M. Gombard; \u201cbut if you are in a\nhurry, and must go, pray take my umbrella!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut then you will get wet,\u201d she replied, laughing with the childlike\nfreedom that had marked her manner at first.\n\n\u201cThat is of small consequence! It will do me good,\u201d protested M.\nGombard. \u201cI entreat you, mademoiselle, accept my umbrella!\u201d\n\nIt was hard to say \u201cno,\u201d and it was selfish to say \u201cyes.\u201d She\nhesitated. M. Gombard opened the umbrella, capacious as a young tent,\nand held it towards her. The young lady advanced and took it; but the\nthick handle and the weight of the outspread canopy were too much for\nher tiny hand and little round wrist. It swayed to and fro as she\ngrasped it. M. Gombard caught hold of it again.\n\n\u201cLet me hold it for you,\u201d he said. \u201cWhich way are you going?\u201d\n\n\u201cAcross the market-place to that house with the veranda,\u201d she replied;\n\u201cbut perhaps that is not your way, monsieur?\u201d\n\nIt was not his way; but if it had been ten times more out of it, M.\nGombard would have gone with delight.\n\n\u201cDo me the honor to take my arm, mademoiselle,\u201d he said, without\nanswering her inquiry. It was done in the kindest way\u2015\u2015just as if she\nhad been the daughter of an old friend. The young girl gathered her\npretty cashmere dress well in one hand, and slipped the other into the\narm of her protector. They crossed the market-place quickly, and were\nsoon at the door of the house she had pointed out.\n\n\u201cThank you! I am so much obliged to you, monsieur!\u201d\n\n\u201cMademoiselle, I am too happy\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\nShe smiled at him with her laughing brown eyes, and he turned away, a\nchanged man, elated, bewildered, walking upon air. He walked on in the\nrain, his feet sinking ankle-deep in parts where the snow was thick\nand had been melted into slush by the heavy shower. He did not think\nnow whether there was anything to visit to pass the rest of the day;\nhis one idea was to find out the name of this beautiful creature, then\nto see her again, offer her his hand and fortune, if her position were\nnot too far above his own, and be the happiest of men for the rest of\nhis life. He was fifty years of age; but what of that? His heart was\ntwenty; he had not worn it out in butterfly passions, \u201cfancies, light\nas air,\u201d and ephemeral as summer gnats. This was his first love, and\nfew men half his age had that virgin gift to place in the bridal\n_corbeille_. Then how respected he was by his fellow-citizens! M.\nGombard saw them already paying homage to his young wife; saw all the\nmagnates congratulating him, and the fine ladies calling on Madame\nGombard. When he reached the _Jacques Bonhomme_ he was in the seventh\nheaven. The landlord saw him from the window of the bar, and hurried\nout to meet him with a countenance blanched with terror.\n\n\u201cGood heavens, monsieur! you have ventured out into the town. You have\nbeen abroad all this time! What mad imprudence!\u201d he whispered.\n\n\u201cEh! Imprudence? Not the least, my good sir,\u201d replied the mayor,\ndescending with a painful jump from his celestial altitude; \u201cmy boots\nare snow-proof, and behold my umbrella!\u201d He swung it round, shut it up\nwith a click, and held it proudly at arm\u2019s length, while the wet\nstreamed down its seams as from a spout.\n\n\u201cMarvellous man!\u201d muttered the landlord, staring at him aghast. \u201cBut\nhasten in now, I entreat you. You ordered dinner at three; it will be\nserved to you in your room.\u201d\n\n\u201cJust as it pleases you,\u201d returned M. Gombard complacently. \u201cI don\u2019t\nmind where I get it, provided it be good.\u201d\n\n\u201cMonsieur, for heaven\u2019s sake be prudent!\u201d said the landlord; he took\nthe umbrella from him, and hung it outside the door to drip.\n\n\u201cI wish to have a word with you presently, mine host,\u201d M. Gombard\ncalled out from the top of the stairs.\n\n\u201cI am at your orders, monsieur,\u201d said the host. This reckless behavior\nin a man flying for his life was beyond belief. \u201cIt is madness, but it\nis sublime!\u201d thought the landlord. The table was ready laid when M.\nGombard entered his room; the dinner was ready too, as was evident\nfrom the smell of fry and cabbage that filled the place; he went to\nthe window and threw it open. As he did so the mysterious lover\nappeared at the corner of the street\u2015\u2015that is, of the gabled\nhouse\u2015\u2015and, as before, lifted his hat and bowed reverently as he\npassed under the balcony. Was his lady-love there to see it? M.\nGombard glanced quickly to the latticed window; it did not open, but\nhe distinctly saw a female figure standing behind it, and retreating\nsuddenly, as if unwilling to be observed. The little pantomime, which\nhe had looked on so contemptuously a few hours ago, was now full of a\nnew interest to him. He wondered what the lady was like; whether she\nlooked with full kindness on this pensive, intellectual-looking\nadorer, and admitted him occasionally to her presence, or whether she\nstarved him on these distant glimpses. What was he doing in the church\njust now, with that long scroll in his hand? He had not been praying\nout of it, certainly. \u201cI must interrogate mine host,\u201d thought M.\nGombard, stirred to unwonted curiosity about these lovers. Great was\nhis surprise at that very moment to behold the said host cross the\nstreet, pass the open gateway of the gabled house, ring at the narrow,\narched door and presently disappear within it. What could the landlord\nof the _Jacques Bonhomme_ have to do with the wealthy mistress of that\nhouse?\n\n\u201cMonsieur is served!\u201d said the waiter, in a tone which announced that\nhe had said it before.\n\nM. Gombard started, shut the window, and sat down to his dinner. When\nhe had finished it, he went and opened the window again, and, lo and\nbehold! there was the landlord coming back from the mystifying visit.\nThis time M. Gombard saw most distinctly the figure of a woman looking\nout from the latticed window, and drawing back instantly when he\nappeared.\n\nThere was a knock at the door. \u201cCome in!\u201d said M. Gombard.\n\nThe landlord looked very much excited.\n\n\u201cI have done my best for you, monsieur,\u201d he began in an agitated\nmanner; \u201cI have left nothing undone, and all I have been able to\nobtain is that you shall have a good pair of post-horses to-morrow at\none o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\n\u201cCapital! Excellent! Then I am\u2015\u2015\u201d He stopped short.\n\n\u201c_Saved!_\u201d muttered the landlord exultingly.\n\n\u201cYes, yes, my friend, saved,\u201d repeated M. Gombard with an air of cool\nindifference which was nothing short of heroic; \u201cbut I am just\nthinking whether, as I have not been able to start this afternoon, I\nam not losing my time in starting at all. It might be wiser to\u2015\u2015 But,\nno; I had better go. You say the horses are good?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe best in Cabicol.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I can count upon them?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have the word of a noble woman for that.\u201d\n\n\u201cHa! a woman! Who may she be?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe mistress of that house\u2015\u2015Mlle. Bobert.\u201d\n\nThe landlord pronounced these words with an emphasis that might have\nbeen dispensed with, as far as regarded the effect of the announcement\non M. Gombard.\n\n\u201cMlle. Bobert!\u201d he repeated in amazement.\n\n\u201cYes, monsieur. She is young, but she has the mind of a man and the\nheart of a mother. When every other resource had been tried in vain, I\nwent to her; I told her\u2015\u2015enough to excite her sympathy, her desire to\nhelp you; she promised me you should have the horses to-morrow at one\no\u2019clock.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou confound me!\u201d said M. Gombard.\n\n\u201cHave no fear, monsieur; Mlle. Bobert is a woman, but\u2015\u2015she is to be\ntrusted. The horses will be here at one o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well,\u201d said M. Gombard, \u201cI must not be ungrateful either to you\nor Mlle. Bobert; it is most kind of you to take so much trouble in my\nbehalf, landlord, and most kind of her to furnish me with the horses.\nYou say she is young; is she pretty?\u201d (Gracious heavens! If the\ncitizens of Loisel had heard this stony-hearted mayor putting such\nquestions!)\n\n\u201cNo, monsieur, she is not pretty,\u201d replied the landlord; \u201cshe is\nbeautiful.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Diable!_\u201d exclaimed M. Gombard facetiously.\n\n\u201cBeautiful as an _angel_,\u201d remarked the landlord, with an accent that\nseemed to rebuke his guest\u2019s exclamation.\n\n\u201cYou appear to have a _sp\u00e9cialit\u00e9_ for beautiful persons in Cabicol,\u201d\nsaid M. Gombard, pouncing on his opportunity; \u201cI met one in the church\njust now, taking shelter from the rain\u2015\u2015the most remarkably beautiful\nperson I ever saw in my life. Who can she be? She lives in the house\nto the right of the market-place.\u201d\n\n\u201cExcuse me, monsieur, she does not,\u201d said the landlord sadly.\n\n\u201cNo? How do you know? Did you see me\u2015\u2015did you see her in the church?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, monsieur, I did not,\u201d answered the landlord.\n\nM. Gombard was mystified again. What a droll fellow mine host was\naltogether!\n\n\u201cYou evidently know something about her,\u201d he resumed; \u201ccan you tell me\nher name and where she lives?\u201d\n\n\u201cHer name is Mlle. Bobert; she lives yonder.\u201d He stretched out his\narm, and held a finger pointed toward the old house. The effect on M.\nGombard was electric. He started as if the landlord\u2019s finger had\npulled the trigger of a pistol; he grew pale; he could not utter a\nword. The landlord pitied him sincerely.\n\n\u201cWhen I told her who it was I wanted the horses for,\u201d he continued,\n\u201cshe asked me to describe you. I did so, and she recognized you at\nonce as the person to whom she had spoken in the church. She said\nimmediately it would be a great pleasure to her to do you this\nservice, you had been so very courteous to her.\u201d\n\n\u201cPray convey my best thanks to Mlle. Bobert,\u201d said M. Gombard, making\na strong effort to control his emotions; \u201cI am profoundly sensible of\nher goodness.\u201d\n\nThe landlord cast one deeply tragic look upon his unfortunate guest,\nbowed and withdrew. As he turned away, he bethought to himself how, as\nthe wisest men had been fooled by lovely woman, it was not to be\nwondered at that the bravest should be made cowards by her; here was a\nman who could carry a bold heart and a smiling face into the very\nteeth of danger, but no sooner did he find that a woman had got hold\nof even a suspicion of his secret than his courage deserted him, and\nhe was incapable of keeping up even a semblance of bravery. Unhappy\nman! But he was safe; he had nothing to fear from Mlle. Bobert.\n\nAnd so it was the great heiress whom he had seen and surrendered his\nimpregnable heart to, without even a feint at resistance! M. Gombard\nunderstood all now; the joyous expression of her lovely face, her\nunconstrained manner to him, her presence in the deserted church\u2015\u2015it\nwas all explained: her lover had been there, praying with her, and she\nhad lingered on praying for him. Happy, happy man! Miserable Gombard!\nHe spent the evening drearily over his lonely fire. How lonely it\nseemed since he had lost the dream that had beautified it, filling the\nfuture with sweet visions of fireside joys, of bright companionship by\nthe winter blaze! He went to bed, nevertheless, and slept soundly. The\nwound was not so deep as he imagined, this middle-aged man, who had no\nmemories of young love, with its kindling hopes and passionate\ndespairs, by which to measure his present suffering. He was very\nmiserable, sincerely unhappy, but, all the same, he slept his seven\nhours without awaking. When at last he did awake, and bethought him of\nhis sorrow, he took it up where he had left it the night before, and\nmoaned and pitied himself with all his heart. He was to start at one\no\u2019clock, but he must make an effort to see Mlle. Bobert again before\nleaving Cabicol for ever. He ordered his breakfast, ate heartily, and\nthen sallied forth in the direction of the church. He knew of no other\nplace where he was at all likely to meet her; he had not seen her\nleave the house, but she might have done so while he was breakfasting.\nAs well try to time the coming in and out of the sunbeams as the ways\nand movements of this fairy _ch\u00e2telaine_. She would sit by her\nlatticed window immovable for an hour, then disappear, then return,\nflitting to and fro like a shadow. M. Gombard watched his opportunity,\nwhen the landlord was busy in the crowded bar, to slip out of the\nhouse. He felt as if he were performing some guilty action in stealing\naway on such a foolish errand; how men would laugh at him if they\nknew, if they could see the revolution that had taken place in him\nwithin the last four-and-twenty hours! He tried to laugh at himself,\nbut it was more than his philosophy could accomplish. The great doors\nof the church were open to-day. They were open every morning up to\nnoon; the good folks of Cabicol went in and out to their devotions,\nfrom daybreak until then, not in crowds, but in groups of twos and\nthrees, trickling in and out at leisure. The grand old church looked\nless gloomy than yesterday; the sunlight poured in, illuminating the\nnave fully, and scattering the oppressive darkness of the lofty\naisles; but to M. Gombard the sunshine brought no brightness. He stood\nat the entrance of the nave, and looked up the long vista and on every\nside, but no trace of the luminary he sought was visible. The few\nworshippers who knelt at the various shrines disappeared one by one,\ngoing forth to the day\u2019s labor, its troubles and its interests, till\nthe church was nearly empty. M. Gombard turned into the north aisle,\nand sauntered slowly on. Presently he saw a tall figure advancing, as\nyesterday, with the same quick step, from out the same side chapel. It\nwas his hated rival! Here he was again, with the same scroll of paper\nin his hand; he rolled it up carefully, and put it in his pocket as he\nwalked on, calm, pensive, unconcerned, as if nobody had been by,\nnobody scowling fiercely upon him as he passed. It was evidently a\nplan agreed upon between these lovers that they should come and say\ntheir prayers together at a given hour every day. M. Gombard was now\ncertain that Mlle. Bobert was in the Lady Chapel; he quickened his\nstep in that direction. Great was his surprise to find it almost\nfilled with people. The first Mass was at six, the second at ten; the\nsecond was just finished. People were rising to come away; soon there\nwere only a few, more fervent than the rest, who lingered on at their\ndevotions. M. Gombard looked eagerly all round. There was a group of\nseveral persons going out together. Descrying Mlle. Bobert amongst\nthem, he turned and followed quickly, taking the south aisle so as to\nreach the portico before her, and have a chance of saluting, perhaps\nspeaking to, her; for might he not, ought he not, lawfully seize this\nopportunity of thanking her? He stationed himself in the open\ndoor-way, standing so that she could not pass without seeing him. The\ncommon herd passed out. M. Gombard turned as a light step drew close.\nHe bowed low. \u201cMademoiselle, I have many thanks to offer you,\u201d he said\nin a subdued voice, as became the solemn neighborhood. \u201cYou have done\na great kindness to a perfect stranger. I shall never see you again;\nbut if ever, by chance, by some unspeakable good fortune, it were\u2015\u2015in\nmy power, if I could do anything to serve you, I should count it a\ngreat hap \u2026 I should be only too happy!\u201d\n\nPoor man! How confused he was! He could hardly get the words out. It\nwas pitiable to see his emotion. Mlle. Bobert\u2019s gentle heart was\ntouched.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t think of it!\u201d she answered kindly, but with a nervous, timid\nmanner that he was not too absorbed to notice and to wonder at,\nremembering her unrestrained frankness of yesterday. \u201cIt is I who am\nglad. I wish I had known it sooner, before the market-day. I should\nhave done my best; but I hope it is not too late, that you will\nesca\u2015\u2015that you will get where you want in good time.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is of little consequence, mademoiselle. I care not whether I get\nthere late or early now,\u201d replied M. Gombard.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t say that! Pray don\u2019t!\u201d said the young girl with great feeling.\n\u201cI should be so sorry! Good-by, monsieur, good-by.\u201d\n\nShe hurried away. Did his eyes deceive him, or were there tears in\nhers? She was strangely agitated; her voice trembled; there was a\nchoking sound in it when she said that \u201cGood-by, monsieur, good-by!\u201d\nDid she read his secret on his face, in his manner, his tone, and was\nshe sorry for him? It was not improbable. He hoped it was so. It was\nsomething to have her pity, since she could give him nothing more. He\nwatched the slight figure drifting out of sight; the step was less\nelastic than yesterday; she was depressed, unnerved. What a treasure\nthat odious man had conquered in this tender, loving heart!\n\nThe post-chaise was at the door punctually at one. M. Gombard was\nready waiting for it when the landlord knocked at his door. The\ntraveller\u2019s air of deep dejection struck a new pang at his feeling\nheart.\n\n\u201cMonsieur, I trust sincerely you may not be too late,\u201d he said in the\nquick undertone of strong emotion, as he closed the door of the chaise\nand leaned forward confidentially.\n\n\u201cLate or not, I shall always remember your kindness, landlord; it\nsignifies little whether I am late or not,\u201d replied the parting guest.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t say that, monsieur, don\u2019t, I entreat you!\u201d said the landlord,\nlowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. \u201cIt would grieve me to the\nvery soul! I swear to you it would! Will you do me one favor?\u2015\u2015just to\nprove that you trust me and believe that I have done my best to\nforward your es\u2015\u2015your wishes: will you send me word by the postilion\nif you arrive in time?\u201d\n\n\u201cReally, landlord, your interest in my welfare is beyond my\ncomprehension,\u201d said M. Gombard; he had had enough of this effusive\nsympathy, and at the moment it irritated him.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t say so, sir! But I understand\u2015\u2015you don\u2019t know me; you are\nafraid to trust me. Well, I will not persist; but if you consent to\nsend me back one word, I shall be the happier for it. And Mlle.\nBobert\u2015\u2015think of her!\u201d\n\n\u201cMlle. Bobert! Do you suppose she cares to hear of me again? To know\nwhat becomes of me?\u201d asked M. Gombard breathlessly.\n\n\u201cCare, monsieur? She will know no peace until she hears from you; she\nwill reproach herself, as if it had been her fault. You little know\nwhat a sensitive heart hers is.\u201d\n\nThe postilion gave a preliminary flourish of his whip. Crack! crack!\nit went with a noise that roused all the population of the _Jacques\nBonhomme_, the inmates of the house, of the back yard and the front;\nboys, dogs, pigs, ducks, turkeys, geese\u2015\u2015all came hurrying to the\nfore, barking, grumbling, cackling, screaming, and pushing, terrified\nlest they should be late for the fun.\n\n\u201cI will send you word,\u201d said M. Gombard, pressing mine host\u2019s hand\nwith an impulse of gratitude and joy too strong for pride. \u201cAdieu!\n_Merci!_\u201d\n\nCrack! crack! and away went the post-chaise amidst such a noise and\nconfusion of men and animals as is not to be described. As the horses\ndashed down the street, M. Gombard beheld the man with the scroll turn\nthe corner. Curiosity was too much for dignity; he looked back: the\nhat was raised, and the happy rival passed on.\n\n\nTO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.\n\n\n\n\nWHAT IS DR. NEVIN\u2019S POSITION?\n\n\nThe leading article[135] in the _Mercersburg Review_ for October last\nis from the celebrated pen of J. Williamson Nevin, D.D. Dr. Nevin is a\nmember of the German Reformed Church, and at one period he was\npresident of Marshall College, the leader of a school of theologians,\nand editor of the _Mercersburg Review_, to which magazine he is now\nthe ablest contributor. During his editorship he wrote several\nremarkable articles for its pages, especially those on St. Cyprian,\nwhich attracted considerable attention.\n\nDr. Nevin\u2019s writings are characterized by an earnest religious spirit,\na freedom from bigotry, and they always aim at conveying some\nimportant Christian verity; which, although he scarcely can be said to\nknow it, finds its true home only in the bosom of the Catholic Church.\nHence Catholics can but take an interest in whatever Dr. Nevin writes,\nand we intend to lay before our readers, with some remarks of our own,\nthe purport of his present article, entitled \u201cThe Spiritual World.\u201d\n\nIn this article Dr. Nevin tries to show and prove that the work of\nsalvation includes not only the resistance to inordinate passions, but\nabove all a struggle against, and a conquest over, the world of evil\nspirits. This is his thesis. He says:\n\n \u201cFlesh and blood, self, the world, and the things of the\n world around us here in the body, are indeed part of the\n hostile force we are called to encounter in our way to\n heaven; they are not the whole of this force, however, nor\n are they the main part of it, by any means. That belongs\n always to a more inward and far deeper realm of being, where\n the powers of the spiritual world are found to go\n immeasurably beyond all the powers of nature, and to be, at\n the same time, in truth, the continual source and spring of\n all that is in these last, whether for good or for evil. The\n Christian conflict thus, even where it regards things simply\n of the present life, looks through what is thus mundane,\n constantly to things which are unseen and eternal; and in\n this way it becomes in very fact throughout a wrestling, not\n with flesh and blood, but with the universal powers of evil\n brought to bear upon us from the other world.\u201d\n\nThis he proceeds to prove by the vows of baptism:\n\n \u201cSo much we are taught in the form of our Christian baptism\n itself, by which we are engaged to \u2018renounce the devil with\n all his ways and works, the world with its vain pomp and\n glory, and the flesh with all its sinful desires.\u2019 In one\n view these may be regarded as separate enemies; but we know,\n at the same time, that they form together but one and the\n same grand power of evil, no one part of which can be\n effectually withstood asunder from the diabolical life that\n animates and actuates the whole. To wrestle with the world\n or with the flesh really, is to wrestle at the same time\n really with the full power of hell. If the struggle reach\n not to this, it may issue in stoic morality or respectable\n prudence, but it can never come to true self-mastery or\n victory over the world in the Christian sense. The field for\n any such conquest lies wholly beyond the realm of mere flesh\n and blood. The conquest, if gained at all, must be won from\n the hosts of hell, and then, of course, by the aid only of\n corresponding heavenly hosts and heavenly armor; which is,\n in truth, just what our baptism means.\u201d\n\nHe calls in philosophy to confirm his thesis, thus:\n\n \u201cThe conception of any such comprehension of our life here\n in the general spiritual order of the universe can be no\n better than foolishness, we know, for the reigning\n materialistic thinking of the present time. But it is, in\n truth, the only rational view of the world\u2019s existence.\n Philosophy, no less than religion, postulates the idea that\n the entire creation of God is one thought, in the power of\n which all things are held together as a single system from\n alpha to omega, from origin to end; and all modern science\n is serving continually more and more to confirm this view by\n showing that all things everywhere look to all things, and\n that everything everywhere is and can be what it is only\n through its relations to other things universally. So it is\n in the world of nature; so it is in the spiritual world; and\n so it must be also in the union of these two worlds one with\n the other. It is to be considered a settled maxim now, a\n mere truism indeed for all true thinkers, that there is no\n such thing as insulated existence anywhere\u2015\u2015such an\n _inconnexum_ must at once perish, sink into nonentity. It is\n no weakness of mind, therefore, to think of the spiritual\n world as a vast nexus of affection and thought (like the\n waves of the sea, endlessly various and yet multitudinously\n one), viewed either as heaven or as hell. Without doing so,\n indeed, no man can believe really in any such world at all.\n It will be for him simply an abstraction, a notion, a\n phantom. And so, again, it is no weakness of mind, in\n acknowledging the existence of the spiritual world (thus\n concretely apprehended), to think of our present human life,\n even here in the body, as holding in real contact and\n communication organic inward correlation, we may say, with\n the universal life of that world (angelic and diabolic), in\n such sort that our entire destiny for weal or woe shall be\n found to hang upon it, as it is made to do in the teaching\n of God\u2019s Word here under consideration. It is no weakness of\n mind, we say, to think of the subject before us in this way.\n The weakness lies altogether on the other side, with those\n who refuse the thought of any such organic connection\n between the life of men here in the body and the life of\n spirits in the other world.\u201d\n\nThese views, so strongly put forth by Dr. Nevin, we hardly need\nremark, are familiar to all Catholics, agree with the doctrines of all\nCatholic spiritual authors, especially the mystics, who have written\nprofessedly on this subject, and their truth is abundantly illustrated\non almost every page of the lives of the saints. The Catholic mystical\nauthors, many of whom were saints, have gone over the entire ground of\nour relations with the supernatural world, and, both by their learning\nand personal experience, have conveyed, in their writings on this\nsubject, important knowledge, laid down wise regulations, and given in\ndetail safe, wholesome, practical directions. They seem to breathe in\nthe same atmosphere as that in which the Holy Scriptures were written,\nand in passing from the reading of the Holy Scriptures to the lives of\nthe saints there is no feeling of any break. They lived in the\nhabitual and conscious presence, and in some cases in sight, of the\ninhabitants of the supernatural world; and so familiar was their\nintercourse with the angelical side, and at times so dreadful were the\ncombats to which they were delivered on the diabolical side, that\ntheir lives, for this very reason, become a stumbling-block to worldly\nCatholics and to Protestants generally. In the lives of her saints the\nCatholic Church proves that she is not only the teacher of\nChristianity, but also the inheritor and channel of its life and\nspirit. How far Dr. Nevin himself would agree with this intense\nrealism of the church in connection with the supernatural world, as\nseen in the lives of her saints, we have no special means of knowing;\nbut if we may judge from the spirit and drift of the article under\nconsideration, he goes much farther in this direction than is usual\nfor Protestants. Be his opinion what it may, their lives form a\nconcrete evidence of the truth of his thesis. It is the sense of\nnearness of the spiritual world, and its bearing on the Christian\nlife, pervading as it does the public worship, the private devotions,\nand the general tone of Catholics, that characterizes them from those\nwho went out from the fold of the Catholic Church in the religious\nrevolution of three centuries ago. This whole field has become to\nProtestants, in the process of time, a _terra incognita_; and if Dr.\nNevin can bring them again to its knowledge, and in \u201cconstant, living\nunion\u201d with it, he will have done a most extraordinary work.\n\nEfforts of this kind and of a similar nature have not been wanting in\none way or another, and are not now wanting, among Protestants. There\nare those who show a decided interest in the works of the spiritual\nwriters of the Catholic Church. Strange to say\u2015\u2015and yet it is not\nstrange; for in this they follow the law of _similia similibus_\u2015\u2015they\nare particularly fond of those authors whose writings are not\naltogether sound or whose doctrines are tainted with exaggerations.\nThus Dr. Upham will write the life of Madame Guyon; another will\ntranslate _The Maxims of the Saints_, by F\u00e9nelon; and to another class\nthere is a peculiar charm in the history of the Jansenistic movement\nof Port Royal; others, again, moved by the same instinct, will not\nhesitate to acknowledge with Dr. Mahan that \u201csuch individuals as\nThomas \u00e0 Kempis, Catherine Adorno [he means St. Catherine of Genoa],\nand many others were not only Christians, but believers who had a\nknowledge of all the mysteries of the higher life, and who, through\nall coming time, will shine as stars of the first magnitude in the\nfirmament of the Church. In their inward experiences, holy walk, and\n\u2018power with God and with men,\u2019 they had few, if any, superiors in any\npreceding era of church history. \u2018The unction of the Spirit\u2019 was as\nmanifest in them as in the apostles and primitive believers\u201d;[136]\nwhile many of this class in the Episcopal Church translate from\nforeign languages into English the works of Catholic ascetic writers,\nand books of devotion, for the use of pious members of their\npersuasion. The Rev. S. Baring-Gould will give you in English, in many\nvolumes, the complete lives of the saints. They even go so far, both\nin England and the United States, as to found religious orders of both\nsexes as schools for the better attainment of Christian perfection,\nand venture to take the name of a Catholic saint as their patron.\n\nIt is evident that, among a class of souls upon whom the church can be\nsaid to exert no direct influence, there is a movement towards seeking\nnearer relations with the unseen spiritual world, accompanied with a\ndesire for closer union with God. It finds expression among all\nProtestant denominations. With the Methodists and Presbyterians it is\nknown by the name of \u201cperfectionism,\u201d or \u201cthe higher life,\u201d or \u201cthe\nbaptism of the Holy Ghost.\u201d It is also manifested by the efforts made\nnow and again for union among all the Protestant sects. It is the same\ncraving of this mystical instinct for satisfaction that lies at the\nroot of spiritism, which has spread so rapidly and extensively outside\nof the Catholic Church, not only among sceptics and unbelievers, but\neven among all classes of Protestants, and entered largely into their\npulpits.\n\nThe former movement assumes a religious aspect; but lacking the\nscientific knowledge of spiritual life, and the practical discipline\nnecessary to its true development and perfection, it gradually dies\nout or runs into every kind of vagary and exaggeration. Recently,\nafter having made not a little commotion among different denominations\nin England and Germany, it came, in the person of its American\napostle, Mr. Pearsall Smith, to a sudden and disgraceful collapse. \u201cIf\nthe blind lead the blind, both fall into the ditch.\u201d The latter\nmovement\u2015\u2015spiritism\u2015\u2015leads directly to the entire emancipation of the\nflesh, resulting in free-lovism, and sometimes ending in possession\nand diabolism. Spiritism is Satan\u2019s master-stroke, in which he obtains\nfrom his adepts the denial of his own existence. These are some of the\nbitter fruits of the separation from Catholic unity: those who took\nthis step under the pretence of seeking a higher spiritual life are\nafflicted with spiritual languor and death; and they who were led by a\nboasted independence of Christ have fallen into the snares of Satan\nand become his dupes and abject slaves. Behold the revenge of\nneglected Catholic truth; for only in Catholic unity every truth is\nheld in its true relation with all other truths, shines in its full\nsplendor, and produces its wholesome and precious fruits!\n\nSuppose for a moment that Dr. Nevin should succeed in the task which\nhe has undertaken, and by his efforts raise those around him, and the\nwhole Protestant world, to a sense of their relation to the\nsupernatural world. What then? Why, he has only brought souls to a\nstate which many Protestants have reached before; and when they sought\nfor the light, aid, and sympathy which these new conditions required,\nin those around them, they found none.\n\nBy quickening their spiritual sensibilities you have opened the door\nto wilder fancies, more dangerous illusions, and thereby exposed the\nsalvation of their souls to greater perils. For, as St. Gregory tells\nus: \u201c_Ars artium est regimen animarum_\u201d\u2015\u2015the art of arts is the\nguidance of souls; and where is this art, this science, this\ndiscipline, to be found? Not in Protestantism. What then? Why, either\nthese souls have to renounce their holiest convictions, their\nnewly-awakened spiritual life, and sink into their former\ninsensibility; or go where they can find true guidance, certain peace,\nand spiritual progress\u2015\u2015enter into the bosom of the holy Catholic\nChurch, where alone the cravings of that spiritual hunger can be\nappeased which nowhere else upon earth found food, and the soul can at\nlast breathe freely.\n\nBut there is another point involved in Dr. Nevin\u2019s article; and\nhowever so much, as Catholics, we may sympathize with his endeavors to\nawaken Protestants to their relations with the supernatural world,\nthis point in question will come up, and we cannot help putting it:\nWhat is Dr. Nevin\u2019s criterion of revealed truth? The rule of\ninterpretation of the written Word? Dr. Nevin has one; for neither he\nnor any one else can move a single step without employing and\napplying, implicitly or explicitly, a rule of faith. He criticises,\njudges, condemns others, but on what ground? Does his own position, at\nbottom, differ from that of those whom he condemns? He lacks neither\nthe ability nor the learning to make a consistent statement on this\npoint. Truth is consistent. God is not the author of confusion.\n\nWhere does Dr. Nevin find or put the rule of faith? If it be placed in\nsimple human reason, then we have as the result, in religion, pure\nrationalism. If it be placed in human reason illuminated by grace,\nthen we have illuminism. If it be placed in both of these, with the\nwritten Word\u2015\u2015that is, the Bible as interpreted by each individual\nwith the assistance of divine grace\u2015\u2015then we have the common rule of\nfaith of all Protestants, so fruitful in breeding sects and schisms,\nand inevitably tending to the entire negation of Christianity.\n\nThis last appears to be Dr. Nevin\u2019s rule of faith; for what else does\nhe mean when in the beginning of his article, its second sentence, he\nmakes the following surprising statement: \u201cChristianity is a theory of\nsalvation\u201d? Did God descend from heaven and become man upon earth,\nlive, suffer, and die, and for what? \u201cA theory\u201d! Is this the whole\nissue and reality of Christianity\u2015\u2015\u201ca theory,\u201d a speculation? Did\nChrist rise from the dead and ascend to the Father, and, with him,\nsend forth upon earth the Holy Ghost, to create \u201ca theory,\u201d a\nspeculation, or an abstraction? \u201cChristianity a theory\u201d! We fear that\none who would deliberately make that assertion has never had the true\nconception of what is meant by the reality of Christianity. What would\nbe said of a man who in treating of the sun should say: The sun is a\ntheory, or a speculation, or an exposition of the abstract principles\nof light? If the sun be a theory, it would be quickly asked, what\nbecomes, in the meanwhile, of the reality of the sun? This way of\ndealing with Christianity, while professing to explain it, allows its\nreality altogether to escape. Notwithstanding Dr. Nevin\u2019s condemnation\nof \u201cthe abstract spiritualistic thinking of the age,\u201d and of those who\nwould make Christianity \u201ca fond sentiment simply of their own fancy,\u201d\nhe falls, in his definition of Christianity, into the very same error\nwhich in others he emphatically condemns.\n\nThat this is so is evident; for while he says, \u201cChristianity is a\ntheory,\u201d he adds in the same sentence, \u201cand is made known to us by\ndivine revelation.\u201d Now, the separation, even in idea, between the\nchurch and Christianity, is the fountain, source, and origin of all\nthe illusions and errors uttered or written, since the beginning,\nconcerning the Christian religion. The attempt to get at and set up a\nChristianity independently of the Christian Church is the very essence\nand nature of all heresies. The church and Christianity are\ndistinguishable, but not separable; and in assuming their\nseparability, as a primary position, lies all the confusion of ideas\nand misapprehensions of Christianity in the author of the article\nunder present consideration. This point needs further explanation, as\nit is all-important, and forms, indeed, the very root of the matter.\n\u201cChristianity is a theory,\u201d says Dr. Nevin, \u201cand is made known to us\nby divine revelation.\u201d But what does Dr. Nevin mean by \u201cdivine\nrevelation\u201d? Here are his own words in explanation:\n\n \u201cWhen the question arises, How are we to be made in this way\n partakers of the living Christ, so that our religion shall\n be in very deed\u2015\u2015not a name only, not a doctrinal or\n ritualistic fetich merely, nor a fond sentiment simply of\n our own fancy?\u201d \u201cAll turns in this case on our standing in\n the divine order as it reaches us from the Father through\n the Son. That meets us in the written Word of God, which, in\n the way we have before seen, is nothing less in its interior\n life than the presence of the Lord of life and glory himself\n in the world.\u201d\n\nAgain:\n\n \u201cWe cannot now follow out the subject with any sort of\n adequate discussion. We will simply say, therefore, that\n what our Lord says here of his words or commandments is just\n what the Scriptures everywhere attribute to themselves in\n the same respect and view. They claim to be spirit and life,\n to have in them supernatural and heavenly power, to be able\n to make men wise unto everlasting life, to be the Word of\n God which liveth and abideth for ever\u2015\u2015not the memory or\n report simply of such word spoken in time past, but the\n always present energy of it reaching through the ages. The\n Scriptures\u2015\u2015God\u2019s law, testimonies, commandments, statutes,\n judgments, his word in form of history, ritual, psalmody,\n and prophecy\u2015\u2015are all this through what they are as the\n \u2018testimony of Jesus\u2019; and therefore it is that they are, in\n truth, what the ark of God\u2019s covenant represented of old,\n the conjunction of heaven and earth, and in this way a real\n place of meeting or convention between men and God. To know\n this, to own it, to acknowledge inwardly the presence of\n Christ in his Word, as the same Jehovah from whom the law\n came on Mount Sinai; and then to fear the Lord as thus\n revealed in his Word, to bow before his authority, and to\n walk in his ways; or, in shorter phrase, to \u2018fear God and\n keep his commandments,\u2019 because they _are his_ commandments,\n and not for any lower reason\u2015\u2015this is the whole duty of man,\n and of itself the bringing of man into union with God; the\n full verification of which is reached at last only in and by\n the Word made glorious through the glorification of the Lord\n himself; as when, in the passage before us he makes the\n keeping of his commandments the one simple condition of all\n that is comprehended in the idea of the mystical union\n between himself and his people.\u201d\n\nAccording, then, to Dr. Nevin, \u201cthe divine order of our being\u201d made\n\u201cpartakers of the living Christ is in the Word of God.\u201d\n\nTo make what is plain unmistakable, he adds:\n\n \u201cWhat we have to do, then, especially in the war we are\n called to wage with the powers of hell, is to see that this\n conjunction with Christ be in us really and truly, through a\n proper continual use of the Word of God for this purpose.\u201d\n\nThere is here and there throughout this article a haziness of language\nwhich smacks of Swedenborgianism, and makes it difficult to seize its\nprecise meaning; but we submit that Dr. Nevin\u2015\u2015and he will probably\naccept the statement, as our only aim is to get at his real\nmeaning\u2015\u2015proceeds on the supposition that Christianity is a theory,\nand becomes real as each individual, illumined by divine light,\ndiscovers and appropriates it in reading the written Word\u2015\u2015the Bible.\nThis is the common ground of Protestantism; and Dr. Nevin holds no\nother than the rule of faith of all Protestants. The following passage\nplaces this beyond doubt or cavil:\n\n \u201cIt was the life of the risen Lord himself, shining into the\n written Word, and through this into the mind of the\n disciples, which, by inward correspondence, served to open\n their understanding to the proper knowledge of both. And as\n it was then, so it is still. We learn what the written Word\n is only by light from the incarnate Word; but then, again,\n we learn what the light of the incarnate Word is only as\n this shines into us through the written Word\u2015\u2015a circle, it\n is true, which alone, however, brings us to the true ground\n of the Christian faith.\u201d\n\nWe need scarcely tell our readers that this pretended rule of faith is\nno rule of faith at all. It breaks down on any reasonable test which\nyou may apply to it. It will not stand the trial of the written Word\nitself, nor of history, nor of common sense, nor of good and sound\nlogic. This has been too often demonstrated to require here long\nargumentation. Therefore, when a man ventures to speak for\nChristianity, and professes to define and explain what is\nChristianity, the question rises up at once, and naturally: What does\nthis man know, in fact, about Christianity? Did he live in the time of\nChrist? Did he ever speak to Christ, or see him? Was he a witness to\nhis miracles? Why, no! He can bear testimony to none of these events.\nIf he was not a contemporary of Christ, what, then, does he know about\nhim? Where has he obtained his knowledge to set up for a teacher of\nChristianity? On what grounds does he presume to speak for\nChristianity? Does he come commissioned by those whom Christ\nauthorized to teach in his name? Why, no; they repudiate him in the\ncharacter of a teacher of Christ. Does he prove by direct miraculous\npower from God to speak in his name? Why, no! Then he has no\ncommission, indirect or direct; then he is unauthorized, a self-sent\nand a self-appointed teacher!\n\nBut he fancies he has a light to speak for Christianity on the\nauthority of certain historical documents which contain an account of\nChrist and his doctrines. But how about these documents? What\nauthority verified and stamped them with its approval as genuine, and\nrejected others, which professed to be genuine, as spurious? Why, the\nvery authority which verified these documents, and on which he has to\nrely for their genuineness and divine inspiration, is the very\nauthority which altogether denies his presumed right of teaching\nChristianity! The authority which authenticated them rejects as\nspurious his claim to be the interpreter of their true meaning. How\ndoes he get over this difficulty? He does not get over it. He simply\nignores it.\n\nBut do these documents profess to give a full and complete account of\nChristianity? By no means. He assumes this too. What! assumes the\nvital point of his own rule, which is in dispute? He does. Strange\nthat those who were inspired to write these so important documents\nshould not have written their great object plainly on their face; and\nstranger still, if they did, that this should have remained a secret\nmany centuries before its discovery!\n\nThen this was not the way the primitive Christians learned\nChristianity? Not at all. There were millions of Christians who spilt\ntheir blood for Christianity, and millions more who had died in the\nfaith, before these documents were verified and put in the shape which\nwe now have them and call the Bible. This pretended rule, then,\nunchristianizes the early Christians? It does; and does more\u2015\u2015it\nunchristianizes the great bulk of Christians since; for the mass of\nChristians could not obtain Bibles before the invention of printing,\nand could not read them if they had them. Even to-day, if this be the\nrule, how about the children, the blind, and those who cannot\nread\u2015\u2015not a small number? How are they to become Christians?\n\nBut as the Bible is an inspired book, to get at its true meaning\nrequires the same divine Spirit which inspired it? Of course it does.\nBut do they that follow this rule assume that each one for himself has\nthis divine Spirit? Nothing else. But are they sure of this? Sure of\nit?\u2015\u2015they say so. But are they sure that each one has the divine\nSpirit to interpret rightly the divinely-inspired, written Word? Each\none thinks so. Thinks so! But do they not know it? Do they not know\nit? Why, let me explain: \u201cYou see we learn what the written Word is\nonly by light from the incarnate Word.\u201d But how do you get the light\nfrom the incarnate Word? Why, \u201cwe learn what the light of the\nincarnate Word is only as this shines into us through the written\nWord.\u201d That is, you suppose that the Bible, read with proper\ndispositions, conveys to your soul divine grace? Just so. That is, you\nput the Bible in the place of the sacraments; but that is not the\nquestion now. The question, the point, now at issue is: How do you\nknow that that light which shines into you through the written Word is\nnot \u201ca fond sentiment simply of your own fancy,\u201d is not a delusion,\ninstead of \u201cthe light of the incarnate Word\u201d? \u201cOh! I see what you are\naiming at. A book divinely inspired requires for its interpreter the\ndivine Spirit to get at its divine meaning. Now, if those who assume\nto possess this Spirit contradict each other point-blank in their\ninterpretation of its meaning, then this is equivalent to charging the\nHoly Spirit, the Spirit of truth, with error; and such a charge is\nblasphemy! But this is pushing things too far.\u201d\n\nPerhaps so; nevertheless, those who follow this rule of faith do\ndiffer in their interpretation of Holy Scripture, and differ as far as\nheaven is from earth. There is no end to their differences. Almost\nevery day breeds a new sect. They not only differ from each other, but\neach one differs from himself; and why? Because none are certain that\nthey have the inspired Word of God, except on a basis which undermines\ntheir position; and none are certain that the light by which they\ninterpret the written Word of God is the unerring Spirit of truth.\nHence all who hold this rule gradually decline into uncertitude,\ndoubt, scepticism, and total unbelief.\n\nBut how do the followers of this rule of faith interpret those\npassages of Holy Scriptures which speak so plainly of the church?\u2015\u2015for\ninstance, where Christ promises to \u201cbuild his church, and the gates of\nhell shall not prevail against it\u201d; \u201cHe that heareth not the church,\nlet him be to thee as a heathen and a publican\u201d; \u201cThe church of the\nliving God, the pillar and ground of truth\u201d; \u201cChrist died for the\nchurch\u201d; \u201cThe church is ever subject to Christ\u201d; and others of like\nimport. They either pass them by as of no account, or deal with them\nas an artist does with a piece of clay or wax\u2015\u2015they mould them to suit\ntheir fancy. Truly, this rule of faith reduces the divine reality of\nChristianity to the efforts of one\u2019s own thought\u2015\u2015\u201ca theory.\u201d\n\nDr. Nevin may struggle against the inevitable results of this rule, as\nhe does in several places in the present article, but he stands on the\nsame inclined plane as those whom he condemns, and, in spite of his\nearnest counter-efforts, he is descending visibly with them into the\nsame abyss. For the effort to get at the reality of Christianity, and\nto escape the recognition of the divine authority of the church,\nthrough the personal interpretation of the written Word, is a vain,\nabsurd, and fatal expedient. \u201cHe that entereth not by the door into\nthe sheepfold, but climbeth up another way, the same is a thief and a\nrobber\u201d (John x. 1).\n\nAs the attempt to separate the church and Christianity from each other\nempties Christianity of all its contents and destroys its reality, so,\nreversely, the conception of the transcendent union and inseparability\nof the church and Christianity leads to the recognition of the living,\nconstant, divine reality of Christianity. For the Christian Church was\ncalled into being by God, the Holy Ghost, the Creator Spirit; and as\nthis primary creative act still subsists in her in all its original\nvigor, she is, at every moment of her life, equally real, living,\ndivine. Just as the created universe exists by the continuation of the\ncreative act which called it into existence at the beginning, so the\nCatholic Church exists by the continuation of the supernatural\ncreative act which called her into existence on the day of Pentecost.\nOnce the church, always the church.\n\nThe church and the Bible are, in their divine origin, one; they\nco-operate together for the same end, and are in their nature\ninseparable. But the written Word is relative or subsidiary to the\nchurch, having for its aim to enlighten, to strengthen, and to perfect\nthe faithful in that supernatural life of the Spirit in which they\nwere begotten in the layer of regeneration, in the bosom of the holy\nchurch. The purpose of the written Word is, therefore, to effect a\nmore perfect realization of the church, and to accelerate her true\nprogress in the redemption and sanctification of the world. Hence the\nwritten Word presupposes the existence of the church, is within and in\nthe keeping of the church, and depends on her divine authority for its\nauthentication and true interpretation. The church is primary, and not\nenclosed in the written Word; but the end of the written Word is\nenclosed in that of the church.\n\nWere not a word of divine revelation written, the church would have\nnone the less existed in all her divine reality, and she would have\nnone the less accomplished her divine mission upon earth. For God, the\nindwelling Holy Spirit, is her life, power, guide, and protector. God\nthe Son was incarnate in the man Christ Jesus; so God the Holy Spirit\nwas incorporate in the holy Catholic Church.\n\nUndoubtedly the apostles were inspired by the Holy Spirit to write all\nthat they wrote; but their Gospels and their Epistles always\npresuppose the church as existing. To appeal, therefore, from the\nchurch to the written Word of the New Testament, if nothing else, is\nto be guilty of an anachronism.\n\nEven as to the Old Testament, before the Incarnation as well as after\nthe Incarnation, the reality of the church consisted in that\nsupernatural communion between God and man which existed at the moment\nof his creation. The church, therefore, existed, at least in\npotentiality, in the garden of Paradise, and was historically primary\nin the order of supernatural communications.\n\nWherein does Dr. Nevin differ from the Ebionites, the Nicolaites, the\nGnostics, the common Protestants, down to Joe Smith, P\u00e8re Hyacinthe,\nand Bishop Reinkens? Perceptibly, at bottom, there is no difference.\nDr. Nevin appears to have never asked himself seriously the most\nsearching of all questions, to wit: What, in the last analysis, is the\nbasis, standard, or rule by which I judge what is and what is not\nChristianity? He ventures to treat of the gravest questions and most\nmomentous mysteries touching the kingdom of God, on which the saints\nwould not have ventured a personal opinion; and on what grounds? But\nit may be said in his excuse, and with truth, that this\nself-sufficient attitude is due to the very position of defiance to\nthe divine authority of the church in which all those who have gone\nout, or are born out, of her fold are necessarily involved.\n\nTo sum up: Either we must suppose that God has left the task to every\nindividual to direct the human race to the great end for which he\ncreated it\u2015\u2015and thus the individual occupies the place of Almighty\nGod, and turns the crank of the universe to suit his own fancy, or the\nschemes and theories of the cogitations of his little brain\u2015\u2015or\nbelieve in \u201ca divine order,\u201d in being made constant partakers of the\nliving Christ \u201cin a concrete form.\u201d In this case, our first duty is to\nfind this real concrete body, become a member and partaker of its\ndivine life, and, in conquering the obstacles in the way of our\nsalvation, co-operate in its divine work for the whole world.\n\nBut the history of these last three centuries shows conclusively that\nthere is no standing-place between the Catholic Church and\nProtestantism; and it has made it equally clear that Protestantism has\nno standing ground of its own, and therefore no man can be a\nChristian, and defend with perfect consistency his position, out of\nthe Catholic Church.\n\n\n [135] \u201cThe Spiritual World,\u201d by J. W. Nevin, D.D., the\n _Mercersburg Review_, October, 1876.\n\n [136] _The Baptism of the Holy Ghost_, by Rev. Asa Mahan,\n D.D., p. 81.\n\n\n\n\nSIX SUNNY MONTHS.\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF \u201cTHE HOUSE OF YORKE,\u201d \u201cGRAPES AND THORNS,\u201d ETC.\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nAN ARRIVAL.\n\n\nIf Mr. Vane and the Signora felt any difficulty in meeting each other\nthe next morning, it was soon over. _Ce n\u2019est que le premier pas qui\nco\u00fbte_, and that one step brought them into the familiar path again,\nalmost as though they had never left it. Almost, but not quite; for\nthe entire unconsciousness of Mr. Vane\u2019s manner impressed the lady\nstrongly. It did not give her a new idea of him, but it emphasized the\nimpressions she had for some time been receiving. She had never\nbelieved him to be so careless and indifferent as he often appeared to\nbe, but it had grown upon her, little by little, that under that calm,\nand even _nonchalant_, exterior was hidden an immense self-control and\nwatchfulness; that he could ignore things when he chose so perfectly\nthat it was difficult to believe he had not forgotten them; and that,\ninstead of being one of the most unobserving of men, he was, in\nreality, aware of everything that went on about him, seeing much which\nescaped ordinary lookers-on.\n\nSuch a disposition in a person in whose honesty we have not entire\nconfidence is disconcerting, and increases our distrust of them; but\nit excites in us a greater interest when we know them to be honest and\nfriendly. If they have had sorrows, we look at them with a tenderer\nsympathy, searching for signs of a suffering which they will not\nexpress; if they have revealed a peculiar affection for us, we feel\neither sweetly protected or painfully haunted by an attention which\nseldom betrays itself, and which will not be evaded.\n\nThe Signora could not have said clearly whether she was pleased or\ndispleased. Mr. Vane had mistaken the nature of her sympathy, she\nthought, and, believing her to be attached to him, had spoken from\ngratitude; and though the conviction hurt her pride, she could not\nfeel any resentment for a mistake kindly made on his part, and\npromptly corrected on hers. The only wise course was to put the matter\ncompletely out of her mind, as he seemed to have done, and to secure\nand enjoy the friendship she had no fear of his withdrawing.\n\nIsabel was greatly exercised in her mind that morning on the subject\nof insects.\n\n\u201cI made up my mind in the middle of the night what I should do if I\never built a house in Italy,\u201d she said. \u201cI should have every stick and\nstone on the place carried away, a deep trench dug all around the\nland, and a high wall built all around the trench. Then I should have\nthe whole surface of the ground covered with combustible material, and\na fire kindled over it. When that had burned a day or two, I should\nhave cellars, wells, drains, everything that had to be excavated, made\nthoroughly, and the garden-plot well turned over. Then I should have a\nsecond conflagration, covering everything. Next would come the\nhouse-building. For that every stone should be washed and fumigated\nbefore it was brought in at the gate, and all the earth and gravel\nshould be baked in a furnace, and every tree and shrub, and cart and\ndonkey and workman, should be washed seven times; and finally, when\nthe house should be finished as to the stone-work and plaster, I would\nhave it drenched inside and out with spirits of wine, and set fire to.\nBy taking those precautions I believe that one might have a place free\nof fleas. What do you think, Signora?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dear, I think you would have had your labor for your pains,\u201d was\nthe reply. \u201cThese little creatures would hop over your walls, come in\nsnugly hidden in your furniture, ride grandly in on the horses and in\nthe coaches of your visitors, and even enter triumphantly on your own\nperson. They are invincible. One must have patience.\u201d\n\n\u201cI would continue to burn the place over, furniture and all, till I\nhad routed them,\u201d the young woman declared. \u201cI believe it could be\ndone. I would have patience, but it should be the patience of\ncontinual resistance, not of submission. I would not give up though I\nshould reduce the place to ashes.\u201d\n\nMr. Vane asked his daughter if she ever heard of such a process as\nbiting off one\u2019s nose to spite one\u2019s face; and then he told her a very\npathetic story of a man and a flea: \u201cOnce there was a man who was\ngreatly tormented by a flea which he could never catch. In vain he\nsearched his garments and the house. The insect hopped from place to\nplace, but always returned as soon as the search was over. At length,\nin a fit of impatience, the man hit upon a desperate project, which he\ndid not doubt would succeed. He went softly to the seashore and, after\nwaiting till the enemy was plainly to be felt between his shoulders,\nflung himself headlong into the water. But, alas! engrossed by the one\nthought of vengeance, he had not calculated his own peril. The waters\ndrew him away from shore in spite of his struggles, and just as they\nwere closing over him, with his last glimpse of earth, he saw the\nflea, which had hopped from him on to a passing plank, floating safely\nto shore again.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe moral is\u2015\u2015\u201d Mr. Vane was concluding, when his daughter\ninterrupted him.\n\n\u201cI maintain that the man conquered!\u201d she exclaimed. \u201cThat flea could\nnever bite him again.\u201d\n\nThis uncomfortable talk was carried on in the house, which naturally\nsuggested it. But when they went out of doors, they left it behind\nthem. The quaint, zigzag streets; the countless number of odd nooks in\nevery direction; the narrow vistas here and there between close rows\nof houses, where a wedge of distant mountain, as blue as a lump of\nlapis-lazuli, seemed to be thrust between the very walls, or where the\nrough gray ribbon of the street became a ribbon of flowery green,\nsilvering off into the horizon, with a city showing on it far away no\nlarger than a daisy; the people in the streets, and all about, whose\nsimple naturalness was more astonishing than the most unnatural\nbehavior could have been\u2015\u2015all these kept their eyes and minds alert.\n\nIn the midst of the town stands the church, the houses clustering\nabout it like children about their mother\u2019s knees. Some little\nchildren were playing on the steps outside; inside, a group of women,\nwith white handkerchiefs on their heads, were kneeling about a\nconfessional, waiting their turns. One of them, who had confessed,\ncame slowly away, and went toward the high altar, touching here and\nthere with a small staff she carried, her eyes looking straight ahead.\n\nThe Signora stepped quickly forward to remove a chair from her path.\n\u201cYou are blind!\u201d she whispered pitifully.\n\nThe old woman smiled, and turned toward the voice a face of serious\nsweetness, as she made the reply of St. Clara: \u201cShe is not blind who\nsees God!\u201d\n\nShe reached the altar-railing, and knelt there to wait for the Mass.\nWhere she knelt the one sunbeam that found its way into the church so\nearly fell over her. Feeling its warmth like a gentle touch, she\nlifted her face to it and smiled again.\n\nThe children, weary of their play, came in and wandered about the\nchurch. One, finding its mother among the penitents, went to lean on\nher lap. She smoothed its pretty curls absently with one hand, while\nthe other slipped bead after bead of her chaplet, her lips moving\nrapidly. Another, seeing the hand of the priest resting on the door of\nthe confessional, just under the curtain, went to kiss it, standing on\ntiptoe, and straining up to reach the fingers with its baby mouth. A\nthird, seeing some one near it kneel before the altar, made a\nliliputian genuflection, and went down on its knees in the middle of\nthe church, a mere dot in that space, and remained there looking\ninnocently about, uncomprehending but unquestioning. Another dreamed\nalong the side of the church, looking at the familiar pictures, and\npresently, climbing with some difficulty the steps of one of the\naltars, seated itself and began softly to stroke the cheeks of a\nmarble cherub that supported the altar-table.\n\nIf a company of baby angels had come in, they would not have made less\nnoise nor done less harm; perhaps, would not have done more good.\n\n\u201cHow peaceful it is!\u201d Mr. Vane exclaimed as they went out into the air\nagain. \u201cHow heavenly peaceful!\u201d\n\nThey saw only women and children on their way down through the town.\nSome of the men had gone off in the night to Rome, carrying wine in\nthose carts of theirs, with the awning slung like a galley-sail over\nthe driver\u2019s seat, and the cluster of bells atop, each tinkling in a\ndifferent tone, and the little white dog keeping watch over the\nbarrels while the man dozed. Others had gone at day-dawn to work in\nthe Campagna, and might be seen from the town moving, as small as\nspiders, among the vines or in the gardens.\n\nJust below the great piazza, at the entrance of the town, beside the\ndip of the road into the hollow between _Monte Compatri_ and _Monte\nSan Sylvestro_, a long, tiled roof was visible supported on arches.\nThey leaned over the parapet supporting the road, and watched for a\nlittle while the lively scene below. All the space beneath this roof\nwas an immense tank of water, or fountain, as it was called, divided\ninto square compartments. Around these stood forty or fifty women\nwashing. They soaped and dipped their clothes in the constantly-changing\nwater, and beat them on the wide stone border of the fountain, working\nleisurely, and chatting with each other. The white handkerchiefs on\ntheir heads, and, now and then, a bit of bright drapery on their\nshoulders, shone out of the shadow made by the roof and the piers\nsupporting it, and the rich green of that sheltered nook between the\nhills. It was, in fact, the town wash-tub, and this was the town\nwash-day. In this place the women washed the year round, in the open\nair, and with cold water, spreading their clothes out to dry on the\ngrass and bushes.\n\nThe travellers went up _Monte San Sylvestro_, gathering flowers as\nthey went. The path was rough and wild, winding to and fro among the\nbushes as it climbed, and hidden, from time to time, by tall trees.\nHalf way up they met a man with a herd of goats rushing and tumbling\ndown the steep way. A little farther on, at a turn of the road, was a\nlarge shrine holding a crucifix. The place seemed to be an absolute\nsolitude, but the withered flowers drooping from the wire screen, and\nthe sod, worn to dust, at the foot of the step, showed that faith and\nlove had passed that way, and stopped in passing. Near this shrine was\na protruding ledge, from under which the gravel had dropped away or\nbeen dug away, leaving a sort of cave. The place needed only a\ngray-bearded old man clad in rags, and bending over an open book, an\nhour-glass before him, and perhaps a lion lying at his feet. Or one\nmight have placed there the Magdalen, with her long hair trailing in\nthe sand, and her woful eyes looking off into the distant east, as she\ngazed across the blue ocean from her cave on the coast of France.\nThere was still faith enough in this region to have honored and\nprotected such a penitent.\n\nThe three women gathered some green to go with their flowers, cleared\naway all the withered stems and leaves, and wrote in pink and white\nand blue around the edge of the screen. When they had done all that\nthey could well reach, Mr. Vane finished for them by writing last,\nover the head of the crucifix, the word that in reality came first.\nThen they went on, leaving the symbol of all that Heaven could do for\nearth encircled by the expression of all that earth can do for\nHeaven\u2015\u2015\u201c_Credo, Spero, Amo, Ringrazio, Pento_.\u201d They wrote these\nwords in flowers, Bianca weaving a verdant Hope at the right hand,\nIsabel a white Thanksgiving at the left, and the Signora placing a\nrose-red Love and Penitence under the feet. Over the head Mr. Vane had\nset in blue the word of Faith.\n\nThe summit of the mountain was crowned with the convent and church of\nSt. Sylvester; but the buildings extended quite to the edge of the\nplatform on the eastern side, and the fine view was from the gardens\non the west side, and, of course, inaccessible to ladies. They could\nonly obtain glimpses over the tops of trees that climbed from below,\nand through the trunks of trees that pressed close to the corners of\nthe stone barriers. No person was visible but a monk in a brown robe\nand a broad-brimmed hat, who lingered near a moment, as if to give\nthem an opportunity to speak to him if they wished, then entered a\nlong court leading to the convent door, and disappeared under the\nportico.\n\nA perfect silence reigned. They heard nothing but their own steps on\nthe grassy pavement. The town of _Monte Compatri_, seen through the\ntrees on the other height, looked more like a gray rock than a city.\nNot a sign of life was visible from it. The glimpses they caught of\nthe Campagna had seemed fragments of a vast green solitude where grass\nhad long overgrown the traces of men. No smallest cloud gave life or\nmotion to the steady blue overhead; no song of bird wove a silver link\nbetween familiar scenes and that solemn retreat. The soul, stripped of\nits veiling cares and interests, was like Moses on the mountain, face\nto face with God. History, mythology, poetry\u2015\u2015they were not! The\nbuzzing of these golden bees that made the brow of Tusculum their hive\nwas inaudible and forgotten. On this height was a station-house of\neternity, and the electric current of the other world flowed through\nits blue and silent air.\n\n\u201cIt seems to me one should prepare one\u2019s mind before going there,\u201d\nBianca said, looking back from the foot of the mountain, after they\nhad descended. They had scarcely spoken a word going down.\n\nThe impression made on them was, indeed, so strong that they scarcely\nobserved anything about them for several hours; and it was only when\nthey were going down to Frascati again in the afternoon that they\nroused themselves from their silence.\n\n\u201cWe shall have time to go into Villa Aldobrandini a little while,\u201d the\nSignora said, looking at her watch. \u201cThe train does not start for more\nthan an hour. We can send the man on to the station with our bags, and\nwalk down ourselves. Of course all these villas have very nearly the\nsame view, but this is the finest of all.\u201d\n\nThey had time for a short visit only, but their guide made the most of\nit. Going round one of the circling avenues, dark with ancient\nilex-trees, she turned into a cross-road that led directly to the\nupper centre of the villa, where the cascades began. First, from under\na tomb-like door in the side of a mound, flowed a swift ribbon of\nwater between stone borders. It slanted with the hill, and flashed\nalong silent in the sunshine, eager to leap through the mouth of the\ngreat mask below, to scatter its spray over carven stone and a hundred\nflowers.\n\nThey followed the cascades down to the lower front, with its niches,\nstatues, chapel, and chambers, and the noble _casino_ facing it.\n\n\u201cEvery story of the house, as you go up,\u201d the Signora said, \u201cbrings\nyou on a level with a new cascade, and from the topmost room you look\ninto the heart of the upper thicket, where you might imagine yourself\nunseen. Indeed, splendid as these scenes are, there is, to me, a\nconstant sense of discomfort in that frequent appearance of solitude\nwhere solitude is not. There seems to be no nook, however apparently\nremote, which is not perfectly overlooked from some almost invisible\nwatch-tower. It may be necessary, but the suggestion is of suspicion\nand espionage.\u201d\n\nThey left the villa by the front avenue and lawn, walking through\ngrass and flowers ankle deep, and gathering handfuls of dear, familiar\npennyroyal that they found growing all about.\n\nWhen they reached the station there was yet a little time to wait, and\nthey stood in the western windows and looked off to the distant ridges\nthat showed their dark edges against intervening layers of silvery\nmist. They were ridges of jewels, marked thickly with spires, towers,\nand palaces. At the left the dome of the world\u2019s temple was visible,\nmaking everything else of its sort puny, and next it, like the outline\nof a forest against the sky, the Quirinal stretched its royal front.\nAll floated in that delicate mist that, from the distance, always\nveils the Campagna, as if the innumerable ghosts of the past became\nluminous when so seen, evading for ever the nearer spectator.\n\nFraming this distant picture, a hill of olives at one side of the\nstation-house sloped to a hill of vines at the other, and the railroad\ntrack, set in roses, curved round in the narrow strip of land between\nthem.\n\nThe Signora, putting her arm around Bianca, and pointing to one of\nthese ridges, whispered in her ear: \u201cWhat does my darling think that\nis\u2015\u2015the two dark spots shaped like two thimbles, and about as large,\nand the something that might be a lead-pencil standing up between\nthem? What blessed _campanile_ and twin _cupole_ do you wish them to\nbe?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I was searching for them,\u201d the girl exclaimed, and kissed her\nhand to the far-away basilica. \u201cWe must go there a few minutes this\nevening,\u201d she added\u2015\u2015\u201cgo up the steps, at least, if it should be too\nlate to go in.\u201d\n\nThey started, and went trailing along through the enchanted land,\nhappy to return to the city that already seemed to them like home,\nand, having learnt some landmarks in their outward passage, added to\nthe number of their acquisitions in returning. The Signora indicated\nthe principal tombs and named the aqueducts. \u201cThere are the Claudian\nand Marcian, side by side, galloping over the plain like a pair of\ncoursers, each bringing a lake in its veins to quench the thirst of\nRome. Sixtus V., who built our chapel of the Blessed Sacrament,\nBianca, used those Claudian arches to bring a new stream in when the\nold one failed. It is called Aqua Felice. His name was Felice\nPeretti.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Stia felice!_\u201d said Bianca, smiling at the grand old arches.\n\n\u201cIn what a circle water goes,\u201d she added after a moment, \u201cand what a\nbeautiful circle!\u2015\u2015down in the rain, running in the river, where the\nwheel touches the earth, rising on the sunbeams, running in clouds,\nwhere the wheel touches the sky, dropping in rain again, and so on\nround and round.\u201d\n\n\u201cApropos of Sixtus V.,\u201d the Signora said to Mr. Vane, \u201csee how the\nchurch recognizes and rewards merit. It is, in fact, the only true\nrepublic. That wonderful man was a swineherd in Montalto when he was a\nboy, and Cardinal of Montalto when he was a man, and he died one of\nthe most brilliant popes that ever wore the tiara. One cannot help\nwondering what the boy Felice thought of in those days when he watched\nthe swine, and if ever a vision came to him of kings kneeling to kiss\nhis feet. And, more yet, I wonder what thoughts the mother had of his\nfuture when she watched over her sleeping child, or looked after him\nwhen he went out to his day\u2019s task. He could not have been so great\nbut that his mother gave the first impulse. One does not gather figs\nof thistles.\u201d\n\n\u201cI agree with you about the mother,\u201d Mr. Vane replied cordially. \u201cI\ndon\u2019t believe any man ever accomplished much of real worth in life\nwithout his mother having set him on the track of it. Sometimes a\nnoble mother has a son who does not do justice to her example and\nteaching. But even then, if her duty has been fully done, she may be\nsure that he is the better for it, though not so good as he should be.\nI am sure I owe it to my mother that, though my life has not benefited\nthe world much, my sins have been rather of omission than of\ncommission. Come to think of it, I have never done her any particular\ncredit; but I am happy to be able to say that I have never done her\nany great discredit.\u201d\n\nWhile he spoke, his face half-turned toward the window, his manner\nmore energetic than was usual with him, the large blue eyes of the\nSignora rested on him with an expression of grave kindness and\ninterest. When he ended, she leaned slightly toward him, smiling, and\ntossed him a rose she had drawn from her belt, repeating Bianca\u2019s\nexclamation: \u201c_Stia felice!_\u201d\n\nHis fingers closed on the stem of the rose which had touched his hand,\nand he held it, but did not turn his face, seeming to wait for her to\ngo on.\n\n\u201cYou should read Padre Ventura,\u201d she said, \u201cthough, indeed, you have\nless need than most men. I would like to put his _La Donna Cattolica_\ninto the hands of every Catholic\u2015\u2015yes, and of every Protestant. I\nwould like the Woman\u2019s Rights women, and those who think that\nChristianity and the church have degraded us, and some Catholics too,\nto learn from St. Chrysostom, St. Jerome, and Gregory the Great what\nestimate Christian women should be held in. It would do them good to\nread the works of this eloquent priest, who speaks with authority, and\nennobles himself in honoring the sisters of the Queen of angels. Padre\nVentura must have had a beautiful soul. I fancy that his ashes even\nmust be whiter than the ashes of most men. I always judge men\u2019s\ncharacters by their estimate of women, and what they seek in women by\nwhat they say is to be found in them.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis author is dead, then?\u201d Mr. Vane remarked, looking attentively at\nthe Signora in his turn.\n\n\u201cYes. He died years before I had ever heard his name. When you have\nread something of his, you may like to visit his tomb in St. Andrea\ndelle Valle. The stone over his sepulchre is in the pavement, about\nhalf way up the nave, and there\u2019s a fine monument in the transept on\nthe epistle side. I wish every Christian woman who visits Rome would\ndrop a flower on the stone that covers all that was earthly of that\nman, and remember for a moment the place he assigns her in her home\nand in the world. \u2018The man,\u2019 he says, \u2018is the king of the family; the\nwoman is the priest.\u2019\u201d\n\nShe was silent, pursuing the subject mentally, then added: \u201cHe says so\nmany beautiful things. Describing the different kinds of courage with\nwhich the Christian martyrs and certain celebrated pagans met death,\nhe speaks of one as \u2018the modesty and humility that throws itself into\nthe arms of hope, to rest there,\u2019 and the other as \u2018the pride that\nimmolates itself to desperation, in order to lose itself there.\u2019 One\nhe calls \u2018the sublime of virtue,\u2019 and the other \u2018the sublime of vice.\u2019\nHe had mentioned Socrates and Cato in the connection.\u201d\n\nThey had reached the station while this talk was going on, and, coming\nout into the piazza, separated there, the Signora and Bianca coming\ndown by one of the fine new streets to pay a visit to their basilica\non the way home. They found the door just closed, it being half an\nhour before _Ave Maria_; but it was a pleasure to walk a while on the\nlong platform at the head of the steps, bathed in the red gold of the\nsetting sun, that gilded, but did not scorch; to look up at the fringe\nof pink flowers growing in spikes at the top of the fa\u00e7ade, and at the\nflocks of little gray birds that flew about among them; and to glance\nup or down the streets that stretched off like rays from the sun, and\nthen to stroll slowly homeward through the lounging, motley crowd.\n\nThey met Mr. Vane and Isabel at the door.\n\n\u201cDid you think we also might not visit a church?\u201d Isabel said. \u201cI\ninvited papa to go into St. Bernard\u2019s, and, though they were about\nclosing, they kept open ten minutes for us. I am not sure but I may\nadopt that church as my favorite. It is not too large. The\ncongregations are orderly, and all attend to one service; and,\nbesides, I like a rotunda. If I should go there, papa, you must side\nwith me, that the house may be equally divided.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not sure I like those cherubic churches, all head and no nave,\u201d\nMr. Vane replied. \u201cThe basilica, being modelled on the human body, has\na more human feeling.\u201d\n\nThe door opened before they rang, and the servants, having been on the\nwatch, welcomed them with smiling faces, kissing the hand of the\nSignora. It was impossible not to believe in, and be touched by, their\nsincerity and affection, which expressed themselves, not in looks and\nwords alone, but in actions. The house showed plainly, by its\nexquisite cleanliness, that the absence of the mistress had not been a\nholiday for them; and they had prepared everything they could to\nplease her, even to filling all the smaller vases with her favorite\nflowers.\n\n\u201cYou haven\u2019t been spending your money for violets, you extravagant\nchildren!\u201d she exclaimed.\n\nThey had been watching to see if she would notice them, and were\ndelighted with her surprise and pleasure.\n\nNo, they had not spent money, but only time and strength. They had\ngathered the flowers themselves in Villa Borghese.\n\n\u201cI do not take on myself to decide great social questions,\u201d the\nSignora said, as they sat talking over their supper. \u201cI could not\ndecide them if I would. But this I must think: that, in most cases,\nlittle happiness is to be found for people except in the position in\nwhich they were born. Look at these two good creatures who serve us.\nTheir parents before them were servants, and they do not expect or\nwish to be anything more. They want the rights their claim to which\nthey understand perfectly\u2015\u2015fair wages, not too hard work, and an\noccasional holiday. They know that the fatigues of the great, the\nwealthy, and the ambitious are greater than theirs, though of a\ndifferent sort. If wealth were to drop upon them, they would grasp it,\nno doubt, but it would embarrass them. They would never strive for it.\nDo you know, I find their position dignified, even when they black my\nshoes. It\u2019s a nicer thing to do than toadying for fine friends, or\nstriving for place, or gnawing one\u2019s heart out with envy.\u201d\n\nMr. Vane smiled slightly.\n\n\u201cHow is it about your swineherd, who changed his rough straw hat for a\ntriple crown, and had the royalty and nobility of centuries come to\nkiss the foot that once hadn\u2019t even a shoe to it?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d she replied, \u201cthe church is the beginning of the kingdom of\nheaven on earth, and the meek and the poor in spirit possess it\nalready. Besides, I always make exception of those whom God has\nespecially endowed with gifts of nature or grace, or with both.\nBesides, again, this man did not seek greatness; it was conferred on\nhim.\u201d\n\nIsabel felt called on to show her colors.\n\n\u201cAmerica for ever!\u201d she said. \u201cEurope will do very well for the great,\nand for those who are willing to remain small; but in _my_ country\nthere\u2019s a fair field for everybody. Everybody there is born to as high\na position as he can work his way to, and his destiny is not in the\nbeginning of his life, but in the end of it. We are like Adams and\nEves new-made, and dominion is given us over the garden of the new\nworld.\u201d\n\nShe paused for breath, and the Signora applauded. \u201cBrava! I am willing\nyou should defeat me. I will call America not only the garden, but the\nnursery-garden, of the new world, if you like. Long live your\nseedlings!\u201d\n\n\u201cHow would you like it,\u201d the girl went on, rather red in the\ncheeks\u2015\u2015\u201chow would you like it, if you had been born in some very\nhumble position in life, instead of in the position of a lady, to have\nsome one tell you not to try to rise, but to stay where you were? Just\ntake it to yourself.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf I had been so born I should have been a different sort of person,\nand cannot say how I should have felt,\u201d the Signora replied\ntranquilly. \u201cIf I had been a product of generations of obedience,\ninstead of generations of command, do not you see that the marriages\nwould have been different, the habits, the traditions, the education,\neverything but the immortal spark and the common human nature? Or, if\nI had been like what I am now, I think I should have looked for, and\nfound, the beauties and pleasures in my path.\u201d She had been speaking\nvery quietly, but here she drew herself up a little, and a slight\ncolor rose to her face as she went on: \u201cI have never striven for any\nof those things the chase of which seems so mean to me. It has never\noccurred to me that I might be honored by any association, except with\na person either very good or very highly gifted by nature. The only\nrank which impresses me is that in the church. For the rest\u2015\u2015you have\nheard the expression, \u2018a distinction without a difference.\u2019\u201d\n\nIsabel gave a puzzled sigh. \u201cI never could understand you,\u201d she said,\na little impatiently. \u201cSometimes you seem to me the haughtiest of\nwomen; sometimes I think you not half proud enough. One moment you\nseem to be a red republican, the next an aristocrat. I can\u2019t make out\nwhat you really are. You graduate your bows to an inch, according to\nthe rank you salute. I\u2019ve seen your eyes flash lightning at a person\nfor being too familiar toward you; and then I find you talking about\nthe rights of the people almost like a communist.\u201d\n\nThe Signora was crumbling a bit of bread while she listened, and did\nnot look up in answering: \u201cI am quite ashamed of having made myself\nthe subject of conversation for so long a time. Excuse me! Shall we go\nout to the _loggia_ for a little while? It is very warm here.\u201d\n\n\u201cPermit me!\u201d Mr. Vane interposed. He had been looking at his daughter\nwith great displeasure. \u201cI would say, Isabel, that when you shall have\nthought and learned more, you will, I hope, understand the Signora\nbetter than you do now, and will try to imitate the justice which can\ngive to all their due, and not rob Peter to pay Paul. Moreover, I\nwould remind you that an intrusive familiarity is not a right of any\none, even to an inferior. And now, Signora, shall we go to the\n_loggia_?\u201d\n\nPerhaps it was because she had never before been so sharply criticised\nto her face; but the Signora had, certainly, never before known how\npleasant it is to be defended. This pleasure showed itself in her\nmanner as they went out. She usually held herself rather erect, and\nhad an air of composure which might easily be called pride; but now\nthere was a slight drooping of the head and bending of the form which\ngave her an appearance of softness, as of one who droops content under\na protecting shadow. It was a softness which she, perhaps, needed.\n\nThey heard the door-bell ringing as they went up the _loggia_ steps,\nand presently an exclamation in Isabel\u2019s clear voice. She had not\nfollowed them, they now perceived, being a little displeased or hurt\nat the reproof to which she had been subjected.\n\n\u201cWho can have come?\u201d said the Signora, listening. \u201cIt seems to be some\none whom Isabel knows.\u201d\n\nBianca stood at the railing and looked intently at the windows of the\n_sala_, faintly lighted from the room beyond. Two figures passed\nthrough the dimness and disappeared. They might be coming to the\n_loggia_, or they might be going to the sofa under that picture of\nPenelope and Ulysses\u2015\u2015the Signora and Mr. Vane, both a little\npreoccupied, did not notice or care which. If any one wished to see\nthem, he could come to them.\n\nBianca, alone, stood looking steadily. The full moon, shining in her\nface, had showed it for one moment as red as a rose; but as the\nminutes passed, that lovely color faded, growing paler, till it was\nwhiter than the light that veiled it, sparkling like silver on its\nbeautiful outlines. Where was the sweet confidence that had been\ngrowing up in her heart for the last few weeks? Gone like a\ncloud-house built on a cloud. She was terrified at the fear and pain\nthat had taken the place of it, and began to lose sight of the cause\nin trembling at the magnitude of the effect.\n\n\u201cIt is surely wrong that anything in the world should make me feel\nso,\u201d she murmured. \u201cWhat have I been doing? I must have thought of\nthis too much, and now is come my punishment. Here in Rome, where we\nshall stay but a few months, I ought to have given all my mind and\nheart to religion. It is a shame that I have not. I do not deserve the\nprivilege of being here.\u201d\n\nShe strove to gather about her mind the sacred thoughts and\nassociations which the Christian finds in the heart of the Christian\nworld, to dwarf with the grand interests of eternity the passing\ninterests of time, and she was in some measure successful, to the\nextent, at least, of inspiring herself with resolution, if not with\npeace.\n\n\u201cOh! how terrible is life,\u201d she said, looking upward, as if to escape\nthe sight of it. \u201cHow it catches us unawares, sometimes, and wrings\nthe blood out of our hearts!\u201d The prayer that always rose to her lips\nin any necessity, \u201cWe fly to thy patronage,\u201d escaped them now; and\nthen she swiftly and firmly read to herself her lesson: \u201cI will be\nfriendly and gentle toward him. I will neither seek him nor shrink\nfrom him, nor show any foolish consciousness, if I can help it; and I\nwill not be angry with Isabel. If he should care for me in the way I\nhave thought, he will come every step of the way for me; if he should\nnot, I shall not win either respect or affection by putting myself in\nhis way. For the rest, I will trust my future with God.\u201d\n\n\u201cBianca,\u201d said her sister\u2019s voice at her elbow, \u201cwho do you think has\ncome?\u201d\n\nWhatever might happen, it was a pleasure to meet him, and there was no\neffort or embarrassment in her greeting. That moment of pain and\nrecollection had lifted her merely earthly affection so that it became\ntouched with the serious sweetness of heavenly charity, as the mist,\nlifting at morning from the bosom of the river, where it has hung\nthrough the dark hours, grows silver in the upper light. She held out\nher hand and smiled. \u201cYou are welcome! Papa, here is an old friend of\nours.\u201d\n\nThe Signora was instantly all attention. Her own affairs were quite\nforgotten in those of her beloved young favorite. She was eager to see\nthis man, to watch him, to understand him. If he should suit her and\nbe good to Bianca, there was nothing she would not do for him; if he\nshould be lacking in principle, or in kindness to her darling, woe to\nhim! She would most certainly\u2015\u2015\n\nAnd here, just as she was meditating in what way she could most\nfittingly punish him without hurting any one else, he turned, at Mr.\nVane\u2019s introduction, and saluted her with a smile and glance that won\nher completely. It was not the meeting of two strangers. He had\nthought of his lady\u2019s guardian with almost as much interest, perhaps,\nas she had thought of her friend\u2019s lover, and had expected to find in\nher either a help or a hindrance. Her searching regard had not\ndisconcerted, then, but reassured him rather.\n\nThe Signora soon made an excuse to go into the house a moment, and\nleft the Vanes and their visitor to renew their intercourse without\ninterruption, and go through the mutual questioning of friends\nreunited after many and varied experiences. Returning quietly after a\nwhile, she stood in a corner of the _loggia_ and observed them. Mr.\nVane sat with a daughter at either side, and Marion stood opposite\nthem, leaning back against the railing and talking. The moon shone in\nhis face and flowed down his form, investing both, or revealing in\nboth, a beauty inexpressibly noble and graceful. One might say that he\nlooked as if he had been formed to music. A gold bronze color in his\nhair showed where the light struck fully, a flash of dusky blue came\nnow and then from under his thick eye-lashes, and when he smiled one\nknew that his teeth were perfect and snowy white. His voice, too, was\nvery pleasant, with a sound of laughter in it when he talked gayly\u2015\u2015a\nlaughter like that we fancy in a brook. It was as though his thoughts\nand fancies sparkled as they passed into the air.\n\n\u201cHe is certainly fascinating,\u201d the Signora thought. \u201cI hope he does\nnot try to be so.\u201d\n\nHe did not. No one could be more unconscious of the effect produced by\nwhat was personal in his talk than Marion. If he sometimes appeared,\nwhile talking, almost to forget his company, it was not because he\nthought of himself, but because he was absorbed in his subject. He saw\nplainly before his eyes that which he described, and he made others\nsee it. Bright, animated, varied, passing, not abruptly, but with the\ngrace of a bird that swims through the air, and alights for a moment,\nnow here, now there, on a tree, a shrine, a house-top, a mountain-top,\na window-ledge with an inside view, he carried his listeners along\nwith him, charmed and unconscious of time. He knew that they were\npleased, but gave the credit to the subject, and thought nothing of\nhimself. He would have kept silent if he had believed he could be\nthought talking for effect.\n\nThe Signora stood a smiling and unseen listener to his description of\nhis journey, and felt her sympathy and admiration increase every\nmoment for the man who, in a hackneyed experience, had seen so much at\nevery moment that was fresh and new, and, travelling the beaten ways\nof life, had found gems among the worn pebbles, had even broken the\npebbles themselves, and revealed a precious color sparkling inside.\n\n\u201cIf only he could find so much in worn and hackneyed people!\u201d she\nthought. \u201cIf he could compel the cold, the conventional, and the mean\nto break the dull crust that has accumulated around the original\nnature of them, what a boon it would be! There must be something\ntolerable, perhaps a capacity for becoming even admirable, left in the\nlowest. I would like to have him point it out or call it out; for\nsometimes my charity fails.\u201d\n\nHis recital finished, he stood an instant silent, looking down; then a\nswift glance probed the shadowed corner where the Signora stood,\nshowing that he had all the while known she was there. It was not the\ninquisitive nor intrusive look of one who wishes to show a knowledge\nof what another has tried to hide from him, but a pleasant glance that\nsought her presence, and begged her not to separate herself from them.\n\nShe came forward immediately, more pleased at the frank invitation\nthan if he had pretended to be unaware of her presence.\n\n\u201cI feel bound, in honor, to declare my intentions to you, Signora,\u201d he\nsaid; \u201cfor you may look on me as a foe when you know them, and it is\nbut right you should have fair warning. I have been told that you are\ndisposed to win this family for Rome, and I am equally disposed to\nkeep them in America. I should despair of success in such a rivalry\nbut that I believe I have right on my side. Is it peace or war?\u201d\n\n\u201cPeace,\u201d she replied. \u201cI cannot war against right, and I ought not to\nwish against it. Moreover, since the family are the majority, and have\nfree will, we can only try to influence, but must leave them to\ndecide. I am sorry, though, that you distrust Rome so.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! it is not that,\u201d he said quickly, \u201cthough, indeed, I do distrust\nRome for some people\u2015\u2015or rather, I distrust some people for Rome. I\nhave known cases of the most deplorable deterioration of character\nhere in persons who were considered at home a little better than the\naverage. But that was not my thought in this instance. I hope our\nfriends will return to America for other reasons. No one should, it\nseems to me, expatriate himself without a sort of necessity. The\nnative land assigned us by Providence would seem to be the theatre in\nwhich it is our duty to act, and one of the motives of our visits to\nother countries should be to enrich our own with whatever of good we\nmay find there. Every country needs its children; but America\nparticularly needs all her good citizens, and the church in America\nneeds good Catholics. That is not a true Christian who spends a whole\nlife abroad without necessity. The climate is not an excuse, for we\nhave every climate; economy has ceased to be a sufficient motive; and\nmere pleasure is no reason for a Catholic to give.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat, then, may be considered a good reason?\u201d the Signora asked,\nwondering if she were to be included in the catalogue of the\ncondemned.\n\n\u201cAn artist may study here a good many years,\u201d was the reply. \u201cThe\nsculptor or the painter finds here his school. But I maintain that\nwhen the sculptor and painter are out of school, and begin to work in\nthe strength of their own genius, if they have any, their place and\ntheir subjects are to be found in their own land. If they stay here\nthey will never come to anything. They will only produce trite and\nworn-out imitations. The writer has a longer mission here, perhaps the\nlongest; for thoughts are at home in every land, and that is the best\nwhere thoughts can best clothe themselves in words. There is another\nclass who must be allowed to choose for themselves, though it would be\nbetter if they would choose to endure to the end in their own\ncountry\u2015\u2015that is, certain tender souls from whom have been stripped\nfriends and home, leaving them bare to a world that wounds them too\nmuch. Here, I have been assured and can well believe, they find a\ncontentment not possible to them anywhere else. Their imaginations had\nflown here in childhood and youth, and had unconsciously made a nest\nto which they could themselves follow at need, and find a sort of\nrepose. If they have not the courage or the strength to stay in the\nmidst of our ceaseless, and sometimes even merciless, activity, I have\nnot a word of blame for them. I would not breathe, even gently,\nagainst the bruised reeds.\u201d\n\nHe spoke with such tender feeling that for a moment no one said\nanything; then he added, smiling: \u201cI hope the Signora does not think\nme too dogmatic.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think you are quite right,\u201d she replied.\n\n\u201cYou have forgotten one large class of Americans who may be excused,\nand even lauded and encouraged, for taking up a permanent residence in\nEurope,\u201d Mr. Vane said.\n\n\u201cWhat, pray?\u201d\n\n\u201cSnobs,\u201d he replied solemnly.\n\nThe subject was whirled away on a little laugh, and a change of\nposition showed them Annunciata on the shadowed side of the _loggia_,\nmaking coffee at a little table there, at the same time that Adreano\noffered them ices and cake. The place where the girl stood was quite\ndarkened by the wall of Carlin\u2019s studio and by an over-growing\ngrape-vine, and the moonlight about revealed of her only a dark\noutline. But the flame of the spirit she was burning threw a pale blue\nlight into her face and over her hands, flickering so that the light\nseemed rather to shine from, than on, her.\n\n\u201cIt looks Plutonian,\u201d Marion said. \u201cWe are, perhaps, on a visit to\nProserpine.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeaking of Proserpine reminds, me of pomegranate-seeds,\u201d the Signora\nsaid; \u201cand pomegranate-seeds remind me of something I heard very\nprettily said last summer by a very pretty young lady. We were in\nSubiaco, and had risen very early in the morning to go up to the\nchurch of St. Benedict. I noticed that Lily was very serious and\nsilent, so did not speak, but only looked at her while we waited a\nlittle in the _sala_ for another member of our party. She walked\nslowly up and down, and seemed to be praying; presently, as if\nrecollecting that we had a difficult climb before us, she seated\nherself near a table on which a servant had just piled up the fruit\nshe had been buying. Among it was a pomegranate, broken open, and\nbleeding a drop or two of crimson juice out on to the dark wood. Lily\ndrew a small, pointed leaf from an orange stem, and made a knife of it\nto separate the grains of the pomegranate, presently lifted one, and\nthen another, and another to her mouth. I only thought how pretty her\ndaintiness was as she absently fed like a bird, when all at once she\nturned as crimson as the juicy grain she had just eaten, and sprang up\nfrom the table, throwing the leaf away, and uttering an exclamation of\nsuch distress that I thought she must have been poisoned. Her\nexclamation was odd: \u2018O Pluto!\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018You see,\u2019 she explained after a minute, \u2018I was saying the rosary,\nand had finished it, when I caught sight of the fruit here. And I\nthought then that, though our prayers may be flowers before the\nthrone, our actions are fruits. Then I sat down to look at the\npomegranate, and wondered what sort of a good action it was like; and\nwhile I wondered, I got tangled in a thicket of similitudes, and\nwandered off into mythology; and as I divided the grains I remembered\npoor Proserpine, and how Pluto, who knew well she could not leave him\nafter having eaten, induced her to eat three pomegranate grains. I\nwondered if they were just like these, and how they tasted to her, and\nput one and another in my mouth, imagining myself in her place, and\nthat presently my mother would come seeking me, and want to carry me\nback to heaven with her, and would find that I could not go because of\nthese same pomegranate seeds. And then, my mind catching on the word\nMother, which I had just been repeating on my rosary so many times, I\nremembered the Mother of God, and began to search for some Christian\nmeaning in the myth. I thought Ceres was the giver of wheat and grain,\ntherefore of bread, and Mary gave us the Bread of Life. Ceres came\nsearching and mourning for her daughter, snatched away by the prince\nof darkness, and Mary watches and prays over those whom the enemy has\nsnatched away from the garden of God, and who cry out to her for help.\nCeres found that her daughter, having tasted of the fruit of the lower\nregions, was bound to spend one-half of her life there. Before I had\ntime to find a Christian parallel for that part of the story, it\nflashed over me that my three pomegranate-seeds had cost me heaven for\nto-day, and deprived me of a privilege I might never have again. O\nSignora! I was going to receive Communion to-day in the grotto of St.\nBenedict!\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not often,\u201d the Signora added, \u201cthat one can retrace the\nwandering path of a reverie as my poor Lily did. Her story reminded me\nof an illustrated poem, with wheat and roses wreathed around the\nleaves and hanging in among the verses.\u201d\n\nThe bell announcing visitors, they went into the house again, and\nfound Mr. Coleman and Signor Leonardo, the latter having come to see\nwhen his pupils would wish to resume their lessons.\n\n\u201cI can assure you, Signor, that I am the only one who has thought of\nstudy during the last three days,\u201d Isabel said. \u201cYou should commend\nme. I have faithfully learned an irregular verb every morning while\ntaking my coffee. That is my rule; and it is becoming such a habit\nwith me that the mere sight of a cup and saucer suggests to me an\nirregular verb. The night we spent at Monte Compatri I learned three,\nnot being able to sleep for the fleas.\u201d\n\nThe Italian murmured some inarticulate commendation of her industry,\nand dropped his eyes. Her perfectly free and off-hand manner\nconfounded him. To his mind such a lack of the downcast reserve of the\ngirls he was accustomed to regard as models of behavior indicated a\nvery strange disposition and an education still more strange. Yet he\ncould not doubt that Miss Vane was respectable.\n\nMr. Coleman, who was hovering near, begged permission to make a\ncomment, which he would not be thought to intend as a criticism. \u201cYou\nsay the night you \u2018spent\u2019 at Monte Compatri. Is it, may I ask, true\nthat Americans always speak of _spending_ time? In England we say we\n_pass_ time. I have heard the peculiarity attributed to your nation,\nthe reason given for it being that Americans are almost always engaged\nin business of some kind, and naturally use the expressions of trade.\u201d\n\nIsabel not being quite prepared with an answer, hesitating whether to\nregard the suave manner or the annoying matter of the speech, the\nSignora, who had overheard it, came to her aid.\n\n\u201cThe fact is true, but the reason given is false,\u201d she said. \u201cI\nbelieve we Americans do almost always speak of spending time. It may\nbe because we understand better the value of it. But you should be\naware, Mr. Coleman, that the Italians also use the same expression,\nand they are the last people with whom you can associate the idea of\ntrade and hurry. One of their critics cites the word as peculiarly\nbeautiful so employed, as if time were held to be gold. Your English\nfriends, when criticising the American expression, were probably\nthinking of their great clumsy pennies.\u201d\n\nMr. Coleman, who had not known that the Signora was near, stammered\nout a deprecating word. He had only asked for information.\n\n\u201cThe English are bound to criticise us, and to regard our differences\nas defects,\u201d she went on, addressing Isabel. \u201cYou must not mind them,\nmy dear. In fact, educated Americans speak and write the language\nbetter than the same class of English do, and use far less slang. One\nfrequently finds inaccurate and cumbersome expressions in their very\nbest writers. The exquisite Disraeli says, \u2018I should have thought that\nyou would have liked,\u2019 which is ineffably clumsy. I can give you,\nhowever, a model of the most perfect English in an English writer, and\nI do not know an American who equals him. I refer to T. W. M.\nMarshall. I almost forget his thoughts while admiring the faultless\nlanguage in which they are\u2015\u2015not clothed so much as\u2015\u2015armed. He has\nlittle color, but a great deal of point. One might say he writes in\n_chiar-oscuro_.\n\n\u201cI have not the least prejudice against, nor for, any nation,\u201d she\ncontinued, regarding with a little mocking smile her disconcerted\nvisitor. \u201cEnglish people are as good as Americans, when they behave\nthemselves. They are not, however, so polite. Whatever peculiarities\nwe may observe in our island neighbors, we are never guilty of the\nimpropriety of mentioning them to their faces.\u201d\n\nMr. Coleman was crushed, and the Signora left him to recover himself\nas best he might. She had thought him long since cured of his national\nhabit of making such comments, and was not disposed to suffer the\nslightest relapse.\n\nMarion, who had observed and watched for a moment the expression of\nSignor Leonardo\u2019s face while Isabel spoke to him, began talking with\nhim after a while, and soon found him a liberal\u2015\u2015not one of those who\nmake the name a cover for every species of disorder, but an honest\nman, of whom the worst that could be said was that he was mistaken.\n\n\u201cYou think that we Italians are different from yourselves,\u201d he said\nsomewhat excitedly, as the talk progressed. \u201cWhen you praise your\ncountry, and boast of it, you forget that we, too, may wish to have a\ncountry of which we can boast and be proud.\u201d\n\nMarion smiled quietly. \u201cI should have said,\u201d he replied, \u201cthat in the\nhistory of Italy, both past and present, there had been more pride\nfelt and expressed than can be found in the histories of all the other\nnations of the earth put together; and that, besides this\nself-gratulation, no other nation on earth had been so praised, and\nloved, and feared, and sought as Italy. It has had every kind of\nboast\u2015\u2015war-like, splendid, learned, poetic, and artistic. It has gone\non through the centuries supreme in beauty and in interest, never\nfailing to draw all hearts and eyes, and changing one attraction into\nanother, instead of losing attraction. And all its changes have been\nordered and harmonious till now. But I find neither beauty nor dignity\nin a manufacturing, trading Rome. She throws away her own _unique_\nadvantages in seeking to vie with her younger and more vigorous\nsisters. The _r\u00f4le_ does not suit her.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe will see!\u201d the Italian said hotly. \u201cWe will make the trial, and\nfind out for ourselves if our life and strength are so decayed that we\ncan no longer boast of anything but ruins.\u201d\n\n\u201cI beg your pardon; but you have already tried, and failed,\u201d the other\nreturned. \u201cYou have proved yourselves only strong in complaint, but\nworthless in action. The only vigor I have heard of as shown by\nliberal Rome was in throwing flowers on Victor Emanuel when he\nentered, and now in cursing him for having taxed you to the verge of\nstarvation. He isn\u2019t afraid of you, and takes no pains to conciliate\nyou. The only vigor here, of the kind you praise, is in the northern\nmen he has brought down with him; and in another generation, if they\nshould stay so long, the blood in their hearts will have thickened to\nthe rich, slow ichor of Roman veins. No, sir! You cannot succeed in\nbeing yourselves and everybody else. You are no longer the world, but\nonly a part of it, and must be content to see yourselves surpassed in\nmany things. Your true dignity is in not contending for the prize\nwhich you will never win. If you had sat here quietly, a mere\nlooker-on, a judge, perhaps, of the contests going on in the world,\nwho could have said surely that you might not win any success by the\nmere half trying? You have proved your own weakness, and merely\nexchanged an easy master for a hard one. You do not govern yourselves\nso much under the king as you did under the pope, and the complaints\nwhich were listened to in the old time nobody listens to now. You have\nbeen coaxed and petted for generations; now you are treated with\ncontempt.\u201d\n\nThe Italian was pale, less with anger at such plain speaking than with\nthe bitter consciousness that it was true. \u201cYou have not seen the end\nyet,\u201d was all he could say. \u201cGreat changes are not wrought here so\neasily as in America. There it was simply Greek meeting Greek, and\nthere was no history or tradition in the way. Here, besides our\nvisible opponents, who may be half a dozen nations, we have to fight\nagainst generations of ghosts.\u201d\n\n\u201cO my country! how you have bewitched the world,\u201d exclaimed the\nAmerican. \u201cI grant you there is a difference, sir, and it is even\ngreater than you think; for it is a difference of nature as well as of\ncircumstances. Italy is Calliope, with the scroll in her hand, and her\nproper position is a meditative and studious one; America is Atalanta,\nthe swift runner, young, strong, and disdainful, with apples of gold\nto fling and stop her pursuers. Do you wish your muse to come down and\njoin in the dusty race?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you know,\u201d the Signora asked of Marion, joining the two, \u201cVictor\nEmanuel, they say, has a special devotion to the good thief?\u201d\n\nThe Italian rose. He had a great regard for the Signora, but, as she\nnever spared him when politics was in question, he thought discretion\nthe better part of valor.\n\n\u201cHow odd it is,\u201d the lady remarked, when they were left alone with\nMarion, \u201cthat when we are best pleased we are sometimes most\nimpatient! I am exceedingly well contented to-night, yet I do not know\nwhen I have been so sharp toward Mr. Coleman or Leonardo. I begin to\nfeel premonitory symptoms of compunction. What is the philosophy of\nit, Mr. Vane?\u201d\n\n\u201cMarion could answer such a question better than I,\u201d he replied. \u201cBut\nmay not the reason be that, your mood and some of your circumstances\nbeing perfect, you cannot bear that all should not accord?\u2015\u2015as, when\nwe are listening to beautiful music, and are particularly inclined, to\nlisten just then, the smallest interruption, especially if it be\ndiscordant, is intolerable.\u201d\n\nMarion had been saying good-night to the sisters, who stood before him\narm in arm, speaking with, or rather listening to, him. He turned on\nbeing appealed to.\n\n\u201cIs it true,\u201d he asked, \u201cthat the mood is one of perfect contentment?\nMay it not be an exalted mood which demands contentment? I think we\nmay sometimes feel an excitement and delight for which we can give no\nreason, unless it may be some rare moment of perfect physical health,\nlike that which our first parents enjoyed in Eden. Naturally, in such\na moment, we feel earth to be a paradise, and are impatient of\nanything which reminds us that it is not.\u201d\n\nThe Signora was surprised to find herself blushing, and annoyed when\nshe perceived that the others observed it and seemed, also, to be\nsurprised. Only Marion, bowing a good-night as soon as he spoke,\nappeared not to see.\n\n\u201cDid you ever blush for nothing, dear?\u201d she asked of Bianca, when the\ntwo went to their rooms together. \u201cI can\u2019t imagine what set me\nblushing to-night. I didn\u2019t mean to blush, I had no reason, I didn\u2019t\nknow I was going to do so, and I have no idea what it was about.\u201d\n\n\u201cI never blush at the right moment,\u201d Bianca replied rather soberly.\n\u201cWhen embarrassing incidents occur, and, according to the books and\nspeakers, one would be doing the proper thing to be confused, I am\nalmost always cool. And then all at once, just for nothing, for a\nsurprise, for a thing which would find other people cool, I am as red\nas\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\n\u201cA rose,\u201d finished the Signora, and kissed the girl\u2019s cheek.\n\u201cGood-night, dear. I like your friend exceedingly. I do not know when\nI have liked any one so much on short acquaintance.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is very agreeable,\u201d Bianca returned, and echoed the good-night\nwithout another word.\n\n\u201cThat is one of the times you should have blushed, and didn\u2019t,\u201d\nthought her friend, and wondered a little.\n\n\nTO BE CONTINUED.\n\n\n\n\n ROMA\u2015\u2015AMOR\n\n \u201cStrength is none on earth save Love.\u201d\n \u2015\u2015AUBREY DE VERE.\n\n SUGGESTED BY A STATUE BY MISS A. WHITNEY EXHIBITED IN BOSTON,\n APRIL, 1876.\n\n\n I.\n\n Upon the statue\u2019s base I read its name\u2015\u2015\n \u201cRome,\u201d nothing more; so leaving to each thought\n To mould in mind the form the sculptor wrought,\n The living soul within the dead clay\u2019s frame.\n And was this Rome, so weak and sad and old,\n So crouching down with withered lip and cheek,\n With trembling fingers stretched as if to seek,\n The thoughtless wanderers\u2019 idly-given gold?\u2015\u2015\n Some Roman coins loose-lying in her lap,\n Some treasure saved from out her ancient wealth,\n Or begged with downcast look as if by stealth,\n Fearing her end, and wishing still, mayhap,\n Enough to hold to pay stern Charon\u2019s oar\n When the dead nations o\u2019er the Styx it bore.\n\n\n II.\n\n And was this Rome\u2015\u2015this shrunken, shivering form,\n This beggared greatness sitting abject down;\n Her throne a broken shaft\u2019s acanthus crown\n Whose crumbling beauty still outlived the storm?\n Where were her legions? eagles? where her pride?\n The conqueror\u2019s laurel binding once her head?\u2015\u2015\n She, the world\u2019s mistress, begging so her bread\n At her own gates, her empire\u2019s wreck beside!\n Withered and old, craven in form and face,\n Yet keeping still some gift from out the past\n In the broad mantle o\u2019er her shoulders cast,\n Where lingered yet her ancient, haughty grace\u2015\u2015\n Conscious each fold of that far-sounding name,\n Imperial still in spite of loss and shame.\n\n\n III.\n\n And was this Rome? Nor faith, nor hope, nor love\n Writ in the wrinkled story of her face,\n Where weariness and sad old age had place,\n For earthly days no cheer, no light above!\n All earthly greatness to this measure shrunk?\n With burning heart I gazed. Was this the thought\n The sculptor in the answering clay had wrought\u2015\u2015\n C\u00e6sar\u2019s proud impress in the beggar sunk\n For men to mock at in her weak old age?\n Was this a living Rome, or one, long dead,\n That waked to life a modern C\u00e6sar\u2019s tread,\n Claiming with outstretched hand her heritage?\n While the strong nations she once triumphed o\u2019er\n Scarce heeded her they served with awe before!\n\n\n IV.\n\n Where, then, was she that was Eternal called?\n Bore she no likeness of immortal youth?\n Did she lament her cruel dower in truth\n As once Tithonus by that gift enthralled?\n All joy of youth long perished, living on\n In dread possession of the pitiless gift,\n In hopeless age set helplessly adrift,\n Her bread the bitter thought of days bygone!\n No word immortal on the statue writ,\n Save the deep bitterness of graven name;\n No trumpet telling dumbly of her fame,\n Nor unquenched lamp by vestal virgin lit\u2015\u2015\n Youth, empire, and her people\u2019s love all o\u2019er,\n Unqueened, and still undying, evermore!\n\n\n V.\n\n O artist! lurks there in your sculptured thought\n No vision of another Rome than this?\n Along the antique border of her dress\n I sought in vain to see the symbol wrought\n That she has steadfast borne since first its touch\n Did her, the holy one, e\u2019er consecrate\n The tender mother of the desolate,\n Consoler of poor hearts o\u2019erburdened much,\n Pure spouse of Him who is Eternal Life,\n Inheritor of beauty ever new\n Yet ever ancient, \u2019missioned to subdue\n Beneath love\u2019s yoke the nations lost in strife\u2015\u2015\n Rome\u2019s eagles shadowed not a realm so wide\n As lights the cross, her trust from Him that died.\n\n\n VI.\n\n O Rome! imperial lady, Christian queen!\n Art thou discrowned and desolate indeed?\n All vainly doth thy smitten greatness plead?\n Reads none the sorrow of thy brow serene?\n Perished thy eagles, and o\u2019erthrown thy cross?\n Thou banished from possession of thine own,\n While they who rob thee fling thee mocking down\n An ancient Roman robe to hide thy loss,\n That the world, seeing thy fair-seeming state,\n Shall greet the C\u00e6sar who gives thee such grace,\n Nor heed the appealing sorrow in thy face,\n Nor hear thy cry like His who at the gate\n Of Jericho cried out! Bide thou thy day\u2015\u2015\n Thy Western children for thee weep and pray.\n\n\n VII.\n\n So once in Pilate\u2019s hall thy Master stood\n In Roman purple robed, and none divined\n The holy mystery in those folds enshrined\u2015\u2015\n The sorrowing God-head lifted on the Rood.\n Such was his portion here; with thee he shares\n His grief divine. Ah! grandly art thou crowned\u2015\u2015\n Fair in the light of truth thy brows around\u2015\u2015\n With thorns like his, while thy strong hand uprears\n His wide-armed cross, thou leaning on its strength!\n What though thy constant sorrow shade thine eyes?\n Undying hope about thy sweet mouth lies;\n That faith is thine that has been all the length\n Of centuries past, that shall be centuries o\u2019er;\n And on thy bosom writ I read\u2015\u2015_Amor_.\n\n\n VIII.\n\n Each letter seeming with a ruddy hue\u2015\u2015\n Won from His Passion who is Perfect Love\u2015\u2015\n To glow the whiteness of thy robe above,\n Thy own heart staining red thy raiment through.\n What though thy hands are fettered as they lift\n The blessing of the cross? They still can guide,\n Like Israel\u2019s cloud, thy children scattered wide;\n Still are they warning to lost flocks adrift\n On mist-enshrouded slopes; still can they bless\n Thy faithful ones who, weeping, peace implore,\n Who, striving, spread thy realm far countries o\u2019er.\n Still rulest thou while kings, as shadows, pass;\n And still the weary, craving love and home,\n Peace in thy bosom seek, Eternal Rome!\n\n\n\n\nCHALDEAN ACCOUNT OF THE CREATION.\n\n\nIn no portion of the world will the adventurous traveller feel himself\nmore impressed by a sense of mystery and of awe than in that vast\nplain which rises from the Persian Gulf and stretches away\nnorthwestwardly along the mountains of Kurdistan until it reaches\nthose of Armenia. From the rivers which water it the Greeks called one\nportion of it Mesopotamia. Other portions are known as Chaldea and\nAssyria. In this plain it was that the Lord God planted the Garden of\nEden, bringing forth all manner\n\n \u201cOf goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit.\n Blossoms and fruit at once of golden hue\n Appeared, with gay enamel\u2019d colors mixed,\n On which the sun more glad impress\u2019d his beams\n Than in the fair ev\u2019ning cloud or humid bow,\n When God shower\u2019d the earth; so lovely seemed\n That landskip.\u201d\u2015\u2015_Par. Lost_, b. iv.\n\nHere still How the Euphrates and the Tigris, named in Holy Writ as two\nof the rivers of Eden. Their waters still fertilize a soil which,\ndesolate and accursed though it now seems, will yield, even to rude\nand imperfect culture, a harvest of an hundred-fold. Here our first\nparents spent their too brief hours of innocence. Here, too, driven\nfor their disobedience from Eden, they wandered in sorrow, and tilled\nthe earth in the sweat of their brow.\n\nOn this plain, when the waters of the Deluge had passed away, did the\nchildren of Noe, as yet of the same tongue, assemble together, and,\nforgetful of the power of God, say to each other: \u201cLet us make a city\nand a tower, the top of which may reach to heaven; and let us make our\nname famous before we be scattered abroad into all lands\u201d (Gen. xi.\n4). From this centre, when the Lord had confounded their speech and\nhumbled their pride, did they go forth to people the whole earth.\n\nHere walked Nimrod, the mighty hunter before the Lord, ruling his\nfellow-men. Here he built Babylon, afterwards so renowned in history.\nOn this plain, too, across the Tigris, were founded Resen and Calah\nand Ninive, cities of power in the earlier days of history.\n\nFor more than fifteen centuries this plain was the most favored spot\nof the ancient world. As the Assyrian, the Babylonian, the Mede, the\nPersian, and the Greek succeeded each other on the throne, the\ntributes and the spoils of surrounding nations were brought hither,\nand were here lavishly squandered in every mode that could display the\nmagnificence or perpetuate the memory of mighty sovereigns. Each\nmonarch seemed, with the land, to inherit the ambitious desires of the\nbuilders of Babel. Each strove to found cities, to erect towers, to\nbuild walls, and to raise structures which neither man nor time nor\nthe hand of Heaven should destroy. All through those centuries the\nwork was carried on, each age striving to excel in grandeur and\nstrength of work all that had gone before. Neither time nor wealth nor\nskill was spared; nothing that man could do was left undone.\n\nHow vain and futile is man\u2019s mightiest effort! The decree went forth\nthat Ninive should be laid waste, and that Babylon should be as when\nGod overthrew Sodom and Gomorrha.\n\nThis fertile plain, once filled with gorgeous cities and countless\nvillages, checkered with fruitful groves and cultivated fields, has\nbecome a wild, deserted, treeless waste, over which the wandering Arab\ndrives his flock in search of a precarious pasturage, and from which\neven he is forced to flee as the grass withers under the burning heats\nof summer. The towers and temples and palaces, rich with statuary and\npainting, and whose sides, glistening with gold and shining brass,\nreflected the dazzling rays of the sun for leagues around, have all\ndisappeared. In their stead a few mud-walled and thatch-roofed\ncottages, pervious to wind and rain, may be seen clustering around\nsome ancient Christian shrine, or are falling to fragments since the\nlast raid of the pasha or the rapacity of the Arabs drove the\nmiserable tenants from even such humble abodes. It is only at Mosul\nand Bagdad, seats of Turkish civil rule\u2015\u2015such as it is\u2015\u2015and at a few\nother points, that anything to be called a town can be found. And even\nthere little more is to be seen than an accumulation of many such huts\naround a few rude stone dwellings and churches. For ages the\ninhabitants have been ground to the dust by Turkish misrule. Long\nsince stripped of everything, they are the poorest of the poor. He\nholds life and property by a frail tenure indeed whom the greedy pasha\nsuspects of possessing aught that can be seized. So thoroughly have\nthe glories of old and the outward traces of ancient grandeur passed\naway that for a long time antiquarians disputed where on this plain\nNinive, and where Babylon, stood.\n\nIt is a vast, treeless, uncultivated, arid blank on the surface of the\nearth. Stern, shapeless mounds rise like low, flat-topped hills from\nthe parched plains\u2015\u2015rude, unsightly heaps, whose sides, here and there\nstripped of earth by the rains of winter, disclose within masses of\nbrickwork and fragments of pottery. Desolation meets desolation on\nevery side. The traveller sees no graceful column still standing erect\nin solitary beauty, no classic capital or richly-carved frieze fallen\nto the earth, and half-appearing, half-hidden amid the luxuriant\ngrowth of the soil; nothing that charms in its present picturesque\nbeauty, nothing that he can rebuild in imagination. He travels on, day\nafter day, over the parched plain, amid these sombre mounds, and feels\nthat in truth this is a cemetery of nations accursed for their sins.\nThe ever-recurring sameness of the dreary prospect around him, before\nhim, behind him, impresses even more deeply on his mind the grand\ntruth that, do what man may, God reigns and rules and conquers. Every\nstep shows him how completely are fulfilled the threats made of old,\nin the days of their luxury and pride, against the sensual and sinful\npeoples who dwelt here. The words of the messengers of God have indeed\ncome true.\n\nFor the last third of a century a fresh interest has drawn the minds\nof men to this plain. The silence of twenty-five centuries has been\nbroken, and these old mounds are lifting up their voices, as it were,\nand telling us of the glories of ancient times, and how men then lived\nand battled, what arts they practised and what knowledge they\npossessed, in what gods they believed and how they worshipped. The\ntale is a wondrous one.\n\nThe French government, which still claims throughout the Levant the\nright of protecting the Catholic Christians of every rite, under the\nrule of the Moslems, who are united to the Holy See, had stationed in\nMosul in 1841, as French consul, M. Botta, a ripe scholar,\nenthusiastically devoted to Oriental studies. Across the Tigris, and\nin sight of Mosul, stood a huge mound. The natives called it\n_Kouyunjik_, and had vague traditions of carved stones and figures\nhaving been found in or about it from time to time. M. Botta bethought\nhim of excavating the mound to test the truth of such tales. For a\ntime his labors were without any satisfactory result. He was induced\nto leave Kouyunjik for a time, and to work instead on the mound of\nKhorsabad, some fifteen miles distant. Here his very first attempt at\nexcavation brought him down to a thick brick wall. Digging down by its\nside, he saw that it was lined with slabs bearing sculptures in\nbass-relief, and inscriptions in some unknown language. Continuing his\ntrench, he groped his way along the wall, until it broke off, with a\nface at right angles to the face he had followed. A few feet further\non the wall commenced again as before. He had evidently passed a\ndoorway. Pursuing his course steadily and eagerly, and turning corner\nafter corner, he at length came to the point whence he had started. He\nhad completed the inner circuit of a room. Then, going through the\ndoor already discovered, he led his trenches along the walls of a\nsecond chamber lined, like the first, with slabs bearing illegible\ninscriptions and bass-relief figures. In six months six halls, some of\nthem 115 feet long, were fully explored, and over 450 feet of\nsculptures and inscriptions were accurately copied. The copies, with\nan able report, were sent to the Academy of Inscriptions at Paris.\n\nThese startling discoveries were hailed with enthusiasm by the\nantiquarians of France and of Europe generally. The French government\nat once supplied M. Botta with ample funds, and sent to his assistance\nM. Flandin, an able draughtsman. The work was vigorously pushed on\nuntil the entire mound of Khorsabad had been thoroughly investigated.\nOn an original elevation or mound of earth, either natural or\nartificial, a vast platform of brick-work had been laid. On this rose\nthe building itself, evidently a magnificent royal palace, over 1,200\nfeet in front and 500 feet deep. Within, it was divided by thick walls\nof masonry into numerous halls or rooms, many of them more than 100\nfeet long, but few of them exceeding 35 feet in breadth. The external\nwalls and these party-walls were from twelve to twenty feet in\nthickness, and were evidently intended to bear a heavy superstructure\nof upper stories. These, however, have all perished; nothing remains\nbut the walls on the ground-floor. In fact, they rise only about ten\nor fifteen feet. Within and without they were lined with limestone\nslabs ten feet high, bearing inscriptions and bass-relief figures. The\nsame subject often occupied many slabs in succession. Thus, the entire\npanelling of one long front, of 1,200 feet, seemed to be occupied by a\nsingle subject\u2015\u2015the triumphant procession of a king returning\nvictorious from some war\u2015\u2015the whole presented in a long succession of\nfigures above the natural size. Winged human figures with the heads of\neagles\u2015\u2015the deities of Assyria\u2015\u2015led the way, each bearing the sacred\npine-cone in one hand and a basket in the other. To them succeeded\npriests leading victims for the sacrifice. Then came the monarch in\nhis richest robes, attended by his chief ministers, his eunuchs, and\nhis courtiers. Other officials in a long line bore the various\ninsignia of royalty. Soldiers came next, escorting the tribute-bearers,\nladen some with miniature representations of the cities and towns and\ncastles that had been conquered, others with the tribute itself and\nwith the spoils of the conquered nations. Lastly, groups of captives,\nwith fettered limbs and drooping heads, closed the long array which\nproclaimed to men the prowess and grandeur of the monarch who reared\nthis palace. Within the palace the walls were lined with still other\ninscriptions and sculptures of battles, of sacrifices, processions, of\nroyal audiences, and of lion hunts in the forests and mountains.\n\nMM. Botta and Flandin copied as accurately as possible all these\ninscriptions and figures as soon as found. It was well they did so.\nThe palace had been destroyed by fire. The limestone slabs had been\noverheated and calcined. A brief exposure to the weather was now\nsufficient to cause them to crumble into dust.\n\nIn 1845 Mr. (now Sir) Austin Henry Layard commenced excavations first\nin a different mound\u2015\u2015that of Nimroud, some twenty miles distant from\nMosul in another direction\u2015\u2015and then at Kouyunjik, which M. Botta had\nabandoned; and afterwards at Karamles, at Birs Nimroud, and elsewhere.\nHe was rewarded by the discovery of four other royal palaces, and of\nan immense amount of inscriptions, bass-reliefs, and curious Assyrian\nstatuary, large shipments of all of which he sent to the British\nMuseum in London.\n\nWe need not say with what astonishment and what interest men looked at\nthis vast amount of Assyrian antiquities, so unexpectedly discovered,\nand now to be seen in London and in Paris; nor need we follow the\nsteps of the various exploring expeditions that went forth in\nsuccession from Europe to delve yet again in those rich mines of\narch\u00e6ology. In 1876 they were still at it, and doubtless the work will\nlong continue; for there remains much to reward a search.\n\nThe first emotions of astonishment over, the scholars of Europe left\naside for a time the sculptured figures, and turned to those\nmultitudinous and inscrutable inscriptions as in truth the richest and\nmost valuable portion of the find. In what language or languages, and\nby what system, are they written? Does each sign, or group of these\ncurious signs, spell a word letter after letter, as modern writing\ndoes? Or do they give syllable after syllable, after the manner of\nsome ancient people? Or does each group simply mean a word, as the\nChinese characters do? Can we answer? Is it possible to ascertain the\npurport and meaning of these records?\n\nThese were the questions puzzling the scholars of Europe as they\nlooked on the inscriptions placed before them. More puzzling\nquestions, one would think, could scarcely be devised. How much or how\nlittle was already known about this style of inscriptions, these\nstrange arrow-headed, nail-formed, wedge-shaped, claviform, or\ncuneiform letters, as men styled them?\n\nThey were evidently the \u201cAssyrian letters\u201d mentioned by Herodotus. But\nneither he nor any other ancient writer gave any aid whatever towards\ntheir interpretation.\n\nThe moderns could tell little of them. In 1620 Figueroa, the Spanish\ntraveller and diplomatist, published some account of the inscriptions\nhe had seen in Persepolis, and gave a fac-simile of one line of this\narrow-headed writing. A year or two later Pietro Della Valle, who\nspent years travelling in Asia, published another specimen, and, from\na general consideration of its appearance, decided that the writing,\nbe it in what language it may, was to be read from left to right, as\nEuropean languages are read, and not from right to left, as the\nHebrew, Chaldee, Arabic, and other Semitic languages are to be read,\nnor from top to bottom, as the Chinese read their inscriptions. But\nbeyond this he could not go.\n\nFifty years later a French traveller, M. Chardin, published drawings\nof the inscriptions he had copied in Persepolis. Other travellers gave\nfurther accounts of such inscriptions at Persepolis, Hamadan, and\nelsewhere in Western Persia. They spoke especially of the magnificent\ninscription of Bisutun or Behistun. Following the grand caravan route\nfrom Bagdad to Ispahan, the traveller finds himself in the beautiful\nvalley of the Kerkha River. On his left rise rugged limestone cliffs.\nAt one spot the road runs at the base of a gigantic perpendicular\ncliff, fully 1,700 feet high. In some ancient time workmen made their\nway up, by scaffolding, three hundred feet and more above the road,\nwhere they smoothed a large space of the face of the rock, cutting out\nweak and soft portions, and carefully plugging the cavities with\nfirmer and stronger pieces of the same stone. On this smoothed surface\nthey cut their figures of majestic stature. A monarch, armed and\ntriumphant, stands erect, one foot pressing on a prostrate foe. Above\nhis head floats the winged form of a heathen deity. Before him stands\na line of nine other captives, united together by a cord passing from\nneck to neck. For the king and for each captive there is a short\ninscription. Below, on the face of the rock there are hundreds of\nlines of inscriptions, every letter, over an inch in length, being cut\nneatly and carefully into the smoothed and perpendicular face of the\ncliff. The whole was then floated, as the plasterers would say, with a\nwash of fluid glass, which in drying left a transparent, silicious\ncrust or film, saving the work from the ravages of wind and rain and\ntime. Much of this coating is still in place, more of it has flaked\noff, and fragments of it may be gathered from the debris at the foot\nof the cliff.\n\nIn 1765 Carsten Niebuhr visited those regions, and, after long study,\ncame to the opinion that there were here three different styles of\ninscription, probably in three different languages. In this case one\nof them was probably the Persian. From that date on Niebuhr, M\u00fcnter,\nGrotefend, De Sacy, Saint-Martin, Rask, and others pored over these\nstrange letters, studied out the Sanscrit and the Zend or ancient\nPersian, and, devoting themselves laboriously to the simpler and\npresumed Persian portions of the inscriptions, finally succeeded in\nmaking out one letter after another, and discovered that this part, at\nleast, was of course to be read alphabetically. They began to guess at\nthe sense of some oft-recurring word or phrase, or of what were\napparently royal names or titles. Great was their exultation when they\nwere sure at last that a certain oft-recurring group of characters\n(which we have no type to print) was to be read \u201cKhsh\u00e1yath\u00edya\nKhsh\u00e1yath\u00edy\u00e1n\u00e1m,\u201d and meant \u201cKing of kings.\u201d By 1836 Lassen, Burnouf,\nand Sir Henry Rawlinson claimed to be able to make out, at least in a\ngeneral way, the sense of those Persian portions. Other scholars\nfollowed them, making still further advances. Those Persian\ninscriptions were found to commemorate the deeds of Cyrus, Darius,\nXerxes, and other Persian monarchs of their epoch.\n\nThe inscriptions were, as Niebuhr had conjectured, in three languages.\nThe second, called the Scythic or Turanian, was in characters more\ndifficult and more complex than the Persian writing. The third, and\nstill more difficult, portions were supposed to be in some ancient\nAssyrian language\u2015\u2015perhaps even in several distinct forms or dialects\nof it. They had not yet been read when Botta and Layard made their\ndiscoveries in the mounds, and filled the museums of Europe with\nthousands of inscriptions, whole or fragmentary, all evidently of this\nthird class. The task was taken up by the scholars of Europe with\nrenewed ardor. If the difficulties were great, they had at least a\nfair starting point in the Persian portions already deciphered; but\nthe difficulty was still great. Those groups of arrow-headed\ncharacters seemed to shift their meaning in a bewildering fashion.\nSometimes they represented letters, sometimes syllables, sometimes\nwords or monograms. Again, the same group sometimes seemed to\nrepresent one letter, and at another quite a different letter; while,\nas if to compensate this multiplicity of values of a single sign, it\nwas evident that frequently several signs had the same identical\nvalue, and might be interchanged one for another. Add to all this the\nfact that they were not yet sure in what language or what dialect\nthese inscriptions of Ninive were written, nor, even in a general way,\nwhat they treated of, and it will be clear that the task of\ndeciphering them was in truth a puzzling one. The more clearly men saw\nwhat was to be done, the more difficult it appeared to do it. Progress\ncould be made only by a series of tentative guesses. When one\nproclaimed that he had attained some result, however small, that\nresult was attacked by others, and sometimes proved to be illusory.\nHowever, despite of thousands of failures, despite of ridicule and\ndisbelief, progress was gradually made. In March, 1857, Mr. Fox Talbot\nselected the first cuneiform inscription which had been lithographed\nby the trustees of the British Museum, and proposed it as a test. Four\nof the chief students of this new literature were to make, each apart,\nand without consultation with the others, his own translation of it,\nto be sent under seal to the Royal Asiatic Society. When all had come\nin, the seals were to be broken and the several translations compared.\nIn May, 1857, this was done. The following translations of one passage\nof the inscription will serve as a sample of how they agreed:\n\n _Rawlinson_: \u201cThen I went on to the country of Comukha,\n which was disobedient, and withheld the tribute and\n offerings due to Ashur, my lord. I conquered the whole\n country of Comukha. I plundered their movables, their\n wealth, and their valuables. Their cities I burned with\n fire, I destroyed and ruined.\u201d\n\n _Talbot_: \u201cI then advanced against Kumikhi, a land of the\n unbelievers, who had refused to pay taxes and tribute unto\n Ashur, my lord. The land of Kumikhi throughout all its\n extent I ravaged. Their women, etc., I carried off. Their\n cities I burned with fire, destroyed, and overthrew.\u201d\n\n _Oppert_: \u201cIn those days I went to the people of Dummukh,\n the enemy who owed tribute and gifts to the god Ashur, my\n lord. I subdued the people of Dummukh; for its\n punishment(?). I took away their captives, their herds, and\n their treasures; their cities I burnt in fire; I destroyed,\n I undermined them.\u201d\n\n _Hincks_: \u201cAt that time I went to a disaffected part of\n Qummukh, which had withheld the tribute by weight and tale\n belonging to Assur, my lord. I subdued the land of Qummukh\n as far as it extended. I brought out their women, their\n _slaves_, and their cattle; their towns I burned with fire,\n threw down, and dug up.\u201d\n\nSuch a wonderful agreement of those four translators in deciphering\nthe text of this inscription was proof that the key had been found,\nand that ere long this vast cuneiform literature would emerge from the\ntomb in which it had lain buried for over two thousand five hundred\nyears. The experiment was felt to have been eminently successful.\n\nWe need not follow the further labors of those and other Orientalists\nin this new field of research, as volume after volume appeared in\nFrench, in German, and in English, giving translations of texts, and\nrewriting the ancient history of those Eastern lands. For years it\nseemed that this would be the chief literary result of those\ndiscoveries. The lines of monarchs were established, gaps were filled\nup, broken links were restored, contested dates were settled. Much\nlight was thrown on manners and customs, and on the religious systems\nof the peoples, their wars and conquests, and on the duration,\nsuccessions, and vicissitudes of the various dynasties which ruled\nover them. A by no means small library might be formed of the works on\nthese subjects published within the last quarter of a century.\n\nAs it became known that Orientalists were gradually obtaining the\npower of deciphering these Assyrian cuneiform inscriptions, and as the\nextent of the field thus opened to fresh researches was gradually\ndeveloped, hopes that seemed extravagant were indulged as to the\nresults soon to be reached, and not wholly without reason. These\nancient Assyrians seemed to have been possessed with an extraordinary\npassion for recording anything and everything in their mysterious\ncharacters. Monarch after monarch had taken pride in putting up\npompous inscriptions to perpetuate the memory of his victories and of\nthe glorious events of his reign. From such monuments might we not\nobtain some record of their successive dynasties, and learn something\nof the history of their empires and kingdoms? Those grand bass-reliefs\nof marble or alabaster, representing deities, monarchs, sacred bulls,\nor other mysterious figures; every representation of a battle-scene,\nof a triumphal procession, of the building of a city, of the sailing\nof boats, or of what else you please, had each its own cuneiform\nlettering, now about to tell us its long-hidden meaning. Everywhere\nseals, cylinders, signets, or other small objects of value, whether of\nagate, of chalcedony, or of other hard and precious stone, or of\nterra-cotta, had its group of emblematic figures, often with an\ninscription in minutest characters, nicely cut with a lapidary\u2019s\nskill. The very bricks used in building those huge walls, hundreds of\nfeet long and ten or fifteen feet thick, bore nearly every one of\nthem, in cuneiform characters, some name; perhaps that of the monarch\nwho built the palace, or of the architect who planned and directed the\nwork, perhaps that of the workman who made the brick itself and laid\nit in the wall.\n\nAnd more than all this, all through the _d\u00e9bris_ of earth now filling\nchamber after chamber, and more abundantly towards the bottom, the\nexplorers found countless fragments of terra-cotta or baked clay\ntablets, bearing generally cuneiform inscriptions on both sides. Some\nof those fragments were not an inch in length or breadth; others were\neven a foot square or larger. It was possible sometimes to fit a\nnumber of fragments together. They had been found lying near together,\nand had originally formed one piece, that was broken when it fell. A\nthorough examination of the character of the material and of the work,\nand their present condition, made it clear that originally they were\nslabs or tablets of fine clay, well kneaded and pressed into form.\nWhile still comparatively soft, they had received the inscriptions at\nthe hands of skilled scribes. This the marks of the metal tool or\nstyle used in inscribing the letters on the yielding clay made quite\nevident. The tablets so inscribed were then hardened by baking, and\nwere placed in upper rooms of the palace devoted to the purposes of a\nlibrary. When at last the palace itself was destroyed by fire, the\nheat may have cracked or otherwise injured some of them. Their fall,\nas the rooms were destroyed and the slabs precipitated into a heated\nmass of ruins in the lower masonry chambers, must have broken most of\nthem into fragments. The spade and mattock, as men overturned again\nand again this mass of _d\u00e9bris_ to recover gold and silver and jewelry\nburied in it, may have continued the work of destruction; and perhaps\ntime has since done more than all these agencies. For the yearly rains\nof twenty-five centuries, sinking into this soil and taking up\nchemical agents from the mass on every side, would in turn react on\nthese plates of clay, producing crystals in every minutest fissure or\ncavity, and slowly but surely dividing them into minuter and minuter\nfragments. However, the fragments are there, covered with writing. In\nthe mound of Kouyunjik alone there may be, it is judged, twenty-five\nor thirty thousand of them. How many more may be found in other mounds\nof Ninive? And as to the mounds of Babylon and its vicinity, so little\nas yet has been done to them in comparison with the work at Ninive\nthat we may say they are still almost untouched.\n\nIf the Assyrians had libraries, and if those libraries have come down\nto us, be it even only as tattered leaves and torn volumes, may we not\nyet gather together these fragments, or at least some portion of them,\ndecipher what is written, and so become acquainted with something of\nthis ancient Assyrian literature? What did men then know? What did\nthey believe? What did they write? It was hoped that we were on the\nvery eve of discoveries equalling, if not far surpassing, in extent\nand in importance, those made in the earlier half of this century by\nthe discovery of how to read the ancient hieroglyphs of Egypt. We\ncannot say that these hopes have so far been fully realized. Far from\nit. We are still at the beginning of the work; but the work goes\nbravely on.\n\nAttention was at first, and naturally, directed to the grander and\nmore prominent public monuments and inscriptions. From them much has\nbeen learned of the series of Assyrian monarchs and concerning their\ndeeds, and light has been thrown on many obscure points of chronology.\nThe statements of the Holy Scriptures in reference to the relations of\nthe Jewish people with Babylon and Ninive during the thousand years\npreceding Christ, and Biblical references to the character and customs\nof the Assyrians and Babylonians, have been wonderfully illustrated.\n\nOther classes of inscriptions, on fragments of the terra-cotta tiles\nor tablets, gave accounts of the divisions of the empire, the\ncharacter, and almost the statistics, of the provinces. The laws and\nusages then in force, and the peculiarities of their domestic life,\nare sometimes presented with a vividness that startles us.\n\nStrange to say, and equally to the surprise and the delight of those\nnow laboring in the work of deciphering this enigmatical writing,\nquite a number of tablets were found written for the special purpose\nof explaining to the ancient students of Assyria, in simpler and more\nlegible, or rather more _pronounceable_, characters, the meaning and\nthe sound of the more abstruse and ideographic characters so\nfrequently occurring in the texts of the inscriptions. These supply us\nto-day with what we may call, and what is in reality, a dictionary of\ntheir hard words, giving their correct pronunciation and their\nmeaning.\n\nStill other tablets were devoted to astronomy, to astrology, to\nmedicine, to sorcery, to hymns of religion and prayers of sacrifice,\nto history, to geography, to poetry, and to whatever might be embraced\nby the term Assyrian belles-lettres.\n\nAcceptable as all this is, something more was expected. Was there\nnothing to illustrate the earlier history of mankind, nothing in\nrelation to those earlier events which are narrated by Moses as having\noccurred in this very land? They are dear to us because intertwined\nwith our religious and moral training. Was it possible that there was\nno trace whatever of them, not even an allusion to them, to be found\nin all this mass of Assyrian writings?\n\nBerosus, a Babylonian priest of the time of Alexander the Great, about\nthree hundred years before Christ, wrote a history of Babylon. The\nwork itself has perished; but we have some accounts of it in sundry\nGreek writers. According to them, Berosus distinctly stated that\naccounts were carefully preserved in Babylon in which were recorded\nthe formation of the heavens, the earth, and the sea, the origin of\nman, and the chief memorable events of the early history of the world.\nWhy had we come across nothing of all this? Was it because Berosus\nspoke of ancient tablets at Babylon, and the tablets whose fragments\nwe were scrutinizing are, for the most part, from Ninive, and, in\ntheir present form at least, date back generally only seven, eight, or\nnine centuries before Christ?\n\nNo other reason seemed assignable; and it appeared that, to obtain\nsuch tablets, we must wait until the mounds of Babylon shall be as\ncarefully and as thoroughly excavated as those of Ninive. When will\nthat be done? In the meantime let us be patient and make the most we\ncan of what we have.\n\nThings were in this condition in 1872. In that year Mr. George Smith,\nof the British Museum, a young and ardent Assyriologist, who has\nindeed proved himself worthy to continue the labors of Rawlinson,\nHincks, Oppert, Lenormant, Talbot, and the other distinguished\nOriental scholars of Europe, was occupied in the task of examining one\nby one the thousands of cuneiform terra-cotta fragments collected in\nthe Assyrian department of that institution. He intended to divide\nthem into classes, according to the subjects on which they seemed to\ntreat, in order that each class might afterwards be more thoroughly\nstudied by itself.\n\nTaking up one day a fragment, of medium size, the middle lines of\nwhich were entire and could be plainly made out, he read as follows:\n\n \u201cTo the country of Nizir went the ship;\n The mountains of Nizir stopped the ship, and to pass over it was\n not able;\n The first day and the second day, the mountains of Nizir, the same;\n The third day and the fourth day, the mountains of Nizir, the same;\n The fifth and the sixth, the mountains of Nizir, the same.\n On the seventh day, in the course of it,\n I sent forth a dove, and it left. The dove went and turned;\n A resting-place it did not find, and it returned.\n I sent forth a swallow, and it left. The swallow went and turned;\n and\n A resting-place it did not find, and it returned.\n I sent forth a raven, and it left. The raven went, and the decrease\n of waters it saw, and\n It did eat, it swam, and wandered away, and did not return.\u201d\n\nThere could be no mistake about it. This was evidently a portion of a\ncuneiform inscription which gave an Assyrian version of the history of\nthe Deluge. Could he pick out, from among the thousands and thousands\nof fragments, great and small, around him in the collection, the other\npieces of the same tablet, so as to have the whole? or were they still\nlying buried in the mound of Kouyunjik, whence Layard had brought the\nfragment he is reading? That was the question before Mr. Smith. He set\nhimself to the task of practically answering it. Month after month was\nspent in the labor of scrutinizing, matching, and deciphering\nfragments. Success rewarded this perseverance, almost beyond his\nexpectation. In December he was able to electrify the literary world\nof London. He lectured on the \u201cChaldean Account of the Deluge,\u201d and\nwas able to present to his audience the greater portion of the\ncuneiform text. It corresponded wonderfully not only in the main\npoints, but sometimes even in details, with the account of Genesis. It\ndiffered from it chiefly by the introduction of poetic and\nmythological imagery, and in a few minor details\u2015\u2015such details as men\nwill naturally vary in, while they retain the substance and general\ntruth of an account.\n\nAbout this time the New York _Herald_ had attained a world-wide and\nwell-deserved celebrity by having sent Stanley on a bold and\nsuccessful mission to find Livingstone in the heart of Africa. Other\npapers naturally wished to imitate, if not to rival, the great deed.\nThe London _Daily Telegraph_ saw its opportunity, seized it at once,\nand sent out Mr. Smith to Mesopotamia, to make further excavations in\nthe mound of Kouyunjik and elsewhere, and to obtain more of those\ninteresting fragments. This he strove to do, though under many\nembarrassments from the opposition or the petulance of ignorant and\narbitrary Turkish officials. He was forced to bring his work to a\nclose just when he felt that he had entered well into it. The results,\nhowever, of that trip have since turned out to be greater and more\nimportant than he then thought. He soon went out again to resume and\ncontinue the work under the auspices of the British Museum, and he\nsucceeded in obtaining for its collection still another large\ninstalment of the much-coveted fragments, together with many other\nvaluable articles. Since his return to England in June, 1874, he has\ngiven himself up almost entirely to the study of those fragments,\nclassifying, comparing, and uniting them where possible, and\ndeciphering the inscriptions.[137] In the work before us[138] he\ngives to the public some special results attained by a little over one\nyear\u2019s labor. We catch the words\u2015\u2015if only the muttered and broken\nwords\u2015\u2015of this early Assyrian literature, yet words of highest\nimportance, because they bear directly on the topics narrated in the\nearliest chapters of the Holy Scriptures. As we read them, we feel\nlike one standing by the bedside of a sick man, and listening to his\nfitful and feverish utterances. You catch a word here and a word\nthere, perhaps scarcely enough to guide you. Now and then a sentence\nis spoken out with startling distinctness, to be followed only by low,\nalmost unintelligible murmurings. Still, if you know what the patient\nis speaking of, you may follow his train of thought, at least after a\nfashion.\n\nWe take up the special subjects of some of these deciphered tablets.\nFollowing the Biblical and historical order of events, we commence with\n\n\nTHE CREATION.\n\nIt is fortunate that the very commencement of the Chaldean legend on\nthis subject\u2015\u2015possibly the written account which Berosus mentions\u2015\u2015is\nfound on a comparatively large and legible fragment. We give it line\nby line as Mr. Smith has translated it, marking the missing portions\nby points. It will serve as a favorable sample of the condition of\nsuch fragments:\n\n \u201cWHEN ABOVE were not raised the heavens:\n And below, on the earth, a plant had not grown up;\n The abysses also had not broken open their boundaries.\n The chaos Tiamate [the abyss of waters] was the\n producing-mother of them.\n Those waters at the beginning were ordained: but\n A tree had not grown, a flower had not unfolded.\n When the gods had not sprung up, any one of them:\n A plant had not grown, and order did not exist.\n Were made the great gods,\n The gods Lahmu and Lahamu they caused to come \u2026\n And they grew \u2026\n The gods Sar and Kisar were made \u2026\n The course of days and a long time passed \u2026\n The god Anu \u2026\n The gods Sar and \u2026\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nThese fifteen lines, six of them imperfect, are all that we have of\nthe inscription on the face or obverse of this tablet. Judging from\nthe inscriptions on other fragments of similar tablets, there were\nprobably fifty lines on the face of the tablet when entire, and\nperhaps thirty or forty of text on the back, or reverse of it, all\nmissing as yet, except what we have given.\n\nOn the upper portion of the back, above the thirty or forty lines\nreferred to as missing, and fortunately on the back of the fragment\nbefore us, was placed a curious and interesting inscription, serving\nboth as title and preface, and throwing light on the history and\ncharacter of the material fragments before us. The inscription reads\nas follows:\n\n \u201cFirst tablet of WHEN ABOVE\n Palace of Assurbanipal, King of Nations, King of Assyria,\n To whom Nebo and Tasmit [_Assyrian deities_] attentive ears have\n given:\n He sought with diligent eyes the wisdom of the inscribed tablets,\n Which among the kings who went before me,\n None those writings had sought.\n The wisdom of Nebo, the impressions of the god my instructor all\n delightful,\n On the tablets I wrote, I studied, I observed, and\n For the inspection of my people, within my palace, I placed.\u201d\n\nThe Assyrians, we see, like the Israelites and other Eastern nations,\nfrequently designated their books, not by the subjects treated of, but\nby the initial words. The book the commencement of which we see on\nthis fragment of terra-cotta was known to them, and they subsequently\nrefer to it, by the title, WHEN ABOVE.\n\nWe see also that the fragments which we possess are remnants of a\nseries of tablets which were prepared and placed in his palace at\nNinive by the Assyrian monarch Assurbanipal, son of Esarhaddon, the\ncelebrated Sardanapalus of Grecian writers, renowned for his luxury\nand magnificence, and who, seeing his kingdom at length subverted and\nhis capital taken, preferred to perish with his family in the\nconflagration of his own palace, rather than yield himself a prisoner\ninto the hands of his enemies. He reigned from B.C. 673 to B.C. 625.\nFrom this inscription, and from many other notices, we learn that\nduring his reign he followed up with ardor the literary work of his\nfather and grandfather, and of several of their predecessors. He\nsought out the more ancient literary treasures of Babylon, Cutha,\nErech, Akkad, Borsippa, Ur, Nipur, and other older cities then under\nhis sway; caused them to be carefully copied out on fresh tablets of\nterra-cotta, and to be placed in his own Royal Library at Ninive. It\nis thus almost entirely to Assurbanipal and his patronage of learning\nthat we owe what we now know, or hope soon to possess, of this oldest\nof all national literatures.\n\nReverting to our fragmentary tablet, and comparing the verbose text of\nthis remarkable inscription with the brief account of Moses (Gen. i.\n1, 2), we cannot but note the contrast between the clear and emphatic\nstatement of the inspired writer, \u201cIn the beginning God _created_ the\nheavens and the earth,\u201d on one side, and on the other the vague and\nundecided statement of the cuneiform writer, \u201cThose waters [or chaos]\nat the beginning were _ordained_.\u201d\n\nIt may be presuming too much on our present ability to translate with\naccuracy every individual word of these tablets for us to give much\nweight to a single word or isolated expression; but it would seem that\nthe early Assyrians, even if they had lost, or at least were\naccustomed to leave in the background, the idea of the unity of God,\nand were commencing to indulge in mythological fancies, had not,\nhowever, gone as yet so far astray as to hold the primeval chaos to\nhave existed of itself from eternity. On the contrary, they believed\nthat at the beginning it was _ordained_. There is here a trace, at\nleast, of the idea of creation by a superior Power.\n\nThe watery character of the abyss is an idea common to both\nnarratives. Whence this agreement? Could the void and formless\ncharacter of the original chaotic mass be conceived under no other\ncondition than that of a watery mist?\n\nMoses distinctly indicates the exercise of the power of the true and\nsupreme God in the further progress of creation: \u201cAnd the Spirit of\nGod moved upon the face of the waters.\u201d The inscription, leaving that\nout of sight, in this instance at least, gives us the primordial\nconceptions of mythology. The gods, who at the beginning \u201chad not\nsprung up, any one of them,\u201d soon commence to appear\u2015\u2015\u201care made.\u201d They\nare evidently personifications or deifications of the divisions or the\npowers of nature, perhaps poetic fancies in the beginning, to become\nin course of time mythological personages, and then heathen\ndivinities, to be worshipped with altars and sacrifices.\n\nHere _Lahmu_ and _Lahamu_ (masculine and feminine) represent the\npowers of motion and reproduction, the earliest forces recognized as\noriginally existing, or made to exist, in the chaotic abyss. _Sar_ (or\nAssorus) and _Kissar_ are the upper and the lower heavens. _Anu_\nrepresents the firmament, while _Elu_ and _Hea_\u2015\u2015whose names (if we\nfollow an excerpt from Berosus) probably followed that of _Anu_ in the\nbroken line\u2015\u2015stood for the earth and the sea.\n\nThe tablet to which this fragment belonged was evidently only a\ngeneral introduction to a series of eight, or perhaps more, tablets,\neach one forming, as it were, a special portion or chapter or canto to\nthe entire legend or book known by the name WHEN ABOVE, detailing the\ncreation of the world.\n\nOf the second, third, and fourth tablets we have as yet only two\nfragments. At least, those fragments are judged to belong\nhere\u2015\u2015probably to the third\u2015\u2015as they both appear to treat of the\nformation of the firm, dry land:\n\n \u201cWhen the foundations of the ground of rock (thou didst make),\n The foundation of the ground, thou didst call \u2026\n Thou didst beautify the heavens \u2026\n To the face of the heaven \u2026\n Thou didst give \u2026\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nWe have here the poetic form of an address directed to the Creator,\nperhaps to the Supreme God. If this be so, the true idea of the\nDivinity stands forth more distinctly here than in the former\nfragment. But the address may have been to Elu, or to Hea, or to some\nother inferior god, now made and acting. Only the recovery of more of\nthe tablet can decide the question.\n\nThe other fragment is longer, and contains portions of a greater\nnumber of lines. But it is so mutilated, and the words recognizable in\neach line are so few, that the meaning of the whole scarcely rises to\nobscurity. Some words are said about the \u201csea\u201d and the \u201cfirmament,\u201d\nand the \u201cearth\u201d \u201cfor the dwelling of man.\u201d\n\nWe come now to another fragment of larger size and in a better\ncondition. It speaks of the formation of the sun and the moon and the\nstars, and corresponds to Genesis i. 14-19:\n\n \u201cIt was delightful, all that was fixed by the great Gods.\n Stars, their appearance (in figures) of animals he arranged.\n To fix the year through the observation of their constellations,\n Twelve months (or signs) of stars in three rows he arranged,\n From the day when the year commences unto the close.\n He marked the positions of the wandering stars (planets) to\n shine in their courses,\n That they may not do injury, and may not trouble any one.\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cThe god Uru [the moon] he caused to rise out, the night he\n overshadowed.\n To fix it also for the light of the night, until the shining of the\n day.\n That the month might not be broken, and in its amount be regular.\n At the beginning of the month, at the rising of the night,\n His horns are breaking through, to shine on the heaven.\n On the seventh day, to a circle he begins to swell,\n And stretches towards the dawn further,\n When the god Shamas (the sun) in the horizon of heaven in the east.\n \u2026 formed beautifully and \u2026\n \u2026 to the orbit Shamas was perfected\n \u2026 the dawn Shamas should change,\n \u2026 going on in its path.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nOn the back of this fragment, at the top, is found this inscription:\n\n \u201cFifth tablet of WHEN ABOVE\n Country of Assurbanipal, King of Nations, King of Assyria.\u201d\n\nIf, as we remarked above, the first tablet of WHEN ABOVE be looked on\nas a general introduction to the whole subject, the remarkable fact\nbecomes apparent that the Assyrian writer followed precisely the same\ndivision and order of the details of the creation which we find in\nGenesis. Tablet II. would correspond with the work of the first day,\nand Tablet III. and IV. with that of the second and third day, as here\nTablet V. clearly is occupied with the work of the fourth day. It is\ngenerally acknowledged that the word _day_ in the Mosaic account does\nnot mean that the work there mentioned was done in the space of\ntwenty-four hours. The term _day_ is understood by many to mean an\nundetermined and probably a long period of time. It may even be, that\nthe term _day_ has been used by Moses not in an historical sense, as\nwe ordinarily would take it, but rather in a liturgical or religious\nsense, paralleling and adapting the six divisions of the creative\nwork, and the cessation from it, to the six days of labor and one day\nof rest which constituted the Jewish week. In this way Moses would\ngive to the Jewish people an ever-recurring cycle of hebdomadal\nservices, something like that still found in the Eastern liturgies,\nwhere on each day that day\u2019s work is the chief and almost exclusive\ntheme of religious service. Beyond this agreement in the mode of\ndividing the progress of creation\u2015\u2015an agreement carried out in the\ntablets to follow\u2015\u2015there are other points to be noted. In the first\nline of this fragment, as also on other fragments, we read an approval\nof what has already been done: \u201cIt was delightful, all that was fixed\nby the great gods.\u201d In Genesis we find the oft-repeated statement,\n\u201cAnd God saw that it was good.\u201d Moses places this approbation at the\nconclusion of each day\u2019s work. The cuneiform writer places it at the\nbeginning of the next day\u2019s work.\n\nWe see, too, in the continued use of the personal pronoun _He_, that\nthe work is attributed to the true and Supreme God. The plural phrase,\nthe _great gods_, does not militate against this view; for this form,\nit seems to us, is a parallel to the early Hebrew name of God,\n_Elohim_, likewise a plural form. This form was used to convey to\ntheir minds by the very mode of speech a deeper sense of the infinite\npower and majesty of God, and served as a fuller expression of their\nreverence for him. Even in our modern languages there is a trace of\nsome such feeling. It is generally more respectful to address one in\nthe plural form\u2015\u2015_you_, _vous_, _sie_\u2015\u2015than in the singular. If we\nthus take the phrase, \u201cthe great gods,\u201d in our cuneiform texts to\nmean, as it certainly may in many places, the one true and Supreme\nGod, the primitive doctrine of monotheism will be found to stand out\nin bold relief in these texts, perhaps the earliest we have of human\nwriting.\n\nEven the mention of several gods by name, in succession, may have been\nconsistent with monotheism. On one tablet we have glosses informing\nthe reader that the six names there given in succession are all names\nof the _same_ god; and another tablet speaks of the _fifty names_ of\nthe Great God. They seem not to have been interchangeable. The use of\none or of another depended, perhaps, on some special character or tone\nof the thought to be expressed.\n\nIt may be observed, also, that in our text the moon seems to be\npreferred to the sun as the more important orb of the two. The account\nof Moses is simpler, and, what is more to the purpose, is true, and\nhas not had to be corrected by the advance of astronomical science in\nmodern days.\n\nThe sixth tablet, referring probably to the work of the fifth day, is\naltogether absent. The fifth tablet bore at its conclusion the\ncatchwords with which the sixth commenced. But they do not help us.\nThe seventh tablet commences with the statement that \u201cthe strong\nmonsters were delightful \u2026 which the gods in their assembly had\ncreated.\u201d We may take it for granted, then, that the sixth tablet\nspoke of the creation of fishes and whales and monsters of the deep,\nand perhaps also of the birds of the air (Gen. i. 23).\n\nThe seventh tablet has fourteen lines, most of them mutilated. But it\ntells us that \u201cthe gods caused to be, living creatures,\u201d \u2026 \u201ccattle of\nthe field,\u201d \u201cbeasts of the field,\u201d and \u201ccreeping things of the field\u201d\n\u2026 and \u201ccreeping things of the city,\u201d agreeing even in some of the\nterms used with the account of Genesis i. 24, 25.\n\nLower down on the fragment, where the lines are very much broken,\nmention is made of two \u2026 \u201cwho have been created, and of the assembly\nof creeping things \u2026 being caused to go\u201d \u2026 somewhere or before\nsomebody; of \u201cbeautiful flesh\u201d and \u201cpure presence.\u201d It is unfortunate\nthat these concluding lines are so shattered, and still more that of\nthe thirty-five or forty other lines which must have followed, on the\nface of this tablet, not one letter has as yet been found. For this is\nthe passage in which we should look for an account of the actual\ncreation of the first man and the first woman, and of the bestowal on\nman of power and authority over the rest of creation. We may entertain\nthe hope that some considerable portion, at least, of these missing\nfragments may yet be found. It will certainly be an interesting\ninquiry to ascertain how far they may, even in details, accord with\nthe expressions of Moses on this subject.\n\nThis seventh tablet corresponded with the work of the sixth day. As\nthe Assyrian writer does not follow a division by days, he does not\ngive us another tablet answering to the seventh day of rest. His\neighth tablet, and any others that may have followed, would naturally\nnarrate subsequent events.\n\n\nTHE GARDEN OF EDEN.\n\nOf the eighth tablet there exists only a single fragment bearing\ntwenty-seven lines, whole or mutilated, on the face, and fifteen, all\nmutilated, on the reverse. The first is evidently an address to the\nnewly-created man. The opening words are on the question of his eating\nsomething, though whether a command (Genesis ii. 16) or a prohibition\n(Genesis ii. 17) is not clear. The occurrence of the single word\n\u201cevil\u201d in one of the lines may probably indicate the latter. The text\nthen goes on to instruct man as to his duty to God:\n\n \u201cEvery day thy God thou shalt approach [or invoke];\n Sacrifice, prayer of the mouth and instrumen\u2019s \u2026\n To thy God in reverence thou shalt carry.\n Whatever shall be suitable for divinity,\n Supplication, humility, and bowing of the face.\n Firs(t), thou shalt give to him, and thou shalt bring tribute,\n And in the fear also of God thou shalt be holy.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn the fragmentary lines that follow further instructions seem to be\ngiven for religious worship and for moral life.\n\nThe other side of this fragment contains apparently a discourse to the\nnewly-created woman. The commencement for many lines is entirely lost,\nas is also the termination, and what we have from the middle is\nexceedingly broken and indistinct. There is something about her\nsharing \u201cthe beautiful place,\u201d evidently with the man, and her being\nwith him or in his presence \u201cto the end\u201d; something apparently about\nhis beauty and her beauty, and about her giving him drink. She is told:\n\n \u201cTo the lord of thy beauty thou shalt be faithful;\n To do evil thou shalt not approach him.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nPerhaps the recovery of other fragments may tell us more of this\n\u201cbeautiful place\u201d which the woman is to share with man. So far we do\nnot find in the inscriptions any account of the Garden of Eden. But\neven before Mr. Smith had commenced deciphering them, Rawlinson had\npointed out how the Tigris and Euphrates, the Ukni and the Surappi,\nwere, in all probability, the four rivers designated by Moses, the two\nlatter, under the more ancient names Phison and Gehon, as the streams\nof Eden; and how the garden itself might be placed in the district of\nGanduniyas. Many circumstances unite in showing that among the\nBabylonians there did exist some religious tradition on this subject,\nalthough we cannot yet know its special form. They certainly spoke of\na sacred grove of Anu, inaccessible now to man because it is guarded\nby a sword turning to all the four points of the compass.\n\nThe passage in the instruction to the man, in which he is commanded to\noffer sacrifice to God\u2015\u2015even holocausts (for this is what is meant by\n\u201cfire\u201d)\u2015\u2015is also worthy of remark. It is an additional argument\nshowing that from the earliest ages, and in the earliest home of\nmankind, men believed that God had commanded our first father to offer\nsacrifice\u2015\u2015a belief which passed with man from that home to whatever\nregion he afterwards occupied, and which has led all nations to offer\nsacrifice, under some form or other, as a special homage to the Deity.\n\n\nTHE FALL.\n\nAnother fragment of a tablet is in the usually tantalizing condition.\nThe upper half, if not more than half, is gone, as is likewise a\nportion at the bottom. On the front we count thirty-two lines, the\nfirst four and the last nine too mutilated to be intelligible. On the\nreverse are thirty-two lines, eight of them more or less incomplete.\nThe beginnings and the terminations of both inscriptions are missing.\n\nIn the first inscription six gods are blessing and praising the\nnewly-created man, who is \u201cgood\u201d \u201cand without sin,\u201d and is\n\u201cestablished in the company of the gods,\u201d and \u201crejoices their heart.\u201d\nThough six gods are named separately, glosses in each instance inform\nthe reader that these are all titles of one and the same god.\n\nOn the other side of the tablet, in the second inscription, all is\nchanged. Every line is a denunciation or an imprecation on man for\nsome evil which, in connection with the dragon Tiamat, he has done.\nTiamat also is to be punished. The lines referring to Tiamat are very\ndefective; but the portion against the man is clear and strong:\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cThe god Hea heard and his liver was angry,\n Because man had corrupted his purity.\n\n * * * * *\n\n In the language of the fifty great gods,\n By his fifty names he called, and turned away in anger from him;\n May he be conquered and at once cut off.\n Wisdom and knowledge, hostilely may they injure him.\n May they put at enmity also father and son, and may they plunder.\n To king, ruler, and governor may they bend their ear.\n May they cause anger also to the lord of the gods, Merodach.\n His land, may it bring forth, but he not touch it.\n His desire shall be cut off, and his will be unanswered;\n The opening of his mouth no god shall take notice of;\n His back shall be broken and not be healed;\n At his urgent trouble no god shall receive him.\n His heart shall be poured out, and his mind shall be troubled;\n To sin and wrong his face shall come \u2026\n Sc front \u2026\u201d\n\nPerhaps the continuation might have softened what we have just read by\nsome promise of a redeemer coming to rescue man and give him hope of\npardon. The imperfection of the earlier lines, and the want of the\nmany that preceded them, leave us without any precise account of the\nevil act that man had done, and of the motive that prompted him to its\ncommission. That Tiamat was primarily concerned in it, is evident from\nthe earlier portion of these lines referring to Tiamat, and also from\nanother small fragment on which \u201cHea\u201d called to the man he had made,\nand apparently warned him against \u201cthe dragon of the sea,\u201d who was\nplotting to lead him to \u201cfight against his father.\u201d The part that\nwisdom and knowledge shall play in man\u2019s punishment may indicate that\nhis offence was somehow connected with an unlawful seeking after\nforbidden knowledge.\n\nBut the special details of the fall of man, according to these\ncuneiform legends, can only be known when, if ever, the full text\nshall be recovered. Then, it may be, we shall read in words the full\nstory as indicated by the design on an ancient Babylonian cylinder\ntaken from the mounds. In the middle stands a tree, laden with fruit.\nOn either side are seated a man and a woman, stretching out their\nhands as if to pluck the fruit. Behind the woman a tortuous serpent\nraises his head aloft, as if to whisper in her ear.\n\nIn other designs the serpent is replaced by a monster or dragon. The\nname of the dragon is frequently written by signs, or ideographically,\n\u201cthe scaly one.\u201d This might mean either a sea monster, a fish, or a\nserpent. The Assyrian idea of a dragon is not altogether alien to the\nprimitive Scriptural conception; for in the Apocalypse (xii. 7-9)\nmention is made of \u201cthe great dragon, that old serpent, called the\ndevil and Satan, who seduceth the whole world.\u201d\n\n\nTHE REBELLION OF THE EVIL ANGELS.\n\nAlthough in the account of the creation of all things, in the\nbeginning, Moses makes no specific mention of the angels, nor of their\nrebellion against God, nor of the punishment which they incurred\ntherefor, yet, as the subject is referred to by Isaias (xiv. 12-15)\nand Ezechiel (xxviii. 14-16), and by St. Peter (2 Ep. ii. 4) and St.\nPaul (Eph. ii. 2 and vi. 12) in the New Testament, we may properly\nintroduce here what the cuneiform writings say on this subject. The\nAssyrians seem to have had quite a number of poems on such themes,\nvarious fragments of which are found in the collection before us. As\nmight be expected, there is an exuberance of poetical imagery and of\nmythological fancies in their mode of treating such a subject. But the\nmain points are salient and clear. We are told in the fragments of one\npoem of \u201cthe angels,\u201d \u201cthe evil gods\u201d \u201cwho were in rebellion,\u201d who\n\u201chad been created in the lower part of heaven,\u201d of their \u201cevil work\u201d\nand \u201cwicked heads,\u201d and of their \u201csetting up evil.\u201d These \u201cevil gods\u201d\n\u201clike a flood descend and sweep over the earth. To the earth like a\nstorm they come down.\u201d The fragments note the preparations of the\ngreat gods to overpower and punish them; but the conclusion is\nmissing.\n\nThere are fragments of another remarkable poem giving an account of\nthe revolt of the god _Zu_, apparently the greatest of those\nrebellious ones, and the leader, who \u201cconceived the idea of majesty in\nhis heart\u201d and said:\n\n \u201cMay my throne be established, may I possess the _parzi_,\n May I govern the whole of the seed of the angels.\n And he hardened his heart to make war.\u201d\n\nThe father of the gods sends his sons (the angels) to combat and\noverpower Zu. His punishment is to be:\n\n \u201cFather, to a desert country do thou consign him;\n Let Zu not come among the gods thy sons.\u201d\n\nIn all this we cannot but be reminded of the pride and ambition of\nLucifer, who said in his heart: \u201cI will ascend into heaven, I will\nexalt my throne about the stars of God, I will be like the Most\nHigh\u201d; of his overthrow by the archangel Michael; and of his\npunishment\u2015\u2015perpetual exclusion from the companionship of the angels\nand saints, and from the beatific presence of God in heaven, and his\ncondemnation for ever to hell, his abode of suffering for ever more.\n\nWe may here leave these legends, overwhelmed as they are with\nmythological fables, and with more satisfaction turn to other plainer\nwords and more prosaic facts.\n\n\nTHE TOWER OF BABEL AND THE CONFUSION OF TONGUES.\n\nOne of the most striking events narrated by Moses is the attempt of\nthe descendants of Noe to build a lofty tower at Babel; how the\nattempt displeased God, and how in his anger he confounded their\nspeech, so that they could no longer understand one another. Thus\ntheir attempt was defeated, and they were scattered from that place\nabroad upon the face of all countries (Genesis xi. 1-9).\n\nIn none of the Greek writers who epitomize Berosus or make extracts\nfrom his _History of Babylon_ do we find any intimation of, or\nreference to, this event. Berosus seems to have been entirely silent\non it. For years nothing relating to it had come to light in all the\nsearching of inscriptions of any kind. But lately Mr. George Smith,\nwith his usual good fortune, has come across several small fragments\nof a tablet which evidently gave the whole history. The fragments are\nsmall, and the inscriptions brief and more mutilated than usual. But\nwe catch the sense. The gods in heaven are angry because of the sin of\nmen on earth\u2015\u2015the place specially mentioned is Babylon; there a strong\nplace or tower which men all the day are building. \u201cTo their strong\nplace in the night God entirely made an end.\u201d \u201cIn his anger\u201d \u201che\nconfounded their speech,\u201d \u201ctheir counsel was confused.\u201d \u201cHe set his\nface to scatter them abroad.\u201d\n\nEven should no additional portions of this text be recovered, these\nremarkable fragments will attest that the memory of the event narrated\nin Genesis was long preserved, as well it might be, at Babylon. It had\nits place in their national traditions. Should the full text be ever\nrestored, it may likewise be seen that this is the very subject meant\nby those frequent representations seen on Babylonian cylinders, where\nmen are depicted, after a very absurd and conventional style, busily\nemployed in building some circular or cylindrical structure.\n\n\nTHE DELUGE.\n\nWe have inverted the Scriptural and chronological order of events in\nspeaking of the Tower of Babel before treating of the Deluge. We did\nso, however, in order to be able to treat this latter important\nsubject more at length. The Deluge was, as we have said, the subject\nof the fragmentary inscription the discovery of which led Mr. Smith\ninto this special line of research. By singular good fortune this is\nthe inscription which has been most fully recovered. Of the two\nhundred and ninety lines it contained, there is not one of which some\nwords are not legible. By far the greater portions of the lines are\nperfect. This arises from the fact that in the library of Assurbanipal\nthere were three copies, at least, of this legend, which seems to have\nbeen very popular. The _lacun\u00e6_ or missing portions of one it has been\ngenerally easy to supply or fill up from the recovered portions of the\nothers. The inscription filled the eleventh tablet in a series of\ntwelve, which Mr. Smith calls \u201cThe Legends of Izdubar.\u201d\n\nIzdubar, as he warns us, is only a temporary makeshift name or sound,\nadopted by him for the present, and to be given up as soon as he shall\nbe satisfied as to the proper sound to be given to the cuneiform\ncharacters in which the name stands written. Whatever the true sound\nof his name, he was a celebrated hero or king in the early days of\nBabylon. His name frequently occurs in other inscriptions, and his\nexploits are still more frequently figured on Babylonian cylinders.\nThe peculiar cast of his countenance, and the very marked way in which\nhis beard and his hair are ever made to fall in long rolls or curls,\ncause him to be recognized at a glance, even in the coarsest\nrepresentations. We might almost call him the Babylonian Hercules. All\nthat has been thus far learned concerning him tends strongly to\nidentify this as yet nameless hero with \u201cNimrod the mighty hunter\nbefore the Lord\u201d (Gen. x, 8, 9, 10).\n\nThe first ten tablets, which exist only in the usual thoroughly-mutilated\ncondition, tell us of his adventures, wars, victories, and ultimate\nattainment of great power. At last, having lost his trusted friend and\ncounsellor Heabani, and finding himself stricken with a foul disease,\nhe sets out on a long and difficult journey to seek the sage\n_Hasisadra_, in order to be cured by him.\n\nThis Hasisadra, as the tablet calls him\u2015\u2015or _Xisuthrus_, as the Greeks\nhave the name\u2015\u2015is no other than the patriarch Noe, whom the Chaldean\nlegend supposes not to have died, but to have been translated from\namong men, as Henoch was, without seeing death, and to have been\nplaced in some divinely guarded spot where, by a special favor from\nthe gods, he enjoys immortality. To him, after surmounting many\ndifficulties, Izdubar succeeds in coming; and their speeches to each\nother are commenced toward the close of the tenth tablet. On the\neleventh Izdubar questions him about the Deluge, and he replies:\n\n \u201cHasisadra after this manner also said to Izdubar:\n Be revealed unto thee, Izdubar, the concealed story,\n And the judgment of the gods be related to thee.\u201d\n\nIn the course of the narrative, which he then gives, we are told of\nthe anger of the gods, and their purpose to destroy the world because\nof its sin; of the command given to Hasisadra to build a ship after\nthe manner they would show him, in order that therein \u201cthe seed of\nlife might be saved\u201d; of the building of the ship; of its size\n(different from the measures given in Genesis), the lining of it three\ntimes with bitumen, and the launching of it. Into this ship, at the\nproper time, there enter Hasisadra and all his family, and \u201call his\nmale servants and his female servants,\u201d as also \u201cthe beasts of the\nfield and the animals of the field,\u201d which God \u201chad gathered and sent\nto him to be enclosed in his door.\u201d Hasisadra brought in also \u201cwine in\nthe receptacle of goats,\u201d which he had \u201ccollected like the waters of a\nriver,\u201d and \u201cfood\u201d in abundance \u201clike the dust of the earth,\u201d \u201chis\ngrain, his furniture, his goods,\u201d all his \u201cgold,\u201d and all his\n\u201csilver.\u201d Also, as the text reads, \u201cthe sons of the people all of them\nI caused to go up.\u201d The number of persons saved would thus far exceed\nthe number specially mentioned by Moses.\n\n \u201cA flood Shamas made, and\n He spake saying in the night: I will cause it to rain heavily;\n Enter to the midst of the ship and shut thy door.\n That flood happened of which\n He spake in the night, saying: I will cause it to rain from heaven\n heavily.\n In the day, I celebrated his festival;\n The day of watching, fear I had.\n I entered to the midst of the ship and shut my door.\n To close the ship, to Buzur-sadirabi, the boatman,\n The palace I gave with its goods.\u201d\n\nThe heavy clouds rising from the horizon, the thunder, the lightnings,\nthe rushing winds, the pouring torrents of rain, are vividly presented\nin a mythological garb:\n\n \u201cOf Vul, the flood reached to heaven;\n The bright earth to a waste was turned;\n The surface of the earth like \u2026 it swept;\n It destroyed all life from the face of the earth \u2026\n The strong deluge over the people reached to heaven.\n Brother saw not his brother; they did not know the people.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Six days and nights\n Passed; the wind, deluge, and storm overwhelmed.\n On the seventh day, in its course was calmed the storm; and all\n the deluge,\n Which had destroyed like an earthquake,\n Quieted. The sea he caused to dry, and the wind and deluge ended.\n I perceived the sea making a tossing;\n And the whole of mankind turned to corruption,\n Like reeds the corpses floated.\n I opened the window, and the light broke over my face;\n It passed. I sat down and wept;\n Over my face flowed my tears.\u201d\n\nHasisadra proceeds to narrate to his visitor the gradual lowering of\nthe waters, the appearance of the mountains of Nizir, the waiting\nduring other days, and the sending forth of the birds, as written on\nthe first fragment, already given. After this they left the ship; he\nbuilt an altar and offered sacrifice, the odor of which was pleasant\nto the gods; and finally a promise is made that a deluge shall not\nagain be sent, but that henceforth man when guilty shall be punished\nin other modes.\n\nThis concludes the narrative proper of the Deluge. The conclusion of\nthe eleventh tablet informs us of the healing of Izdubar and of his\nreturn home. Of the twelfth tablet only a few fragments remain. It\nevidently narrated subsequent adventures of the great national hero.\nOne fragment contains the conclusion of the sixth and last column of\nthis closing tablet. It presents a few lines from a lament over the\ndeath of some one, possibly of Izdubar himself, slain in battle. We\ngive it, with its refrain, as a veritable and curious specimen of the\npoetry in which men delighted three thousand five hundred years ago.\nWe might call it the poetry of pre-historic man:\n\n \u201cOn a couch reclining and\n Pure water drinking,\n He who in battle is slain\n Thou seest and I see.\n\n \u201cHis father and his mother carry his head,\n And his wife over him weeps;\n His friends on the ground are standing.\n Thou seest and I see.\n\n \u201cHis spoil on the ground is uncovered;\n Of the spoil account is not taken.\n Thou seest and I see.\n The captives conquered come after; the food\n Which in the tents is placed, is eaten.\u201d\n\nThere immediately follows the closing colophon, written by the scribe\nunder Assurbanipal:\n\n \u201cThe twelfth tablet of the legends of Izdubar;\n Like the ancient copy, written and made clear.\u201d\n\nWhen we place side by side this Chaldean account of the Deluge and\nthat given by Moses, the minor discrepancies between them as to the\nsize of the ship, and as to the duration of the rain and the deluge,\nsink, as it were, out of sight. These are such variations as would\nnaturally arise in a case like this, where a legend, after having been\ntransmitted orally from generation to generation, is at length reduced\nto writing, with, of course, careful corrections and supposed\nemendations, and where many centuries later it is again written out\nwith other emendations, in order to \u201cmake it clear\u201d for the benefit of\nthose that would then read it. Some such discrepancies must\nnecessarily creep in, even if the original form were supposed to have\nbeen without any error. This, however, can scarcely be taken for\ngranted. Neither in its original form, nor in any later form which it\nmay have had, does this legend enjoy the guarantee of divine\nprotection which the inspired account of Moses possesses.\n\nOn the other hand, we are irresistibly startled by the wonderful\nagreement of those two accounts in the main and substantial facts of\nthe narrative. We feel that this agreement is not factitious. The\nwriters were too widely separated in time and in country, as also by\neducation, to allow it. If they agree, it can only be because of the\nhistorical verity of the facts they both record.\n\nWhat may have been the actual age of those \u201cancient tablets\u201d which\nAssurbanipal caused to be copied and placed in his library, and of\nwhich we have treated, cannot at present be ascertained with any\ndegree of precision. Sufficient data are not yet at hand to determine\nthe points. Most probably they are not all of the same, or nearly the\nsame, date. Perhaps light may be thrown on such questions by further\ndecipherings of the mass of cuneiform writings. At present our\njudgment or our guesses must be based on two points: first, the\noccurrence, in the text deciphered, of certain local or historical\nreferences given as contemporary, or very recent, at the time when the\ninscription was written; and, secondly, such a minute knowledge on our\npart of the geography, history, and chronology of those regions as\nwill enable us to decide accurately when and where such statements,\nallusions, or references can be verified. The difficulty is that, with\nall the progress made up to this in deciphering these inscriptions, we\nare still liable to mistakes, especially in such passing allusions and\nreferences as are for our purpose important data, but originally were\nto the writer almost _obiter dicta_. A second difficulty is found in\nthe obscurity and uncertainty which still hang around the vicissitudes\nof early Chaldean history and the geographical divisions then\nexisting.\n\nMr. Smith, however, after studying the matter and weighing all the\ndata, thinks that none of the original tablets we are considering can\nhave been written less than fifteen hundred years before Christ. Most\nof them, indeed, especially the legends of Izdubar and the account of\nthe creation, he believes should be dated back as far as 2,000, or\neven 2,200, years before Christ.\n\nHow many Voltairean sneers, and how many crude utterances of crude\ncriticism by the so-called \u201cadvanced thinkers\u201d in Germany and\nelsewhere, against Moses and his narrative, are deprived of all their\nforce, and have been made utterly ridiculous and nonsensical, by the\ndiscovery of this ancient and indisputable corroborative testimony!\nVerily, the men of Ninive have risen up in judgment against them, and\nhave condemned them.\n\nIt has been a standard line of argument with the apologists and\ndefenders of Christianity, from the second century down, to prove the\ntruth of our divine religion, and of the primitive facts recorded in\nScripture, by the general and substantial agreement of all nations on\nthose points. This agreement, it was evident, could only spring from\nthe fact that originally such truths were known by men, and had been\nretained by them ever since in some form. Such truths are still to be\nfound in the common principles of morality, in the agreement or\nsimilarity of national traditions; and philosophic research will show\nthat they generally constitute the central _nuclei_ around which\nmythological fables subsequently gathered or grew up. Many modern\nwriters have devoted themselves to this theme. One of the latest is\nthe Abb\u00e9 Gainet. In his very full and learned work, _La Bible sans la\nBible_, he seems almost to exhaust the subject. Leaving aside, for\nargument\u2019s sake, the testimony of the Bible itself, and loading his\npages with quotations and testimonies, heathen, infidel, or\nMahommedan, taken from every quarter, he strives to establish, by this\nindependent and non-Biblical line of proof, the truth, one by one, of\nthe chief Biblical statements. What a splendid chapter would he not\nhave added to those in his work had these discoveries been made when\nhe wrote! To appeal to men two thousand years or more before\nChrist\u2015\u2015witnesses living in the very region of the earth where man was\ncreated, and which after the Deluge became, as it were, a second\nbirthplace to him\u2015\u2015to receive from such witnesses this clear,\nunimpeachable testimony as to the creation of man, the fall, the\npunishment, the Deluge, the Tower of Babel, and the confusion of\ntongues, would indeed supply him with another irrefragable argument in\nsupport of divine revelation, in addition to those he had already\ncollected. With our limited space, however, we can only take a simpler\nview.\n\nCompare those Chaldean legends, fragmentary as they are, often turgid\nand verbose, with their poetic forms and Oriental license, and with\nthe variations which are sometimes exhibited in different versions of\nthe same legend\u2015\u2015compare them, we say, with the clear, straightforward,\nand almost tame narrative of Moses. Need one ask which is the simple\nnarrative of truth, and which seeks to wear the adornment of human\nfancy?\n\nOther questions on this matter call for an answer: How came it that\nMoses, born in Egypt, and trained in all the knowledge of the\nEgyptians, should, when undertaking to write his history in the\ndesert, so utterly cast off all the ideas of Egypt, and write a simple\nnarrative in absolute contradiction to all the science of Egypt in his\nday? Above all, how comes it that the truth of his narrative should be\nso unexpectedly and so strongly supported three thousand years later\nby the resurrection of long-dormant testimony from a land he had never\nvisited and a people with whom he never had any communication?\n\nObviously, Moses wrote, not as the Egyptians or any other men taught\nhim, but as the God of all truth inspired him to write.\n\n\n [137] Since this article was written we regret to have\n received the announcement of Mr. Smith\u2019s death. In 1876 he\n made a third trip for the purpose of further explorations,\n and on his way homeward died at Aleppo, August 19, of fever,\n or, as some suspect, of foul play at the hands of the\n Turkish officials, in revenge for his published censures of\n them.\n\n [138] Chaldean Account of Genesis.\n\n\n\n\nLETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.\n\nFROM THE FRENCH.\n\n\nSEPTEMBER 12, 1868.\n\nRen\u00e9 has sent you a minute account of our 8th of September, to which I\nwill add nothing, except that I understand better than ever the words\nof the Gospel, \u201cMary has chosen the better part!\u201d\n\nSince then we have seen Lizzy and Isa\u2019s mother, who is marvellously\nconsoled, and is recovering the activity of her youth, in order to\noccupy herself with the works of her daughter. How truly does God\norder all things well! \u201cO blessed journey!\u201d repeated Isa. \u201cO\nwell-inspired friend!\u201d Dear Kate, it is _you_ to whom all thanks are\ndue. You it is who ever taught me to occupy myself in making others\nhappy. But this is already a thing of the past, and another case for\nself-devotion presents itself. Edith L\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 has come back from\nAustralia with three children. The establishment set on foot by her\nhusband did not succeed, and she returns a widow and poor. Her first\nthought was of us. With what eagerness I received the poor exile! How\nshe has expiated her fault\u2015\u2015that marriage, contrary to her aunt\u2019s\nwishes! I was young then, but I still seem to hear your exclamation of\nsorrowful astonishment at Paris on hearing the news, and of the\ndeparture for a land then almost unknown. Poor Edith! I have installed\nher at the _ch\u00e2let_; our numbers made her afraid. Her children also\nare a little wild, and it required all the amiability of the _Three\nGraces_ to persuade them to speak. What shall we do? I do not at all\nknow as yet; inspire me, dear Kate. Edith is grave and sad, she has\nsuffered so much! I have surrounded her with every possible comfort.\nOnly think: she arrived here on the 8th, and was received by Marcella,\nwho had the greatest difficulty in the world to induce her to remain.\nHer son, the eldest child, is eight years old; he is very tall and\nstrong, and of an indomitable nature. The two little girls are like\nwild fawns, and cling together at a distance from their mother, who\nseems to me severe towards them. Ren\u00e9 has been very kind and\ncompassionate, and has left me free to act as I think well. Edith is\nembarrassed with me. Why are you not here to console this dear,\nafflicted one? She ought not to reckon upon her Scotch relations, who\nhave entirely cast her off; and she is utterly without resources. Ah\nheavens! what distress. She sold her jewels to pay her passage: \u201cBut I\nwould not die without seeing Ireland again!\u201d Poor, poor Edith, whom my\nmother loved! I wish to stand towards her in the place of my mother\nand of you, dear Kate.\n\n\nSEPTEMBER 22, 1868.\n\nBeloved sister, your kind letter is here before my eyes, and I will\nanswer it before this day ends. Edith fell ill on the 13th. A\nfictitious energy sustained her up to that time, and then she had a\nfainting fit which lasted two hours. Marcella was alone with her; I\nwas in the park with the dear _Australiennes_, as Picciola calls them.\nI heard a cry of anguish. My first impulse was to hasten to send for\nthe doctor. He came. Edith, returning to animation in a state of\ndelirium, made our hearts bleed by her sorrowful revelations. She was\nin this condition for three days. Now she is better, but so pale! The\ngood doctor has pronounced the terrible verdict of an affection of the\nlungs. She needs constant care, and that her mind should be interested\nand free from any anxieties.\n\nYour intentions are the same as mine, dear Kate. I give Edith an\nindefinite freedom of the _ch\u00e2let_, where nothing will be wanting to\nher. Reginald will be her steward, Arabella and Fran\u00e7oise will be in\nher service; and as she needs a companion to whom she can entrust the\neducation of her girls, Mistress Annah offered herself of her own\naccord, and Margaret has consented. And thus everything is settled,\nand Edward will accompany us to France. Edith breathes again, and\nthanks me so fervently that I weep with her. Admirable simplicity,\nnobleness of soul, and great tenderness of heart\u2015\u2015this is her\nportrait. She has accepted my offers with the same generosity with\nwhich I made them. I told you that I thought her severe towards her\nchildren; I ought to have said towards her daughters only, and this,\nshe has owned to me, because she has learned by experience how much\nharm it does children to spoil them. Our good priest has promised me\nto watch over his new parishioner; but, thank God! I myself will watch\nover her also, for we shall wait until November before returning to\nBrittany. My mother desires whatever pleases me. Ren\u00e9 approves of all\nour arrangements. He has had a sort of miniature park made round the\n_ch\u00e2let_. Edward already loves him, and follows him about without\nspeaking. Strange child! I can discover nothing in him but an intense\nlove for his mother, and fear, therefore, that we shall not be able to\ntake him away. Ren\u00e9, to whom I am talking while I write, proposes to\nleave him here, where the priest will attend to him, and so also will\nthe wise Mistress Annah. How grateful I am to the dear old lady!\nMargaret is a little displeased at not giving the half of _Edith\u2019s\ndowry_. Lord William has promised to appease her. You know how ardent\nshe is.\n\nWrite to us again, dear Kate. It is in _your name_ that I have been\nacting. You are the good angel of Ireland.\n\n\nSEPTEMBER 30, 1868.\n\nWe had such an alarm yesterday! There was a _grande battue_: Ren\u00e9 and\nLord William at the head, with our brothers and all the gentry of the\nneighborhood. We were in carriages: my mother with Lucy and Gertrude;\nBerthe and the _Three Graces_; Johanna and her girls; Marcella, Edith\nand I; Margaret with Mary and Ellen. We were quietly following the\nchase, which became more and more distant, when a cry from Edith made\nus start. Edward had just passed like lightning, proudly seated on a\nlarge horse. Only think\u2015\u2015a child of eight! Profiting by the absence of\nthe grooms, he had managed matters all by himself. He looked beautiful\nthus, but it was frightful. Edith trembled. We took her home and sent\noff the coachman for the child; but his search was fruitless, and\nEdward did not return until evening, when he came in breathless, but\nproud and happy. \u201cOnly see,\u201d said Edith, \u201chow he is already master!\nThis child will be the death of me!\u201d Ren\u00e9 gave him a moral admonition,\nbut this son of Australia is for liberty. His black eye sparkled, and\nwhen Ren\u00e9 said to him, \u201cYour mother might die in consequence of any\nstrong emotion,\u201d some tears fell, but not a word escaped from his\ncompressed lips. You see that your first plan was the best. Impossible\nto leave him with Edith\u2015\u2015the poor mother feels this; we shall\ntherefore place him with the Jesuits. You would say he was twelve\nyears old. He is accustomed to the free life of the woods; he has\nconstantly to be scolded, and never yields.\n\nMargaret is sent for by her mother-in-law, who is keeping her room\nwith the gout. She takes with her Marcella, Anna, Lucy, and Edouard.\nWe shall all go and take leave of her before quitting Ireland. O Kate!\nif you were not in France, I could not leave my mother\u2019s house for any\nplace but heaven.\n\nMargaret _has stolen_ a poor woman from me, to _revenge_ herself, she\nsays. It is old Ludwine, a stranger from we know not whence, and who\nhas all the appearance of a saint. She knows very well how to rock a\ncradle, and it is under the title of cradle-rocker that Margaret has\npersuaded her to accompany them. Kind Margaret!\n\nLord William admires his wife as much as he loves her. They are going\nto found a hospital, a _cr\u00e8che_ or day-nursery, and an _ouvroir_ (to\nprovide work for women and girls). What would not riches be worth, if\nthey only helped always to do good!\n\nWe are now in comparative solitude; for Margaret is to every one like\na ray of sunshine.\n\nGod alone\u2015\u2015he alone suffices to the soul. It is in him that I love you.\n\n\nOCTOBER 8, 1868.\n\nLong walks with Ren\u00e9 all this week among our good farmers. Made\npresents everywhere. Held at the font a little flower of Ireland whom\nI named Kate. Old Jack is very ill, without any hope of cure. All the\ntribe of Margaret send us most affectionate letters almost daily. In\nthe evenings, under the great trees, Adrien reads to us _St. Monica_,\nby the Abb\u00e9 Bougaud, while the children play at a little distance.\nWhat say you to this page: \u201cThe perfection of sacrifice, and the\nextremity of suffering, is to give up the life of those whom one\nloves. The greatest martyrdom, to a mother, is not to sacrifice\nherself for her child: it is to sacrifice even the very life of her\nchild; it is so highly to prize truth, virtue, honor, true beauty of\nsoul, the eternal salvation of her child, that, rather than see these\nholy things fade and wither in his soul, she would see him die.\u201d Edith\nlistened nervously to these words, and then said: \u201cThis sacrifice may\nbe required of me!\u201d Poor mother! \u201cSt. Augustine,\u201d writes M. Bougaud,\n\u201cpassionately loved his mother, and constantly spoke of her. Almost\nall the writings which have issued from his pen are embalmed with the\nmemory of her. More than twenty years after her death, when he had\nbecome aged by labors yet more than in years, and had attained the\ntime when it seems that the love of God, having broken down every\nembankment and inundated the heart, must have destroyed within it\nevery other love, the name and memory of his mother never recurred to\nhim, even when preaching, without a tear mounting from his heart to\nhis eyes. He would then abandon himself to the charm of this\nremembrance and allow himself to speak of it to his people of Hippo,\nand even in the sermons where one would scarcely expect to find them\nwe meet with words of touching beauty in which breathe at the same\ntime the faith and grateful piety of the son and the double elevation\nof the genius and the saint\u201d\u2015\u2015noble and beautiful words which delight\nme. To love one\u2019s mother\u2015\u2015is not this one of the happinesses of this\nearth, where so few are true? M. Bougaud is admirable, whether in\ndefining eloquence, \u201cthe sound given by a soul charmed out of herself\nby the sight of the good and true,\u201d or in speaking of the complaint of\nJob, \u201cthis song of death which we all sing, and which makes us better,\neven when we have but wept its first notes\u2015\u2015this song of two parts,\nthe first sad, where all passes, all fades away, all dries up from the\nlips of those who wish to drink and slake their thirst; the first song\nwhich does good to the soul, even when we know but this one note, and\ncast on the world only this sorrowful look. What is it, then, when we\nrise to a loftier height, to the second part of this song of death,\nwhere sorrow is absorbed in joy? Yes, everything passes away, but to\nreturn; everything fades, but that it may bloom again; everything\ndies, to return to life transfigured.\u201d Kate, in the beauty of this\nbook there is to me incomparable splendor. Would you like a few more\nfragments from it\u2015\u2015precious pearls which I would enshrine in my heart\nand memory, there to ruminate upon and enjoy them? I will send you the\ndefinition of Rome: \u201cThat delectable land full of holy images and\ntranquil domes, whither one goes in order to forget the world and rest\nthe soul in the memories and associations which are there alone to be\nfound.\u201d Again, this about the second age of life: \u201cIn which, after\nhaving tasted every other love, we return to that of our mother; and\nseeing the years which accumulate upon her venerable head, not\nventuring to contemplate the future, desiring still to enjoy that\nwhich remains of a life so dear, we feel in ourselves the renewal of\nan indescribable affection which rises in the soul to something akin\nto worship.\u201d Or this portrait of Plato: \u201cThere was in ancient times,\nin the palmiest days of Greece, a young man of incredible loftiness of\nmind, and of a beauty of speech which has never been surpassed; the\ndisciple of Socrates, whom he immortalized by lending him his own\nwings; and the master of Aristotle, whose power he would have tripled\ncould he have communicated to him some of his own fire!\u201d\n\nA letter from Isa, a _Nunc Dimittis_. She would like us to be present\nwhen she takes the veil. Will it be possible? Oh! how much it will\ncost me to quit my own Ireland\u2015\u2015our lakes, mountains, and mists, all\nthe poetry of our green Erin. Where shall I find it in France?\n\nAdieu and _\u00e0 Dieu_, dear sister of my life.\n\n\nOCTOBER 12, 1868.\n\nMargaret\u2019s mother-in-law is better, and all the dear tribe will arrive\nthis evening. Impossible to live apart when the ocean is not between\nus!\n\nThe expectation and preparations please the twins, who are placing\nbouquets everywhere. Poetry, youth, and flowers go together. I did not\ntell you that Ren\u00e9 had brought Margaret the volumes which have\nappeared of the _Monks of the West_. Dear Kate, all our memories of\nIreland there find a voice. Do you recollect the touching manner in\nwhich our mother used to relate the story of St. Columba? I have been\nthis week with Ren\u00e9 on a pilgrimage to Gartan. \u201cThe love of Ireland\nwas one of the greatnesses and one of the passions of Columba. Even in\nthe present day, after so many centuries, they who fear to be unable\nto do without their native air ask help from him who required special\nassistance from God to be able to live far from Ireland, her mountains\nand her seas.\u201d These are the words of a French writer quoted to me by\nRen\u00e9. And we looked at the salt sea and the sea-gulls, and spoke of\nthe stork, which is not forgotten by the sailors of the Hebrides.\u2026\nDelightful journey! My mother had advised us to take it alone. However\nmuch I enjoy the lively gambols of the children, I have still more\nenjoyed this, our intimate solitude, together. Thus I am delivered\nfrom the fear of nostalgia. It was this terrible home-sickness which\nundermined the health of Edith. Thanks to prompt treatment, we shall\nsave her, I trust. Already she is less pale, more cheerful and\nresigned. She has been making some projects on the score of her\ntalents as an artist, but all her scruples of _obligations_ have been\nforced to yield to my solicitations. She is not and cannot be here\notherwise than as my mother\u2019s friend, and as such she ought to be\ntreated.\n\nThe two _Australiennes_ are gradually becoming civilized, and consent\nto take part in the lessons with the twins. The good _abb\u00e9_ herborizes\nwith great enjoyment, takes long walks, makes acquaintances among the\nclergy of the country, makes himself a doctor to the poor, and\nannounces his intention of settling near Gartan, against which we\nprotest loudly.\n\nLet me quote you a few more pages from _St. Monica_, this perfectly\nbeautiful book, which you will not read, since it is for mothers; but\nthe passages I take from it are good for all souls possessed by the\nonly veritable love.\n\nWhen, immediately after his conversion, St. Augustine retired to\nCassiacum with his mother and so select an assemblage of friends, it\nwas at the close of summer. \u201cThe autumn sun shed its warm rays over\nthe campagna. The leaves were not yet falling, but they were already\nbeginning to take those glowing tints of red and yellow which in the\nmonth of September give the country so rich a splendor. It was the\nmoment when the whole of nature appeared to clothe itself in something\nmore grave and almost sad, as though preparing to die. There are\ncertain states of soul in which one finds an infinite charm in\ncontemplating nature at such a time.\u201d Have we not felt this charm,\ndear Kate, a hundred times in our own Ireland, and also in the Roman\nCampagna and at Sorrento?\n\nListen to this admirable comparison between the disciple of Socrates\nand the son of St. Monica: \u201cPlato and Augustine are two brothers, but\nof unequal ages. The first, at the dawn of life, in his sweet and\npoetic spring, has more flowers than fruits; he dreams of more than he\npossesses. He has glimpses of a sublime ideal, which fill him with\nenthusiasm, but he does not attain it. He seeks the way, he sees and\ndescribes it, but knows not how to enter; and he dies without bearing\nin his soul the fruit of which his youth had the flowers. The second,\nafter painful struggles, after years of toil and courage, enters\nresolutely on the road which the former had pointed out. Plato had\nsaid: \u2018To be a philosopher is to learn to die\u2019; and again: \u2018What is\nneedful in order to see God?\u2015\u2015to be pure and to die.\u2019 Augustine\nstudied this great art; he put it in practice at Cassiacum, and the\nlight, like a river whose embankments have been broken down, flooded\nhis vast intellect. What Plato hoped for and conjectured he saw. That\nwhich passed in the rich imagination of the philosopher as a confused\nthough sublime presentiment existed with clearness and precision in\nthe luminous intelligence of the saint, and sprang forth from his\nheart in accents such as Plato never imagined. He who would know\nAugustine when first trying his wings, before his full strength of\nflight, should study the conversations and conferences of Cassiacum.\nThere is in these a first flower of youth which is not to be found\nagain; something softened in the light, like that of the dawn of day;\na freshness of thoughts and sentiments, a tranquil enthusiasm, and a\ngentle gayety. His mind, imprisoned until then, had recovered its\npowers, and with a joyous elasticity mounted upwards to the true, the\ngood, and the beautiful.\u201d\n\nMay God keep you, my best beloved!\n\n\nOCTOBER 23, 1868.\n\nMargaret, Ren\u00e9, and Marcella have written to my dear Kate, and\nGeorgina has been absorbed in her cares as mistress of the house. We\nshall certainly not leave before December. Isa is to take the veil on\nthe Feast of the Immaculate Conception. My mother forgets herself for\nus. Adrien and Raoul set out at once for Brittany, where they will act\non behalf of all, and return here to fetch us.\n\nEdith and Mistress Annah get on together as well as possible. Dear\nEdith laments her own helplessness. Our worthy friend replaces her\neverywhere and for everything. The handsome little _savages_ (is there\na feminine?) are become radiant with health, and are greatly in love\nwith Margaret, who loads them with presents. Marcella pays frequent\nvisits to Edith. No need to say that old Homer is sadly neglected. We\nprefer the poetry of Ireland!\n\nAnna had another of her feverish attacks while with Margaret. The air\nof Ireland suits her better. Oh! what eyes she has.\n\nRen\u00e9 and Lord William have decided on an excursion into Scotland,\ndeclaring that the French owe this to the memory of Mary Stuart and\nthe noble royal family which sheltered its misfortunes beneath the\nsombre, vaulted roofs of Holyrood. A thing decided is a thing\naccomplished. Every one is ready, and we set out to-morrow. Reginald\nis amazed at this perpetual movement, the coming and going of our\ncolony. We have persuaded Edith that this journey would be of use to\nher children, so we shall form a veritable caravan. Before starting I\nwill once more give you a quotation from M. Bougaud.\n\nNotice how well he comments upon these beautiful words of Adeodatus:\n\u201cNo soul is truly pure but she who loves God and attaches herself to\nhim alone.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing human, nothing terrestrial, suffices to the soul. She can\nonly be happy in the possession of God; and the only means of\npossessing him here below, as well as above, is to love him. For love\nlaughs at distance and makes light of space; unites souls from world\nto world, and, in uniting, beatifies and transfigures them. Moreover,\nif it be true that, even in attaching itself to finite beings, love\nrenders the soul indifferent to fatigue, pain, and privation; if it\ncommunicates to it a peace, security, and strength invincible; if it\nfills the soul not only with joy, but even with ecstasy\u2015\u2015what, then,\nmust be the love which attaches itself to God? Thus the saints have\nalways been happy, even upon the cross; and if the world sees their\njoy without comprehending it, the reason is that it does not know what\nit is to love. Purity and love have, towards God, lofty flights which\ngenius would envy. The works of God have all proceeded from his heart.\nThey who love most will understand them best. St. Augustine said: \u2018The\nsoul is made for God. The soul is an open eye which gazes upon God.\nThe soul is a love which aspires after the infinite. God is the soul\u2019s\nnative land.\u2019 Deep and noble words! And this cry which he was\nconstantly repeating: \u2018Let us live here below in an apprenticeship for\nour immortal life in heaven, where all our occupation will be to\nlove.\u2019 St. Augustine called death \u2018the companion of love\u2015\u2015she who\nopens the door by which we enter and find Him whom we love.\u2019\u201d\n\nDearest Kate, I have given you here the fairest flower in the basket,\nbut the whole basketful is superb. Good-by for the present, dearest;\nyou will hear next either from the Highlands or the Lowlands, or the\nborders of the lakes. How much I enjoy travelling! My mother is\ndelighted at the idea of making acquaintance with Scotland; and I sing\nher its ballads.\u2026 Send us the angel Raphael, my Kate!\n\n\nOCTOBER 31, 1868.\n\nWe are, then, in Scotland\u2015\u2015a beautiful country, picturesque and\ncharming, full of old memories and legends, and where the mountaineers\nhave a very noble air, proudly draped in their many-colored plaids.\nYesterday we met with a MacGregor. The shade of Walter Scott seemed to\nrise at our side. This brave Highlander did the honors of the country,\nand expressed himself with an antique grace that is indescribable. On\nleaving us he kissed the hands of the ladies, pressed those of the\n_lords_, and kissed all the young _misses_. Was it not fine? But we\nfound better still\u2015\u2015a white-haired bard, \u201cwith trembling gait and\nbroken voice,\u201d who gave us his benediction with all the majesty that\ncould be desired. Every rock has its legend, every ruin its tradition,\nevery lake its spectre. But there is no need for me to describe\nScotland to you, my learned sister; you know its exact portrait better\nthan I. This wandering life, these encampments in the woods, these\nsteeple-chases, have their charm, and are of great interest to Edith.\nI fear she may miss us too much later on. Dear Kate, Reginald sent\nyour last letter after me. I enjoyed reading it in the country of Mary\nStuart.\n\nQuick!\u2026 I slip this note into R\u00e9ne\u2019s packet. Always union of prayers.\n\nI have still a few minutes. We are seeking here the traces of the\nmartyr-queen, the beautiful and unfortunate Mary Stuart. There was,\nthen, no more pity in France? Was the chivalrous enthusiasm which\nbreathes in the old songs of the _Gesta_ merely a poet\u2019s dream, or was\nit crouching in the _oubliettes_ of the past when England\u2019s axe\nsevered that royal head on which had shone the crown of France?\n\nWho, then, will sing as they deserve the youthful victims cut off in\ntheir flower\u2015\u2015Stuart, Grey, the gentle Jane who did not wish to be\nmade queen, Elizabeth of France, Joan of Arc, Mme. de Lamballe, Marie\nAntoinette, and all the legion of martyrs whose blood cries for\nvengeance?\n\n_Where are the snows of Antan?_ where are the personages of Walter\nScott? where are Rob Roy, Flora MacIvor, and so many others? Marcella\njust now pointed out to me a singular individual who must be, she\ninsists, _my father\u2019s son_.\n\nWill the day ever come when the triumphant cross of the Coliseum will\nsurmount, with its beauty and its love, the crown of the United\nKingdom? O my own Ireland! what heart could forget thee?\n\nLet us pray for her, dear sister of my life, dear daughter of Erin!\n\n\nNOVEMBER 5, 1868.\n\nOur All Souls\u2019 day was sad and sweet. We all have losses to deplore.\nMy mother loved her Brittany at this anniversary. How maternal this\nmother of my Ren\u00e9 is towards your Georgina! How gracious and tender\nher daily greetings! All our friends feel the charm of her elevated\nnature. Edith loves to be with her. Dear Edith! She said to me\nyesterday: \u201cThus far all is well; how I trust that it may so continue!\nIn the depth of my soul I have that inexorable sadness of which\nBossuet speaks; I feel it hourly. For a time I thought that I should\ndie of a broken heart, but you have revived me. I feel that in Heaven\nalone all sorrows will be for ever consoled, and, like the Alexandrine\nwhom you have described to me, I love, hope, and wait!\u201d Oh! how sweet\nit is, dear Kate, to belong to God. How could we live without feeling\nthat we were of use, without giving ourselves up, devoting, spending\nourselves in the service of God and of souls? Isa writes to Margaret:\n\u201cM. l\u2019Abb\u00e9 Lagrange speaks admirably of virginity in his _St. Paula_;\nit is like reading a page of Mgr. Dupanloup: \u2018How beautiful in the\nchurch are those forms of devotedness to which the Christian virgin is\ncalled, whether she silently immolates herself in solitude and prayer,\nconsumed by the flames of the noblest love which a creature can\npossess, a pure victim whose sacrifice is profitable to us, whatever\nwe are, by the communion of saints of which we are taught by the\nchurch; whether she gives a sister to the sick, a daughter to the\naged, a mother to orphans, or a friend to the poor, the consoler here\nbelow in every neglect and every infirmity, and taken for these works\nin the spring-time of her life and the flower of her youth\u2015\u2015taken away\nfrom all maternal sweetnesses, from the joys of home, from future\nhopes, for ever! Doubtless the mother also devotes herself; does\nChristianity ignore it? But it must be allowed that the devotion of a\nmother is at the same time her duty and her happiness, whilst these\nsublime sacrifices of themselves for the relief of every kind of\nignorance and sorrow are entirely voluntary and disinterested, without\nother compensation here below than the love of God; and it is true\nthat this is worth all the rest.\n\n\u201c\u2018Christian virginity is a state of intimate union with Jesus Christ,\nin which, in spotless love and the perfection of purity, souls here\nbelow consume themselves for God, whom they call into themselves, and\nare the fragrance of earth and the delight of heaven. The Gospel,\nknowing human nature, makes not a precept of this celestial ideal,\nsince it would surpass the ordinary strength of mankind; but it gives\na counsel for those who have the courage to follow it, because it\nfeels that there are chosen souls who have this strength, and because\nthis marvel of virtue, this life of angels in a mortal frame, while it\nembalms the world, is, in the church, one of the most evident and\ntouching marks of her divine origin.\u2019\u201d\n\nHow beautiful it is! What a pen of gold! Dear Kate, all this is very\nsuitable for you!\n\nMet Lady Cleave and her nice children at Edinburgh. Spoke of Kate\u2015\u2015a\nthing as natural to me as singing is to the bird. Had a delightful\nconversation yesterday evening with Margaret and Marcella, both of\nwhom are as clever as they are saintly, and love each other like old\nfriends, keeping for me, they say, a throne of honor in their hearts.\nNo one appreciates more than I do the charm of a pure and intellectual\nfriendship. This will assuredly be one of the joys of eternity, since\non high all souls will be united in the plenitude of intelligence,\npurity, and love.\n\nIt is very cold. We are making some happy people. Picciola is charming\nin the exercise of charity.\n\nGood-night, dear Kate, it is eleven o\u2019clock.\n\n\nNOVEMBER 18, 1868.\n\nFrom the window of an ancient Scottish castle I am watching for the\nreturn of the _abb\u00e9_ and his pupils from a _walk of beneficence_. But,\nlike \u201cSister Anne\u201d in the old story, I see nothing come, and have not\neven the compensation of beholding the \u201csun\u2019s golden sheen and the\ngrass growing green,\u201d any more than I am in the same peril as that\ninquisitive _ch\u00e2telaine_. We are intending simply to do honor in\nScotland to my mother\u2019s _f\u00eate_, one of her names being Elizabeth. It\nwas Ren\u00e9\u2019s idea, and applauded by all. Edith herself, with her fairy\nfingers, has made a charming bouquet from the flowers in the\nconservatories. Marcella is practising on the piano, Edouard singing;\nLucy has undertaken to keep Mme. de T\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 out of the way for a few\nhours. I hear joyous voices; goodby until this evening.\n\n_Evening._\u2015\u2015Superb, dear Kate! A scene of ancient times, and,\nmoreover, in a romantic dwelling, where Walter Scott has been, and\nwhere kings have displayed their splendor. The effect produced by the\nvoices of Ren\u00e9, Edouard, Marcella, and Margaret is unique. Our mother,\nsurprised and touched, was only able to answer by her tears; and just\nnow, when I was accompanying her to her room, she said: \u201cDear\nGeorgina, I regretted H\u00e9l\u00e8ne!\u201d Ah! this is the ever-open wound, the\nineffaceable regret!\n\nGod keep you, my Kate! Your spirit accompanies me everywhere, my\nbeloved companion, my invisible guardian; and how sweet a nest your\nlove has made me!\n\nThis will be the last sheet that I shall date from Scotland; we are\nfar from the post. I shall not send it until the moment of our\ndeparture.\n\n_November 25._\u2015\u2015News from Paris, and of every kind; the best comes\nalways from you. Adrien and Raoul will arrive in Ireland at the same\ntime as we do.\n\nIt will be a day of rejoicing to me to return to our own house. Long\nlive home, my country, the place of many memories! I have taken some\nviews, and bought quantities of things for Lizzy, Fanny, and all our\nfriends there. These good mountaineers regret our departure. O\nIreland, Ireland! Marcella has set to music the poetry of the sweet\nand terrible Columba; impossible to hear it without tears. Decidedly,\nI must go on another pilgrimage to Gartan.\n\nThe _Three Graces_, dressed in the tartans of which I have made them a\npresent, have a Scottish appearance which is charming. They send\nkisses to Mme. Kate.\n\nA thousand loving messages to you, my beloved sister. May all the\nblessed angels be with you!\n\n\nDECEMBER 9, 1868.\n\nDear Kate, with what joy we find ourselves in Ireland again! Adrien\nand Raoul have brought with them quantities of books. I must give you\nsome quotations from the _Life of the Saints_ by MM. Kellerhove and de\nRiancey\u2015\u2015a splendid volume, presented by Gertrude to Margaret\u2015\u2015and a\nremarkable work by the Comtesse Olympe de Lernay: \u201cBorn with the\ncentury, and dying on the 30th of March, 1864, she realized in her\nadmirable life the high ideal of the truly Christian woman. Her\nexistence wholly of faith, labor, and love was visited by the heaviest\ntrials, but her resignation was profound. She said: \u2018The triumph of\nself-renunciation over enthusiasm will not be without fruit with\nreference to the eternal future; and when God\u2019s day of reckoning shall\ncome, I will say to him, Father, I wished to labor at thy vine with my\ngolden pruning-knife, but this was not thy will; and therefore is it\nthat, instead of adorning its summit, I have remained at its foot.\u2019\u201d\nDo you not find in this a finished beauty? \u201cTo glorify God and gain\nhearts to him was the supreme desire of this saintly and amiable\nwoman, who, endowed with artistic, poetic, and literary talents, as\nvaried as they were remarkable, worked as one prays, and prayed as one\nsings.\u201d\n\nAdrien is reading us fragments of the _Mah\u00e2bh\u00e2rata_\u2015\u2015\u201cthe book of the\npeople which has meditated most.\u201d How much more sublime than ever does\nthe Bible appear after this reading! No; outside of the love of God\nthere is nothing completely beautiful or great.\n\n_Immense_ party this evening; _sixty invitations_! The preparations\nare complete, except that much is still going on in the region of the\nkitchen. And I, the happy giver of the invitations, tranquilly seated\nat my writing-table of island-wood, am chattering like a school-girl\nin the holidays. Dear Kate, it is because I have been making all\ndiligence, and because I have before me your thrice welcome pages, so\ncharming and affectionate, and which appear to me to breathe a perfume\nof our native land. Yes, truly, the sweetest is there\u2015\u2015this fragrance\nof delightful and unalloyed affection which comes to me from you!\n\nJack is still in a distressing state, suffering incessantly. He\nyesterday received our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament, the sovereign\nComforter, and, resting lovingly on the adorable Heart which gave\nitself for him, he has promised to love the cross. Poor old man! His\nchildren have the evil of the age\u2015\u2015the loss of respect. Ren\u00e9 prepared\nhim for the visit of his Saviour, and I went later to arrange\neverything; on entering I heard the sick man speaking with animation,\nand paused involuntarily. \u201cI suffer too much, your honor.\u201d \u201cMy friend,\nsay with me: O Life of my soul, O most sweet and merciful Saviour, put\ninto my heart much indulgence, patience, and charity.\u201d \u201cBut then I am\nso often thrown back! Ten years of suffering; and what have they\nbrought me? Oh! how my loneliness weighs upon me. I am left so much\nalone!\u201d \u201cMy poor brother, dear privileged one of our Lord, say with\nme: My God, I accept these sufferings in union with thy Agony and\nCrucifixion. Pardon me my involuntary murmurings; accept my daily\ntorments as an expiation. Eternity is near! My God. I will all that\nthou willest.\u201d Jack repeated the words with docility.\n\nAfter communion he appeared happy. The doctor wonders that he can\nendure so much suffering and live. \u201cWill the good God grant me to die\nbefore you go?\u201d the poor man asked of Ren\u00e9. Oh! how sad it is to die\nthus\u2015\u2015to become the _outcast_ in the home of which one had been the\nlife.\n\nKate dearest, let us pray for all in their agony.\n\n\nTO BE CONTINUED.\n\n\n\n\nTESTIMONY OF THE CATACOMBS TO THE PRIMACY OF ST. PETER.\n\n\nIn our former article[139] the evidence which we adduced as to the\ntestimony of the Catacombs on a disputed point of Catholic doctrine\nwas drawn almost exclusively from their inscriptions; and that\nevidence was very abundant, because the doctrine in question was\nprecisely that on which we should look to tombstones for information.\nIt was only natural that, in writing the last earthly memorial of\ntheir departed friends, the survivors should spontaneously\u2015\u2015one might\nalmost say unconsciously\u2015\u2015give utterance to the thoughts that were in\ntheir mind as to the present condition and future prospects of those\nto whom they had now paid the last offices. The subject now before us\nis of a very different kind. We are going to inquire of the Catacombs\nwhether they can tell us anything as to the idea entertained in\nprimitive times about the position held in the Christian hierarchy by\nSt. Peter and his successors; and we think most persons would consider\nit very strange indeed if we should elicit any answer to this inquiry\nfrom the inscriptions upon gravestones. Mr. Withrow, however, is of a\ndifferent opinion; he thinks that if in those early days the bishops\nof Rome enjoyed any superior dignity over other bishops, it ought to\nhave been, and probably would have been, mentioned on their epitaphs;\nand, accordingly, he chronicles as items worthy of being noted in the\ncontroversy such facts as these: that \u201cthe tomb of the first Roman\nbishop bore simply the name _Linus_\u201d (p. 507), and that in the papal\ncrypt, or chamber where the popes of the third century were buried,\nthey are only honored with the title of bishop, and even that appears\nin a contracted form, \u0395\u03a0\u0399 or \u0395\u03a0\u0399\u039a (p. 508). The Dean of Chichester\nseems to entertain a somewhat similar opinion; only, as he has formed\na higher estimate of the episcopal dignity, this opinion shows itself\nin him in a different form. He thinks the extremely \u201ccurt and\nunceremonious\u201d character of these papal epitaphs almost a conclusive\nargument against their authenticity.\n\nMr. Withrow further adds (p. 509), that the word _Papa_ or pope does\nnot occur in the Catacombs till at least the latter part of the fourth\ncentury, when it is found, applied to Pope Damasus, in the margin of\nan inscription by that bishop in honor of one of his predecessors,\nEusebius. Even with reference to this, however, he insinuates that, as\nthis inscription in its present condition is \u201cadmitted\u201d by De Rossi to\nbe a badly-executed reproduction, of the sixth or seventh century, of\na previous inscription, \u201cthis title may very well belong to that late\nperiod.\u201d Our first impression upon reading this was a grave doubt,\nwhich we cannot even now altogether suppress, whether Mr. Withrow had\never read either what De Rossi or his English epitomizers have written\non the subject of this monument. Certainly, he cannot have appreciated\nthe curious and interesting story they have told of this stone; or, if\nwe may not call in question his intelligence, we shall be obliged to\naccuse him of wilful misrepresentation. One of the most striking\nfeatures in the story, now _lippis et tonsoribus notum_, is that the\nignorant copyist, so far from being capable of forging a link in the\nchain of evidence for the papal supremacy, was only able to transcribe\nthe letters actually before his eyes, and even left a vacant space\noccasionally where he saw that a letter was missing from the mutilated\ninscription before him, which, however, he was quite incompetent to\nsupply. We are afraid, therefore, that Mr. Withrow must be content to\nacknowledge that this obnoxious title of pope was certainly given to a\nBishop of Rome before the close of the fourth century. At the same\ntime we offer him all the consolation we can by pointing out that it\nwas given to him only by an artist, an _employ\u00e9_ of his, and one of\nhis special admirers\u2015\u2015he calls himself his _cultor atque amator_\u2015\u2015and\nperhaps, therefore, Mr. Withrow may suggest that the title was here\nused in a sense in which he is aware that it was originally\nemployed\u2015\u2015viz., as an expression of familiar and affectionate respect\nrather than of dignity.\n\nBut we must go further, and, in obedience to the stern logic of facts,\nwe must oblige Mr. Withrow to see that the title was used of the\nBishop of Rome some seventy or eighty years before Damasus. If he had\never visited the cemetery of San Callisto, he might have seen the\noriginal inscription itself in which the title is given to Pope\nMarcellinus (296-308); and this time not by a layman, an artist, but\nby an ecclesiastical official\u2015\u2015in fact, the pope\u2019s own deacon, the\nDeacon Severus, who had charge of that cemetery:\n\n\n _Cubiculum duplex cum arcisoliis et luminare\n Jussu PP. sui Marcellini Diaconus iste\n Severus fecit.\u2026_\n\nObserve that the title is here abridged into the compendious formula\nPP., as though it were a title with which Roman Christians were\nalready familiar, just as in pagan epigraphy the same letters stand\nfor _pr\u00e6positus_ or _primopilus_, and those words are not written at\nfull length, because everybody interested in the matter would know at\nonce from the name and the context what was to be supplied.[140] So,\nthen, it seems impossible to determine when the title was first used\nof the bishops of Rome; it is at least certain that it occurs in the\nCatacombs a century earlier than Mr. Withrow imagined, and that even\nthen it was no novelty. However, we do not care to dispute the facts,\nto which he attaches so much importance, that the title of pope was in\nthose ancient days neither \u201cpeculiar to the Bishop of Rome,\u201d nor, so\nfar as we know, _first_ applied to him. Moreover, we cannot even\naccept, what Mr. Withrow in his ignorance is ready to concede, that\n\u201cthe name of the Bishop of Rome was used as a note of time in the\nlatter part of the fourth century\u201d\u2015\u2015a distinction, however, which he\ncontends \u201cwas also conferred on other bishops than those of Rome.\u201d\n\nAgain, we must observe that this remark seems to indicate an entire\nignorance in its author of all that De Rossi has written on the same\nsubject. Of course Mr. Withrow is referring to the two epitaphs which\nconclude with the words _sub Liberio_ _Episcopo, sub Damaso Episcopo_;\nbut he gives no sign of being acquainted with the history of those\npontiffs, and with the reasons which De Rossi has so carefully drawn\nout,[141] wherefore there might have been special mention of their\nnames on the tombs of persons who died during their pontificates.\n\nWe have now noticed, we believe, all Mr. Withrow\u2019s observations upon\nthe testimony of the Catacomb inscriptions with reference to the papal\nsupremacy; it remains that we ourselves should make one or two\nobservations upon it which he has _not_ made. And, first, it seems to\nhave escaped his notice that there _is_ a title given to the popes by\none of themselves on three or four of these monuments\u2015\u2015a title\nstronger and of more definite meaning than _Papa_, and quite as\nunwelcome to Protestant ears. Pope Damasus calls Marcellus, one of his\npredecessors, _Veridicus Rector_, or the truth-speaking ruler or\ngovernor, in the epitaph with which he adorned his tomb. Two others of\nhis predecessors, Eusebius and Sixtus II., he simply calls _Rector_,\nwithout any qualifying epithet at all. And next we would ask Mr.\nWithrow and all who sympathize with his objection what title they\nwould suggest as possible for the tombstones of the earliest bishops\nof Rome, even supposing their position in the Christian hierarchy to\nhave been at that time as clearly defined and fully developed as it is\nnow. Do they think it would have been either seemly or possible for a\nChristian bishop in the first three centuries to assume the highest\nofficial religious title among pagans, and to be addressed as\n_Pontifex Maximus_? It is true, indeed, that this title has been given\nto them in modern epigraphy since it was moulded on the classical\ntype\u2015\u2015_i.e._, ever since the Renaissance. But nobody could dream of\nsuch a title as compatible with the relative positions of paganism and\nChristianity during the period that the Catacombs were in use for\npurposes of burial. Nevertheless, it is well worthy of note that even\nat a very early period of the third century, when Tertullian wished to\njeer at a decree which he disliked, but which had been issued by the\npope, he spoke of him in mockery, as though he were _Pontifex scilicet\nmaximus et episcopus episcoporum_, thereby intimating pretty clearly\nwhat position in the Christian hierarchy the bishops of Rome seemed to\nassume.\n\nAnd now, taking our leave of all discussions about mere titles and\nverbal inscriptions, let us inquire whether any other evidence can be\nproduced from the Catacombs bearing upon the question before us\u2015\u2015the\nquestion, that is, of St. Peter\u2019s position under the New Law. Let us\ninquire of the paintings and sculpture, and other similar monuments,\nas explained and illustrated by contemporary writings. And we ask our\nadversaries to deal fairly with the evidence we shall adduce; not to\nweigh each portion of it apart from the rest, but to allow it that\ncumulative weight which really belongs to it, interpreting each\nseparate monument with the same spirit of candor and equity which they\nclaim on behalf of any evidence which the Catacombs afford for\ndoctrines which they themselves accept. Take, for instance, the\ndoctrine of the Resurrection. We saw in our last article that Mr.\nWithrow\u2019s assertion that this doctrine was everywhere recorded\nthroughout the Catacombs rested virtually upon the existence of\ncertain oft-recurring paintings there\u2015\u2015paintings of the story of Jonas\nand of the raising of Lazarus; that it was not supported by any\ncontemporary sepulchral inscriptions, but that certain more explicit\ninscriptions of a later date undoubtedly contain it. In other words,\nMr. Withrow (and we might add Mr. Burgon, Mr. Marriott, and the whole\nrace of Protestant controversialists who have entered this arena at\nall) can recognize, when it suits his purpose, the justice of reading\nancient monuments in the light of more modern and explicit statements\nof Christian doctrine, and of interpreting the monuments of Christian\nart in one age by their known form and meaning in another. Let them\nnot deny the privilege of this canon of interpretation to others\nbesides themselves. We shall use it as occasion may require in our\nexamination of the monuments which to all Catholic arch\u00e6ologians seem\nto bear testimony to the exceptional position of St. Peter in the\nApostolic College.\n\nA subject represented from very early times, and frequently repeated\nboth in paintings and in sculpture, is that of Moses striking the rock\nin the wilderness, and the waters gushing forth for the refreshment of\nthe children of Israel in their passage through the wilderness. What\ndoes this subject mean? The stories of Jonas and of Lazarus were\nmeant, we are told, as types of the Resurrection, and are to be\nadmitted as proofs of the belief of the early Christians in that great\ndoctrine. What part of their belief is typified in this incident from\nthe life of Moses? Let us first see how it was understood by the Jews\nthemselves.\n\nThe Royal Psalmist refers to it more than once in accents of fervent\ngratitude as for a signal act of God\u2019s mercy towards his people, and\nalso of lively hope, as having been typical and prophetic of further\nmercies. Isaias, in that magnificent prophecy wherein he recounts the\nmarvels that shall happen in the world when \u201cGod shall come and save\nit,\u201d recalls the memory of the same event, and makes use of it as a\nfitting image of the spiritual graces that should then be poured forth\non the children of men. \u201cGod himself,\u201d he says, \u201cwill come and will\nsave you. Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened; and the ears of\nthe deaf shall be unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as a hart,\nand the tongue of the dumb shall be free: for waters are broken out in\nthe desert, and streams in the wilderness. And that which was dry land\nshall become a pool, and the thirsty land springs of water.\u201d[142] At\nlength the period so long looked for, so frequently promised, \u201cin the\nfulness of time\u201d arrived; Jesus was born and manifested among men,\nand, standing in the Temple on a great feast-day, he offered himself\nto all men as \u201ca fountain of living waters.\u201d \u201cHe stood, and cried,\nsaying: If any man thirst, let him come to me and drink. He that\nbelieveth in me, as the Scripture saith, out of his belly shall flow\nrivers of living water.\u201d And St. John, who has preserved to us this\nhistory, immediately adds, for the more certain interpretation of his\nwords, that Jesus \u201csaid this of the Holy Spirit, whom they should\nreceive who believed in him.\u201d Finally, St. Paul comes to complete the\nexplanation, and, in that chapter of his Epistle to the Corinthians\nwhich one may almost call the key to the history of the children of\nIsrael, gives more clearly than any before him the mystical\ninterpretation of the prodigy of the rock. Taking the first and last\nlinks of the long chain of inspired writing about it, he couples the\noriginal physical fact with its far-distant spiritual interpretation\nin those words with which we are so familiar: \u201cOur fathers all drank\nthe same spiritual drink: and they drank of the spiritual rock that\nfollowed them: and _the rock was Christ_.\u201d\n\nIt cannot be disputed, then, that the water represented as flowing\nfrom the rock struck by Moses in the wilderness was intended to be\ntypical of the spiritual blessings which flow to the church from\nChrist. Was there anything typical also in the _person_ striking the\nrock? Or was this a mere historical accessory of the scene,\nrepresented of necessity in order to the completeness of the story,\nbut having no particular meaning of its own\u2015\u2015merely the historical\nMoses, and nothing more? It might very well have been so; and\neverybody who suggests a mystical interpretation is bound to produce\nsubstantial reasons for departing from the literal sense. De Rossi\nthen leads us into a chapel in the Catacomb of San Callisto, and bids\nus notice the marked difference between the two figures of Moses\npainted side by side on the same wall\u2015\u2015in the one scene taking off his\nshoes before going up to the holy mountain; in the other, striking the\nrock. They cannot both be meant to represent the historical verity; it\nlooks as though the distinction between them was intended to point out\ntheir typical or symbolical character, and we almost fancy we can\ndiscern a resemblance between one of the figures and the received\ntraditional portrait of Peter. But we advance further into the same\ncemetery, and enter another chapel in which the same scene is again\nrepresented. This time there is no room for doubt: the profile, the\nfeatures, the rounded and curly beard, the rough and frizzled\nhair\u2015\u2015are all manifest tokens of the traditional likeness of St.\nPeter, and we are satisfied that it is he who is here striking the\nrock. The same studied resemblance may be noted also in the figure of\nthe man striking the rock on several of the sculptured sarcophagi.\nStill, we are not satisfied; we should be loath to lay the stress of\nany important argument upon any mere likeness which we might believe\nthat we recognize between this and that figure in ancient painting or\nsculpture. It would be more satisfactory if we could find an\ninscription on the figure putting its identity beyond all question.\nAnd even this, too, is not wanting. In the Vatican Museum there are\ntwo or three specimens of this same subject on the gilded glasses that\nhave been sometimes found affixed to graves in the Catacombs, and on\nthem the name of PETRUS is distinctly engraved over the scene. It is\ntrue that these glasses were probably not made till the fourth\ncentury; neither were the sarcophagi. But we argue with Mr. Marriott\nthat \u201cthe existence of these later monuments can hardly be accounted\nfor except on the supposition of their being reproductions of still\nolder monuments.\u201d In fact, in the present instance, these older\nmonuments still exist; only their interpretation might have been\ndisputed, had not the later monuments been found with the\ninterpretation engraved upon them. With these glasses in our hands,\nshowing indisputably that the Christians of the fourth and fifth\ncenturies looked upon Moses in the act of striking the rock as a type\nof St. Peter, we feel confident that the Christians of the second and\nthird centuries, who continually represented the same scene, did so\nwith the same idea. In a word, the evidence for the identification of\nSt. Peter with Moses in the conceptions of the ancient Christian\nartists seems to be complete and convincing. Such, at least, is our\nown conclusion; we subjoin Mr. Withrow\u2019s:\n\n \u201cIn two or three of the gilded glasses which are of\n comparatively late date, the scene of Moses striking the\n rock is rudely indicated, and over the head or at the side\n of the figure is the word PETRUS. From this circumstance\n Roman Catholic writers have asserted that in many of the\n sarcophagal and other representations of this event it is no\n longer Moses but Peter\u2015\u2015\u2018the leader of the new Israel of\n God\u2019\u2015\u2015who is striking the rock with the emblem of divine\n power: a conclusion for which there is absolutely no\n evidence except _the very trivial fact above mentioned_\u201d (p.\n 292).\n\nMr. Withrow\u2019s observations suggest one or two additional remarks.\nFirst, he calls St. Peter \u201cthe leader of the new Israel of God,\u201d but\nhe omits to mention from whom he borrows this title or description of\nthe apostle. They are the words of Prudentius, the Christian poet of\nthe fifth century, who thus becomes an additional witness to the truth\nwhich we have been insisting upon\u2015\u2015that the position of St. Peter\nunder the New Law was analogous to that of Moses under the Old.\nPrudentius was in the habit of frequenting the Catacombs for\ndevotional purposes, and he has left us a description of them. Perhaps\nin the line which we have quoted he was but giving poetical expression\nto a fact or doctrine which he had seen often represented in symbols\nand on monuments.\n\nBut, secondly, Mr. Withrow speaks of the rod in the hands of Moses as\n\u201cthe emblem of divine power.\u201d And here it should be mentioned that\nthis rod is never seen on ancient monuments of Christian art, except\nin the hands of these three: Christ, Moses, and Peter\u2015\u2015or should we\nnot now rather say of two only, Christ and St. Peter?\u2015\u2015and that these\ntwo hardly ever appear without it. Either in painted or sculptured\nrepresentations of our Lord\u2019s miracles he usually holds a rod in his\nhands as the instrument whereby he wrought them. Whether he is\nchanging the water into wine, or multiplying the loaves and fishes, or\nraising Lazarus from the dead, it is not his own divine hand that\ntouches the chosen objects of the merciful exercise of his power, but\nhe touches them all with a rod. Even when he is represented not in his\nhuman form, but symbolically as a lamb\u2015\u2015_e.g._, in the spandrels of\nthe tomb of Junius Bassus, A.D. 359\u2015\u2015the rod is still placed between\nthe forefeet of the mystical animal, its other end resting on the\nrock, the water-pots, or the baskets. In one of the sarcophagi,\nbelonging probably to the year 410 or thereabouts, we almost seem to\nassist at the transfer of this emblem of power from Christ to his\nVicar. In the series of miracles in the upper half of the sarcophagus\nto which we refer it appears three times in the hand of Christ; in the\nlower series it occurs the same number of times in the hand of Peter.\nIn the last of these instances, indeed, it may be said that it was\nnecessary, as it was the scene of striking the rock; but in the other\ntwo it can hardly be understood in any other sense than as an emblem,\nand, if an emblem at all, we suppose all would admit that it can only\nbe an emblem of power and authority. In the first of these two scenes\nwe are reminded, by the cock at his feet, that our Lord is warning his\napostle of his threefold denial, whilst we are assured by the rod in\nthe apostle\u2019s hand that his fall would not deprive him of his\nprerogative, but that after his conversion it would be his mission to\n\u201cconfirm the brethren.\u201d In the second scene the firmness of faith\nforetold or promised in the first is put to the test by persecution,\nwhich began from his first apprehension by the Jews and still\ncontinues, yet the rod or staff remains in his hands, no human malice\nhaving power to wrest either from himself or his successors that\nauthority over the new Israel which he had received from his divine\nMaster.\n\nWe are told that there was an ancient Eastern tradition that the rod\nof Moses, the ministerial instrument of his great miracles, had\noriginally belonged to the patriarch Jacob, from whom it was inherited\nby his son Joseph; that upon Joseph\u2019s death it was taken to Pharao\u2019s\npalace, and thence was in due time given by the daughter of Pharao to\nher adopted son, Moses. Moreover, the same author mentions that in\nlike manner when our Lord said the words, \u201cFeed my lambs, feed my\nsheep,\u201d he gave to Peter a staff significative of his pastoral\nauthority over the whole flock; and that \u201chence has arisen the custom\nfor all religious heads of churches and monasteries to carry a staff\nas a sign of their leadership of the people.\u201d We do not in any way\nvouch for the authenticity, or even the antiquity, of this tradition.\nThe only authority we have found for it does not go further back than\nthe first years of the fifteenth century; but it aptly expresses the\nsame truth which (we maintain) was clearly present to the minds both\nof Christian writers and Christian artists in the early ages of the\nchurch. We have seen how it was illustrated by symbol in the monuments\nof the Catacombs; we have heard the language of Prudentius, calling\nSt. Peter the leader of the new Israel; to these we must add the\ntestimony of an Eastern solitary, the Egyptian St. Macarius, who lived\nsome fifty years earlier, and who states the same thing more\ndistinctly, saying that \u201c_Moses was succeeded by Peter_,\u201d and that \u201cto\nhim [St. Peter] was committed the new church and the new priesthood.\u201d\n\nWe are far, however, from having done justice to the idea as it\nexisted in the mind of the ancient church, if we separate the notion\nof Peter being a second Moses from that particular act in the life of\nthe Jewish leader which we have seen specially attributed to the\napostle\u2015\u2015viz., the striking of the rock; and in our interpretation of\nthis act we must be careful to take into account all that the ancient\nFathers understood by it. Let us listen to the commentary upon it\npreached in a public sermon somewhere about the middle of the fifth\ncentury. Speaking in Turin on the feast of SS. Peter and Paul, St.\nMaximus uses these words:\n\n \u201cThis is Peter, to whom Christ the Lord of his free will\n granted a share in his own name; for, as the Apostle Paul\n has taught us, Christ was the rock; and so Peter too was by\n Christ made a rock, the Lord saying to him: \u2018Thou art Peter,\n and upon this rock I will build my church.\u2019 For as water\n flowed from a rock to the Lord\u2019s people thirsting in the\n wilderness, so did the fountain of a life-giving confession\n come forth from the mouth of Peter to the whole world\n wearied with the thirst of unbelief. This is Peter, to whom\n Christ, when about to ascend to his Father, commends his\n lambs and sheep to be fed and guarded.\u201d\n\nThe doctrine which is here taught is plain and undeniable. Allusion is\nclearly made to a twofold idea: first, Christ in his own nature is the\nshepherd of the sheep, and the rock whence flows the fount of living\nwater in the desert; but by an act of his own sovereign will, by his\nown special appointment, when about to leave the world, he assigns the\noffice of chief shepherd to Peter, and he communicates to Peter a\nshare in his own attributes, so that he too from henceforth becomes a\nrock whereon the church is built, and from him flows the fount of\nheavenly doctrine and life-giving faith which was first revealed to\nhim by the Father, and then by him proclaimed and preached throughout\nthe whole dry desert of the world.\n\nDid this thought originate with the Bishop of Turin? Was it a conceit\nof his own fancy, the fruit of a lively imagination? Or are his words\nonly a link in the chain of ancient tradition, handing on to others\nthe same truth which he had himself received from his forefathers?\n\nOne thing is certain: that the pope was preaching the very same thing\nin Rome about the same time. Each year, as the feast of SS. Peter and\nPaul\u2015\u2015which was also the anniversary of his own consecration\u2015\u2015came\nround, Pope Leo exhorted the bishops and others who heard him to lift\nup their minds and hearts, to consider the glory of the Prince of the\nApostles, who was inundated (he said) by such copious irrigations from\nthe fount of all graces that whereas there were many which he alone\nreceived, none passed to anybody else without his having a share in\nthem. \u201cThe divine condescension,\u201d he says again, \u201cgave to this man a\ngreat and wonderful participation in his own power, so that, though he\nchose that some things should be common to him with the other\napostles, yet he never gave except through him what he did not\nwithhold from the rest\u201d; and then he goes on to interpret the words of\nChrist to Peter in this manner; he says: \u201cThe formation of the\nuniversal church at its birth took its beginning from the honor of\nBlessed Peter, in whose person its rule and its sum consist; for _from\nhis fountain the stream of ecclesiastical discipline flowed forth into\nall churches_.\u201d Twenty years earlier Pope Innocent praises an African\ncouncil for having referred some question to Rome, \u201cknowing what is\ndue to the Apostolic See, since all we who occupy this place desire to\nfollow the apostle himself, from whom the very episcopate and all the\nauthority of this title spring; that nothing, even in the most distant\nparts of the world, should be determined before it was brought to the\nknowledge of this see; \u2026 that so all waters should flow from their\nparent source and the pure streams of the fountain should well forth\nuncorrupted throughout the different regions of the whole world.\u201d\n\nIt may be said, perhaps, that these are mere figures of speech and\nrhetorical illustrations, and that there is no proof that the writers\nintended any reference whatever to the miraculous stream from the rock\nin the desert.\n\nWe cannot, in reply to this question, undertake to trace back an\nunbroken catena of authorities, from the fifth century to the first,\nclearly expressing the same idea; but we can say with truth that it is\ncontinually recurring in all writings which have occasion to speak of\nthe unity of the church, especially in the controversies of the third\ncentury against the Novatians; that the types of the rock and the\nfount, symbols of the origin and unity of the faith, of baptism, and\nof the church, seem then to have been inseparable in the minds of\nwriters and preachers from the mention of St. Peter, on whom Christ\nhad founded that origin and that unity; that those who impugned the\nvalidity of baptism administered by heretics considered that they\nurged an irrefragable argument against their adversaries as often as\nthey invoked the prerogative of Peter and the undoubted unity of the\nrock whence alone all pure waters flowed; finally, that the earliest\nwriter in whom we find the waters of baptism spoken of as flowing from\nthe rock (Tertullian) was a frequent visitor at Rome about the very\ntime when some of the most remarkable paintings in which they are so\nrepresented\u2015\u2015those in the so-called sacramental chapels in the\nCatacomb of San Callisto\u2015\u2015were being executed; _i.e._, at the very\ncommencement of the third century.\n\nWe conclude, then, that the paintings and other monuments of ancient\nChristian art belonging to the Catacombs, when placed side by side\nwith the language of contemporaneous and succeeding Christian writers,\nmutually explain and confirm one another; and that it is impossible\nnot to recognize in the perfect agreement of these important witnesses\nthe faithful echo of a primitive tradition\u2015\u2015to wit, that to St. Peter\nwas given the authority to draw forth the true living waters of\nsacramental grace from the Rock of ages, and to distribute them\nthroughout the whole church.\n\nThere is yet one more incident in the life of Moses which ancient\nChristian art has reproduced, and with a distinct reference to St.\nPeter\u2015\u2015viz., the receiving of the law from the hand of God. This is a\nsubject very commonly repeated on the sarcophagi of the fourth and\nfifth centuries, but there is not, so far as we know, any emblem\nattached to these sculptured representations which obliges us to refer\nthem to the apostle. Other monuments, however, of the same or an\nearlier date, supply what is wanting. We find both paintings and\nancient gilded glasses in which St. Peter receives from our Lord\neither a roll or volume, or sometimes (as if to make the resemblance\nmore striking) a mere tablet with the inscription _Lex Domini_, or\n_Dominus legem dat_. Now, in pagan works of art the emperors were\nsometimes represented in the act of giving the book of the laws or\nconstitutions to those officials whom they sent forth to govern the\nprovinces, and the magistrates receive the book, for greater\nreverence, not in their bare hands, but in a fold of their toga.\nCompare with this a Christian sarcophagus, belonging to an early part\nof the fourth century, and published by Bosio. In it we see Christ,\nalready ascended and triumphant, having the firmament under his feet,\ngiving the book of the New Law to Peter, who in like manner has his\nhands covered with a veil, that he may receive it with due reverence.\nIt is as though Christ were visibly appointing him his Vicar and\nrepresentative upon earth, and making him the expounder and\nadministrator of his law. And the same scene is represented, without\nany essential alteration, in a number of monuments of various kinds,\nfrescoes, sculpture, glasses, and mosaics. By and bye, in some\nartists\u2019 hands, it lost something of its precise original\nsignification; at least, in two of the later monuments (one of them\nundoubtedly by a Greek artist) it is St. Paul who receives the law,\ninstead of St. Peter. But then there is, of course, a certain sense in\nwhich this might be as truly predicated of St. Paul, or of any other\nmember of the Apostolic College as of St. Peter himself. Sometimes,\nalso, all the apostles appear together with St. Peter when he receives\nthe law\u2015\u2015only he receives the volume opened; they stand each holding a\nclosed roll in his hand. In some monuments, as in the mosaic of Sta.\nCostanza, the legend is _Dominus dat pacem_ instead of _legem_. This,\nhowever, is hardly an essential difference. It is only through his law\nthat Christ gives peace, and peace or unity of the church is a primary\ndogma of his law. Hence this interchange of the two words: the\nsubstitution of one for the other, or occasionally even their union,\nas on the cover of a Book of the Gospels at Milan, which is inscribed\n_Lex et pax_.\n\nBut it is time to draw this paper to a close. Let it be remembered\nthat it is not an attempt to prove the papal supremacy by means of\ninscriptions or other monuments from the Catacombs, but an answer to\nan oft-repeated challenge upon one point at least which lies at the\nroot of that subject; and incidentally it throws light upon some other\npoints also, more or less closely connected with it. And we claim to\nhave established against these controversialists that there is\nevidence to be gathered from these subterranean cemeteries; that those\nwho made and decorated them were conscious of a special pre-eminence\nbelonging to St. Peter over the rest of the apostolic body; that they\nknew him to be in a certain singular manner the representative of his\ndivine Master, whose rod of power or staff of rule he alone was\nprivileged to bear; that it was his prerogative to be the head of the\nChristian church, its leader and its teacher, having received the law\nfrom the hands of Christ, and the commission to feed and govern his\nflock; that he had the special guardianship of the fountain and river\nof living waters, only to be found within the church, and special\nauthority to draw them forth and distribute them throughout every\nregion of the thirsty world.\n\n\n [139] \u201cTestimony of the Catacombs to Prayers for the Dead\n and the Invocation of Saints,\u201d THE CATHOLIC WORLD, Dec.,\n 1876.\n\n [140] _R. S._, ii. 307.\n\n [141] _Inscr. Christian._, i. 80, 100.\n\n [142] C. xxxv. 4-7.\n\n\n\n\nMODERN THOUGHT IN SCIENCE.\n\n\nWhen we were informed that Professor Huxley, during his visit to\nAmerica, was to give a few scientific lectures, we could easily\nanticipate that from a man of his character nothing was to be expected\nso likely as a bold effort to exalt science at the expense of\nreligion. The three lectures on the _Evidences of Evolution_, which he\ndelivered in New York on the 18th, 20th, and 22d of September last,\nare an evident proof that we had guessed right. These lectures, though\nfree from open and formal denunciations of religious faith, are deeply\nimbued with that spirit of dogmatic unbelief which pervades other\nworks of the same professor, and especially his _Lay Sermons_. His aim\nis always the same: he uniformly strives to establish what Mr. Draper\nand other modern thinkers have vainly attempted to prove, that\n_science conflicts with revelation_; and he labors to impress upon us\nthe notion that _none but the ignorant can believe in revealed truth_.\nSuch is the main object which the professor has had constantly in view\nsince he preached the first of his _Lay Sermons_. A friend of ours,\nwho happened to be in England when this first lay sermon was\ndelivered, disgusted at the arrogance and levity displayed by the lay\npreacher, hastened to write a short popular refutation of that sermon.\nThis refutation, owing to some unforeseen accident, was brought over\nto America without being published, and it is now in our hands.\nBelieving, as we do, that, although written some years ago, it is by\nno means stale, and that its perusal will effectually contribute to\nexpose the gross fallacies of the scientific lecturer, we offer it to\nour readers as an appropriate introduction to the direct criticism of\nthe lectures themselves, which we intend to give in an early number.\nThe manuscript in question reads as follows:\n\nThe _Fortnightly Review_ (Jan. 15, 1866) has published \u201cA Lay Sermon\ndelivered at St. Martin\u2019s Hall on Sunday, January 7, 1866, ON THE\nADVISABLENESS OF IMPROVING NATURAL KNOWLEDGE, _by Prof. T. H.\nHuxley_.\u201d The lay preacher thinks that the improvement of natural\nknowledge, besides giving us the means of avoiding pestilences,\nextinguishing fires, and providing modern society with material\ncomfort, has produced two other wonderful effects: \u201cI say that natural\nknowledge, seeking to satisfy natural wants, has found the ideas that\ncan alone still spiritual cravings\u201d\u2015\u2015this is the first. \u201cI say that\nnatural knowledge, in desiring to ascertain the laws of comfort, has\nbeen driven to discover those of conduct, and to lay the foundation of\na new morality\u201d\u2015\u2015this is the second. Though Mr. Huxley is a great\nprofessor, or rather because he is a great professor, we make bold to\noffer him a few remarks on the subject which he has chosen, and\nespecially on the manner in which he has treated it. The reader, of\ncourse, will understand that when we speak of Mr. Huxley we mean to\nspeak, not of the man, but of the preacher.\n\nThat natural knowledge is a good thing, and its improvement an\nadvisable thing, is universally admitted and requires no proof. Hence\nwe might ask: What is the good of a _lay sermon on the advisableness\nof improving natural knowledge_? Does any man in his senses make\nsermons on the advisableness of improving one\u2019s purse, or health, or\ncondition? A student of rhetoric would of course take up any\nunprofitable subject as a suitable ground for amplification or\ndeclamation; but a professor cannot, in our opinion, have had this aim\nin view in a lay sermon delivered at St. Martin\u2019s Hall. Had Mr. Huxley\nbeen under the impression that natural knowledge is nowadays, for some\nreason or other, in a deplorable state, every one would have seen the\nadvisableness of remedying the evil, if shown to be real. Had he\nproved in his sermon that natural knowledge nowadays is superficial,\nsophistical, or incoherent with other known truths, the opportunity of\ntalking about the advisableness of improving it would have struck\nevery eye and stirred every soul. But this was not the case. Natural\nknowledge is assumed by the lay preacher to be in a splendid and\nglorious state; our scientific men are accounted great men, our\nconquests in science admirable, and our uninterrupted progress\nunquestionable.\n\n \u201cOur \u2018mathematick,\u2019\u201d says he, \u201cis one which Newton would have\n to go to school to learn; our \u2019staticks, mechanicks,\n magneticks, chymicks, and natural experiments, constitute a\n mass of physical and chemical knowledge, a glimpse at which\n would compensate Galileo for the doings of a score of\n inquisitorial cardinals; our \u2018physick\u2019 and \u2018anatomy\u2019 have\n embraced such infinite varieties of being, have laid open\n such new worlds in time and space, have grappled, not\n unsuccessfully, with such complex problems, that the eyes of\n Vesalius and of Harvey might be dazzled by the sight of the\n tree that has grown out of their grain of mustard-seed\u201d (pp.\n 628, 629).\n\nSuch being the state of things, we might have expected a sermon _on\nthe means of diffusing and promoting natural knowledge_; but a sermon\nlaying stress on such a triviality as _the advisableness of improving\nnatural knowledge_, when natural knowledge is quite flourishing and\ndazzling, seems to us to have no object at all. Unfortunately, the lay\npreacher did not see that it was a triviality, or, if he saw that it\nwas, thought that his own way of dealing with it was so new and\nuntrivial that the merit of his novel conceptions would redeem the\ntriviality of the subject. Let us see, then, what such novel\nconceptions are.\n\nThat natural knowledge may help us to keep back pestilences and to\nextinguish fires is not a discovery of the lay preacher; we all knew\nit. His first discovery is that pestilences are not punishments of\nGod, and that fires have little to do with human malice.\n\n \u201cOur forefathers had their own ways of accounting for each\n of these calamities. They submitted to the plague in\n humility and in penitence, for they believed it to be the\n judgment of God. But towards the fire they were furiously\n indignant, interpreting it as the effect of the malice of\n man, as the work of the republicans or of the Papists,\n according as their prepossessions ran in favor of loyalty or\n of Puritanism. It would, I fancy, have fared but ill with\n one who, standing where I now stand, in what was then a\n thickly-peopled and fashionable part of London, should have\n broached to our ancestors the doctrine which I now propound\n to you\u2015\u2015that all their hypotheses were alike wrong; that the\n plague was no more, in their sense, a divine judgment than\n the fire was the work of any political or of any religious\n sect; but that they were themselves the authors of both\n plague and fire, and that they must look to themselves to\n prevent the recurrence of calamities to all appearance so\n peculiarly beyond the reach of human control\u2015\u2015so evidently\n the result of the wrath of God or of the craft and subtlety\n of an enemy\u201d (pp. 626, 627).\n\nWe think that natural knowledge will not be much improved by this\nHuxleyan discovery. God\u2019s existence and providence are notoriously a\nmost substantial part of natural knowledge; so the relegation of Deity\nout of the world, and the suppression of his providence over it, is no\nless a crime against science than against God himself, and shows no\nless ignorance than impiety. We cannot admit that pestilences \u201cwill\n_only_ take up their abode among those who have prepared unswept and\nungarnished residences for them,\u201d nor that \u201ctheir cities _must_ have\nnarrow, unwatered streets, foul with accumulated garbage,\u201d nor that\n\u201ctheir houses _must_ be ill-drained, ill-lighted, ill-ventilated,\u201d nor\nthat \u201ctheir subjects _must_ be ill-washed, ill-fed, ill-clothed\u201d (p.\n630). Our reasons for denying such conclusions are many. To cite one\nonly\u2015\u2015of which we think that Mr. Huxley will not fail to appreciate\nthe value\u2015\u2015we read in one of the most authentic historical books the\nfollowing:\n\n \u201cThe word of the Lord came to Gad the prophet and the seer\n of David, saying: Go, and say to David: Thus saith the Lord:\n I give thee the choice of three things: choose one of them\n which thou wilt, that I may do it to thee. And when Gad was\n come to David, he told him, saying: Either seven years of\n famine shall come to thee in thy land: or thou shalt flee\n three months before thy adversaries: or for three days there\n shall be a pestilence in thy land. Now therefore deliberate,\n and see what answer I shall return to him that sent me. And\n David said to Gad: I am in a great strait: but it is better\n that I should fall into the hands of the Lord (for his\n mercies are many) than into the hands of men. _And the Lord\n sent a pestilence upon Israel_, from the morning unto the\n time appointed, and there died of the people from Dan to\n Bersabee seventy thousand men. And when the angel of the\n Lord had stretched out his hand over Jerusalem to destroy\n it, the Lord had pity on the affliction, and said to the\n angel that slew the people: _It is enough: now hold thy\n hand_\u201d (2 Kings xxiv.)\n\nThis fact is as historical as the London plague; nor is it the only\none that could be adduced. Hence we are at a loss to understand how\nnatural knowledge can be _improved_ by a theory which is annihilated\nby the most positive facts.\n\nThe next discovery of the lay preacher is no less remarkable: \u201cI say\nthat natural knowledge, seeking to satisfy natural wants, has found\nthe ideas which can alone still spiritual cravings\u201d (p. 632). What\ngreat ideas has natural knowledge introduced into men\u2019s minds? 1st.\nThat the earth is but an atom among atoms, whirling no man knows\nwhither, through illimitable space (p. 634); 2d, that what we call the\npeaceful heaven above us is but that space, filled by an infinitely\nsubtle matter, whose particles are seething and surging like the waves\nof an angry sea (_ibid._); 3d, that there are infinite regions where\nnothing is known, or ever seems to have been known, but matter and\nforce (_ibid._); 4th, that phenomena must have had a beginning, and\nmust have an end; but their beginning is, to our conception of time,\ninfinitely remote, and their end is as immeasurably distant (_ibid._);\n5th, that all matter has weight, and that the force which produces\nweight is co-extensive with the universe (_ibid._); 6th, that matter\nis indestructible (p. 635); 7th, that force is indestructible\n(_ibid._); 8th, that everywhere we find definite order and succession\nof events, which seem never to be infringed (_ibid._); 9th, that man\nis not the centre of the living world, but one amidst endless\nmodifications of life (_ibid._); 10th, that the ancient forms of\nexistence peopling the world for ages, in relation to human\nexperience, are infinite (_ibid._); 11th, that life depends for its\nmanifestation on particular molecular arrangements or any physical or\nchemical phenomenon (_ibid._); 12th, that \u201cthe theology of the present\nhas become more scientific than that of the past; because it has not\nonly renounced idols of wood and idols of stone, but begins to see the\nnecessity of breaking into pieces the idols built up of books and\ntraditions and fine-spun ecclesiastical cobwebs, and of cherishing the\nnoblest and most human of man\u2019s emotions by worship, \u2018for the most\npart of the silent sort,\u2019 at the altar of the Unknown and Unknowable\u201d\n(p. 636).\n\nIt appears that Mr. Huxley assumes that these ideas have been of late\n\u201cimplanted in our minds by the improvement of natural knowledge,\u201d that\nthey suffice to \u201cstill spiritual cravings,\u201d and that they alone\nsuffice, as \u201cthey alone _can_ still spiritual cravings.\u201d Now, the\nindestructibility of matter is not a new idea implanted in men\u2019s minds\nby modern science. The ancient and the medi\u00e6val philosophers knew it\nas well as Mr. Huxley, and, if we may be allowed to state a simple\ntruth, even better, as they could give a very good reason of the\nfact\u2015\u2015a thing which would probably puzzle those great men who despise\n\u201cthe products of medi\u00e6val thought,\u201d and dedicate themselves\nexclusively to the acquirement of the so-called \u201cnew philosophy.\u201d That\nlife depends for its manifestation on particular molecular\narrangements is, in substance, an old story, as physicists and\nphilosophers of all times taught that not only the manifestation, but\nalso the very existence, of life in the body required a particular\norganization of matter; so that, to judge by this test, the\nimprovement of knowledge would here consist in the suppression of the\nsoul\u2015\u2015that is, in a mutilation of knowledge. That phenomena must have\nhad a beginning is an axiom as old as the world, though some pagan\nphilosophers denied it; and that phenomena must have an end is but an\nassumption which modern men have hitherto failed to prove. But let\nthis pass.\n\nWhat a refreshing thought for \u201cstilling spiritual cravings\u201d to know\nthat phenomena must have had a beginning and must have an end! What a\nconsoling idea to think that the earth is but an atom among atoms,\nwhirling no man knows whither! What a subject of delicious\ncontemplation\u2015\u2015the infinite regions, where nothing is known but matter\nand force! And then what a happiness to know that what we call\n\u201cheaven\u201d is but space filled by an infinitely subtle matter; to know\nthat all matter has weight; to be certain that all matter is\nindestructible! At such thoughts, surely, the heart of man must wax\nwarm, and spiritual cravings be stilled! Is not this a very strange\ndiscovery?\n\nWith regard to the idea that \u201cman is not the centre of the living\nworld, but one amid endless modifications of life,\u201d we must confess\nour ignorance. We thought that such a view had been ere now\nperemptorily condemned as absurd by all competent men. But if Mr.\nHuxley, in a future lay sermon, is able to show that natural knowledge\nobliges him to reckon crabs, monkeys, and gorillas among his own\nancestors, we do not see how much \u201cour spiritual cravings\u201d will be\ngratified at the thought of such a noble origin. In any case, we shall\nleave to Mr. Huxley the privilege of enjoying personally all the glory\nof a bestial genealogy.\n\nAnd now we must say a word on \u201cthe theology of the present, which has\nbecome more scientific than that of the past.\u201d The improvement of\nknowledge, according to our lay preacher, led theology first to\nrenounce the idols of wood and the idols of stone. Very good; yet we\nmay observe that such an improvement of knowledge had its origin in\ndivine revelation, not in experimental science, and that the sect\nwhich now preaches the progress of natural knowledge has had no part\nin breaking the idols either of wood or stone. Then the improvement of\nknowledge must lead theology to break into pieces\u2015\u2015What? \u201cBooks,\ntraditions, fine-spun ecclesiastical cobwebs\u201d! And men\u2015\u2015that is, Mr.\nHuxley\u2019s friends\u2015\u2015\u201cbegin to see the necessity\u201d of breaking all such\nthings. This is but natural. As the outlaw detests the police and the\narmy, and \u201cbegins to see the necessity\u201d of breaking both into pieces,\nso these lovers of matter detest books and traditions on higher\nsubjects, and their \u201cspiritual (!) cravings\u201d cannot be stilled unless\nthey break traditions and books into pieces. At this we do not wonder;\nbut as for \u201cecclesiastical cobwebs,\u201d what are they? Does Mr. Huxley\nknow any cobwebs but his own\u2015\u2015and those, too, not very \u201cfine-spun?\u201d\n\nNext comes \u201cthe worship, \u2018for the most part of the silent sort,\u2019 at\nthe altar of the Unknown and Unknowable.\u201d This is the last degree of\nthe climax; and this gives us the measure both of the \u201cnew\nphilosophy,\u201d and of the acute mind of the lay preacher. Our \u201cspiritual\ncravings\u201d cannot be stilled until we have done away with that portion\nof knowledge which concerns our Lord and Creator. Our scientific\nTitans do not want a Master and a Judge. The improvement of knowledge\nmust lead us back to the time when a few fools worshipped at the altar\nof an unknown God; and, since the absurdity of this pretension had not\nthe merit of being modern, it became necessary to show the high degree\nof ignorance which may be united with the _improved_ natural knowledge\nby proclaiming that the noblest and most human of man\u2019s emotions is\ncherished by a worship which is a moral, not to say physical,\nimpossibility.\n\nWe have now reached the bottom of the \u201cnew philosophy\u201d; we are edified\nabout the _improvement_ of natural knowledge; we know what is aimed at\nin the lay sermons on the _advisableness_ of improving natural\nknowledge; and we thank Mr. Huxley, not without a deep sense of\nmelancholy, for his open profession of infidelity, which will very\nlikely make harmless all lay sermons which he may venture to preach\nhenceforward. At one thing only we are astonished; that is, that the\nchampion of such a cause\u2015\u2015a professor\u2015\u2015has not been able to deal with\nhis subject except by a strain of whimsical assertions. Is it\nnecessary for us to teach a professor that mere assertions are good\nfor nothing in science? A professor like Mr. Huxley should have\nunderstood that, in the case of new theories, the absence of proof\nmakes men suspect the intellectual poverty of the orator. Still, the\nfact remains: the lay-preacher asserted much, and proved nothing. The\nonly excuse which we think he can offer may be that a layman has no\nspecial vocation and no special grace for preaching; or, perhaps, that\n_nemo dat quod non habet_; or, lastly, that the _improvement_ of\nnatural knowledge is in no need of proof, the assertion of any\nprofessor being considered as a sufficient demonstration. And this\nleads us to the third of Mr. Huxley\u2019s discoveries.\n\nLet us hear him. He asks: \u201cWhat are among the moral convictions most\nfondly held by barbarous and semi-barbarous people?\u201d And he answers:\n\n \u201cThey are the convictions that authority is the soundest\n basis of belief; that merit attaches to a readiness to\n believe; that the doubting disposition is a bad one, and\n scepticism a sin; that when good authority has pronounced\n what is to be believed, and faith has accepted it, reason\n has no further duty. There are many excellent persons who\n yet hold by these principles, and it is not my present\n business or intention to discuss their views. All I wish to\n bring clearly before your minds is the unquestionable fact\n that the improvement of natural knowledge is effected by\n methods which directly give the lie to all these\n convictions, and assume the exact reverse of each to be\n true.\u201d\n\nThen he adds:\n\n \u201cThe improver of natural knowledge absolutely refuses to\n acknowledge authority as such. For him, scepticism is the\n highest of duties, blind faith the one unpardonable sin. And\n it cannot be otherwise; for every great advance in natural\n knowledge has involved the absolute rejection of authority,\n the cherishing of the keenest scepticism, the annihilation\n of the spirit of blind faith; and the most ardent votary of\n science holds his firmest convictions, not because the men\n he most venerates hold them, not because their verity is\n testified by portents and wonders, but because his\n experience teaches him that, whenever he chooses to bring\n these convictions into contact with their primary source,\n nature\u2015\u2015whenever he thinks fit to test them by appealing to\n experiment and observation\u2015\u2015nature will confirm them. The\n man of science has learned to believe in justification, not\n by faith, but by verification\u201d (pp. 636, 637).\n\nThis language is undoubtedly clear, and its meaning unmistakable. All\nEnglishmen who have any disposition to believe on good authority, from\nQueen Victoria down to the meanest of her subjects, are to be ranked\namong barbarians or semi-barbarians. And as Mr. John Stuart Mill has\nalready decided, in his high wisdom, that barbarians can be justly\ncompelled (for their own good, of course) to bear the yoke of a\ntyrant, we can, by a genial union of the views of these two great men,\nsubstantiate the result of their combined teaching. \u201cBarbarians, for\ntheir own good, can be subjected to tyranny\u201d\u2015\u2015this is the major\nproposition drawn from Mr. Mill. \u201cBut Englishmen who respect authority\nand believe are but barbarians\u201d\u2015\u2015this is the minor of Mr. Huxley. The\nconsequence is brutal but evident, and gives us the measure of the\nliberality of a certain class of liberals. Fortunately, Prof. Huxley\nis a very amiable man, and perhaps he does not hold without limitation\nthe aforesaid principle of his philosophical friend. He even\ncondescends to declare that \u201cthere are many excellent persons who yet\nhold those convictions of barbarous people,\u201d and says that \u201cit is not\nhis present business or intention to discuss their views.\u201d Still, we\nare sorry that these \u201cexcellent persons\u201d are condemned without a\nhearing; and as for discussion, our impression is that Mr. Huxley is\nmuch afraid of it, at least \u201cfor the present.\u201d We should prefer that\nour views were discussed before we are insulted on account of them.\nWho knows whether the issue of such a discussion would not show that\nthe true barbarians, after all, are those very worshippers of\n\u201cscepticism\u201d or of the \u201cUnknown\u201d and of the \u201cUnknowable\u201d?\n\nBut let us abstain from retaliation; we are barbarians, and our word\nis worth nothing as long as we continue to hold that \u201cauthority is the\nsoundest basis of belief.\u201d And yet we fancy that the London plague\ncould only be believed because the authority of a great number of\neye-witnesses was the soundest basis of belief. Mr. Huxley will say\nthat we are mistaken, as \u201cthe improver of natural knowledge\n_absolutely refuses_ to acknowledge authority as such\u201d; but he has\nforgotten to tell us on what grounds he himself believes the London\nplague. Is it perchance because \u201chis experience teaches him that,\nwhenever he chooses to bring his convictions into contact with their\nprimary source, nature\u2015\u2015whenever he thinks fit to test them by\nappealing to experiment and observation\u2015\u2015nature will confirm them\u201d? We\nare exceedingly anxious to know the truth. Will the lay preacher, who\nis so kind, enlighten us by a clear answer?\n\nWe have just said that a little discussion would very likely show that\nMr. Huxley\u2019s remarks apply to his equals rather than to those whom he\nendeavors to stigmatize. And as we do not belong to the school or sect\nof which Mr. Huxley is the representative, and accordingly do not\nenjoy the privilege of boldly asserting what cannot be proved, so we\nare obliged to show what are the reasons of our conviction.\n\nMr. Huxley believes that \u201cman is not the centre of the living world,\nbut _one amid endless modifications of life_.\u201d Whence does this\nconviction come? The learned professor cannot be ranked among\n_civilized_ people unless he be able to show that his conviction is\n_not_ grounded on authority, but on scepticism, which is \u201cthe highest\nduty\u201d of an improver of knowledge. He must be prepared to show that\n\u201che holds it, not because the men he most venerates hold it, not\nbecause its verity is testified by portents and wonders, but because\n_his experience teaches him_ that, whenever he thinks fit to test it\nby appealing to experiment and observation, nature will confirm it.\u201d\nUnfortunately for him, and in spite of his uncommon power of making\nbroad assertions, he cannot have recourse to such an answer, inasmuch\nas it would be received with loud peals of laughter even by his devout\nflock of St. Martin\u2019s Hall. In conclusion, he has caught himself in\nhis own trap, and we are afraid he must declare himself to be\n(horrible to say!) a _barbarian_, and an awful barbarian too; for it\nis with open eyes, and with other aggravating circumstances, that he\nhas done what, according to him, only \u201cbarbarous people\u201d do.\n\nThis being the case, no one needs to ask why Mr. Huxley informs us\nthat it is not his present business or intention to discuss the views\nof those \u201cexcellent persons\u201d who still believe. He believes himself\nmore than they believe. They believe \u201cwhen _good_ authority has\npronounced\u201d; the lay preacher believes even without good authority.\nThose \u201cexcellent persons\u201d smile with the \u201ckeenest scepticism\u201d at his\ntheory of the Unknown and of the Unknowable; but the lay preacher\nbelieves in his theory without proof and against proof, and thinks\nthat \u201creason has no further duty.\u201d And it is remarkable that he does\nnot content himself with believing what may appear to be a view of the\npresent or a fact of the past. This would be too little for him; he\nbelieves a great deal more: he believes in what may be called a dream\nof the future. Yes:\n\n \u201cIf these ideas be destined, _as I believe they are_, to be\n more and more firmly established as the world grows older;\n if that spirit be fated, _as I believe it is_, to extend\n itself into all departments of human thought, and to become\n co-extensive with the range of knowledge; if, as our race\n approaches its maturity, it discovers, _as I believe it\n will_, that there is but one kind of knowledge, and but one\n method of acquiring it\u2015\u2015then we, who are still children, may\n justly feel it our highest duty to recognize the\n advisableness of improving natural knowledge\u201d (p. 637).\n\nWho would have thought or imagined that a man could be so ill-advised\nas to condense three professions of blind faith in the very lines in\nwhich he intends to conclude in favor of scepticism?\n\nThe consequence of all this is appalling. For how now can Mr. Huxley\nagain present himself to his devout congregation of St. Martin\u2019s Hall?\nWhat can he say in his defence? The best would be to dissemble, if\npossible, and to ignore with a lofty unconcern his numerous blunders;\nbut men are shrewd, and the expedient might seem an implicit\nconfession of failure. As for \u201cdiscussing the views of those excellent\npersons\u201d who still hold the principles of faith, there can be no\nquestion. This would be too much and too little: too much for the man,\ntoo little for the purpose. And, in fact, since Mr. Huxley is himself\nguilty of that of which he accuses others, he cannot strike others\nwithout wounding himself. The only practical thing would be, in our\nopinion, an explicit, generous, and humble confession of guilt. Why\nnot? The lay preacher is not the first professor who has spoken\nnonsense, nor will he be the last. We are all liable to error and sin;\nand recantation and repentance are a right of humanity. On the other\nhand, he is not the only man who is guilty of believing\u2015\u2015he is in very\ngood company; for \u201cthere are many excellent persons who still\nbelieve,\u201d though undoubtedly he goes further than they do. Still, we\napprehend that a lay preacher may find himself a little embarrassed in\na subject of this sort; and as we have already shown what a deep and\nsincere interest we feel in lay sermons, and have gained, perhaps, a\ntitle to a special hearing on the part of the lay preacher, so, to\nrelieve him, at least partially, from the heavy burden, we venture to\noffer him the following plan of a new _Lay Sermon to be delivered at\nSt. Martins Hall on a day not yet appointed_.\n\nThe exordium might contain the following thoughts: \u201cMy friends, a\nsorrowful duty calls me to speak unto you. On January 7, 1866, a\nprofessor from this very place preached a sermon on the improvement of\nnatural knowledge by unbelief, and maintained that to believe on good\nauthority was a principle of barbarous or semi-barbarous people.\u2026 That\nprofessor, alas! was myself.\u2026 Well, it is my painful duty to tell you\nto-day that you have been humbugged.\u2026 (Cheers from the audience.) Do\nnot cheer; have pity on me, my dear brethren. I have sinned against\nmyself, against you, and against mankind. This is the distressing\ntruth of which I am now ready to make the demonstration.\u201d\n\nThe confirmation would have three parts. In the first he might say: \u201cI\nhave sinned _against myself_ in two ways: First, because I uttered\nassertions calculated to show that I am more credulous than those whom\nI reprehend. Now, if men are condemned by me on the ground that they\nbelieve \u2018on _good_ authority,\u2019 what will be the sentence reserved for\nme, who believe on bad authority and on no authority? Secondly,\nbecause I put myself in an awkward position as a scientific man. The\ndistance of the earth from the sun I hitherto admitted on authority;\nthe specific weight of most bodies on authority; the discovery of\ncertain geologic curiosities on authority; the ratio of the\ncircumference to the diameter on authority, etc., etc. Verification\nwould have taken too many years of work; and this seemed to me a good\nexcuse for assuming that there was no harm in believing. But now, as I\nhave declared \u2018scepticism to be the highest of duties,\u2019 to be\nconsistent, I shall be obliged to appeal without intermission to\nexperiment and observation, and even to calculation; \u2018for the man of\nscience has learned to believe in justification not by faith, but by\nverification.\u2019 And so good-by to my lay sermons! It will be quite\nimpossible for me, while calculating anew the basis of the Napierian\nlogarithms or the circumference of the circle, or while testing\nFaraday\u2019s discoveries by actual experiments, or travelling to verify\nthe assertions of geological writers, to dream of popular eloquence.\u201d\n\nAfter developing these or similar thoughts, he would pass to the\nsecond part and say: \u201cI have sinned _against you_; for the principal\naim of my sermon was _to make you believe_ what I was then saying. How\nis it possible, dear friends, that I should have taken pleasure in\nthus treating you as barbarians or semi-barbarians? Civilized men,\naccording to the theory which I then advanced, \u2018refuse to acknowledge\nauthority as such.\u2019 \u2018Scepticism,\u2019 according to the same theory, \u2018is\nthe highest of duties,\u2019 and \u2018blind faith an unpardonable sin.\u2019 Such\nwas my doctrine on January 7. Yet this very sin, this unpardonable\nsin, I suggested to you on that same day, and you committed it! In\nfact, you have _believed_ me.\u2026 Now, for this no one is more\nresponsible than myself. I have been your tempter; I did my best to\nextort your belief; I caused you to believe on my authority, to\nbelieve as barbarians believe! I plead guilty. Still, as you are so\nkind, I hope that you will excuse me. I admitted, after all, that\n\u2018there are many excellent persons who yet hold the principle that\nmerit attaches to a readiness to believe,\u2019 and therefore both you and\nmyself, in spite of all that you have believed, may be excellent\npersons. Another very good reason in my favor is that the subject of\nthat sermon was \u2018the advisableness of improving natural knowledge\u2019;\nnow, our common fault is a very good demonstration of such an\nadvisableness. I might add a third reason. I told you, and I trust\nthat you have not forgotten it, that \u2018we are still children.\u2019 Now,\nchildren, when they err, deserve indulgence, etc., etc.\u201d\n\nIn the third part he would say something like the following: \u201cI have\nsinned _against mankind_; for my sermon was calculated to create the\nimpression that those who believe \u2018when _good_ authority has\npronounced what is to be believed\u2019 are all barbarians or\nsemi-barbarians. This, I must be allowed to say, was a very great\nmistake, and perhaps an \u2018unpardonable sin.\u2019 The London plague is\nbelieved \u2018on _good_ authority,\u2019 by all Englishmen at least, and\nyet\u2015\u2015let me frankly say it\u2015\u2015Englishmen are not all barbarians. All\ncivilized nations believe that there has been a king called Alexander\nthe Great, a mathematician called Archimedes, a woman called\nCleopatra, an emperor called Caligula, and they believe it only \u2018on\n_good_ authority\u2019; and how could this be, if belief were the lot of\nbarbarous or semi-barbarous people? What I say of profane history must\nbe said of the Biblical also, and even of the ecclesiastical. No\ndoubt, dear brethren, there has been a man called Moses, who was a\ngreat legislator and prophet; there has been a man called Solomon, who\nwas wiser than you and myself; there has been a man called JESUS, who\nwrought miracles in the very eyes of obstinate unbelievers, and rose\nfrom death (a thing which we, men of progress, have not yet learned to\ndo), thereby showing that he was no mere man, but man and God. To say\nthat this God is \u2018unknown\u2019 or \u2018unknowable\u2019 is therefore one of the\ngreatest historical blunders. Men have known him, have loved him, and\nhave obeyed him. Those who have believed in him became models of\nsanctity, of charity, and of generosity; millions among them were\nready to die, and really died, for his honor, and many of them were\nthe greatest and most cultivated minds that have enlightened the\nworld. We scientific infidels, as compared with them, \u2018are still\nchildren.\u2019 Our Newton believed, Galileo believed, Leibnitz believed,\nVolta believed, Galvani believed, Amp\u00e8re believed, Cauchy believed,\nFaraday believed. These were men; these have created modern science.\nBut what are we unbelievers? What have we done? Where are our\ncreations?\u2015\u2015creations, I say, not merely of modern time, but of\nunbelievers? \u2018We are children\u2019\u2015\u2015I am glad to repeat it. We have\ninvented nothing. We, in our capacity of unbelievers, are only\nparasitic plants which suck the sap of a gigantic tree\u2015\u2015Christianity\u2015\u2015and\nlive upon it, and yet we have been so ill-advised as to call ourselves\n\u2018improvers of natural knowledge,\u2019 and, worse still, we have attached\nthe name of barbarians to \u2018excellent persons,\u2019 even though we are no\nbetter than they, etc., etc.\u201d\n\nIn the _peroration_ he might say: \u201cAnd now we come to our conclusion.\nThe conclusion evidently is that true barbarians are not those who\nbelieve \u2018on _good_ authority,\u2019 but those who endeavor to \u2018still\nspiritual cravings\u2019 with purely material objects. No, dear brethren,\nspiritual cravings cannot be stilled by knowledge of material things\nalone. Spiritual cravings imply the existence of a spiritual soul: and\na spiritual being cannot be satisfied with the knowledge of matter\nalone, etc. etc. As for the idea of drawing \u2018a new morality\u2019 from the\nimproved natural knowledge, I need scarcely tell you that it was only\na joke. You know too well that morality transcends the physical laws,\nand cannot come out of matter; and you know also that a \u2018new\u2019 morality\nis as impossible as a new God, etc.\u201d And here the orator might give\nway to the fulness of his feelings, according to the penitent\ndisposition of the moment.\n\nHitherto we have addressed ourselves to the lay preacher exclusively;\nwe will now address a word to the man. We trust that Professor Huxley\nwill not feel offended at our remarks and suggestions. It is true that\nunbelievers, whilst ready, and even accustomed, to attack all mankind,\nare often very sensitive when they themselves are either unmasked or\ncriticised. But we feel persuaded that Professor Huxley will not be\nangry with us. Our reason is, first, that we might have smiled in\nsecret at the lay sermon on the advisableness of _improving_ natural\nknowledge by unbelief; and if we did it the honor of a lengthy\nrefutation, we have given the orator a greater importance than he\nhimself would have expected. On the other hand, we have been attacked;\nand, accordingly, we would have been cowards had we been afraid of\nanswering. Moreover, we have treated him not only fairly, but with\ngreat indulgence. What we have said is only a small part of what we\nmight have said. We made no remark on his proposition that \u201cwhether\nthese ideas (which alone can still spiritual cravings) are well or ill\nfounded, is not the question\u201d (p. 636); and yet this assertion on\naccount of its neutrality between truth and error, would have supplied\nabundant matter for criticism; but we abstained. We could have\nanimadverted on the very phrase \u201cnatural knowledge,\u201d which he takes as\nmeaning the knowledge of physical laws, and yet it is presented by him\nas comprehensive of all possible knowledge; whereas it is evident that\nnatural knowledge extends far beyond physical things. We might have\nobjected to the captious expression \u201c_blind_ faith,\u201d on account of the\nlatent assumption that faith is not prompted by reasonable motives and\nhas no reasonable grounds. We might have pointed out the recklessness\nof the proposition: \u201cThere is but one kind of knowledge and but one\nmethod of acquiring it\u201d\u2015\u2015a proposition which, considering the general\nspirit of the sermon, would mean that philosophy, theology, and\nreligion are a heap of impostures. We might have dwelt on the\nassertion that \u201cverities testified by portents and wonders\u201d are not to\nbe admitted on this ground by the votary of science; as if portents\nand wonders were not facts, or as if the votary of science were\nobliged by his profession to blind himself to the natural evidence of\nsupernatural facts.\n\nIt appears, then, that we had copious materials for further criticism;\nbut we have not found it necessary to dwell upon them. What we have\nsaid is, in our opinion, sufficient for the defence of those\nprinciples which every enlightened man most cherishes as the very\nfoundations of human society. We have remained, therefore, within the\nlimits of a fair and equitable reply; and if we have laughed at the\nignorance of the unbeliever, we have respected as far as possible the\nperson of the professor.\n\n\n\n\n A CHRISTMAS LEGEND.\n\n\n \u2019Twas midnight, and the Christmas bells were chiming loud and clear:\n Peal after peal glad tidings bore to Christians far and near.\n Those throats of metal seemed to chant in solemn tones and slow:\n _En puer nobis natus est: laus Jesu Domino_.\n The night winds heard, and thereupon took up the holy song\n First learned by them when angel hosts surprised the shepherd throng.\n The very river caught the strain, and whispered as it ran:\n \u201cGlory to God in heaven above; on earth be peace to man.\u201d\n The ocean from the river took the tidings glad and good;\n Like monks white-cowled its crested waves in mighty chorus stood;\n Then, hastening on with joyous shout, cried loud from shore to shore:\n The Christ is born: let all the world its King and God adore.\n Floating flakes of fleecy snow fell fast o\u2019er frozen earth,\n Just as they fell that winter night that saw the Saviour\u2019s birth;\n Through painted casements all ablaze with saintly forms and fair\n Streamed light that tinged the drifted snow with color here and\n there;\n The mighty organ loudly pealed and mingled in accord\n With holy voices chanting high the anthems of their Lord:\n \u201c_Venite Adoremus_\u201d sang the choristers that night\n Within the old cathedral church, which shone with many a light;\n \u201c_Et Verbum Caro factum est_,\u201d thus sung the chant again,\n While clouds of fragrant incense rose and floated through the fane.\n Many a frocked and cowl\u00e9d monk and many a hooded friar,\n Many a knight of high degree and many a faithful squire,\n Many a youth and many a maid and many a lady fair,\n Knelt side by side, and, kneeling, prayed upon the pavement bare.\n But, lo! beside a pillar\u2019s base where scarce the taper\u2019s ray\n Could light the gloom that hung around or pierce the shadows gray;\n There knelt a son of Israel\u2019s creed, whose dark and swarthy face,\n Black raven hair, and liquid eyes bespoke his Jewish race.\n What did he there, that Hebrew boy, that scion of the East?\n Why knelt he there \u2019mid Christian souls to keep a Christian feast?\n Why were his eyes devoutly fixed upon an image fair?\n Why prayed that unbaptiz\u00e9d child, why sang, why knelt he there?\n\n * * * * *\n\n Of wealthy Jewish parents born, young David oft had heard\n The boys of that old city tell of Jesus Christ the Word,\n Who, of a Jewish Virgin born, came down on earth to dwell,\n To save mankind from sin and death; and oft had heard as well\n How Mary, God\u2019s dear Mother, loved all Christians great and small,\n And how she never failed to hear a contrite sinner\u2019s call.\n So he, too, learned to love her well, and each and every day\n That Jewish lad would clasp his hands and most devoutly say\n \u201cO Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel\u2019s race!\n Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face.\u201d\n Thus day by day and month by month young David ever cried,\n And more to learn of Christian truth with fondest ardor sighed.\n On Christmas Eve he heard the bells ring sweetly from the spire,\n And of one Mark, a chorister, did earnestly inquire:\n \u201cDear Mark, why chime thy church\u2019s bells so joyously to-night,\n While all the painted windows shine with such unwonted light?\u201d\n \u201cO David!\u201d quick his friend rejoined, \u201cthe bells are ringing clear.\n In greeting to the holiest feast throughout the Christian year;\n For on this night, long years agone, was born our Blessed Lord,\n By Mary in a manger laid, by angel hosts adored.\n But see, dear friend, I cannot now to speak with you delay;\n For swiftly to the sacristy I needs must haste away.\n I am a chorister, you know,\u201d he said with honest pride;\n Then added, as he turned to leave his young companion\u2019s side:\n \u201cMy voice to-night in holy song to faithful souls shall tell\n How Jesus Christ, the Son of God, came down on earth to dwell.\n Good-night, good-night,\u201d at last he said, and then away he ran.\n Poor David\u2019s eyes were filled with tears, his cheeks were pale and\n wan;\n But as he listened to the chimes that quivered on the air,\n From out his inmost heart the boy sent up his simple prayer:\n \u201cO Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel\u2019s race!\n Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face.\u201d\n While thus he prayed he turned his steps towards the sacred fane,\n Nor paused until he gained the porch, where such a wondrous strain\n Of holy music greeted him that, trembling, half with fear\n And half with joy, he hid himself, and there saw passing near\n A noble rank of men and boys in wonderful array,\n With flambeaux in their hands which made the church as light as day.\n First came a fair-haired Christian boy, of figure tall and slight,\n A smoking censer in his hand, and clad in robe of white.\n Then came two acolytes, who bore two candlesticks of gold,\n With tapers tall of perfumed wax of costliness untold.\n A young subdeacon slowly marched these acolytes between;\n A massive silver cross he bore aloft with reverent mien.\n Then, two and two, came choristers in linen fair and white;\n The younger first, in order due, each holding to the light\n His psalter, silver-clasped, and all in vellum richly bound.\n Here David gazed intently, and, so gazing, quickly found\n His little friend, the chorister, who walked with steady pace,\n Whose silvery voice in ringing tones filled all the holy place.\n The bishop then with lordly train walked last of all the band,\n A golden mitre on his head, a crosier in his hand.\n His vestments \u2019broidered were with pearls, and rays of green and red\n From emeralds fair and rubies bright on every side were shed.\n When all had passed, poor David crept from out his hiding-place,\n And slowly followed up the throng with soft and stealthy pace.\n Then, fearing lest his Jewish dress might some attention draw,\n He sank down at the pillar\u2019s base where first his form we saw.\n Then, as the holy service rose to God, and voice of prayer,\n And hymns and canticles of praise filled all the listening air,\n The Hebrew lad fell prone upon his face, and there adored,\n Whilst once again to Mary he the oft-said prayer outpoured:\n \u201cO Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel\u2019s race!\n Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face.\u201d\n \u201cThou seest it!\u201d cried at David\u2019s side a clear and heavenly voice,\n Whose very tones, though soft and low, made David\u2019s heart rejoice.\n He raised his face, and forthwith saw a vision standing nigh,\n Around whose head there brightly shone the glory of the sky.\n \u2019Twas Mary\u2019s self, and thus she spoke in accents sweet and mild:\n \u201cFear not. Arise and come with me, my well-belov\u00e9d child.\u201d\n The lad arose; Our Lady dear then grasped his trembling hand,\n And led him to the chancel gates unseen by all the band.\n Just as they stood beneath the Rood loud rang the sacring-bell,\n Which did to all the holy time of Consecration tell.\n This when she heard, our Mother knelt upon the marble floor;\n For Mary\u2019s Son is Mary\u2019s God and Lord for evermore.\n She then arose and stood unseen till Holy Mass was o\u2019er,\n Then forward stepped, and, with the lad, the prelate stood before.\n \u201cBehold,\u201d she said, and as she spoke the church was filled with light,\n And all fell down upon their knees in wonder at the sight.\n \u201cBehold. I bring you here a soul who, though he knew me not,\n Has ever called upon my name, and aye bewailed his lot\n Because he knew not as he wished the true, the Christian creed:\n I bring him that he may become an Israelite indeed.\u201d\n She spoke, and bright the radiance gleamed around her saintly head,\n And odors most celestial were throughout the building shed.\n Then, as the whole assembly gazed on all with mute surprise,\n She vanished in a silver cloud from \u2019fore their wondering eyes.\n The holy bishop first found voice, and thus devoutly said:\n \u201cMother of God, thy blest command shall be at once obeyed.\n Divine behests brook no delay; so here, before the night\n Doth older grow, let me bestow the laver\u2019s saving rite.\u201d\n The water brought, redemption\u2019s stream o\u2019er David flowed that hour,\n And sparkled on his forehead white like dewdrops on a flower.\n \u201c_Te Deum laudamus_\u201d chanted then the choristers with joy,\n And rushed to give a kiss of peace unto the happy boy.\n But what is this? He does not stir nor lift his bended head!\n David, his white robe yet unstained, was kneeling calm and dead.\n On that _Te Deum\u2019s_ outstretched wings his soul had upward soared\n To keep in heaven its Christmas morn with Mary and his Lord.\n\n\n\n\nSIR THOMAS MORE.\n\n_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE_\n\nFROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.\n\nXVII.\n\n\nWhen the great city lay buried in that obscurity which the mantle of\nnight had thrown over all, and while she seemed to sleep, resting on\nher bed of earth, by the banks of the river that flowed for ever with\na measured sound\u2015\u2015when she seemed to sleep at last, although neither\nthe scholar, nor the afflicted, nor the criminal whom she enclosed in\nher bosom could have extinguished in the depths of their being the\nfire of intelligence which consumed them\u2015\u2015there was to be seen a\nsilent and fugitive figure gliding along by the walls of the Tower,\nupon which a noble and slender form was reflected. The light footfall\nmade no sound, the sighs of her heart were stifled, and the folds of\nher veil hung motionless. She seated herself on the stone threshold of\nthe awful gate, and for a long time wept in silence.\n\n\u201cNaught!\u201d she said. \u201cNot a sound to be heard. These walls are like the\nhearts of the judges. Children weep,\u201d she said again. \u201cWhat are tears\nbut weakness and water? Not a gleam! It seems they have here neither\nfire nor life. What is this that consumes my heart? Weep, women! weep\nin your silken robes, under your downy coverings! As for me, it is the\nnight wind dries my tears, and the damp earth drinks them up! When\nwilt thou cease to weep, and when will the heart of Margaret feel\nrevived?\u2026 But why be astonished to feel it tremble? Has it not been\nbroken like a precious vase which can never more be mended?\n\n\u201c\u2018Come, Margaret, white Margaret!\u2019 they used to say when you trod on\nthe grass of the fields, Come, death, or yet a moment of life.\u201d\n\nAnd the young girl, standing on tiptoe, with strong arm and powerful\neffort, raised the heavy bronze griffin, which fell resounding upon\nthe brass of the doors, and then she started, for at times she was a\nwoman.\n\nBut there was no response; and when the sound of the iron had ceased\nto vibrate, and, it seemed to her, had exhausted itself in the air,\nnothing was heard but the monotonous dashing of the waves which came\nto die at the foot of the wall; and nothing more disturbed the silence\nof the night.\n\n\u201cDeaf as the pity in their souls!\u201d she said after some moments.\n\nAnd this time she knocked without flinching; for already Margaret had\nrecovered from her fears. But a long and mournful silence continued to\nreign.\n\nWhilst she was trying so ineffectually to reach her father, Sir Thomas\nre-entered the Tower, exhausted by fatigue. He had been confined in a\nstill more gloomy and narrow cell. A miserable lamp, high placed,\ndimly lighted the obscurity. He was seated in a corner, and, alone at\nleast, he went over in his mind the agonies he had endured in that\nfatal journey. \u201cWhere is my daughter now?\u201d he said to himself. \u201cAlas!\nI saw her but an instant going out from before the judges. She will\nhave seen that axe turned toward me. She will have said to herself\nthere is no more hope; that I was branded with the seal of the\ncondemned; that what she had heard was indeed true. If only she had\nreturned to Chelsea! For they will not permit me to linger: Cromwell\u2019s\neyes gleamed with a ferocious light. Yet what have I done to this man\nto make him hate me so intensely? My God, permit me not to be betrayed\ninto an emotion of hatred against\u201d (Sir Thomas hesitated)\u2015\u2015\u201cagainst my\nbrother,\u201d he continued with courage; \u201cfor, after all, he is a man like\nmyself, formed in the same mould, animated by the same intelligence;\nand it is better to be persecuted than to be the persecutor. Pardon\nhim, then, O my God! Let your mercy be extended toward him, surround\nhim on all sides, and never remember against him the evil he has\nwrought on me.\u201d\n\nWhile reflecting thus Sir Thomas suddenly heard a slight noise. He\npaused, and, seized with inexpressible anxiety, listened almost\nwithout breathing.\n\n\u201cIt was in such manner he walked! It is he! It is Rochester!\u201d he\ncried. \u201cBut no, I am mistaken; that cannot be,\u201d he said, casting his\neyes around him. \u201cThey have changed my cell; alas! I could not hear\nhim even should he be there. It is an error of my troubled\nimagination.\u201d\n\nBut the noise increased, and Sir Thomas soon heard them opening the\ndoors which led to his cell. Some one was approaching.\n\n\u201cAgain!\u201d he said. \u201cThey will not, then, allow me a moment of repose.\u201d\nAnd he saw Sir Thomas Pope coming in, bearing a roll of paper in his\nright hand.\n\nPope approached More and presented the paper.\n\nSir Thomas calmly took it from his hands, and, looking at Pope, said:\n\u201cWhat! Master Pope, the king has already signed the death-warrant?\u201d\nGlancing over the paper, he saw that his execution was set down for\nthe next morning at nine o\u2019clock.\n\n\u201cThe king, in his ineffable clemency,\u201d said Pope with an air of\nconstraint, \u201ccommutes your punishment to that of decapitation.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am much beholden to his majesty,\u201d said Sir Thomas. \u201cStill, good\nMaster Pope, I hope that my children and my friends may never have\nneed of any such favor.\u201d\n\nMore smiled at first; then he regarded Pope with an expression of\nindefinable melancholy, and was silent.\n\n\u201cIt is true\u2015\u2015it is too true,\u201d stammered Pope, \u201cthat this is not a\ngreat favor. But permit me, Sir Thomas, to avow to you that your\nconduct appears to me so strangely obstinate that I cannot explain it,\nand that you yourself seem to have had the wish to irritate the king\nagainst you to the last degree. Thus, you abandon your family, you\nleave your home, you lose your head, and all rather than take an oath\nto which our bishops have readily consented.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, consented, and not wished to take,\u201d replied Sir Thomas, \u201cpartly\nthrough fear, partly through surprise. They have taken it, you say;\nbut I fear that they may be already repenting it. Good Master Pope, if\nyou live you will surely see many strange events taking place in our\nunhappy country. In separating herself, in spite of the law of God,\nfrom the Church of Rome, you will see England change her face;\nintestine wars will rend her; the blood of her children will flow in\nevery direction for centuries, perchance. Who can foretell whither the\npath of error will lead us when once we have taken the first step?\nDoubtless we are still Christians; but Christians who, separated from\nthe mother that gave them birth, will soon have lost the revivifying\nspirit they have received from her. The Catholic faith, I know, cannot\nperish from the earth; but it can depart from one country into\nanother. If, in three hundred years from now, we were permitted to\nreturn, you and I, to this world, we should find the faith, as to-day,\npure from all error, one, and resting upon the indivisible truth, yet\nsubmitting to that supreme Head, to this key of St. Peter, which\nindeed some mortal men shall have carried a moment in their hands, and\nwhich is so violently attacked to-day. But my country, this land that\nI love\u2015\u2015for it holds the ashes of my father\u2015\u2015what is it destined to\nundergo? The incoherence and diversity of human opinions; the\nviolence, the absurdities of the passions which shall have dictated\nthem. Divided into a thousand sects, a thousand clashing opinions, you\nwill not find a single family, perhaps, where they are united in one\ncommon faith, in the same hope and the same charity! And this divine\nWord, the Sacred Scriptures, which we have received from our fathers,\nabandoned to the ignorance and the pride of a pretended liberty, will\nhave, perhaps, become only the source of horrible crimes and frightful\ncruelties, in place of being the foundation of all good and of every\nvirtue!\u201d\n\n\u201cVerily, Sir Thomas,\u201d said Pope, \u201cyou frighten me! How can it hap that\nthe ruin and disasters you have described should be in store for us?\nNo, no, I do not believe it; because it is then you would see us all\nbound up around the centre of unity which they think to destroy to-day\nby a word!\u2015\u2015expressions of a spiritual power which the prince may not,\nin fact, exercise.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe may not, as you say,\u201d replied Sir Thomas; \u201cbut he will exercise it\nnevertheless, and at least I shall not have to reproach myself with\nhaving contributed to it. Oh! no,\u201d he continued, \u201cno; and I am happy\nto shed my blood in testimony of this truth. For listen, Master Pope:\nI have not sacrificed twenty years of my life in the service of the\nstate without having studied what were her true interests, and\nconsequently those of society, which is at the same time her\nfoundation and support; and I declare to you that I have recognized\nand am thoroughly convinced that the Catholic religion, the\nrealization of the figurative and prophetic law given to the Jews, the\ndevelopment and complete perfection of the natural law, can alone be\nthe foundation of a prosperous and happy society, because it alone\npossesses the highest degree of morals possible to attain; it alone\nbears fruit in the heart; it alone can restrain, and is able even to\ndestroy, that selfishness, natural to man, which leads him to\nsacrifice everything to his desires and gratifications\u2015\u2015a selfishness\nwhich, abandoned to itself and carried to its greatest length, renders\nall social order impossible, and transforms men into a crowd of\nenraged enemies bent on mutual destruction.\n\n\u201cAll that tends to disrupt, then, all that would alter or attack, this\nexcellent religion, is a mortal blow aimed at the country and its\ncitizens, and necessarily tends to deprive them of that which ensures\ntheir dignity, their safety, their happiness, their hopes, and their\nfuture. Look around you at the universe, and behold on its surface the\npeople of those unhappy countries where the light of the Catholic\nfaith has been extinguished or has not yet been kindled. Study their\ngovernments, and behold in them the most monstrous despotisms, where\nblood flows like water, and the life of man is considered of less\nvalue than that of the frivolous animal which amuses him. Read the\ncruel laws their ferocity has dictated; learn the still more crying\nacts of injustice they commit, and how they pursue, as with a tearing\nlash, those whose weakness and stupidity have delivered them up as\nslaves; tremble at the recital of the tortures and barbarities they\ninflict before death, to which they condemn their victims without\nappeal as without investigation; behold the arts, spiritual affection,\nsublime poesy, perish there; ignorance, instability, misery, and\nterror succeed them, and reign without interruption and without\nrestraint. Ah! these noble ideas of right, of justice, of order and\nhumanity, which govern us, and ensure among us the triumph of the\nincredulous and proud philosopher, which makes him say and think that\nthey alone are sufficient for society\u2015\u2015he perceives not, blind as he\nis, that these are prizes in the hand of religion, who, extends them\nto him, and that, if he speaks like her, she speaks still better than\nhe. I do not say\u2015\u2015no, I do not say\u2015\u2015that we will fall as low as the\nTurk, the Indian, or the American savage. So long as one glimmer of\nthe Gospel, one souvenir of its maxims, shall remain standing in the\nmidst of us, we will not lose all that we have received since our\nancestors came out of the forests where they wandered, subsisting on\nthe flesh of wild animals; but we will begin to recede from the truth,\nwe will cover it with clouds; they will become darker and darker, and\nsoon, if we still go on, it will be no longer with a firm and resolute\nstep, but rather like gloomy travellers wandering in a vast desert\nwithout a breath of air or a drop of water.\u201d\n\nPope listened to Sir Thomas without daring to interrupt him, and felt\nhis heart touched by what he said. For this admirable man possessed\nthe faculty of attracting all who saw him immediately toward him; and\nwhen they heard him speak, the strength, the justness of his thoughts\nand his arguments penetrated little by little into their minds, until,\nalmost without perceiving it, they found themselves entirely changed,\nand astonished to feel that they were of the same opinion as himself.\n\nPope leaned against a stool which was there, and remained very\nthoughtful; for he had taken the oath himself, without dreaming that\nit could result in such serious consequences. Neither his convictions,\nhowever, nor his courage were such as would make him desire to give\nhis life for the truth; but he could not refrain from admiring this\ndevotion in the illustrious man before him. He looked at him without\nspeaking, and seemed entirely confounded.\n\nMistaking the cause, and seeing him abstracted and silent, Sir Thomas\nsupposed the conversation had wearied Pope; he therefore ceased\nspeaking, and, taking up the death-warrant, he read it a second time.\nAt the end his eyes filled with tears and his sight grew dim.\n\n\u201cIt is, then, fixed for to-morrow!\u201d he exclaimed\u2015\u2015\u201cto-morrow morning.\nOne night only! Oh! how I wish they would permit me to write to\nErasmus.[143] Pope,\u201d said he, \u201cshall I not be permitted to see once\nmore, for the last time, my dearly-beloved daughter? I fear that she\nmay be still in the city. I would like her to be sent away\u2015\u2015that Roper\nshould take her. Ah! Master Pope, it is not the riches or honors of\nthis world which are difficult to sacrifice, but the affections of the\nheart, of the soul that lives within us, which is entirely ourselves,\nwithout which the rest is nothing.\u201d And he again relapsed into\nsilence.\n\n\u201cI do not think you will be able to see her,\u201d said Pope, replying to\nthe question of Sir Thomas; \u201cand\u2015\u2015even\u2015\u2015\u201d he added with painful\nhesitation, \u201cI am also charged to ask you not to make any remarks to\nthe people on the scaffold. The king hath expressly so willed, and\nthen he will permit your wife and children to assist at your\ninterment.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d replied Sir Thomas, \u201cI thank his majesty for manifesting so much\nsolicitude about my poor interment; but it matters little where these\nmiserable bones be laid when I have abandoned them. God, who has made\nthem out of nothing, will be able to find the ashes and recall them a\nsecond time into being when it shall please him to restore them to\nthat indestructible life which he has so graciously vouchsafed to\npromise them.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou wish to speak, then?\u201d answered Pope. \u201cNevertheless, I believe it\nwould be better not to anger the king more.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no!\u201d replied Sir Thomas, \u201cmy dear Master Pope, you are mistaken.\nSince the king desires it, I will not speak. Most certainly I intended\ndoing so; but since he forbids it, I will forbear. If they refuse me\npermission to see my daughter,\u201d replied Sir Thomas, \u201cI hope, at least,\nI may be able to see the Bishop of Rochester; since he has taken the\noath, they will not fear.\u201d\n\n\u201cTaken the oath!\u201d cried Pope. \u201cWhy, he has been executed; he died\nto-day!\u201d\n\n\u201cHe died to-day!\u201d repeated Sir Thomas. \u201cMy friend died to-day! O\nCromwell! May God, whose power is infinite, hear my voice, grant my\nrequests: may the same dangers unite us, that, following close in thy\nfootsteps, my last sigh may be breathed with thine!\u201d\n\nAnd More, plunged in the deepest grief, slowly repeated the memorable\nwords, the solemn words, which the holy bishop had pronounced in\npresence of the Lord and of his friend during the vigil of St. Thomas,\nwhen they were alone together in his home at Chelsea.\n\n\u201cRochester would not take the oath, then!\u201d continued More in a stifled\nvoice, clasping his hands and elevating them toward heaven.\n\n\u201cAlas! no,\u201d replied Pope.\n\n\u201cCromwell told me he had.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe lied,\u201d answered Pope, and his eyes filled with tears.\n\n\u201cHe would not swear?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever!\u201d\n\n\u201cPope,\u201d said More, \u201cI beg you to let me write to Erasmus. To-morrow I\nshall be no more! You are the last living man to whom I shall be able\nto speak.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! Sir Thomas,\u201d cried Pope uneasily, \u201cif that letter were seized,\nwhat would become of me?\u201d\n\n\u201cLet me write a few words on this leaf,\u201d replied Sir Thomas, looking\nat a leaf of white paper belonging to the book which contained his\ncondemnation\u2015\u2015\u201ca word on this leaf,\u201d he continued. \u201cPope, you can cut\nit off and send it later when there will be no danger for you. Nay,\ngood Pope, grant me this favor,\u201d he added. \u201cI have neither pen nor\nink; but I have here a piece of charcoal, which I have already tried\nto sharpen.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! Sir Thomas,\u201d replied Pope, \u201cI have not the heart to refuse you;\nhowever, I shall have cause, perhaps, to repent it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo! no!\u201d cried Sir Thomas. \u201cIf you cannot send him this last farewell\nwithout being afraid, you can burn it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWrite, then; I consent,\u201d said Pope; and he handed the death-warrant\nto Sir Thomas, who had returned it to him.\n\nMore seized it, and wrote the following words:\n\n \u201cErasmus! O Erasmus! my friend, this is the last time I\n shall have the happiness of pronouncing your name. An entire\n life, O my friend! is passed; it has glided by in a moment.\n Behold one about to end like a day that is closed. I have\n loved you as long as I have had breath; as long as I have\n felt my heart throb in my bosom the name of Erasmus has\n reigned there. Alas! I have so many things to say to you.\n Though the words die on my lips, your heart alone will be\n able to comprehend mine. May it enter; may it hear in my\n soul all that More has wished to say to Erasmus!\n\n \u201cWhen you receive this page, I shall be no more; it is still\n attached to the writ which contains my sentence of death.\n Erasmus, I am going to leave Margaret. I abandon my\n children! Our friend Pierre Gilles is here. I saw him for a\n moment\u2015\u2015the moment when they were pronouncing sentence on\n me. Without doubt, to-morrow morning, I shall see him at the\n foot of the scaffold. I shall be kept at a distance from\n him; I shall not be able to say a single word to him. My\n eyes will be directed toward him, my hand will be stretched\n out; but my heart will not be permitted to speak to him! O\n Erasmus! how I suffer. And Margaret\u2015\u2015O my friend! if you had\n seen her, how pale she was, what anguish was painted on all\n her features. I could wish that she loved me less: she would\n not suffer so much in seeing me die. Erasmus, not one\n minute! Time is short; the hour approaches. Oh! when I could\n write those long letters so peaceably, when science alone\n and the good of humanity occupied us both; when I saw those\n letters despatched so quietly to go in search of you, and\n said to myself: \u2018In so many days I shall receive his\n reply!\u2019\u2026 No more replies, Erasmus! If ever you come to\n England, you will ask in what corner they have thrown my\n ashes. Oh! what would become of me if I were not a\n Christian? What happiness to feel our faith rising up from\n the depths of wretchedness, to hear all our groans and\n lamentions, and to answer them! I die a Christian! I die for\n this faith so pure and beautiful! for that faith which is\n the happiness and glory of the human race. At this thought I\n feel myself reanimated; new strength inspires my heart; hope\n inundates my soul. I shall see you all again. Yes, one\n day\u2015\u2015one day after a long absence\u2015\u2015I shall clasp you once\n more to my bosom in the presence of God himself. I shall see\n again my daughter! We will find ourselves invested with our\n same bodies. \u2018I shall see my God,\u2019 said Job; \u2018for I know\n that my Redeemer liveth, and that I shall rise again at the\n last day; I will go out of this world into that which I am\n about to enter, and then I shall see my God. It will be I\n who shall see him, and not another.\u2019\n\n \u201cErasmus, to live for ever, to love for ever! Farewell.\n\n \u201cYour brother, your friend,\n \u201cTHOMAS MORE.\u201d\n\nThe charcoal began to crumble in his hands. He was scarcely able to\ntrace the last words. He pressed his lips on them and returned the\nbook to Pope.\n\nMeanwhile, Margaret, tired of knocking, and losing all hope of\nreaching her father, was seated upon the stone step before the door of\nthe prison, and, being wrapped in her veil, she remained motionless\nand mute, like a statue of stone whose head, bowed upon its garments,\nis the personification of sorrow and silence.\n\nThus she sat absorbed in thought, and the burning tears had bathed her\nhands and ran down on her knees, when the footstep of a man who was\napproaching from the quay aroused her from her reverie. Alarmed, she\narose abruptly, and, placing her hand upon a long and sharp dagger she\nhad attached to her side, she stood awaiting the intruder; but she\nrecognized Roper.\n\n\u201cMargaret,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cwhat are you doing there?\u201d And he spoke\nthese few words to her in a melancholy tone of voice more expressive\nof pain than reproach; because he sought her, knowing well where he\nwould find her.\n\n\u201cIt is you, Roper,\u201d said the young girl, and she resumed her seat as\nbefore. William Roper then came and seated himself by her side; taking\nher cold and wet hand, he pressed it to his lips with an inexpressible\noppression of heart. \u201cO Margaret!\u201d he said at last with a deep sigh,\n\u201cwhy stay you here?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo see him again to-morrow\u2015\u2015yes, to-morrow! But tell me, Roper, why I\nfeel so weak; why my blood runs so cold in my veins; why I no longer\nhave either strength or energy; why, in fact, I feel myself dying,\nwithout being able to cease to exist! O William! look at that dark\nriver in front of us, and that black hill lifting its head beyond.\nWell! when the sky begins to grow white on that side, that will be the\nlight of to-morrow which will dawn; that will be the hour of the\nexecution approaching; and then you will see the eager crowd come\npressing around the boards of the scaffold, come to feast on the\ncruelty of the misfortune it applauds, to enjoy the death its\nstupidity has not ordered. You will see them decked out in their\nribbons, while the bells of the city will ring for the feast\u2015\u2015the\ngreat feast of St. Thomas; for that is to-morrow, and to-morrow they\nwill come to see my father die. Then all that I love will be torn from\nme, and nothing more will remain to me on earth. Oh! how happy are the\nstrong: they break or perish. Roper, speak to me of Rochester. I loved\nhim also, that venerable man. No, do not speak of him. Hush! I know\nall; I have seen everything. They dragged him to the scaffold; he\nprayed for them while holding his feeble, attenuated neck upon the\nfatal block; and, detached from the earth, his soul continued in\nheaven the canticle it had commenced in this world.\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas! yes,\u201d said Roper. \u201cThey had to carry him to the scaffold on a\nchair, because he was no longer able to sustain himself.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! Roper,\u201d cried Margaret, \u201cbehold the fatal light! Here is the\nday!\u201d And she fell, almost deprived of consciousness.\n\n\u201cNo, Margaret, no; the hour strikes, but it strikes only the small\nhours of the night. It is not yet day, my beloved\u2015\u2015it is not day!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! how cold I am,\u201d said the young girl, shaking the veil which\nenveloped her, all humid with the dews of night. \u201cRoper, is there no\nmore hope, then? Do you believe it? Do you believe there is no more\nhope\u2015\u2015that to-morrow I will see my father die?\u201d\n\n\u201cAlas!\u201d said Roper, \u201cPierre Gilles has gone to seek the queen and\nthrow himself at her feet.\u201d\n\n\u201cSay not the queen!\u201d cried Margaret. \u201cGive not the name of queen to\nthat woman!\u201d\n\n\u201cAt least, so they call her,\u201d said Roper. \u201cShe is all-powerful; if she\nwould only ask his pardon! But they press her so much! But, no, she\nwill not do it, Margaret; she is a hyena covered with a beautiful\nskin. She managed to procure the head of Rochester, and with her foul\nhand dealt it an infamous blow.[144] Ah! Margaret, I have done wrong\nin speaking to you thus.\u201d And Roper was silent, regretting the words\nthat indignation had forced him to utter.\n\n\u201cShe struck it!\u201d cried Margaret. \u201cShe recoiled not before those white\nlocks dripping with the blood her crimes caused to flow! William, I\nshudder at it! Oh! can you believe it? The only time that I have seen\nmy father he spoke to me of her with tears in his eyes; he said that\nhe prayed God to raise her soul from out the miserable depths into\nwhich she had fallen. Roper, look!\u2015\u2015there is day!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, Margaret, no!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it will come! Ah! how the hours fly, and yet I would be willing.\u2026\nNo! no! nothing. William, I feel as though I were dying! Yet I would\nwish to see him again\u2015\u2015again once more!\u201d\n\nRoper took the hand of his affianced. It was burning; the irregular\nand rapid throbbing of her veins betokened the agony that her soul\nendured.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d she continued after a moment\u2019s silence, \u201cspeak, then\u2015\u2015speak to\nme of Rochester; tell me how the saints die.\u201d\n\n\u201cMargaret, I can talk no more; I feel so crushed by the excess of\nthese afflictions that I have not even dared to glance at them.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, you were deaf and blind; you always will be, and for a long time\nI have been telling you so. It is a long time, also, since I saw all,\nsince I felt this horrible hour coming on, since I measured the\nweakness of my hands and curbed the strength of my mind. It is long\nsince I knew that I must remain alone in this world; for this life\nwill not depart from my breast, and without crime I cannot tear it\naway! I must live, and live deprived of everything. Do you see this\nweapon, Roper?\u201d And Margaret drew the poignard, the blade of which\nflashed. \u201cWere I not the daughter of More; feared I not the Lord; if\nhis law, like a seal of brass, had not engraven his commandments on my\nlips and in my heart, you should see if I would not deliver my\nfather\u2015\u2015if Cromwell, if Henry, struck down suddenly by the arm and the\nhatred of a woman, would not have already, while rolling in the dust\nand pronouncing my name, cried to the universe that cursed was the day\nwhen they had resolved to assassinate my father! In giving my life I\nbecame mistress of theirs! Ah! where would they be to-day\u2015\u2015this brave\nking, this powerful favorite? A little infected dust, from which the\ndrunken grave-digger would instinctively turn away! But, William,\nraise your eyes; look at those numberless stars that gleam so brightly\nabove our heads! The word of Him who has suspended them thus in the\nimmensity of the heavens humbles my spirit, enchains my will. He\nordains, I am silent; he speaks, I obey. Impotent by his prohibition\nalone, I can die, but not resist him.\u201d\n\nAnd Margaret, pressing her lips upon the blade of the threatening\nweapon, cried: \u201cYes, I love thee because thou art able to defend or\navenge me; and if thy tempered blade remains useless in my hands, say\nthat it is God himself who has ordered it. Let them render thanks,\nthen, to that God whom they provoke and despise; let them return\nthanks to him; for neither their guards nor their pride, their crimes\nnor their gold, could have prevented Margaret from sweeping them from\nthe earth which they pollute, and breaking their audacious power like\na wisp of straw that is given to the winds!\u201d\n\nShe turned toward Roper, transported by courage and grief. But she saw\nthat he was not listening, and that, entirely crushed by the misery he\nexperienced, he had not sufficient energy in his soul to try to resist\nit.\n\n\u201cHe is already resigned!\u201d she said. An expression of scorn and disgust\ncontracted the features of the young girl; she abruptly withdrew the\nhand he held in his own; moving away from him, she went and seated\nherself farther off, and, remaining with her eyes fixed upon the east,\nawaited the moment of harrowing joy which, while restoring her father\nto her, would tear him away from her for ever.\n\nAs the hours slowly tolled, each one awaking a dolorous echo in her\nheart\u2015\u2015when at last she saw the first rays of morning stealing over\nthe heavens, and the rosy tint which precedes the flame of Aurora\u2015\u2015she\nturned again toward Roper; but, happy mortal! his heavy eyelids had\nlulled his afflicted soul to sleep. As a reaper reposes sweetly in a\nfield covered with rich grain, so Roper slept peacefully with his head\nresting against the walls of a prison.\n\nMargaret arose instantly, and, seized with indignation, she advanced\ntoward him, and, with her hands clasped, stood regarding him. \u201cHe\nsleeps!\u201d she said\u2015\u2015\u201che sleeps! Truly, man is a noble being, full of\ncourage, of energy, of impassibility, of strength of mind. It is thus\nthat they accomplish such great things! Dear Roper, you belong to this\nmass of men which crowds us in on every side, absorbing and devouring\nour lives! You are their brother, their friend; like them, during the\nday, you love that which laughs, that which sings, and you sleep\nduring the night. Well! I will laugh with you, with them. Are you\nworthy of beholding me weep? No; my father alone shall have my last\ntears, and carry with him the secret of my soul.\u201d\n\nAnd Margaret, seizing the hand of Roper, shook it violently. He awoke,\nstartled.\n\n\u201cIt is day!\u201d he said. \u201cAh! it is day! Margaret\u2015\u2015eh! you are weeping.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I am not weeping,\u201d replied the young girl. \u201cI have slept also,\nslept very well\u2015\u2015and I am comforted!\u201d\n\n\u201cComforted! What do you mean? Has Pierre Gilles obtained his pardon?\nHave they granted his freedom?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, they have granted his freedom\u2015\u2015from life. In a word, they will\nshorten it, they will drag him from the midst of you. Is that a\nmisfortune or a benefit, an injury or a favor? This is what I cannot\ndecide. But as for me, I remain here!\u201d\n\n\u201cMargaret,\u201d cried Roper, \u201cwhat is wrong with you?\u201d And he gazed at\nher, astonished at the cutting irony and the bitter despair expressed\nin the tone of her voice and imprinted on her features. \u201cI no longer\nrecognize you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, I am changed, Roper. Henceforth you shall be my only model. Who\nis that young woman dressed in gauze, crowned with flowers, whom the\nlight and rapid dance carries far from the banquet and the cups filled\nwith fragrant cordials\u2015\u2015who casts far away from her the memory of her\nfather, and has forgotten the grave of her mother? That is the wife of\nWilliam, Margaret Roper. No, I do not want that name. Go, keep it;\ngive it to some one who resembles yourself, to whom you may bear\npresents, and who, on hearing you say it, will believe that one can be\nhappy\u2015\u2015yes, will believe that it is possible to be happy!\u201d\n\n\u201cMargaret,\u201d said Roper, more and more surprised, \u201cI cannot comprehend\nwhat you would say.\u201d\n\n\u201cNor do I any more,\u201d replied the young girl, wiping her forehead; for\nshe was warm. \u201cBut do you understand at least, Roper, that the city is\nawake, that they are preparing the scaffold down below, that the\nsoldiers are astir within, that I hear the clanking of their arms,\nthat we are very soon going to see my father pass? Tell me, Roper, how\ndo you contrive to become so unfeeling, to love nothing, to regret\nnothing? Have you a secret for this? Give it to me\u2015\u2015give me that which\nmakes one neither feel nor speak; that one can sleep beside the axe\nand the prison, when within the prison lies a father whom they are\nabout to immolate!\u201d\n\nAnd she fixed her piercing eyes on him.\n\n\u201cAh! Margaret. Yes, I have slept, I have done wrong; but fatigue\novercame me. It seemed to me I saw him; I dreamed that I had rescued\nhim.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, your dreams are always happy; but look, Roper, here is the\nreality.\u201d\n\nMargaret withdrew to one side under the walls of the Tower; for the\ndoor of the fortress was opened, and they saw a troop of soldiers,\nfully armed, preparing to march out.\n\n\u201cTower Hill!\u201d cried their commander; and they filed out in great\nnumbers. Others succeeded them; they arranged themselves in two\ncolumns, which extended from the gate of the lower to the place of\nexecution, still dyed with the blood of Rochester.\n\nMeanwhile, the rumor spread abroad rapidly that they had sent for the\ntwo sheriffs; that Sir Thomas More, former lord chancellor, was going\nto be executed; and from all directions crowds of people rushed\nprecipitately\u2015\u2015some remembering the lofty position the condemned had\noccupied; the greater number, without thinking of anything (coming to\nsee the criminal as they would come to see any other), impelled by\ninstinct, habit, or want of occupation, arrived without aim, as\nwithout reflection.\n\nWho can paint the anguish of Margaret when she felt herself\nsurrounded, jostled, elbowed, by this turbulent throng, crowding and\nshouting, which pushed her up against the prison walls, threatening to\ncarry her forcibly from the inch of ground which she had held all\nnight; and more still by this ignoble mob of malefactors, vagabonds,\nof adventurers of all kinds, who came in those days of murder to learn\nin the public square what their own end would be, and to behold the\nfuneral couch society had destined for them on the day they should\nfail in audacity or skill. Who can describe, express, or feel the\nshame that overwhelmed her soul in spite of her reason, and suffused\nher pure brow with the blush of ignominy, when she heard them\npronounce the name of her father, howling and clapping their hands\nbecause the criminal was slow in appearing and the tragedy they\nawaited did not begin? Her weary eyes sought Pierre Gilles in this\ntumult, and he was not there. He, at least, would have understood\nMargaret. She was unable to explain his absence; he had no more\nhope\u2015\u2015unless the queen had detained him. But he must know that the\nexecution was near, that the hour had arrived. And if he had obtained\nit, and should this pardon arrive too late! A thousand times Margaret,\nrendered desperate, was on the point of addressing the fickle crowd\nsurrounding her. She wanted to say to them: \u201cI am his daughter! Oh!\nsave my father. He who sacrificed his life, his comforts, his\nhappiness, to govern you wisely, to render you full justice, to\nreconcile your families, is going to perish unjustly!\u201d But her anxious\ngaze fell only on faces coarse, stupid, indolent, impassible, or\nvicious. Then she felt the words die on her lips, while courage and\nhope expired in her heart.\n\nThe hours glide away in these mortal agonies; for they pass as rapidly\nin the excess of sorrow as during the intoxicating seasons of joy and\nhappiness. Presently Margaret heard a confused noise arise. The masses\nmoved; the soldiers drew up closer, brandishing their arms\u2015\u2015they were\nafraid of being overwhelmed. The crowds climbed on everything they\ncould find: the quay, the carts, carriages, steps\u2015\u2015they took\npossession of all, made ladders of everything. Margaret is drawn into\nthis frightful whirlpool; she struggles in vain, trying to make room\nand to stand firm. A loud clamor arose, re-echoed, increased, was\nreproduced in the distance. \u201cHe comes! he comes!\u201d they cried on all\nsides. \u201cHow pale he is! That is he! that is Sir Thomas More, the old\nlord chancellor! Oh! how poor he looks. He walks with difficulty; he\nleans on a stick; he has a cross of red wood in his hand; he bows on\neach side of him. There are the sheriffs walking behind him. There is\na tall black man who follows them. Do you see the lieutenant of the\nTower? He is there also. Hush! he makes a sign with his hand. He\nsmiles! How fast they carry him along! One has not time to see him.\nAre they afraid, then, that we will take him away by force? Eh! no\nperson thinks of that. He has done something very bad, they say. We\nbelieved him so good! Ah! here is somebody stopping him. Look! look!\nHe speaks! he speaks! Yes, he speaks!\u201d For Margaret, reduced to\ndespair, animated by a superhuman strength, has broken through the\nranks, passed through the guards. She throws herself on the neck of\nMore; she sees him, she embraces him, she clasps him to her throbbing,\npalpitating bosom.\n\n\u201cMy daughter! my daughter!\u201d said More, pressing her to his heart; \u201coh!\nwhat anguish to see you here.\u201d\n\nAnd his cheeks, pale and furrowed by suffering, were wet with tears\nthat brought no relief to his soul.\n\nAt this spectacle the guards themselves were moved. \u201cThat is his\ndaughter, his poor daughter!\u201d they exclaimed on all sides; and by a\nunanimous movement of respect and compassion they stepped aside,\nforming a circle around him, while the tears flowed from all eyes.\n\n\u201cHow beautiful she is!\u201d said the men. \u201cHow young she is!\u201d exclaimed\nthe women.\n\n\u201cMy father! my beloved father!\u201d cried Margaret, shuddering, \u201cbeg of\nGod that I may not survive you; that I also may soon leave this world\nwhen you abandon it! O my father! bless me again, and swear to me that\nyou will ask God to let me die also.\u201d\n\nShe threw herself on her knees without letting go his hands, which she\nbathed with a torrent of tears and pressed against her face as though\nwithout power to release them.\n\n\u201cDearly beloved daughter!\u201d said More, resting his hand upon her long,\ndishevelled locks, \u201coh! yes, may the Lord bless you as I love and\nbless you myself. You have been a sacred charge, a treasure of joy and\nhappiness which he has given me; I return it to him! He is your first\nFather\u2015\u2015he will never abandon you; and one day\u2015\u2015a day not far distant,\nfor the life of man is but a breath that passes in a moment\u2015\u2015we shall\nbe reunited, to be no more separated, in a blessed eternity! Margaret,\nsince I have had the happiness of seeing you before I die, take my\nblessing to your brothers and your sisters; tell them, and also all my\ngood friends, to pray the Lord for me! You know them? O Margaret! let\nPierre Gilles learn from you how much I have loved him; how deeply I\nam touched, and grateful for this voyage he made, I doubt not for me\nalone. Alas! if I feel a regret in dying, it is because of not being\nable to tell him this myself. Why is he not with you? But I perceive\nRoper, my beloved daughter; give him also a thousand blessings. You\nknow that I have regarded him for a long time as my son; love him as\nyou have loved myself, and let your tears flow not without\nconsolation, because, since it pleases God to permit me to die to-day,\nI am perfectly resigned to his will, and I would wish nothing\nchanged.\u201d And Sir Thomas, bending over her, clasped her closely to his\nheart.\n\n\u201cLet me follow you!\u201d she gasped in a low voice; for she was no longer\nable to speak.\n\n\u201cMargaret, you give me pain.\u201d\n\n\u201cI would follow you,\u201d she said in still more stifled tones.\n\n\u201cAh! Kingston,\u201d exclaimed More (and the perspiration poured from his\nforehead), \u201cmy good friend, assist me in placing her in the hands of\nher husband.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will do it,\u201d cried a bellowing voice well known to Sir Thomas.\n\n\u201cMaster Roper, come and take your wife away.\u201d And they saw the hideous\nface of Cromwell pass, who surveyed those who accompanied the\ncondemned.\n\nIn the meantime William Roper had succeeded in pushing his way through\nthe crowd; he took the hand of More, and kissed it, weeping.\n\n\u201cTake her, my son,\u201d said More, entirely occupied with Margaret. \u201cI\nconfide her to you, I give her to you; be her support, her friend, her\ndefender!\u201d And he turned to resume his march.\n\nMargaret, observing this movement, again endeavored to rush toward\nhim; but the crowd hurried on, the guards closed around, and she found\nherself separated from her father.\n\nHe cast upon her a last look, which he carried to the skies. She\nuttered a piercing cry; but already he had moved on and far away.\n\nShe rushed forward, endeavoring again to break through the crowd; but\ncuriosity had made them form like a rampart, growing every instant\naround her.\n\nShe heard the commands of the military authorities; already she could\nnot see beyond the group that surrounded her; then she almost lost the\nuse of reason. \u201cSave my father! save him!\u201d she cried, extending her\nsuppliant hands toward those who environed her, whose sympathies were\ndiversely excited according to their different characters.\n\n\u201cWhy have they brought this young woman to this place?\u201d said the good\nones. \u201cHis daughter, his poor daughter!\u201d murmured the more\ncompassionate. \u201cShe looks like a lunatic!\u201d replied the others. \u201cShe\nwill die from this; it will kill her. It is most cruel! If the king\nhad only granted his pardon! He might have done it.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, pardon, pardon!\u201d repeated Margaret, frenzied and wandering.\n\u201cThey have granted his pardon, I assure you. Pierre Gilles has been to\nHampton Court to find that woman. Roper, is it not so? Roper, I am\ndying; take me away.\u201d And she grew pale and seemed ready to faint.\nThree or four hands were immediately advanced to sustain her; but\nRoper would not suffer them to touch her, and, raising her in his\narms, he asked them to make way for him to lead her out of the crowd\nand from the place. The crowd opened with respect, and he assisted\nMargaret to the same place where she had passed the night awaiting,\nwith her eyes fixed on the horizon, the terrible day which was to\nremove her for ever from her father.\n\n\u201cIt is daylight, daylight,\u201d said Margaret. \u201cYonder, Roper! And when\nnight comes on, he will be already cold in death! O Roper! all this in\none day. William, give him back to me! What have they done with him?\nOh! no, he will not die. He is going to the king!\u201d\n\nShe kept her eyes fast closed, and poor Roper regarded her with\nanxiety.\n\n\u201cThey have forced him away! You know the place where the soldiers have\ntaken him. I have seen it\u2015\u2015I have seen everything. But that was\nyesterday, Roper. I have lost my reason,\u201d she suddenly exclaimed,\nopening her eyes, filled with terror. \u201cTell me, where is he? They will\nlet me bury his body, will they not? I will kiss his face, I will\nembalm him; and you will bury me beside him, will you not, Roper? They\nwill not leave it on the bridge\u2015\u2015that head; I will remain on my knees\nuntil they give it to me! O Heaven! dost thou hear\u2015\u2015dost thou hear the\ncries of the people? All is ended; the crime is consummated! My father\nhas left the earth! Roper, let us go to the church; I want to pray\u2015\u2015to\npray until eternity!\u201d\n\nAlas! Margaret spoke truly. Arriving at the scaffold, More, after\nhaving embraced the executioner and given him a gold angel in token of\nforgiveness, was beheaded by the same axe, upon the very block on\nwhich the head of his friend Rochester had fallen a few hours before.\n\nThus perished these two illustrious men, the glory and honor of\nEngland. Thus began the cruel schism which since then has torn so many\nchildren from the church, separated a great number of Christians from\nthe common trunk, and deprived, in the course of centuries, so many\nsouls of the knowledge of the eternal and indivisible truth.\n\nAnd now, when old England unrolls before the eyes of the eager\nexplorer of the past the long list of her kings, she places one of her\nfingers upon the bloody diadem which encircles the brow of Henry\nVIII., and with the other she points out to the moved heart the spot\nwhere, their dust mingled together, sleep within the walls of her most\nancient fortress the victims of the fury of this king. For she also,\nthat first cause of so many woes\u2015\u2015the young Anne Boleyn, so proud of\nher fatal beauty\u2015\u2015passed from the throne to the scaffold at the very\nmoment when Catherine was dying of misery, pain, and neglect in the\ndepths of an obscure city. The odious Cromwell, who had guided her to\nthat scaffold, was not long in following her, and his ignoble blood\nwas at last brought to expiate in the same place that of the\nillustrious More.\n\n * * * * *\n\nSuch, reader, is the recital which as a faithful historian I resolved\nto set before you. A book is a thought. Mine has been written to\nemphasize a truth in our days too often forgotten\u2015\u2015which is, that\nreligion alone can lead men to happiness and perfection; that, being\nthe most perfect law which it is possible to conceive of or attain, it\nis to her alone we should attach ourselves, and it is by her alone the\nstate will see reared in its midst wise and just rulers or noble and\ngenerous citizens; that all, in fine, will see wisdom, science, order,\nand prosperity flourish.\n\n PRINCESSE DE CRAON.\n\n\n [143] The learned Erasmus was then at the height of his\n brilliant fame. After numerous visits to England, where he\n had formed an intimate friendship with Thomas More, he fixed\n his residence at B\u00e2le, in Switzerland. Admired by all the\n princes of his time, by all his learned contemporaries and a\n crowd of illustrious men, he contributed by his powerful\n writings to restrain Germany from barbarism.\n\n [144] This fact is related by an English historian, who has\n written the life of the Bishop of Rochester. The same author\n adds that Anne Boleyn, in giving the blow, cut her finger\n against one of the teeth which the axe had broken; that\n there came a sore on the finger; that they had the greatest\n difficulty in getting it healed, and she carried the scar\n until her death.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n\n\n\n ADVENT.\n\n\n Clear as the silver call\n Of Israel\u2019s trumpets on her holy days,\n Calling her children from all walks and ways,\n The church\u2019s accents fall.\n\n With sweet and solemn sound\n Where winter\u2019s ice imprisons lake and stream,\n Where tropic woods with fadeless summer gleam\n They make their joyful round\u2015\u2015\n\n Joyful, and yet how grave;\n Bidding us kneel with faces to the east,\n And watch for Him, our sacrifice and priest,\n Who cometh, strong to save.\n\n As, at a mother\u2019s feet,\n The children of one household sit to learn\n Some sweet domestic lesson, each in turn\n His portion to repeat,\n\n So, at this holy tide,\n Calling us round her for exalted talk,\n From each loved haunt, from each familiar walk,\n She bids us turn aside\n\n And list while she relates\n The blessed story\u2015\u2015old, yet ever new\u2015\u2015\n Of Him, the Sun of Righteousness, the True,\n Whose dawn she celebrates.\n\n Now the rapt prophets sing\n Their anthems in each bowed and listening ear;\n Now the bold Baptist\u2019s clarion voice we hear\n Down the glad centuries ring;\n\n Till, fired with joy as they\n Who spread their garments \u2019neath his precious feet,\n With rapture we go forth our Lord to meet,\n Our glad hosannas pay.\n\n Yet list! Another note\n Blends with the holy song our Mother sings,\n And, high above the harp\u2019s exultant strings,\n Clear, trumpet-like doth float.\n\n He comes to judge the world;\n To garner up his wheat, to purge his floor,\n While into flames of fire for evermore\n The worthless chaff is hurled.\n\n Lord! we would put aside\n The gauds and baubles of this mortal life\u2015\u2015\n Weak self-conceit, the foolish tools of strife,\n The tawdry garb of pride\u2015\u2015\n\n And pray, in Christ\u2019s dear name,\n Thy grace to deck us in the robes of light;\n That at his coming we may stand aright\n And fear no sudden shame.\n\n\n\n\nTHE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1876.\n\n\nThe year has been one of grave anxiety to all the world. It opened in\nshadow; it closes in gloom. Among nations as among individuals there\nprevails a feeling of uneasiness, of dread at a something impending.\nHere at home we are happily removed from the dangers that the European\nnations have for centuries invited. We have no national crimes to\nanswer for. We have not persecuted God\u2019s church. We have not martyred\nhis confessors. We have not sealed our Constitution with heresy. We\nhave not betrayed a faith committed to our keeping. And these are\nthings worth priding ourselves on, worth confirming ourselves in, in\nthe centennial year of our Republic. They are the brightest jewels in\nthe nation\u2019s crown, and may they shine there for ever!\n\nOf course we have had our faults\u2015\u2015abundance of them. We have made\nmistakes, and in the course of human events will probably make many\nmore, for nations never become great without suffering and sacrifice;\nthey can no more hope to escape these fiery proofs than individuals.\nBut at least we have, as a nation, been guiltless of the graver sins\nagainst God, his church, and humanity. And it is on this fact above\nall that men who believe in a God ruling over this world found their\nhopes for the future.\n\nIt is not our purpose here even to glance at our history in the past\nhundred years. Our present business is with the year just closing.\nLooking at the plain, level facts before us, we confess that they wear\nan ugly aspect. It is painful to be compelled to acknowledge that the\ndawn of the hundredth year of our national existence might have been\nfar brighter. Unhappily, the legacy of many years of mistakes,\nmisgovernment, and\u2015\u2015let it be confessed with pain\u2015\u2015of malfeasance in\nhigh places, both in State and national offices, has accumulated to\nfall upon this year of all others. One good, at least, has come from\nit. The nation, in American fashion, injured as it was, has at length\nfaced the evil, which is in itself and due to no extraneous influence\nat all. The year opened with investigations. Indeed, it has been\npre-eminently a year of investigations; and much matter there was to\ninquire into. The result showed a wide-spread corruption in the\nnational administration. This corruption was probably one of the\nresults of the war; but it was none the less corruption on that\naccount. The Rebellion had been crushed, heroic deeds had been done.\n_V\u00e6 victis!_ There was an army of political heroes waiting for their\nreward. There are more ways than one of sacking a city. In these days\nwe sack nations\u2015\u2015as witness Germany and France\u2015\u2015and arrange the terms\nof the sacking in peaceful convention. There are insects that thrive\nand grow fat on corruption. Some of these set on the carcase of the\ndead South. Others settled on the offices of national, State, and\nmunicipal government. They have been eating their way into the body\npolitic for sixteen years. There is only a rotten shell left, and this\nyear that shell fell to pieces.\n\nIn treating of the last Presidential election in our annual review of\nfour years back, we wrote: \u201cGeneral Grant was re-elected. The\nopposition arrayed against him \u2026 utterly broke down. General Grant\u2019s\nis undoubtedly a national election; we trust, therefore, that his\nfuture term may correspond with the confidence placed in his rule by\nthe nation; may be productive of all the good which we expect of it\nfor the nation at large; may heal up old wounds still sore; and may\nlead the country wisely into a new era of prosperity and peace.\u201d\n\nIt is plain that we bore no ill-will to the President. What shall we\nsay of his administration to-day? What need we say in face of the\naction of the country regarding the administration?\n\nThe heart sickens at going over the record of the year. It is only the\nculmination of the preceding years of ill-government which have been\nduly noted in this review, and which there is no special reason now to\nenumerate. We would not undertake to say that the government under\nPresident Grant has, _as a whole_, been a failure; but in great part\nit undoubtedly has been. We use a studiously mild term in describing\nit as eminently unsatisfactory, and the verdict of the nation, as\ngiven in the recent Presidential elections, endorses our opinion.\nWhoever may be seated in the President\u2019s chair for the next four\nyears, President Grant and his party have been condemned by the\nfeeling and vote of the county, not because he was so foolish as to\naspire to a third term on the strength of an administration that fell\nto pieces of its own rottenness and on a proposed anti-Catholic\nticket, but simply because the country was sick of it. The disgrace\nand fall of the Secretary of War, the recall of the American Minister\nat the English court, the disclosures of corruption and inexcusable\nexpenditure in the civil service, the plain traces of corruption in\nevery department of the public service down to the most obscure, such\nas the peddling in post-traderships by the brother of the\nPresident\u2015\u2015all of which came to a head within the present year; the\nstanch support given by the President to men whom he had appointed to\noffice, many of whose dealings were shown to be of a most doubtful\ncharacter, so much so that some of them just escaped the fate of\nthieves by technicalities of the law that in themselves were moral\ncondemnation\u2015\u2015all this was only the rotten ripeness of a growth\ndiseased from the beginning.\n\nBut if the year, notwithstanding gloomy forebodings, to which we had\ngrown accustomed, has been one of disgrace and disaster where pride\nand glory ought to have had place, it has not been without its bright\nside. The Presidential elections have been a series of surprises. Late\nin last year, as we noted at the time, President Grant made what not\nonly we but all the world regarded as a bold and infamous bid for a\nthird term in his speech at Des Moines. He aimed at riding into power\non that favorite, and too often successful, hobby of a hard-pressed\npolitician\u2015\u2015an anti-Catholic ticket. This, in politics in these days,\nwe take to be the last resource of an ignoble mind. Nevertheless, the\nbid was undoubtedly well timed. All the world is up in arms against\nthe Catholic Church. No government dare hold out a hand to help her\nand hope to live. It is only recently that the President of Ecuador\ndid so, and what was the result? He fell at the hand of an assassin,\nas De Rossi fell before him. The sentiment of English speaking peoples\nhad been appealed to with all the force and violence of which such a\nman as Mr. Gladstone is capable, and his words were widely read in\nthis country, being multiplied and confirmed by the secular and\nsectarian press. The President saw this opportunity, and took it at\nits flood-tide in a speech that was as ingenious as it was malignant.\nA Methodist bishop, in a large and important conclave of Methodist\nministers, took up the cry, and, amid the acclamations of his\nbrethren, nominated General Grant for a third term. Then came out from\nthe holes and corners those imps of mischief, who are always at hand\nto do evil work at a time when the minds of men are excited\u2015\u2015secret\nsocieties\u2015\u2015and tendered their services and votes to President Grant.\nAn adroit bidder for the Presidency bade higher and went further even\nthan the President on the same ticket. He looked the winning man, and\nthe secret societies transferred their allegiance to him.\n\nThis was undoubtedly a clever diversion for the Republican party. Dark\nclouds hovered over them, but there stood the Pope. He was their old\nally in difficulties, and, if only they held him up to execration, the\nbull they were goading would turn aside from the lancers who were\ndrawing his life-blood, and charge only on the red rag. How miserably\nthey misread the people of this country has been seen.\n\nThe real issue was between a corrupt and an incorrupt government. No\n\u201cmaking of demonstrations\u201d could conceal this fact from an outraged\npeople. To use homely but expressive language, \u201cthe pious dodge would\nnot work,\u201d especially in the hands of men like Grant and Blaine. The\nPope was not the author of the rings, small and great, throughout the\ncountry; he had nothing to do with post-traderships; he had not stolen\na penny from the civil service; Kellogg and Chamberlain were ruling in\nthe South, and not he; Schenck was not his Minister to London, Babcock\nhis private secretary, Belknap his Secretary of War, Robeson his\nSecretary of the Navy, Pierrepont and Williams his legal advisers,\nShepherd his trusted confidant, and Chandler his pet minister. The\ntime had gone by to fight with shadows when there were such glaring\nrealities before the people. The corruption was homespun,\nunfortunately. It was of native growth. It had aggravated and\nincreased the financial depression, in which foreign countries had a\nhand to some extent. It had fostered a lavish display and gilded\nvulgarity which were not only unbecoming republicans but rational\nbeings of any class or kind. It had laid the road open to\nconstitutional dangers, and honest citizens had good reason to dread a\nprolongation of the term of a man who had too military a way of\nlooking at civil affairs, and regarded lawful opposition somewhat in\nthe light of military insubordination. These things were before the\npeople, and they laughed at the idea of dragging the Pope in.\n\nGeneral Grant was thrown aside; Blaine was thrown aside. A man whose\nrecord seems to be stainless was named in his place\u2015\u2015Mr. Hayes, the\nGovernor of Ohio. A far abler man was set up as the Democratic\ncandidate\u2015\u2015Mr. Tilden, the Governor of New York. The election was\nprobably the most stubbornly contested ever known, and the day after\nshowed Mr. Tilden with 184 electoral votes and his opponent with 166.\nThree States remained doubtful\u2015\u2015three Southern States where the negro\nvote predominated, and two at least of which, by the confessions of\nboth Republicans and Democrats, had been vilely misgoverned since the\nwar. The country had to wait, as we still wait, for the returns from\nthose States. At the very utmost they could only give the Republican\ncandidate a majority of one in the Electoral College, while, whatever\nway they went, the votes of a vast majority of the people were\nundoubtedly given to the Democratic candidate. The fact was\nundeniable: the voice of the American people was for a total change.\n\nThen ensued a scene unexampled, perhaps, in history, certainly in the\nhistory of this country. The administration came out in all its force.\nState rights were invaded by the military in South Carolina\u2015\u2015as in the\nopening of the year they had been invaded in Louisiana for the purpose\nof sustaining the Republican candidates, right or wrong\u2015\u2015while a\nnation looked sullenly on.\n\nThe country has undoubtedly been on the verge of danger; but we cannot\ndespair of the Republic while so magnificent an exhibition is given by\nthe people of calmness, forbearance, and good sense through days and\nweeks fraught with every incentive to exasperation and violence. We\ncannot foretell who will be the next President, but the will of the\npeople is manifest and unmistakable. Politicians high and low have\nreceived a bitter lesson, which the nation has indeed dearly bought.\nLet us continue to be jealous of those whom we elect, of our own\nwills, to carry on the business of this great country, and we will\nforce honesty even from the dishonest.\n\nWe have not space to deal with national topics of lesser moment,\nthough of great interest and importance. With the centennial year came\nour first International Exhibition. It brought the eyes of friendly\nnations upon us, and, while the exhibition of the products of other\nand older peoples was a lesson to ourselves, a still greater lesson to\nthem was the exhibition of our own industry and productiveness. The\nadvance in the art and industry of the United States attracted the\nadmiration of competent critics from all civilized nations. A more\nsignificant sign even than this is the alarm in England at the rapid\ngrowth of our iron trade, while our grain floods English markets. Ten\nyears ago forty-four per cent. of the grain sent to England came from\nRussia, fourteen per cent. from the United States. Now forty four per\ncent. is sent from this country, and twenty-one per cent. from Russia;\nthis, too, at a time when business generally at home was never\nduller\u2015\u2015a dulness that the Presidential crisis has confirmed. Yet even\nat our present condition we are, as a people, more prosperous than\nmost of the European nations. The money that people generally\nsquandered, and that was allowed to be squandered in the national,\nState, and municipal governments, has at least not been spent in the\nforging of cannon and the mustering of dread armaments of war, in\nwhich so keen a rivalry is exhibited by the European monarchs. Such\ncomfort, at least, as this consideration affords is fairly open to us.\n\n\nTHE PRESENT CONDITION OF EUROPE.\n\nAnd now we turn to Europe. It would take the eye of a prophet to read\nthe future, the pen of a Jeremias to paint the present, of the\ncontinent to which God, through his church, gave the leadership of the\nworld. The European crisis that all men saw coming seems come at last.\nFour years ago we closed our review by saying: \u201cWar looms on the\nEuropean horizon, gathers in silent thunder-clouds all around. A flash\nis enough to kindle the combustion and make the thunder speak. Who\nshall say when or whence it comes? Europe is arming, and we have good\nauthority for saying that \u2018the next war will rage over half a\ncentury\u2019\u2015\u2015Bismarck himself. For the church we foresee an increase of\nbitter and severe trials.\u2026\u201d\n\nWell, the thunder-clouds have gathered and are now impending. During\nthe greater part of the year the world has waited with bated breath to\nsee them burst and the bolts that smite nations fall. The hand of\nProvidence is in it. The sins of three centuries seem to be gathering\nto a head at last. There is no nation in Europe that can call the\nother friend. There is no such thing as the comity of nations. The big\nbattalions alone take right and wrong into their hands. Treaties most\nsolemnly and formally ratified within a quarter of a century are torn\nto pieces as waste paper. Such alliances as are patched up between the\nPowers are rather personal than national\u2015\u2015the alliances of savage\nchieftains against some rival, to be broken as occasion requires when\nthe allies may fly in turn at each other\u2019s throats. France and Germany\nare sworn foes; Russia and England hate each other; Austria trembles\nbetween Germany and Russia; Turkey is doomed, but seems resolved to\nsell its life dearly, and draw all Europe in to witness and operate at\nthe death. Italy seems ready to follow the beck of Germany, and Spain\nis consumed with her own troubles. Add to this that each nation is\ndisorganized within itself. The war, as will be shown later on, has\nproved a curse to Prussia, and, through Prussia, to all Germany. The\nempire is far from consolidated; the Catholics have been alienated\nfrom the government; the socialists, who are now in the ascendant,\nhave been denounced by Prince Bismarck; the Protestants have lost what\nunity they ever possessed, and have shown an example of weak\nsubserviency to infamous laws that has won for them the contempt of\nthe world. In Russia the emperor himself dreads the future. The\nlong-pent up elements of discord are bursting through at last, and\neven his immense power cannot restrain the nation from a war which, it\nis generally believed, his mind and heart condemn. Austria has its\nHungary, and its persecution like to that of Germany; England its\nIreland and a people that, with all its wealth, it cannot find\nemployment for or feed. It has its India, also, with Russia for a\nneighbor. France has its Imperialists, its Legitimists, its Socialists\nof the fiercest kind; Italy its secret societies, its persecutions,\nits people that groan under an incompetent government and scandalous\nmonarch. What a picture! And in the background millions of armed men,\nmillions of starving people, bankrupt treasuries, general\ndisaffection, a thousand conflicting passions of race, of religion, of\nsocial and moral theories, and the pale ghosts of murdered kings\nvainly warning the handful of monarchs who are riding over the old\nruts red with so many an awful disaster! Such is Europe in the year of\nour Lord 1876. Why is Europe not united? why is it not at rest? why is\nit ever on the verge of war? why is its surface being constantly\nchanged? why are its governments so diverse? why is it the stronghold\nof the foes of all government? why is it bristling with armies and\nweighed down by armaments? why, wherever the eye turns, is it faced by\ncannon?\n\nThat the Reformation divided Europe into two hostile camps is a fact\nacknowledged by all students of history. We do not say that previous\nto the Reformation there were no wars among the Catholic European\nnations. There were\u2015\u2015bloody, long sustained sometimes, and bitter. But\nthey were wars of dynasties rather than of nations, for which the\nfeudal system, that in its essence and construction was a pagan\nsystem, was chiefly accountable. The people hated not each other. They\nwere one in faith, one in religion, one in their worship, one in their\nhopes of a hereafter and the means to attain it, one in their\nrecognition of one supreme head of the church in which all believed.\nWhile they were just as much Germans, French, Italians, English,\nIrish, as they are to-day, they all worshipped one God in one manner.\nEnglish saints were revered in Ireland, Irish saints in England,\nGerman saints in France, French saints in Italy. While Charlemagne was\nbattling with pagan hordes and Moslem infidels, Irish missionaries\nwent forth and spread themselves along the borders of the Rhine,\ndiffusing the light of faith and knowledge in their path. They were\nwelcomed as angels, not looked upon as aliens and foes, as are the\nmissionaries of Protestant societies to-day in Catholic lands, who\nonly stir up strife wherever they set their foot. Thus there existed\nsomething stronger, broader, more universal than nationalism, which\ndestroyed not nationality, but taught all men that they were brethren,\nand that geographical lines were blotted out in the sight of God and\nin the common home of faith. Then was exemplified the sacred words of\nScripture: \u201cThis is the victory which overcometh the world, your\nfaith.\u201d It was this faith that out of barbarism drew and moulded the\nmighty nations of Europe. It was this faith alone that saved Europe\nfrom being overrun by the Moslem as it already had been by the pagan\nNorth. Just at the moment when the Moslem power was about to receive\nits last check and overthrow came the Protestant Reformation, which\nwas not only a religious revolt, but a disruption of Christendom. To\nthat we owe the presence of the Turk in Europe and all the fatal\nconsequences that have flowed from it, now at their ripest, when the\nmoribund carcase that the faithless kings and nations allowed to lie\nthere and rot threatens, in its final dissolution, their descendants\nwith ruin. To that movement also we owe the bitterly hostile lines\nthat have been set up between nations that once were brethren. To it\nwe owe the persecutions and the cruelties that have resulted on either\nside from the day when a man\u2019s religion assumed a political and\ngeographical character. To it we owe something worse than all\nthis\u2015\u2015the substitution of doubt for faith, and the questioning of all\nauthority, both human and divine. To the impious setting up of the\nmonarch as the great high-priest of the nation we owe the absolutism\nwhich has crushed peoples, been overthrown and crushed in turn by\nthem, and risen again only to repeat the old story of devastation.\n\nEver since that fatal outbreak Europe has been steadily drifting back\ninto the old paganism to which such civilization as letters give is\nonly a thin veneer; and paganism, at its highest, is only a step\nremoved from barbarism. What is called progress would have come\nwithout Protestantism, and been estimated at its true value\u2015\u2015as a\nmeans to a higher life for all the world; not as an end, not as the\nall in all in this life. Mere worshippers of progress make this world\ntheir heaven and self their god. This is the growing feeling in\nnations to-day, and the Reformation it was that, however unconsciously\nat the beginning, formulated it into a religion.\n\nIt seems to us that the present state of Europe is the logical and\nplain outcome of the great religious revolt in these last days. What\nnation to-day has a religion? Has Russia? Has England? Has Germany?\nHas France? They each have religions\u2015\u2015fragments of religions or no\nreligion\u2015\u2015as apart from one another as the poles. At the very least\nthis depriving men of a unity in their highest beliefs is fraught with\ninterminable discord. And never were the minds of men more disturbed\nthan they are to-day. Protestantism has almost run its course, and, by\nits own confession, disbelief in Catholicity is resolving itself more\nand more into disbelief in all things spiritual and necessary bowing\nto brute force in the material and moral order. Men look around\nblankly and ask, Where do we stand? And the answer is, Nowhere. Men\nare born and live, they eat and sleep, they sin and die in their sin,\npassing through life in a sort of dumb wonder that life should be.\nLife is a hopeless mystery to those from whose eyes heaven has been\nshut out. Then all those hard social problems become unanswerable.\nWhy, they cry out in despair, should kings have our blood and\nsustenance? Why should we kill each other to make them great or small?\nWhy should they live and we die? Why should our lives be spent in\ndrill, portioned out by the corporal, and our means be dragged from us\nto buy cannon? These thoughts are boiling and seething in the hearts\nof the masses, and kings know it. They and those they favored have\ndestroyed faith and religious unity. They have in its place what is\ncalled socialism, which means revolt against all things that be. The\nname of priest was made hateful by the calumnies of false teachers\nwith the sanction of kings; and now the name of king is coupled with\nthat of priest in the mouths of the irreligious masses. The first\nFrench Revolution was but the awful flash of a fire that smouldered\nand still smoulders under the thrones of Europe. It has set kings up\nand set them down like toys with which a child is pleased and then\nbreaks, and then takes others to make its sport and break again. The\nhistory of Europe from the Reformation down is a continuous conflict\nbetween despotism and revolution. The fullest liberty is the only\nsafeguard against it; but the fullest liberty may no longer be allowed\nto the peoples, for the Christian spirit and the Christian guiding\nhand have been withdrawn; deprived of which, liberty of the masses\nmeans license and lawlessness, government either absolutism or a\nstrong tendency thereto.\n\n\nSOCIALISM.\n\nLet it not be thought that we are drawing a fancy picture.\n\u201cSocialistic journals,\u201d said Prince Bismarck in a speech delivered\nearly in the year, \u201chad recently done much harm, and had done so\nwithout let or hindrance. The poor people who subscribed for\nsocialistic papers read but one journal, and were perverted by that\none. They had an indistinct idea that they were badly off, which was\nno doubt true, and they therefore were ever ready to believe the\ninsane promises held out by the socialistic journals. The result was\nthat the German operative no longer worked as much and as well as did\nthe English and French, and that German manufactories could no more\ncompete in the great markets of the world. A nation that had been\nindustrious and steady to a proverb had, by the incessant agitation of\nthe socialistic press, been brought to this sad pass.\u201d\n\nPrince Bismarck cannot well complain. The only press he could not\ntolerate was the Catholic. The publication of a letter of the Pope was\nthe signal for suppression of the paper, and fine and imprisonment of\nthe publisher. He used the socialist press to inflame the hatred of\nthe people against the Catholics, and now finds that in the unlawful\nuse of dangerous weapons he has only cut his own fingers. In a debate\nin the Prussian Parliament Count Eulenburg, the Minister of the\nInterior, was compelled by a Catholic deputy to admit that \u201cthe\ngovernment did tolerate the excesses of the socialist papers and\nsocieties for awhile, although the existing legislation enabled them\nto interfere.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have always been _Intransigente_,\u201d said Garibaldi last February.\n\u201cBrought up with republican principles, through having served the\nRepublic in America, I could not change my opinions, only I thought in\nthe past that it was necessary to suppress our republican sentiments,\nbecause, in order to unite Italy, the monarchy was necessary. But not\nfor this have we renounced our republican principles. As republican\nprinciples are the principles of honest people, there cannot be an\nhonest government which is not republican. However, we are obliged to\nget on by compromises, which the force of circumstances demands. _I do\nnot tell you to-day to make a revolution. We must adapt ourselves to\nthe times._ Nevertheless, vindicate progress to the last gap. Keep\nyourselves in the path of progress. Do not let yourselves be weakened\nto-day; the country groans under depredations, the unjust acts of the\ngovernment. When we compromised with the monarchy, we might have\nexpected from it that the country would be well governed; but it is\nnot. The monarchy must also complete its course; but the Guizots and\nthe Polignacs of to-day do nothing but accelerate its fall.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn conducting the government of the world,\u201d said Mr. Disraeli in his\nspeech at Aylesbury in August last, \u201cthere are not only sovereigns and\nministers, but secret societies, to be considered, which have agents\neverywhere\u2015\u2015reckless agents, who countenance assassination, and, if\nnecessary, can produce a massacre.\u201d \u201cI think,\u201d he said, in speaking of\nthe negotiations for adjusting matters in the East and staving off a\nlittle longer the fatal hour, \u201cthat in the spring of the present year\nthe negotiations might have resulted in peace on principles which\nwould have been approved by every good man; but unexpectedly\nServia\u2015\u2015that is to say, secret societies of Europe, acting through\nServia\u2015\u2015declared war on Turkey.\u201d\n\nOn the eve of the German elections the _Provinzial Correspondenz_\nwarns Germany against the socialists in this solemn fashion: \u201cAs for\nthe aim of socialism, we can have no doubt whatever about it. For on\nall occasions the members of the party make known this aim more or\nless openly. It is the utter overthrow of all order established in the\nstate and in society, the destruction of all social culture, which has\nfound its expression in religion and morality, in the family and in\nproperty, in art and science, in industry and commerce; and all this\nfor the erection of a chimerical workingmen\u2019s state, wherein would\nfall all the power of government and all the enjoyments of life to the\npretended proletarians, or men who possess nothing.\u201d\n\nThe invincible opposition of the Catholic Church to secret societies\nof every kind, the frequent warnings of the Holy Father and of the\nCatholic episcopate, clergy, and press throughout the world, have\ngenerally been laughed at as a clerical bugaboo, set up to frighten\nwomen and children. Well, we have not quoted from a single Catholic so\nfar, and certainly the threats coming from so many different quarters,\nand from men whose words are not idle, are sufficiently strong.\n\n\nTHE COURSE OF EVENTS IN EUROPE.\n\nLeaving this, the general and gravest aspect of European affairs, we\nproceed to touch on more specific topics of public interest which have\narisen during the year. Many must necessarily be omitted.\n\nNot even the gravity of the Eastern complications has been able to\nwithdraw the eyes of the world from France. The story, repeated in\nthese columns year after year, of the country\u2019s wonderful advance in\nmaterial prosperity is happily confirmed. We wish that the prospects\nof a satisfactory government were on a par with this material advance.\nThere exists still a feeling of great unrest in France. The various\npolitical parties are as far apart as they ever were, and it seems\nimpossible to bring them together so as to carry on the business of\nthe country in that healthy constitutional fashion where opposition is\na spur rather than a material hindrance to the government, where the\ngovernment has not to deal constantly with a strong body of\nirreconcilables, and where cabinet crises need not be expected at any\nmoment on what to outsiders often look like trivial points\u2015\u2015as, for\ninstance, the one of which we hear as we write: the concession by a\nCatholic nation of military honors at their burial to men who have\nlived and died unbelievers, and whose funerals, by their own expressed\ndesire or the will of their relatives and friends, are devoid of all\nreligious ceremony and a renunciation of the Catholic religion. Now,\nit seems to us that such a question as that should not be permitted to\nnecessitate the resignation of a ministry and the consequent throwing\nout of gear of the chief government machinery.\n\nFor difficulties like this those who arrogate to themselves the\nexclusive title of republicans in France\u2015\u2015the party that regards M.\nGambetta as its leader and Victor Hugo as its prophet\u2015\u2015is chiefly\nresponsible. It has taken a distinctly anti-Catholic basis in what\nundoubtedly is a Catholic country. The name for it is \u201canti-clerical,\u201d\nwhich is a distinction without a difference. It palliates the excesses\nof the _Commune_, while it opposes freedom of education.\n\nThere seems, unfortunately, to have been too much truth in what Mgr.\nDupanloup said early in the year when speaking of the university\nquestion: \u201cTo make us love the republic, the first thing done is to\nidentify it with a war against religion.\u201d And the venerable prelate\u2019s\nwords received strong confirmation from so decidedly un-Catholic a\nwriter as the Paris correspondent of the London _Times_, who wrote to\nthat journal while the Chamber was still fresh from the elections: \u201cOn\nobserving the attitude of the Chamber it is evident that the religious\ncontroversy is the great motive of all its passions. In the last\nAssembly, at least in its early days, every speaker courting applause\nhad only to attack the Empire. In the present, as yet, the most\nfrantic plaudits are reserved for whoever attacks not only the clergy,\nbut any creed whatever. This is a fresh discord about to be added to\nso many old ones.\u201d\n\nIf there is any truth in the report of Prince Bismarck\u2019s views of the\nFrench elections as given in the letter of a German diplomatist,\nextracts from which appeared in a Rouen newspaper, the prince-chancellor\nagrees with both of these views. The report in question at least\nsmacks of the man.\n\n\u201cThe chancellor,\u201d says the German diplomatist, \u201cdoes not appear to be\naffected in any particular way by the result of the elections. In a\nconversation I had with him a few hours ago he remarked: \u2018I doubt if\nthe French Radicals will get into power; but should they, I am sure\nthey will begin eating the priests before they tackle the Germans; the\ntask is so much easier, and I have no desire to balk their appetite in\nthat direction.\u2019\u201d\n\nOn December 31, 1875, the French National Assembly was dissolved,\nthough its actual dissolution only took place in March, 1876, at the\nmeeting of the new Chambers. The elections followed, and the voice of\nthe people was certainly for a republic. The question of education\nimmediately became a great subject of debate. In July, 1875, was\npassed a law allowing mixed juries, composed half of examiners\nappointed by the state and half of their own professors, to question\nthe candidates for degrees, and decide whether or not to grant the\ndegrees. Not a very monstrous concession, surely, yet on the strength\nof it the Catholic University of Paris was founded and inaugurated on\nJanuary 10, 1876. This was too much for republicans of the Gambetta\nand Victor Hugo stamp. Accordingly, to M. Waddington, \u201can Englishman\nby birth and education, and moreover a stanch Protestant,\u201d as the\nParis correspondent of the London _Times_ triumphantly announced to\nthat journal, was confided the Ministry of Education. It seems that M.\nWaddington was actually born in France, his father being an Englishman\nwho was there naturalized, but the rest of the description is accurate\nenough. Of course M. Waddington\u2019s stanch Protestant conscience could\nnot allow of this concession to Catholics, whatever his English\neducation might have done. He moved immediately to repeal clauses 13\nand 14 of the law of July, 1875, which embodied the concessions above\nmentioned.\n\nNow, what is this system of state monopoly of education in France\nagainst which the Catholic conscience rebelled? It owes its origin to\nthe despotic genius of the first Napoleon, and we cannot do better\nthan describe it in the words of a critic who will, in the eyes of\nnon-Catholics at least, be above suspicion: \u201cHe [Napoleon I.] formed\none great university,\u201d says the London _Times_, \u201cwhich was only the\nstate acting as an autocratic teacher. The chief dignitary of that\nuniversity was the Minister of Public Instruction, and all the\nofficials, from the highest to the lowest, were servants of the\ngovernment. The state appointed all the professors in the Sorbonne,\nthe College de France, the law schools, the Polytechnic School, the\nMilitary College, and the crowd of Lyc\u00e9es throughout the country.\nIndeed, the state does so still.\u201d It will be seen how open was such a\nsystem to abuse, particularly when the \u201cstate\u201d in France has changed\nhands half a dozen times since Napoleon organized his system. \u201cThe\nstate alone could grant degrees in Medicine, Law, and even Theology.\nThe system was completed by the stipulation that no one could open\neven the pettiest of infant schools or the greatest of colleges\nwithout ministerial authority. Thus the state could despotically\ndecide what books should be studied by every scholar in France, by\nwhom and how each should be taught, what moral or political ideas\nshould be spread through every school or college, and what amount or\nkind of knowledge should be exacted from every candidate for the\npractice of medicine or the bar. _No more rigid system of intellectual\ndespotism was ever fashioned by the wit of man._\u201d\n\nAfter a prolonged, fierce, and bitter debate, M. Waddington carried\nhis motion through the Chamber of Deputies, but it was happily thrown\nout in the Senate; and there the matter stands.\n\nIf French republicanism is made to assume a distinctly anti-Catholic\ncharacter on the part of those who look upon themselves as the only\ntrue republicans in France, then France cannot hope for a good\ngovernment from it. It remains for the Catholics to show and prove\nthemselves the veritable republicans by devoting themselves absolutely\nto the country and the government as they stand. They have the game in\ntheir own hands. The French nation seems to be profoundly and\nreasonably mistrustful of kings and emperors. Yet a republic in which\nVictor Hugo, Gambetta, and the apologists and leaders of the _Commune_\nare to be the chief actors would be worse than the Empire. France\nwould have had revolution ere this only for the strong, wise, and just\nman who holds the reins of power with so firm a grasp, and swerves not\nan inch either to the \u201cRight\u201d or to the \u201cLeft.\u201d What a contrast\nbetween Marshal MacMahon and our own soldier-President! We can only\ncontinue to hope for the best from all parties. Time may teach them to\ncoalesce and deal fairly with all. Could they only do this, the\nmightiest bulwark would be raised up on the continent of Europe\nagainst the threatened encroachments of absolutism on the one hand and\nthe madness of socialism on the other, and in this France would attain\nto a height of power and true greatness that no king or emperor ever\nbrought to her.\n\nGermany goes on its way resolutely. The persecution of the Catholics,\nwhich is now an old story, has not been abated a jot. To it is added,\nas has already been indicated, an attempted persecution of the\nsocialists. But the socialists, besides being too strong, are hard to\ncatch. The recent elections for the Prussian Chamber of Deputies show\nan immense gain for the party of National Liberals, who represent\nevery wing of socialism from its highest to its lowest aspects. The\nCatholics remain much the same as before. The result is not favorable\nto Prince Bismarck, who seems to be growing more querulous than ever.\nAn arrangement has been brought about by which the Prussian railways\nhave been transferred to state control, and an attempt was made to\nextend it to all Germany, which has thus far proved unsuccessful.\nStill the military hand everywhere, and here is a result of it on\nwhich we have often dwelt, but which grows more sadly manifest every\nyear. The Berlin correspondent of the London _Times_, writing of the\naccounts of Prussia for 1874 and the estimates for 1875, after\nstruggling manfully but hopelessly to make the figures wear a\nfavorable aspect, finally confesses: \u201cThese figures point a moral.\nComparatively easy as it may be to balance the Budget in 1876, the\npresent is the last year in which this can be done. Next year there\nwill be few, if any, surpluses to draw upon. On the most favorable\nassumption the Prussian needs may be covered without having recourse\nto fresh imposts; but how about the wants of the Empire in 1877?[145]\nThe Empire in the current year lives upon its usual income of custom,\nexcise, and a modicum of state contributions, patching up its deficit\nby consuming the remnant of accumulated funds left. _A year hence\nrealities both in Prussia and in the Empire will have to be faced with\nempty pockets._ If industry has revived by that time, the taxes will\nbe augmented; if not, the only alternative will lie between a loan and\nthe reduction of military expenditure. In any circumstances the\nsituation in which Germany is placed by the military preparations all\nround will then be acutely felt.\u201d\n\nSuch is the cost of military glory and power in these days. What doth\nit profit the people? We have seen Prince Bismarck\u2019s views on the\nGerman workingmen, who, instead of becoming the strength and support\nof the Empire, are becoming its terror. How could it be otherwise with\nthe means taken to educate them? No picture could be sadder than that\ndrawn by the chancellor of the present condition of the German working\nclasses. Industry cannot thrive on bayonets and cannon. Social order\ncannot prevail where the minds of men have been debauched for a\npurpose by the free dissemination of evil doctrines, and when they\nhave ever before their eyes the steady persecution of the best\ncitizens. He has outlawed the church of God. He cannot wonder at the\ndevil stepping in and claiming his prey.\n\nA still greater shock was given to German feeling by the report of\nProf. Reuleaux, their chief commissioner at our Centennial Exhibition.\nHis conclusions, in brief, were: 1. That the main object of the German\nmanufacturers is to produce an article which shall be cheap and nasty.\n2. That German manufacturers find it easy to succeed in this line,\nconsidering that the men they employ are deficient in skill and taste.\n3. That judging by the German display at the Exhibition, the German\nnation seem to be steeped in utter servility, so great is the number\nof Bismarck statues, Red Princes, and other heroes of the war, in\nevery conceivable material, from gilt bronze down to common soap.\n\n\u201cFor the real cause of the decline [in prosperity] in Prussia,\u201d says\nthe London _Times_, \u201cwe must look to the military system of Germany.\nThat system, as we have often pointed out, is the most costly in the\nworld. By sending to the drill-ground for years all her best and most\npromising youth\u2015\u2015by taking her most accomplished young men from the\nuniversity, from the learned professions, from the factory or the\nlaboratory, to fill the ranks of her army\u2015\u2015she causes a greater\ninterruption of trade, and lays a heavier burden on the nation, than\nthat which the cost of the war has imposed on France.\u2026 In Germany all\nother interests are sacrificed to the needs of the greatest army ever\nsupported by any state. The intellect of the nation is set to do\nmilitary work with such rigor that civil pursuits are sensibly\nsuffering. Trade is sacrificed in order that the country may be\ncovered with troops drilled to the precision of machines. Military\nrailways are made without regard to commercial necessities. So\ncrushing is the blood-tax that crowds of the most stalwart peasantry\nand the most skilful artisans are crossing the Atlantic in spite of\nthe depression of trade in America; and so soon as prosperity shall\nreturn to the United States the emigration from Germany may be\nmultiplied two or three fold. Such is the price at which Germany\nbought the military dictatorship of Europe.\u201d\n\nItaly seems to be going from very bad to worse. The people groan under\ntheir burdens, and the successive ministries seem utterly incapable of\ncoping with the difficulties by which they are beset on all sides. The\ntelegram announcing the opening of the Italian Parliament on Nov. 20\ntells us that in his speech from the throne Victor Emanuel, referring\nto the relations between church and state, said: \u201cThe extensive\nliberties granted the church ought not to impair public liberties. The\ngovernment would therefore propose bills for rendering efficient the\nreservation in the laws respecting the Papal See.\u201d\n\nHere is an instance of the \u201cextensive liberties\u201d of the church. A\nreport, dated March 14, informs us that \u201cthe fifty-sixth birthday of\nking Victor Emanuel, and the thirty-second of his eldest son, has been\nsignalized in Rome by a ceremony of great interest. A new public\nlibrary, which has been added to the Collegi\u00f3 Romano, and which has\nreceived the name of the king, was formally opened by the Minister of\nPublic Instruction.\u201d (We wonder if in the portfolio of the present\nItalian Minister of Public Instruction the good old commandment, \u201cThou\nshalt not steal,\u201d is written.) \u201cHe explained that on the very site of\nthe new building the Jesuits had striven for the triumph of principles\nagainst which King Victor Emanuel\u2019s career has been an unceasing\nbattle.\u201d (This statement is crushingly true.) \u201cThe library is also the\nmonument of a victory in another respect, for it contains 650,000\nvolumes which belonged to the suppressed monasteries.\u201d\n\nWhat a victory! \u201cThe opening of such a building,\u201d said the London\n_Times_, with unconscious irony, \u201cappropriately marked the birthday of\na king whose name will forever be connected with the greatest of all\nchanges in the political fortunes of the Papacy.\u201d It notices with keen\nregret in the same article that there is a lamentable tendency among\nItalians \u201cto forget how much they owe to this king.\u201d \u201cHer [Italy\u2019s]\npeople cannot speak too gratefully of the king whose rare combination\nof courage and political sagacity has helped to give them back their\nself-respect as well as their nationality.\u201d\n\nWell, when Englishmen worship a Garibaldi and cherish a Mazzini, we\nmay expect their leading journal to speak in this strain of a Victor\nEmanuel. The Mantegazza affair will be too fresh in the memory of our\nreaders to need our using it as one of many instances showing the kind\nof man this model king is, and how likely the Italians are to remember\n\u201chow much they owe\u201d him. One of the things they owe him is the\nsuppression of monasteries and convents. It must be rather bad when a\njournal like the London _Saturday Review_ considers it as on the whole\nrather a useless measure in its results. A strong effort is\nundoubtedly being made by the Italian government to destroy the Papacy\nand dam up the Catholic religion at every vent. Only do this, it says\nto its subjects: Kill off these religious societies from the face of\nthe earth; and, as for yourselves, join what devil\u2019s societies you\nplease\u2015\u2015for this is liberal Italy.\n\nIn assuming charge of the religious properties, however, the Italian\ngovernment assumed also the liabilities attached, and it met with many\nstrange mishaps. Wonderful to read are the accounts of some of those\nbills presented by worthy citizens to the government officials. The\nDominicans for instance, are certainly not famed as being great eaters\nof flesh either in Italy or anywhere else. Yet here are the worthy\nDominicans of Sta. Maria sopra Minerva, whose property was seized,\ncharged by a modest butcher with a \u201clittle bill\u201d of 20,000 fr. for\nbutcher\u2019s meat! This is only one of many such that were presented.\n\nThe first report of the Commission of Vigilance charged with the\necclesiastical property seized was presented early in the year. It\nshowed that, according to the schedule laid before Parliament in the\nspring of 1873, there were then in Rome 126 monasteries occupied by\n2,375 monks, and 90 convents occupied by 2,183 nuns\u2015\u2015in all, 216\nreligious houses with 4,558 inmates, exclusive of hospitals and\npensions under monastic supervision or direction, the colleges and the\nhouses of the generals. Of these 216 houses 119 were seized and 44\nothers declared exempt from the operation of the law. The property\nthat thus passed into the hands of the Commission was disposed of as\nproperty usually is\u2015\u2015put up at auction for the most part; 250 lots\nwere put up at 13,042,629 fr., and knocked down at 16,142,697 fr. The\ntotal value of the property thus seized is estimated at 61,161,300 fr.\nTo complete the pleasing picture it only remains to add that the\nreceipts of the Commission from July 22, 1873, when it began its\noperations, up to the end of 1875, were 11,116,376 fr., while the\nexpenditure was 11,570,428 fr.\n\nMeanwhile, the dispossessed monks were left at liberty to run about\nthe world and seek for a living wherever they could find it, while the\nCommission of Vigilance manipulated their property. As for the nuns,\nprovision was made that all of them who within three months after the\npublication of the law made express and individual requests to remain\nin the houses they occupied should be permitted to do so until the\nnumber in each house should be mercifully reduced by death to six,\nwhen the government might concentrate them elsewhere. Signor Nicotera,\nhowever, seems resolved to root them out altogether.\n\nSuch is Catholic Italy. The readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD have seen in\na recent article[146] the tendency of the ecclesiastical policy of the\nItalian government. In this alone is it resolute. The country at large\nis as ill-governed as ever. The police are corrupt. In many districts\nlife is still at the mercy of brigands, some of whom, as was recently\nshown, have their allies among those moving in the best circles of\nsociety. Scandals thicken around throne and government. As for the new\ngovernment, that steadfast friend of young Italy, the London _Times_,\nwrote thus as long ago as May 4: \u201cThe new Italian ministry came into\npower just a month ago, and it has already had to declare the\nimpossibility of its own former programme, and to adopt both the\nmeasures and the practice of the government it overthrew and\nsupplanted. It deals with public meetings, with the press, and with\nthe telegraphic office as conservatives, and even the Pope, had done\nbefore; and, what is more, it finds that if it is to save Italian\nfinance from a downward career, it has no choice but to adopt the\nGrist-tax, which was the one particular crime of its predecessors.\u2026\nThe Left is disappointed and sullen. The populace of the country towns\nis furious. For some years the owners, the occupiers, and the tillers\nof land have found that \u2018unification\u2019 and representation are costly\nprivileges. The fact is now brought home to them; and when all classes\nin an agricultural district are of one mind, they are apt to express\nthemselves roughly.\u201d\n\nLike all petty persecutors, Switzerland shows itself the most virulent\nin its attack on the rights of conscience. Great Powers try to devise\nsome pretext at least for their persecutions. Switzerland is troubled\nby no such scruples as this. The laws are strained to the utmost to\npunish Catholics, and, when they will not precisely fit the case, they\nare made to fit as speedily as possible. Indeed, law there has become\na farce. The correspondent of the _Journal des D\u00e9bats_, which is noted\nfor its solid opposition to the Catholic Church, draws a lively\npicture of the proceedings at the \u201celection\u201d of an \u201cOld Catholic\u201d\npastor; and as it is characteristic of a thousand things that are\nconstantly occurring in Switzerland, we give it at length. The letter\nis dated Sept. 20: \u201cThe confessional contest continues at Geneva. I\nwon\u2019t trouble you with the details of the skirmishes which occur every\nday. That would be monotonous. As a _r\u00e9sum\u00e9_, here is what passes from\nmonth to month: A Catholic commune has a church, a _cur\u00e9_, a parish,\nand one hundred electors. Fifteen or twenty of these declare\nthemselves liberal Catholics. They demand a _cur\u00e9_ who shall be\nelected by the parishioners, as the law requires. But the party chiefs\ndo not always find a liberal clergyman to order. Plenty present\nthemselves, it is true, but for the most part they are more liberal\nthan Catholic, and more libertine than liberal. The Superior Council\nwishes for honest men only, who shall not be too ignorant, who are\ngood speakers, with a conscience, if possible, and capable of making a\ngood show. But this is a combination of qualities hard to find in\nthose who go out from the Roman fold. As soon as they have found one\nwhose recommendations are of the best, they write to the twenty\nelectors: \u2018We have found your man; vote away to-morrow.\u2019 They vote;\nthe eighty Roman Catholics go not to the ballot-box, therein obeying\nthe stupid order received from Rome, and the _cur\u00e9_ is elected. From\nthat out the church and the parish are his. All he has to do is to\ntake possession. The keys are demanded from the mayor. The mayor\nrefuses to give them up. He is recalled; the gates are forced, and\nliberal Catholicism is duly installed in the holy place, where nothing\nis left but the four walls. So clean has been the picking that the\nnew-comers cannot even find a bell. Whereupon the eighty Roman\nCatholics, with their wives, children, and friends, gather together in\na barn around their _cur\u00e9_, now become a martyr, while the official\npriest, installed in the church of the commune, preaches to a\ncongregation of two\u2015\u2015the gendarme and the rural guard. He has not even\nthe benches to preach to, for they have all been taken away. In\naddition, he is pestered by the zealots of the opposite party, who\ninsult him in the street, steal his vegetables, and eat his rabbits.\nTo console himself he marries, which at least brings him a female\nparishioner.\n\n\u201cBehold what passes from month to month. But to be serious: It is in\nthis way that three-fourths of the revolutions begin. The liberal\nelectors are for the most part infidels; but they have children whom\nthey send to catechism. There were more than nine hundred of these\nthis year. Behold a future flock detached from Rome. Moreover, there\nare foreigners who second the movement. A fairly large number of young\ngirls have already made their First Communion in the liberal churches.\nMany marriages have taken place there.\u201d\n\nIn Spain the Carlists were utterly defeated by overwhelming numbers\nand faithlessness on the part of many of their chieftains early in the\nyear. Don Carlos escaped, and the insurrection was at an end. While\nSpain was shifting from hand to hand, and presenting to the world a\nhopeless picture of internal disorder, we supported the cause of a\nresolute man who had certainly a strong and brave following, not all\nconfined to the North; whose views of government were far more liberal\nthan they were represented to be by his foes; who knew the meaning of\nmorality; who displayed great capacity in welding into a formidable\narmy a set of undisciplined hordes whose personal character was above\nsuspicion; who, as kings\u2019 claims go, had a strong claim to the Spanish\ncrown, supported to this day by a formidable party in Spain; and who,\nhad he once grasped the power of the throne, would not have been a\nlikely man to relinquish it. What Spain wants to-day is a ruler, and\nwe believe Don Carlos would have ruled the country wisely and well. We\nwere always open, however, to just such a solution of the Spanish\ndifficulty as has actually taken place. In our review of the year\n1872, while saying that we did \u201cnot expect to find Amadeo\u2019s name at\nthe head of the Spanish government that day twelvemonth,\u201d we added:\n\u201ca good regent, not Montpensier, might bring about the restoration of\nDon. Alfonso; but where is such a regent?\u201d Pavia did the work, and if\nthe young king can only be surrounded by good advisers he need dread\nno domestic foe. He is undoubtedly the lawful king of the nation, and,\nas such, all good men are bound to support him. But Spain is still so\nuncertain that it is open to almost any surprise. Its debt is\nenormous. When Queen Isabella was driven from the throne, the capital\nof the debt was $1,250,000,000. To-day it is about $3,500,000,000\nwhich represents in startling fashion what a country gains by\nrevolution and the clash of dynasties.\n\nSpace does not allow of entering more largely into the internal\naffairs of Europe, or even of glancing at the disturbed condition of\naffairs in the states of South America, which is only a reflex of\nEuropean life in its general and worst phases. With a brief mention of\na few of the memorable dead, we pass on to consider the question which\nis uppermost in men\u2019s minds to-day.\n\nFor the Catholic, during the past year, one name overshadows all\u2015\u2015that\nof Cardinal Antonelli, whose official life in the service of his\nHoliness was a long and severe battle against overwhelming odds. The\nwonder is, not that he failed in the end but that he stood so long.\nHe, together with his illustrious chief, was a true friend of liberty,\nbut not of that liberty which means disorder. This he was to the end\nof his days, as is shown by his admiration for our own Republic and\nhis rejoicing at the victory of the Union. His life was spent in\nstorms; and in days when physical force takes all things into its\nhands, his was the gigantic task to beat back the flood, as he\nsucceeded in doing for almost a quarter of a century. His name will be\nmemorable not only in Catholic annals but in European history, and his\nexample for steadfast courage, unwavering faith, and unswerving\ndevotion to the chair of Peter one of the most conspicuous in all\ntime. Another holy and venerable man, renowned in a different\nway\u2015\u2015Cardinal Patrizzi\u2015\u2015followed him close. Another man who has graven\nhis name on the century, and who was, perhaps, the brightest\nintellectual light that the New World has yet given to the faith\u2015\u2015Dr.\nBrownson\u2015\u2015went out with the year. As his career and work have been\ntreated at length in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, we need say no more of him\nhere. His bright and promising daughter, Sarah (Mrs. Tenney), the\nauthor of the _Life of Prince Gallitzin_ and other works, followed him\nrecently. The name of Francis De\u00e1k stands alone among the list of\nsecular statesmen. His life teaches the value of patience against\nhope, and of persistent but lawful agitation for the rights and\nliberties of peoples. He went to his grave amid the tears of a nation\nand the sorrow of a world, a patriot of patriots and a Catholic of\nCatholics.\n\n\nTHE EASTERN QUESTION.\n\nRussia, Austria, and England have been almost completely wrapped up in\nthe Eastern difficulty, which we do not pretend to be able to solve,\nand which we doubt if any man could solve, however read in the secrets\nof European cabinets. Never was a question more shifting in its\ncharacter, more unexpected in its surprises, more delicate to touch,\nmore difficult to adjust. Time was when short work might have been\nmade of it. Here are the facts: A nation steeped in corruption,\nforeign in every sense to Europe, which has steadfastly refused to\nenter European life and thought and action, occupying one of the\nfairest regions only to pollute the very dust where heroes trod, and\nwhich the ashes of saints once consecrated. Christian principalities\nand peoples are subject and made to pay tribute to this power, which\nhas only strength enough to be cruel, and energy enough to sin. It is\nneedless to point out what would be the action of Europe were Europe\nonly one in faith. Its very faith would have revolted against such a\npeople in such a place, and beyond doubt the Turks would have had the\nalternative of becoming subject to Christian rule or of leaving\nChristian shores.\n\nBut these thoughts enter not into the calculations of governments\nwhich are themselves no longer Christian. They approach the subject\nlike robbers before whom is spread out a rich booty, and the question\nis, Who shall have the biggest share? Russia is resolved to have it;\nAustria trembles for her frontier; England sees all that she fought\nfor in the Crimea slipping from her grasp, and is left without courage\nto fight and without a friend to help her.\n\nIt would take a volume to follow out all the intricacies of this\naffair, and at the end we should only be left at the very\nstarting-point. If we may hazard an opinion, we believe that there\nwill be no war, at least this winter. As for the alarm at the\nanticipated occupation of Constantinople by Russia\u2015\u2015while, if the\nRussian Empire be not dissolved before the close of the present\ncentury, by one of the most terrific social and political convulsions\nthat has ever yet come to pass, that occupation seems to lie very much\nin the order of possibilities\u2015\u2015we doubt much whether it will occur so\nsoon as people think. England is not the only rival of Russia. The\nalliance of the emperors is nothing more than an alliance _de\nconvenance_ which would snap at any moment. Russia herself has\nrecently given notable example of what value she sets on troublesome\ntreaties, when she has the power to throw them aside. It would seem to\nus difficult for Russia to occupy Constantinople without first\nmastering and garrisoning Turkey; and Turkey is an empire of many\nmillions, whom fanaticism can still rouse to something like heroic, as\nwell as to the most cruel and repulsive, deeds. These millions, even\nif they would, could not well be transported to Asia at a moment\u2019s\nnotice. But even granting all this, granting Russia the governing\npower\u2015\u2015and it will have that or nothing\u2015\u2015in what now is Turkey, how\nwould its more immediate neighbors, Austria and Germany, regard so\nenormous an accession of power to an empire that already grasps the\nEast and West in its hands, that is brave, enterprising, aggressive,\ndaily growing in intelligence,[147] as a nation one in religion, and\nsubject to the will of one man, whose presumptive heir is the bitter\nfoe of Germany? The religion of Russia is opposed to that of all\nEurope, with the exception of Greece. Russia is greedy, strong, poor,\nand cruel. So cold a nation, that has not yet quite thrown off the\nshell of barbarism, drifting down into one of the fairest European\nprovinces, would take a century, at least, to thaw into civilization.\nIndeed, the possibilities that would arise from such a movement are\nbeyond foreshadowing. Yet people who talk so glibly of Russia seizing\nConstantinople never seem to regard them. We may be very sure,\nhowever, that they are regarded by powers who, in such an event, would\nbe neighbors and necessary rivals of Russia; and that they, while they\nare in a position, as to-day Germany is, to forbid trespass, will be\nvery careful how far they allow a people to advance who, given an\ninch, take a country. Germany, it is believed by many, wants Austria.\nWith Austria as part of Germany, Germany might well defy Russia, and\nthe ambition of founding a consolidated empire extending from the\nborders of France to the borders of Russia, from the North Sea to the\nconfines of Italy, seems to us worthy of the mind of Prince Bismarck.\nAnd it might have been, were he safer at home; but it needs something\nmore powerful than blood and iron to frame and consolidate such an\nempire. It needs peace, unity of sentiment, unity of interests, unity\nof faith, the assurance of liberty, none of which Germany possesses\nto-day. Indeed, the chancellor himself has disavowed such designs,\nfearing that the welding of Austria into Germany would give the\nCatholics the preponderance in the empire which they now lack. Certain\nit is that some agreement has been made between the emperors which has\nimparted an ominous neutrality to Germany, and under which troubled\nand enfeebled Austria is in the eyes of all observers restive. But\nunder all these combinations of the great European Powers there frowns\nthe spectre of socialism, with allies wherever men are aggrieved, and\nwhich will not down for all the artillery of empires. From it an\noutburst may be expected at any moment, in the quarter most\nunexpected, and in situations the most critical. Its power cannot be\nweighed, measured, or calculated upon. It works in the dark, yet\nuniversally. It is as strong in the Southern States of America as in\nEurope. Its excesses shock all men for a time, but it feeds on\ndiscontent; and discontent to-day possesses the world. It can only be\nmet and conquered by the Christian conscience, but it has long been\nthe effort of kings to destroy that conscience, to deprive it of\nlight, and render it a passive agent in the hands of force. Thus are\nempires for ever digging their own graves.\n\nAnd what is the outlook? Bleak indeed to the eye of the world, but\nbright to the eye of faith. Throughout the pontificate of our Holy\nFather, Pope Pius IX., the church has been treading the weary way of\nthe Cross. The world is only to be won to Christ by suffering and\nsacrifice. Christ himself no longer suffers in the flesh, but in his\nmystical spouse, the church. \u201cWhen I shall be lifted up,\u201d he said,\n\u201cthen will I draw all men to me.\u201d It is the same with his spouse. She\nhas had her hour of earthly triumph; she has had her agony; she has\nfelt the kiss of many a Judas on her cheek; Sadducee and Pharisee\nalike hate her; she has been betrayed by her own into the hands of her\nenemies; she has been led before the rulers of this world, and they\nhave pronounced, each in his way, sentence upon her, and the sentence\nis death. She has been delivered up to the hands of the rabble,\nmocked, derided, bruised, crowned with thorns, forced to bear her own\ncross. She has mounted to the very height of Calvary. Her garments\nhave been stripped from her, and, naked, she stands before the world.\nThe consummation is at hand. Despoiled of all things, and lifted up\nbetween earth and heaven, a spectacle to God, to angels, and to men,\nshe draws all eyes to her, while the executioners, under the very\nshadow of the Cross, gamble for her garments. Free from all the\ntrappings of this world, deserted, abandoned of men, it is then that\nthe divinity within her shines forth with naught to dim its\nbrightness. When Christ yielded up his spirit into the hands of his\nHeavenly Father, darkness covered the earth, the veil of the Temple\nwas rent, the dead walked the streets of Jerusalem, and an earthquake\nshook the world. Nature was all confusion, and from that very hour\nbegan the victory of the Cross. Is not a like scene before us to-day?\nThe darkest hour is on us; the future is God\u2019s.\n\n\n [145] This letter was written on January 19, 1876,\n consequently previous to the complications which have since\n arisen in Eastern Europe, and which, if war break out, would\n of necessity considerably add to \u201cthe wants of the Empire in\n 1877.\u201d\n\n [146] \u201cHow Rome stands To-day,\u201d CATHOLIC WORLD, November,\n 1876.\n\n [147] The Report of the Russian Education Department for\n 1875 showed, excluding Finland, the Caucasus, and Central\n Asia, 22,768 elementary schools, with 754,431 males and\n 185,056 females, and 1 school to 3,924 inhabitants. In the\n German provinces, there is 1 school to 2,044 persons, 1\n scholar to 15 males and 24 females. In the Gymnasia, where\n the pupils have the option of learning French or German,\n 11,382 prefer German and 8,508 French, the preponderance for\n German being almost entirely furnished by the pupils who\n entered during the two years preceding. This latter fact we\n take to be a sign of the times.\n\n\n\n\nNEW PUBLICATIONS.\n\n\n THE LITTLE BOOK OF THE MARTYRS OF THE CITY OF ROME. By the Rev.\n Henry Formby. London: Burns & Oates. New York: The Catholic\n Publication Society. 1877.\n\nWe can do no more now than call the attention of our readers to this\nexceedingly beautiful little work, advance sheets of which lie before\nus. It is full of admirable illustrations of scenes in the lives of\nthe early martyrs, and nothing could be better adapted as a Christmas\npresent for Catholic children.\n\n\n THE NORMAL HIGHER ARITHMETIC. Designed for advanced classes in\n common schools, normal schools, high schools, academies, etc. By\n Edward Brooks, A.M. Published by Sower, Potts & Co., Philadelphia.\n\nThis excellent text book contains more than the average number of\npractical examples. This fact, considered in connection with the\nintelligent and exhaustive treatment of commercial arithmetic,\ncommends the book to teachers in need of a manual for drill purposes.\nBesides, most of the material is new, and the author brings to his\ntask a greater command of language than seems to have been possessed\nby the older authors, thus ensuring clearness and variety of\nstatement. The treatment of exchange shows the peculiar merits of the\nvolume to advantage.\n\nA large portion of the first half of the volume is devoted to a\nscientific treatment of arithmetic. In many respects this is waste\nlabor. No use can be made of it in the class-room. Who, for example,\nstops to consider the properties of the number eleven? Less science\nand more practice would mend the first two hundred and fifty pages.\nThis done, and the answers carefully corrected, the book will rank\nfirst of its class.\n\n\n EXCERPTA EX RITUALI ROMANO, PRO ADMINISTRATIONE SACRAMENTORUM, AD\n COMMODIOREM USUM MLSSIONARIORUM. Baltimori: apud Kelly, Piet et\n Socios, 1876.\n\nThis new edition of the ritual is an improvement upon previous ones in\nthe beauty and clearness of the print. In other respects no changes\nhave been made, except in the paging.\n\nWe notice a misprint, \u201cSuspice\u201d for \u201cSuscipe,\u201d on p. 159. There may be\nothers, but hardly can be any of importance.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLIC WORLD.\n\nVOL. XXIV., No. 143.\u2015\u2015FEBRUARY, 1877.\n\nCopyright: Rev. I. T. HECKER. 1877.\n\n\n\n\nFREDERIC OZANAM.[148]\n\n\nOzanam\u2019s name and writings were made known to the portion of the\nEnglish-reading world interested in the Oxford movement by the\nbrilliant pages of the _British Critic_ more than thirty years ago,\nwhile he was still in the bloom of his youthful fame and success as a\nprofessor of the Sorbonne. The preface to his biography says that he\nis not widely known in England, and the same is probably true of\nAmerica, speaking in reference to non-Catholics. Among Catholic\nscholars here, and we fancy in England also, his name and works are\nwell known and in high repute. They deserve, nevertheless, to be\nbetter known and more highly honored. There is scarcely a purer or\nmore brilliant career to be found recorded in the annals of Catholic\nliterature in this century than his. He was the founder of the Society\nof St. Vincent de Paul\u2015\u2015a sufficient title to honor and gratitude. He\nwas a model of moral loveliness and Christian virtue, a type of the\ntrue Catholic gentleman, adorning a high sphere in society, and at the\nsame time heartily devoted to the welfare of the humblest, the\npoorest, and even the most degraded and vicious classes. He was a\nthoroughly learned man in his own department, a captivating writer, a\nmaster of the minds and hearts of the studious youth of France, a\nknightly champion of the faith without fear and without reproach, an\nauthor of classical works of peculiar and enduring value. The charm of\nhis private, personal character, as a child, a friend, a husband and\nfather, a member of the social circle, equals the lustre of his public\ncareer. Spotless and fascinating from the beginning to the end of his\nlife, the bright and winning grace of the figure which he presents in\nthe history of his life receives dignity and pathos from the suffering\nwhich overshadowed and eclipsed his light before its meridian was\nattained. He was born in 1813; his professorship at the Sorbonne\nfilled the space between his twenty-seventh and thirty-ninth years of\nlife\u2015\u2015that is, from 1839 to 1852\u2015\u2015and he died the next year at the age\nof forty, after seven years of repeated attacks of illness and a\ncontinued decline. We will pass in rapid review the incidents of this\nbrief but fruitful career, and endeavor to place before our readers a\nreduced sketch of the character and work of Frederic Ozanam, as\nfaithfully and artistically portrayed by his accomplished biographer.\n\nThe family records of the Ozanams trace their origin to Jeremiah\nHozannam, a Jew, who was pr\u00e6tor in Julius C\u00e6sar\u2019s thirty-eighth\nlegion, and received the township of Boulignieux, near Lyons, as his\nshare in the military partition of the conquered Gallic territory. His\nlineal descendant, Samuel Hozannam, was converted by St. Didier in the\nseventh century. The name was altered to Ozanam by the grandfather of\nthe subject of the present notice. Dr. Ozanam, Frederic\u2019s father, was\na distinguished man, and both of Frederic\u2019s parents were persons of\nremarkable virtue and piety. He was born in Milan, but educated at\nLyons, every possible care being taken of his intellectual, moral, and\nreligious culture. In childhood and youth he was delicate, precocious,\nexemplary in morals and religion, extremely diligent and successful in\nhis studies, and every way admirable and lovable in character. At one\ntime during his boyhood he was tormented by temptations against faith,\nwhich were so rife, and to a multitude of the studious youth of France\nso dangerous, at that epoch. To him they were not dangerous, but\nsalutary; for they had no other effect except to stimulate him to a\nstudy of the rational evidences of the Catholic religion, and to leave\nin his heart a vivid and tender sympathy for the victims of doubt and\nerror. After a very thorough course of classical study under an\neminent teacher\u2015\u2015the Abb\u00e9 Noirot\u2015\u2015which he completed at seventeen\nyears of age, Frederic Ozanam was placed in a lawyer\u2019s office at\nLyons, where he remained one year, employing all his leisure time in\nlinguistic and literary studies. Before completing his nineteenth year\nhe was sent to study at the great Law-School of Paris, where he\nremained six years, after which, at the age of twenty-five, he was\nadmitted to the bar and to the degree of Doctor in Letters, taking the\nnext year his degree of Doctor of Laws. Ozanam had studied well his\njurisprudence, and was perfectly competent to practise his profession,\nor even to hold a chair as professor in a law-school. This was not,\nhowever, his vocation, and he had little taste or inclination for such\na life. His legal career was, therefore, very brief and only an\nepisode in his life. In respect to his true vocation he had many\ndoubts and anxieties. He was extremely averse to the thought of\nmarriage, and, being so fervently religious, he naturally felt certain\npredispositions toward the sacerdotal or monastic state. He visited\nthe _Grande Chartreuse_, corresponded with his friend Lacordaire, and\nheld many consultations with his director. The final result was that\nhe chose the profession of literature, and married, with the full and\nhearty approbation of his friend and counsellor, the Abb\u00e9 Noirot. His\nchief end in choosing his profession was the advancement of the cause\nof religion and the church; and the generous aspirations, directed by\nthe most elevated and enlightened views, which developed into so\nglorious and successful, albeit in time so brief a fulfilment, already\npreoccupied his mind and heart from the time that he was seventeen\nyears old.\n\nIn point of fact, he had really found his vocation at that time, and,\nnotwithstanding his apparent divergence to the legal profession and\nhis various waverings of purpose, he actually began to prosecute it\nsteadily by his studies and by such active efforts as his age and\ncondition permitted, from that early but prematurely ripe period of\nhis life. The programme of his studies and literary labors is laid\ndown in a letter to a friend, written when he was seventeen years old.\nWithout neglecting his professional studies, he was able, thanks to\nhis wonderful mental gifts, his retentive memory, and his habits of\nintense, continuous application, as well as to the definiteness and\nunity of the scope and plan which he followed, to acquire that solid\nand accurate erudition which furnished the material fused and moulded\ninto such beautiful forms by the fire of his eloquence and the\nconstructive art of his imagination.\n\nThe state of things among men of science and letters, and the youth\nstudying at the great schools, when Frederic Ozanam went to Paris,\nwas, in a religious aspect, most dreary. His father had feared to send\nhim there on account of the infidelity and immorality with which the\nwhole atmosphere was poisoned, but had at last resolved to trust to\nthe firmness of his principles and the purity of his character. His\ntrust was fully justified. During his student-life Ozanam began, in\nconcert with a few other young men like-minded with himself, that\ncounter-revolution or crusade for the restoration of the old religion\nof France, among the young students and also among the working-men of\nParis, which we devoutly trust will end in the fulfilment of De\nMaistre\u2019s prophecy that within this present century France will be\nonce again completely Christianized.\n\nThere is nothing more melancholy in all history, after the apostasy of\nJuda from the standard of her Lion, than the lapse of France from her\nfidelity to the cross and to the vows of that national baptism in the\ndeepest, purest waters of Catholicity, from which she derived her\nlife, her strength, and her unparalleled glory in Christendom. It is\nlike the fall of Solomon, so beautiful, so wise, so royal in\nmagnanimity and splendor, so favored of God, so renowned as the\nbuilder of the Temple and the palaces of Sion, degrading those later\nyears which ought to have been crowned with a venerable majesty by\nturning his heart to strange women and to the abominations of the\nheathen. It is a grief almost without consolation, and accompanied by\nsurprise and indignation, that a people like that of France, and\nespecially its intelligent and educated portion, living amid the\nmonumental glories of their Catholic history, could be insensible to\ntheir own honor, mock at all which makes their nation venerable,\ndestroy the noble work of their ancestors, and, like the Israelites\ndefiling themselves with the base heathen of Chanaan, turn away to the\nworship of the fetich of the Revolution. How much more deeply must the\nbosoms of those Frenchmen who are not degenerate be stirred by such\nemotions! There were always among the sons of Israel of old elect\nsouls, the true children of the promise, such as Joseph, Gideon,\nSamuel, David, Isaias, Daniel, Judas Machabeus, who burned with zeal\nand holy enthusiasm for the cause of the God of their fathers; and\nthey never ceased to rise up when they were most needed until the\nfinal apostasy of the nation. The people of France have never\napostatized from Christ as a body, although a great multitude of\napostates have deserted the faith and loyalty of their ancestors, and\nthe revolution which they stirred up under the traitorous banner of\nVoltaire, \u201cthe wickedest, the meanest, and the most unpatriotic\nFrenchman of the last century,\u201d[149] has swayed to a great extent the\npolitics and education of France for a hundred years. Paris has gone\nfar beyond France in this road of apostasy, but even there impiety has\nnever gained a complete and lasting conquest. On the contrary,\nmartyrdom, heroic charity, and intellectual valor in the sacred cause\nhave made it their most illustrious palestra, and, we trust, have\nexpiated the guilt of that peerless city, and averted the doom which\nwould seem to await it if the divine justice should exact the due meed\nof retribution.\n\nAmong the _\u00e9lite_ of the youth of France, the class most immediately\nand universally exposed to the deadly influence of impious literature\nand education and withdrawn from the control of the clergy, gifted and\npure souls have arisen, filled with the inspiration of genius and\nreligion, like Daniel and his companions in the captivity, who have\nescaped the violence of fire and stopped the mouths of lions. First\namong these is Chateaubriand, who in his old age honored Frederic\nOzanam with his special friendship and was loved reverently by him in\nreturn. Notwithstanding a short period of defection from the faith,\nand considerable faults in his character and writings, Chateaubriand\ndeserves to be called the father of the new generation of Catholic\nyouth in France. There is no similar autobiography of more exquisite\ncharm than the history of that childhood and youth in which this great\nman shows us how he was trained and formed to that peculiar type of\ngenius which so captivated, and to a great extent re-formed in a\nCatholic mould, the intellectual and imaginative youth of France.\nLamartine deserves a considerable meed of recognition, also, for\nservices of the same general nature, though he was far less true and\nconstant to his first loyalty. Victor Hugo promised in the beginning\nto devote a genius of a much higher order than either of these two\neminent men possessed to the true welfare of his country and mankind,\nbut unhappily was seduced by the fell spirit of the Revolution. Even\nhe shows a reaction from the unmitigated, fanatical hatred of the\nCatholic past of France and Christendom which animates the worst\nsection of the anti-Catholic sect. The moderates or liberals, the men\nof compromise between the revolutionary section and some kind of vague\nnatural religion or philosophy under a spiritual or semi-Christian\nsemblance, who have had the predominance at Paris in government,\neducation, and the general leadership of the public affairs of France,\nsince the time of the First Empire, have also belonged to a half-way\nparty, in which the effect of resurging Catholicity is visible. They\nhave been allied with the outside row of Catholics, who were either\nonly nominally such, or, if really, inconsistent and weak in their\nallegiance to the church. Their position presented, therefore, a much\nweaker and more easily assailable front to Catholic aggression than\none more extreme and openly revolutionary would have done.\nNevertheless, the young world of Paris students were as effectually,\nand more quietly and irresistibly, alienated from real faith in the\nreligion of their baptism, and every principle or duty of practical\nChristian morals and piety, by their utterly secular and free-thinking\neducation in the public schools, so long as no counter-influence was\nbrought to bear upon them, as if the Catholic religion had been\nproscribed by penal laws. It was possible, however, to bring this\ninfluence to bear upon them. The liberty granted to indifferentism,\ninfidelity, and atheism might be made use of to the advantage of\nCatholicity. In the schools where free thought and free expression\nwere a law, the possessors might be invaded and overthrown by\nintellectual and moral weapons, if there were found aggressors able to\nwield them and bold enough to enter the arena. On such a\nbattle-ground, where the field is in the domain of history and\nphilosophy, where reason is umpire, and where facts and arguments,\neloquence and logic, appeals to the intellect and the heart, the\nlessons of the past and the examples of those men to whom the verdict\nof time\u2015\u2015the most impartial of judges\u2015\u2015has decreed an apotheosis, are\nthe arsenal of the combatants, the Catholic cause must win, if its\nchampions are worthy of their cause.\n\nWhen Frederic Ozanam came to Paris the other side had the field to\nthemselves, like the challengers of Ashby-de-la-Zouche on the morning\nof the tournament, before the young Ivanhoe rode into the lists. The\nvenerable Sorbonne, that ancient shrine of sacred learning, had become\na theatre, where shallow, rationalistic philosophers like Jouffroy\ndeclaimed against revelation and the Catholic Church. Ozanam soon\nfound a small number of resolute, high-spirited young men like\nhimself, who had been well trained at home in their religion and were\ndetermined to adhere to it faithfully. Under his leadership they began\nto send in objections to the statements and arguments of their infidel\nprofessors, which necessarily commanded some attention and respect and\nhad influence with their fellow-students. Jouffroy himself, at the\nhour of death abjured infidelity, received the Sacraments devoutly,\nand declared that one half-page of the catechism was worth more than\nall the philosophical systems. It was at this time that Ozanam founded\nthe Society of St. Vincent de Paul. The Abb\u00e9 Lacordaire, the Abb\u00e9\nGerbet, and other eminent priests of Paris, and even the archbishop,\ninterested themselves in the band of young Catholic students, and\nunder their guidance the career of their leader, Frederic Ozanam,\nbecame, during his whole student-life, a truly noble and successful\napostleship. Thus the way was prepared for him to carry on the same\nwork in a much more efficacious manner as a professor at the Sorbonne.\n\nIn the year 1839 Ozanam, being then twenty-six years of age, a\nprofessorship of philosophy at Orleans and one of commercial law at\nLyons were offered him, and the latter appointment accepted. He\nresigned it, however, after one year, in order to accept the position\nof assistant-professor of foreign literature at the Sorbonne. At this\ntime an additional professorship of foreign literature at Lyons was\noffered to him, which would have secured to him, together with the\nlaw-professorship, an income of $3,000 a year. He was just about to be\nmarried to a young lady of Lyons. Nevertheless, he chose the position\nof assistant to the profesor of foreign literature at the Sorbonne,\nalthough it was a precarious one, and brought him an income of less\nthan $500, in order that he might be better able to carry out the one\nnoble purpose to which he had devoted his life. Together with his\nprofessorship at the Sorbonne he held also, for a few years, another\nat the _Coll\u00e9ge Stanislas_, which he was obliged to relinquish when,\nin 1844, on the vacancy of the chair of foreign literature at the\nSorbonne, he received the appointment to fill it from the government.\nFor all these early and brilliant successes he was in great measure\nindebted to the warm friendship and patronage of M. Cousin and M.\nVillemain, a fact most honorable to these distinguished men, who, as\nis well known, were leaders of the rationalist school, yet\nnevertheless, like the eminent Protestant, M. Guizot, really carried\nout in respect to Catholics their professions of liberality. M. Ozanam\ncontinued to fulfil his duties at the Sorbonne during twelve years,\nwith some considerable interruptions caused by illness. His published\nworks are chiefly composed of the substance of the lectures which he\ndelivered.\n\nThe great idea which was before the mind of Ozanam from the period of\nhis early youth was, the justification of the Catholic religion by the\nphilosophy of universal history. Eventually, he was led to concentrate\nhis attention principally upon the period embraced between the fifth\nand fourteenth centuries, with especial reference to the German empire\nand to the medi\u00e6val philosophy reflected in the poems of Dante, whose\nstrong attachment to the German party in Italy is well known, though\nperhaps not so generally well understood. Frederic Schlegel has said:\n\u201cIt is pre-eminently from the study of history that all endeavors\nafter a higher mental culture derive their fixed centre and support,\nviz., their common reference to man, his destinies and energies.\nHistory, if it does not stop at the mere enumeration of names, dates,\nand external facts; if it seizes on and sets forth the spirit of great\ntimes, of great men, and great events, is in itself a true philosophy,\nintelligible to all, and certain, and in its manifold applications the\nmost instructive. Then history, if not in itself the most brilliant,\nis yet the most indispensable link in that beautiful chain which\nencompasses man\u2019s higher intellectual culture; and history it is which\nbinds the others more closely together. It is the great merit of our\nage to have renovated the study of history, and to have cultivated it\nwith extraordinary zeal. Within the last two or three decades alone so\nmuch has been achieved and produced in this department, that\nhistorical knowledge has been perhaps as much extended in that short\nspace of time as formerly in many centuries.\u201d[150] The scope and\nsolution of universal history are found in the history of Christianity\nviewed in connection with the Judaic and patriarchal epochs of\nrevealed religion which preceded the advent of the Messias. The most\nimportant portion of Christian history is that which relates to\nWestern Christendom, the European family of nations which grew up\nunder the immediate spiritual and temporal authority of the popes.\nThis was the true _civilt\u00e0 cattolica_, the millenial kingdom of Christ\non earth, whose rise, progress, and gradual decadence occupied the\nspace between the fifth and sixteenth centuries, whose remnants are\nall that has any moral grandeur or value in the modern age, whose\nrestoration and triumph under a new form are the only future hope of\nhumanity.\n\nThe foundations of heresy and infidelity are laid in the falsification\nand perversion of history, and in the general ignorance of historical\nfacts which opens the way for sophists to spin their webs of lies\naround the deluded minds of the multitude. To find some other source\nof the greatness, virtue, happiness, evolution in the line of its\ndestiny, already actually exhibited in its history by the human race,\nespecially its elect portion, and still possible in futurity, besides\nthe revealed religion and Catholic church of God, is the problem of\nthe anti-Catholic, anti-Christian, anti-theistic sophists. Germany is\ntheir principal territory, the Gath and Ascalon of the Philistines who\ndefy the armies of the Living God with their weapons of erudition and\nreasoning that are like a weaver\u2019s beam. From the days of the old\nsecular and ecclesiastical princes of Germany who revolted against the\nsupremacy of Rome, down to Luther, his associates and successors, even\nto our modern German sophists, apostates and persecutors; the pretence\nof an autochthonous culture has been set up for Germany with a degree\nof pride, arrogance, and insolence which has no parallel, and is\nfrequently so offensive and boastful as to be ridiculous not only in\nthe eyes of the rest of the world but in those of all sensible and\ncatholic-minded Germans. Christianity is considered by men of this\nschool as the cause of a decline from the autocthonous civilization.\nWar with the Christianity of the Latin races, and a return to\nunalloyed Teutonism, are regarded as the conditions of a magnificent\nfuture development, political, scientific, and literary, which shall\ncreate a German empire in every respect supreme mistress of the modern\nworld.\n\nOzanam\u2019s chief object was to combat this claim by showing, not that\nGermany has nothing to be proud of and no greatness to aspire after,\nbut that she is indebted for her past and present glory, and must be\nindebted for any fulfilment of a glorious destiny in time to come, to\nChristianity and Roman unity, without which the Germans would have\nremained always, and will again become, barbarians. We must refer the\nreader to Miss O\u2019Meara\u2019s interesting pages for a fuller account of the\nway in which Ozanam prepared himself for his task, and afterwards\nfulfilled it by his lectures on German history.\n\nSchlegel had given him a brilliant example of the way in which history\ncan be brought up to that high standard of scientific, ethical, and\nliterary excellence which is set forth in the quotation we have made\nabove from his lectures. The value and practical utility of the ideas\nthere presented and illustrated so nobly by the literary career of\nOzanam cannot be too much insisted upon. History is emphatically the\nmodern field most necessary and advantageous for Catholic polemics.\nThe history of particular epochs, of special classes and orders in\nsociety, of individual men of mark, of institutions, of branches of\nscience, art, or learning\u2015\u2015in a word, of every kind of topic which can\nbe made distinct and interesting by being localized, limited in\nrespect to time, or otherwise so brought within clear and defined\nboundaries that it becomes vivid and real to the intellect and\nimagination\u2015\u2015is that which we have specially within our intention.\nMoreover, the charms of style are essentially requisite. Happily, we\nhave begun to supply the dearth of such books in the English language,\npartly by such as are originally written in English, partly by\ntranslations. John Henry Newman has given us a certain quantity of\nhistorical writing worthy of comparison with \u201cLivy\u2019s pictured page,\u201d\nand justly meriting for him the title, so felicitously invented by an\nItalian critic, of \u201cthe Claude Lorraine of English literature.\u201d The\naccomplished authoress of _Christian Schools and Scholars_ is another\nskilful miner in the gold-fields of Catholic history; and Mrs. Hope,\nalso, has shown in her volumes on the conversion of the Teutons and\nAnglo-Saxons how specially adapted to labor successfully in this\ndepartment are cultivated women. Montalembert\u2019s _Monks of the West_ is\nan unrivalled masterpiece, as all know; and if we were to catalogue\nall the various pieces of historical composition on similar topics to\nbe found in recent European literature, enough of them would be found\nto make a small library. All books of this kind in the English\nlanguage would, however, make but a small collection, merely enough\nfor a nucleus of a library of Catholic historical literature. The\neducated and reading classes in England and the United States have\nbeen, within a very recent period, shockingly ignorant of the history\nof all except a few nations during a few epochs, in regard to which\nthey have received a certain amount of information from popular works,\nmixed up with a great amount of error and misrepresentation. There has\ndoubtless been an improvement slowly taking place for the last thirty\nyears, and becoming continually more rapid as it advances. Yet, rating\nthis improvement at the highest value it can possibly be imagined to\nhave, the amount of knowledge, especially in regard to the real,\ngenuine history of Christendom, which is current among the readers of\nonly English books, or even accessible to them, is lamentably small.\nEven the most of those who are supposed to know something of foreign\nliterature may, without injustice, be taxed with the same lack of\ninformation. We consider, therefore, that the example of Ozanam is one\nwhich has a special fitness in it to allure and stimulate those whose\nvocation it is to give instruction, by lectures or writings, to a\nzealous imitation. There are Australian and Californian mines waiting\nfor those who will work them, in which those who have not the ability\nto dig out great masses of the golden ore may find nuggets and\ngold-dust in abundance to increase the common treasure in general\ncirculation. Historical works of original and thorough research are\nwanted. Where translations from German, French, and Italian works\nsuffice, let them suffice, and original authors take up new topics.\nWould that, even by the easy method of translation from foreign\nlanguages, our English historical literature might be enriched, and\nthat the taste for solid reading were sufficiently diffused to enable\nenterprising publishers to employ the hundreds of persons able and\nwilling to undertake this work! Besides these more extensive\nhistorical works, there is a great need for others of lesser\nmagnitude, for which the materials already exist in abundance. All\nthat is necessary to make these rich materials available is, that they\nbe worked up by those who possess the art of conveying instruction and\nimparting delight to inquisitive minds by the skilful use of their\nvernacular idiom in a way suited to the capacity and taste of their\nlisteners or readers. Teachers in colleges and schools who are able to\nlecture to their pupils will, in our opinion, stimulate their minds to\nthought and study much more easily and efficaciously by lectures on\ntopics of this kind than by adhering exclusively to the mere class\nroutine. And we venture to suggest also to those who give lectures to\nliterary associations or general audiences, that they would do well to\nexchange their usually trite and abstract topics of vague and general\ndeclamation for specific and individual subjects taken from the\nhistorical domain. We may say the same to those who undertake to write\nbooks, or articles for the periodicals. And here it occurs to our\nmemory to refer to certain historical and biographical articles which\nhave appeared in some of our magazines as specimens and illustrations.\nThe _Civilt\u00e0 Cattolica_ has published a long series of brief but\nremarkably accurate and graphic historical sketches of the lives and\nreigns of the Sovereign Pontiffs, under the title of _I Destini di\nRoma_. _The Month_ has repeatedly given short articles of the same\nkind, either singly or serially, which are perfect models of the\npopular historical style. Our children and young people, and\nindeed all people whatever who can be induced to hear or read\nanything instructive, with the exception of a small class of\nseverely-disciplined minds, must be charmed in order to be taught.\nTruth must be made visible; in concrete, distinct, and brilliant\npictures, images, representations of actual realities, living\nexamples; as a splendid form in symmetrical figures. This is the\nreason why works of imaginative genius are so keenly relished by the\nmultitude, and especially those fictitious narratives called novels\nand romances, whose particular form is most easily apprehended by the\ncommon imagination. Fiction, in so far as it is constructed according\nto the rules of true art, is but a shadow of real life. The reality is\nfar more interesting. Compendiums and textbooks must indeed be dry,\nand they are necessary, as grammars and dictionaries are both\nextremely dry and extremely necessary. But, besides these dry\nskeletons of history, we need other books in which the epic and lyric\nharmony and dramatic life of man\u2019s variegated action on the earth are\nreproduced\u2015\u2015works which bear the same relation to dry annals that the\n_\u00c6neid_ or the _Cid_ sustain to Latin and French grammar. They should\nbe composed with such a charm of style that an intelligent boy or girl\nwould eagerly take them under a tree of a fine summer-day, and beguile\ndelightfully a long afternoon in their perusal, if they are for\njuvenile readers; and if they are of a more ambitious aim, that they\nallure their readers to burn the midnight oil over their pages. Nor\nwould we exclude historical romances from the category of useful and\ninstructive literature, if they are constructed in conformity to the\ntruth of history and inculcate wholesome moral lessons.\n\nIt is an error to consider literature as merely a means of instruction\nfor a secular purpose or of transitory pleasure, and to confine the\neffort at cultivating the spiritual faculties in view of the soul\u2019s\neverlasting destiny, to the use of means directly religious. This is\none form of the erroneous doctrine that the temporal order ought to be\nseparated from the spiritual order, and therefore education be\nsecularized. If there are any who think that the clergy have no\ninterest in any but their own technical, professional studies, and\nthat catechisms, didactic sermons, ascetic books, and biographies of\nsaints written in that formal method which is so inexpressibly\nunnatural and tedious, with virtues tied up in separate bundles and\ncommonplace dissertations overloading the narrative, are the only and\nsufficient means of salvation, we might say to them: Look at the\nBible, and study the method which the divine Wisdom adopted. It is a\nbook of history, poetry, eloquence; with little of professedly\nabstract, didactic instruction. It is an inspired literature, and the\nsermons of our Lord even are thrown into a popular and concrete form\nwhich addresses the imagination more directly than the understanding.\nThe Bible, as well as nature, reason, and experience, teaches us the\npractical lesson that for the young and for the multitude\nobject-teaching is the proper and only successful method. The divine\nphilosophy, as well as the human, must be taught by example, and\nhistory is philosophy teaching by examples. In the history of\nChristendom, both public and private, the sacred history of the Old\nand New Testament is continued. The church is the spouse of Christ.\nThe Evangelists paint the picture of the bridegroom, and Catholic\nhistorians of the bride. To win admiration and love for her, it is\nenough to represent her as she is.\n\nFrederic Ozanam was inspired with this idea, which was infused into\nhis soul by the Holy Spirit who consecrated him to his high vocation.\nHe devoted himself to his literary and historical labors as a\nprofessor at the Sorbonne, not for the sake of science, fame, or any\nearthly advantage or emolument, but as an apostle of the Catholic\nreligion; that he might win the studious youth of Paris to love\nCatholic truth and return to the church of their ancestors. For fifty\nyears no Catholic lecturer, speaking as a Catholic, had been heard in\nthat ancient, desecrated temple of the Christian philosophy of the\nglorious days gone by of France. The voice of Ozanam was heard,\nwithout the slightest flattening of its Catholic tone, with no timid\nreticence of his Catholic principles, and it captivated that crowd of\nturbulent, unbelieving youth by its magic eloquence. His biographer\ntells us:\n\n \u201cNo man in his position was ever so much beloved in Paris;\n it was almost an adoration. After hanging upon his lips at\n the Sorbonne, bursting out every now and then, as if in\n spite of themselves, into sudden gusts of applause, and then\n hushing one another for fear they should lose one of the\n master\u2019s words, his young audience would follow him out of\n the lecture-hall, shouting and cheering, putting questions,\n and elbowing their way up for a word of recognition, while a\n band of favored ones trooped on with him to his home across\n the gardens. They never suspected what an additional fatigue\n this affectionate demonstration was to the professor,\n already exhausted by the preceding hour and a half\u2019s\n exertion, with its laborious proximate preparation. No\n matter how tired he was, they were never dismissed; he\n welcomed their noisy company, with its eager talk, its\n comments and questions, as if it were the most refreshing\n rest. There was, indeed, only one reward that Ozanam coveted\n more; this was when some young soul, who had come to the\n lecture in doubt or unbelief, suddenly moved by the orator\u2019s\n exposition of the faith, as it was embodied or shadowed\n forth in his subject, opened his eyes to the truth, and,\n like the blind man in the Gospel, cried out, \u2018giving\n thanks.\u2019\n\n \u201cOne day, on coming home from the Sorbonne, the following\n note was handed to him: \u2018It is impossible that any one could\n speak with so much fervor and heart without believing what\n he affirms. If it be any satisfaction\u2015\u2015I will even say\n happiness\u2015\u2015to you to know it, enjoy it to the full, and\n learn that before hearing you I did not believe. What a\n great number of sermons failed to do for me you have done in\n an hour: you have made me a Christian!\u2026 Accept this\n expression of my joy and gratitude.\u2019 _You have made me a\n Christian!_ Oh! let those who believe and love like Ozanam\n tell us what he felt, what joy inundated his soul when this\n cry went forth to him.\u201d[151]\n\nOzanam\u2019s authority over the students was never more strikingly\nmanifested than on the occasion of the excitement caused by the public\nannouncement which the celebrated historian Lenormant made of his\nconversion to Christianity. He had been an infidel, then a waverer\nbetween scepticism and faith, for years before he declared himself on\nthe Catholic side. The leaders of the infidel party stirred up the\nstudents who attended his course of historical lectures to violent\ndemonstrations of hostility. Ozanam espoused his cause with the most\nchivalrous courage, and took his place by the side of M. Lenormant in\nthe lecture-hall. When the storm of yells, hisses, hootings, and\nblasphemous outcries burst forth in a deafening tumult, he sprang to\nhis feet beside the lecturer with an attitude and a glance of\nindignant defiance which evoked at once from the fickle mob of youths\na counter-storm of violent applause. A scornful gesture hushed them\ninto a sudden silence, broken only by the thunder of Ozanam\u2019s\ninvectives and the eloquence of his appeals to their honor and the\nprinciples of liberty which they professed to respect, but had so\ngrossly violated. He mastered them completely, and M. Lenormant then\nproceeded to deliver his lecture without interruption. The next day,\nhowever, through the influence of those consistent advocates of\ntoleration, Michelet and Quinet, the course was closed by an order of\nthe government.\n\nThe active labors of Ozanam were by no means restricted to his\ndepartment of duty as a professor. He was a zealous leader in Catholic\nassociations, a frequent contributor to the journals, an untiring\nworkman in the cause of practical charity and all undertakings for the\nimprovement of the class of artisans and laborers. It is impossible to\nmake any accurate estimate of the actual results of his efforts in the\ncause of religion and humanity. In the words of his biographer: \u201cThe\nwork that he accomplished in his sphere will never be known in this\nworld. God only knows the harvest that others have reaped from his\nprodigal self-devotion, his knowledge, and that eloquence which so\nfully illustrated the ideal standard of human speech described by\nF\u00e9nelon as \u2018the strong and persuasive utterance of a soul nobly\ninspired.\u2019 For Ozanam was not merely a teacher in the Sorbonne\u2015\u2015he was\na teacher of the world; and his influence shone out to the world\nthrough the minds and lives of numbers of his contemporaries who did\nnot know that they were reflecting his light.\u201d\n\nWhat is awaiting France we know not. The world, but especially all\nCatholics throughout the whole extent of the church\u2019s domain in the\nworld, have watched with intensest interest the events which have\noccurred in France since the reign of Pius IX. began under such\nunwonted and marvellous auspices, and has continued so much beyond the\nperiod of human expectation. They have never ceased to pray for\nFrance, to sympathize with the heroic efforts of genuine French\npatriots, the true children of Charlemagne and St. Louis, and to watch\nanxiously for the time when the prognostic of the learned and eloquent\nDr. Marshall shall be fulfilled: \u201c_When France falls upon her knees,\nlet the enemies of France begin to tremble._\u201d The blood of three\nmartyred archbishops of Paris, the blood of Olivaint and his noble\nfellow-victims, the blood of Pimodan and those generous youth who fell\nat Castelfidardo, the chivalry of Lamorici\u00e8re and La Charrette, the\nvows of the pilgrims of Lourdes and Paray-le-Monial, the valiant\nstruggles of the champions of the faith, the prayers and sacrifices of\nthat crowd of the noblest daughters of France which fills her\nrenovated cloisters, cannot surely remain for ever powerless to lift\nthe dark cloud which overhangs the kingdom of the _fleurs-de-lis_.\nThere has been enough of the blood of the just poured out in France\nwithin the last century to redeem not only France but Christendom. If\nChristendom is to be regenerated, France must first come forth renewed\nout of her second baptism in blood and fire. The cry of anguish,\nthough not of despair, which she sends up to heaven by the mouth of\nher eloquent spokesman, the bishop of the city of Joan of Arc, \u201c_O\u00f9\nallons nous?_\u201d must be answered: \u201cWe go to victory over traitors\nwithin and enemies without, and our triumph shall be that of the\nCatholic Church.\u201d\n\nFrederic Ozanam had once said to the young men of a literary circle:\n\u201cLet us be ready to prove that we too have our battle-fields, and\nthat, if need be, we can die on them.\u201d In point of fact, he did really\nsacrifice his own life in the fulfilment of his task. Such a delicate\nphysical constitution could not naturally long survive the intense,\ncontinuous strain to which it was subjected by a spirit which\nexercised a relentless despotism over the body. In a letter to his\nbrother Charles he tells him, by way of encouraging him to follow his\nexample, that in 1837, when he was preparing his examination for the\nhigher degrees, he had, during five months, worked regularly ten\nhours, and during the last month fifteen, daily, without counting the\ntime spent in classes. With much more _na\u00efvet\u00e9_ than good sense, he\nobserves that \u201cone has to be _prudent_, so as not to injure one\u2019s\nhealth by the pressure; but little by little the constitution grows\nused to it. We become accustomed to a severe active life, and it\nbenefits the temper as much as the intellect.\u201d Notwithstanding the\nremonstrances of friends, he continued almost the same extent of\napplication to study, until his health gave way entirely; and even\nduring the journeys he was obliged to take for relaxation he rather\nvaried the kind of labor in which his restless mind engaged than\nexchanged it for rest and recreation. His first severe illness\nattacked him only four years after he began lecturing at the Sorbonne.\nThis was followed at intervals by other attacks, and a general failure\nof health which obliged him to intermit his courses and take several\njourneys in France, Italy, England, and Spain, during which he\ngathered the materials of some of the most delightful of his minor\nworks. It is a curious and characteristic incident of his visit to\nEngland, worth recording, that he was turned out of Westminster Abbey\nby the pompous beadle, whom all tourists must well remember, for\nkneeling down to pray at the tomb of Edward the Confessor. His last\nlecture at the Sorbonne was given some time during the spring of 1852.\nIt was a dying effort. He had persisted in dragging himself to the\nlecture-hall while a remnant of strength remained, in spite of the\nentreaties of friends and medical advisers. At length he had been\nforced to take to his bed, exhausted with weakness and consumed by\nfever. His cruel and unreasonable pupils clamored at the deprivation\nof the intellectual banquet to which they had been accustomed, and,\nwith the inconsiderate spirit of youth, accused him of neglecting his\nduty through self-indulgence. Ozanam heard of this, and, in spite of\nall remonstrances, he rose from his bed, was dressed and taken in a\ncarriage to the Sorbonne. Pale and haggard, unable to walk without\nsupport, but with an eye blazing with unwonted fire, and a voice clear\nand shrill as a silver clarion, he sang his death-song amid\nenthusiastic applause.\n\nAs the peroration of his last speech and of his life he exclaimed:\n\u201cGentlemen, our age is accused of being an age of egotism; we\nprofessors, it is said, are tainted with the general epidemic; and yet\nit is here that we use up our health; it is here that we wear\nourselves out. I do not complain of it; our life belongs to you; we\nowe it to you to our last breath, and you shall have it. For my part,\nif I die it will be in your service.\u201d With ardent but foreboding\ncongratulations and applauses, which all felt to be farewells, the\nstudents of the Sorbonne heard and saw the last of Ozanam. The finale\nof his career had been reached; his coursers touched the goal, and the\nwreath and palm were decreed by acclamation to the hero who bore them\naway to die. The next morning it was feared that he might not survive\nten days. He lived, however, about sixteen months longer, wandering in\ncompany with his wife and little daughter, from Eaux-Bonnes to\nBiarritz, from Biarritz to the Pyrenees, to Spain, and at last to\nItaly, then to Marseilles, where he closed his earthly life on the\nFeast of the Nativity of Our Lady, 1853, surrounded by his relatives\nand friends, and by his brothers of the Society of St. Vincent de\nPaul. His published works fill eleven volumes of considerable size,\nand for a just appreciation of their character and value we refer the\nreader to the twenty-fifth chapter of Miss O\u2019Meara\u2019s biography.\n\nWe have endeavored to excite rather than to allay the curiosity of our\nreaders, by merely designating the salient points of a life which is\ncrowded with a great variety of traits and incidents such as make up a\nsubject worthy to be handled by a skilful artist in the painting of\ncharacter. We have not by any means exhausted the material furnished\nby the intelligent and graceful narrator of Ozanam\u2019s life, or even\ntouched upon those personal and private details of his domestic\nhistory which lend so poetic a charm to the story of his public\ncareer. Those in whom we have awakened an interest for one who\npresents the living ideal of a perfect Catholic layman in an exalted\nsphere of action, will defraud themselves grievously if they fail to\nmake themselves more fully acquainted with it by the perusal of his\nbiography. The author, although she now appears for the first time\nunder her own proper name, is already known by her _Life of Bishop\nGrant_, published under the _nom de plume_ of Grace Ramsay, and is a\ndaughter of Dr. O\u2019Meara, the author of _Napoleon in Exile; or, a Voice\nfrom St. Helena_. Her contributions to the pages of this magazine have\nbeen numerous and always considered as among the best of our literary\narticles. In the work we are reviewing she has done justice to the\nhigh estimate we had previously formed of her merit as a writer, and\nto her subject, the one most suited to call forth her power which she\nhas thus far attempted. Besides a full knowledge of her subject; that\nardent glow of admiration for the hero of her story which is so\nrequisite, and is one of the special charms of portraits of noble men\ndrawn by a feminine hand; and graphic power regulated by delicate and\ncorrect taste in delineation and description, the author has shown\nremarkable tact and good sense in respect to all those questions which\nhave caused division and discussion between different Catholic parties\nin France. Without suppressing any part of the history of M. Ozanam\nand his period, or attempting to throw a veil over any of his opinions\nwhich involved him in the domestic controversies then existing, and\nnot yet settled, respecting the relations of the Catholic cause and\nnational politics, she has judiciously avoided taking the part of an\nadvocate, and preserved the quiet, impartial attitude of a historian.\nWe have occasionally noticed some evidences of haste, and neglect to\nput the last finishing touches upon the construction of sentences or\nthe details of the narrative. We are also at a loss to understand the\nauthor\u2019s motive for using certain French words, such as _angoisse_ and\n_d\u00e9couragement_, rather than the corresponding Englishman terms. For\nthe incorrect title on the back of the cover, _Life and Works of F.\nOzanam_, we suppose the publisher is accountable; for the author has\nentitled her own work very properly on the title-page, _Frederic\nOzanam, Professor at the Sorbonne: His Life and Works_\u2015\u2015a phrase whose\nmeaning is essentially changed by the inversion of its parts, and made\nto convey the impression that the complete works of Ozanam are\ncontained in one small volume, together with his life. Apart from this\nblemish, which can be easily corrected, the mechanical execution of\nthe work is neat and tasteful. The _Life of Ozanam_ is another gem\nadded to our small cabinet of treasures by the skill and industry of a\ngifted, cultivated woman. We trust the success of Miss O\u2019Meara\u2019s first\nappearance under her own name will encourage her to new efforts, and\nstimulate other women similarly gifted to follow her example by\nlaboring in a department of literature for which they are specially\ncompetent. The example of Frederic Ozanam, mirrored in her clear,\nimpartial pages, presents its own native, intrinsic beauty and\nsplendor as a model for pure, disinterested, high-souled Catholic\nyoung men who aspire towards an ideal of true intellectual and moral\ngreatness which is elevated and at the same time attainable in the\nlaical state and a secular profession. It is to be hoped that the\npublication of this _Life_ will make the Catholic students of England\nand the United States generally acquainted both with Ozanam\u2019s\nbeautiful character and with his thoroughly erudite, yet classically\nelegant and attractive, works on the history and literature of the\nmiddle ages.\n\n\n [148] _Frederic Ozanam, Professor at the Sorbonne: His Life\n and Works._ By Kathleen O\u2019Meara. Edinburgh: Edmonston &\n Douglas. 1876.\n\n [149] Lady Georgiana Fullerton.\n\n [150] _Lectures on Modern History._ Bohn\u2019s Ed. pp. 1-3.\n\n [151] P. 200.\n\n\n\n\nAMID IRISH SCENES.\n\nII\n\n\n \u201cI do love these ancient ruins:\n We never tread upon them but we set\n Our foot upon some rev\u2019rend history;\n And, questionless, here in this open court,\n Which now lies naked to the injuries\n Of stormy weather, some lie interred who\n Loved the church so well and gave so largely to \u2019t\n They thought it should have canopied their bones\n Till doomsday.\u201d\n\n \u201cThere is a joy in every spot\n Made known in days of old\n New to the feet, although each tale\n A hundred times be told.\u201d\n\n\nWho has not heard of the Rock of Cashel\u2015\u2015Cashel of the Kings? \u201cThe\nfirst object,\u201d exclaimed Richard Lalor Sheil, \u201cthat in childhood I\nlearned to admire was that noble ruin, an emblem as well as a memorial\nof Ireland, which ascends before us, at once a temple and a fortress,\nthe seat of religion and nationality; where councils were held, where\nprinces assembled; the scene of courts and of synods; and on which it\nis impossible to look without feeling the heart at once elevated and\ntouched by the noblest as well as the most solemn recollections.\u201d From\nwhatever side the traveller approaches the ancient metropolis and\nresidence of the kings of Munster, the first object to meet his eye is\nthe Rock, which lifts itself above the surrounding country, as proud\nto wear its monumental crown. From the earliest times this hill seems\nto have been dedicated to religion. Its Round Tower, which is still\nentire, would lead us to associate it with the pagan rites of the\nancient Irish; and the tradition which designates the Rock as the\nplace where the kings of Munster were proclaimed confirms this view.\nIt is certainly associated with the early dawn of Christianity in\nIreland; for St. Patrick, St. Declan, St. Ailbe, St. Kiran, and other\nholy men held a synod in Cashel.\n\nSt. Patrick\u2019s visit was in 448; he baptized Prince \u00c6ngus and held\nsolemn feast in Cashel of the Kings \u201ctill all the land was clothed\nwith Christ.\u201d Here on the Rock he gave the shamrock its immortal fame:\n\n \u201cFrom the grass\n The little three-leaved herb, stooping, I plucked,\n And preached the Trinity.\u201d\n\nWithout entering into the controversy concerning the origin of the\nRound Towers, we will take Cormac\u2019s Chapel to be the most ancient\nChristian ruin on the Rock.\n\nThis stone-roofed church was built, as is generally supposed, by\nCormac McCullenan, the famous king-bishop, who began to reign in the\nyear 902. But Petrie is of opinion that we owe this chapel to Cormac\nMacCarthy, King of Munster, and that it is the Teampul Chormaic of\nwhose solemn consecration by the archbishops and bishops of Munster,\nin presence of the priests, princes, and people, the Annals of\nInnisfallen make mention in 1134.\n\nHowever this may be, all agree that the chapel is one of the most\ncurious and interesting specimens of early Christian architecture in\nIreland. Like all the stone-roofed chapels of the primitive Irish\nChurch, it is divided into nave and chancel, with a tall, square tower\nat their northern and southern juncture. Within the southern tower,\nwhich on the outside is ornamented with six projecting bands, there is\na stone staircase leading to apartments above the chapel said to have\nbeen occupied by King Cormac. These rooms receive the light through\nwindows which are circular on the outside, but square within, and were\nheated by hot air, conveyed into them through flues in the wall\u2015\u2015the\nfirst instance known to us of the use of a method of warming houses\ngenerally thought to be of very recent invention. The doorways leading\ninto the chapel are in its northern and southern walls, and are richly\nadorned with columns, capitals, mouldings, and sculptured figures. On\nthe lintel of the northern entrance there is a group in basso-relievo\nrepresenting a Centaur in the act of shooting a lion which is about to\ndevour some smaller animal that is crouching at its feet. This is\nsupposed to represent the contest between paganism and Christianity\nfor the possession of Ireland during the repeated invasions of the\nDanes.\n\nThe cathedral stands between the Round Tower and Cormac\u2019s Chapel,\nembracing them in such way that they all seem to be but parts of one\nmagnificent ruin. This church, which consists of a choir, nave, and\ntransepts, with a square tower in the centre, was built by Donald\nO\u2019Brien, King of Limerick, in the year 1169. Its greatest length from\neast to west is two hundred and ten feet, and the breadth of the\ntransepts is a hundred and seventy feet. It is both a fortress and a\nchurch\u2015\u2015true symbol of the perfect union of the national and the\nreligious spirit in Ireland. The walls, which are of great thickness,\nare hollow, so as to afford a safe passage from one part of the\nbuilding to another in case of danger. At the western end, instead of\nthe great doorway usually found in churches, there is a massive square\nguard-tower of great height, resembling the fortified castles which\nare common throughout the kingdom.\n\nThis formerly contained a vaulted apartment having no exterior\nwindows, and but one small entrance. Over this vault was the great\nroom of state, which could be reached only by stairs within the walls,\nbarely wide enough to admit one person. The roof was surmounted by\nbattlements and a parapet. The monuments whose ruins crown the Rock of\nCashel were all built before the Saxon had set foot in Ireland, and it\nis impossible to look upon them without admiration for the men who\ncalled them into existence. They certainly had little to learn, in\narchitecture at least, from the rude Norman barons who, taking\nadvantage of the internal feuds which distracted the people, overran\nand subjugated the country.\n\nIt was in the year 1101 that Murtogh O\u2019Brien, King of Munster,\nconvened a great assembly of the clergy and people of Ireland at\nCashel, \u201cand made such an offering as king never made before\nhim\u2015\u2015namely, Cashel of the Kings, which he bestowed on the devout,\nwithout the intervention of a laic or an ecclesiastic, for the use of\nthe religious of Ireland in general.\u201d We have a letter of St. Anselm\nto Murtogh O\u2019Brien, in which he praises him for his excellent\nadministration of the kingdom. His successor, Cormac MacCarthy, by\nwhom the chapel was built, was the intimate friend of St. Malachi.\n\nDriven from his throne by Turlough O\u2019Conor, King of Connaught, he\nrefused to take up arms to regain it, but withdrew from strife and\nplaced himself under the direction of this great saint. In his society\nhe led a penitential life, taking no nourishment but bread and water,\nand wholly absorbed in heavenly contemplation. After some years he was\nreplaced upon the throne, and, in gratitude, built two churches at\nLismore, where he had been the companion of St. Malachi, and one at\nCashel of the Kings.\n\nThe most famous of the bishops of Cashel was Cormac McCullenan, who\nwas at the same time King of Munster, and who has been considered as\nthe founder of the chapel on the Rock which still bears his name. In\nhis reign, which began in 902, the throne of Cashel had become almost\nin every respect the equal of that of Tara. No longer content with his\nown provincial resources, he put forth a claim to tribute from the\nwhole southern half of Ireland. This involved him in war with the\npeople of Leinster, who, supported by the supreme monarch, met Cormac\nin battle and routed his army. The king himself was slain, and his\nbody was conveyed to Cashel for interment.\n\nIn the northern wall of the chapel there is a recess, once filled by a\nsarcophagus which is now in the cathedral. Upon the slab which covered\nthis tomb the name of Cormac, King and Bishop of Munster, was\ninscribed in Irish characters. Within the tomb itself, when opened\nsome years ago, there was found a bronze crosier with gilt enamel, of\ngreat beauty and exquisite finish, which from its form and style of\nworkmanship there is good reason for believing to be as old as the\nchapel itself; and this has led Petrie and other Irish antiquarians to\nmaintain that King Cormac MacCarthy was also a bishop, though the\ntradition is that the tomb is not his, but that of the great Cormac\nMcCullenan.\n\nAfter Murtogh O\u2019Brien\u2019s gift of Cashel to the church in the year 1101,\nits bishops gained in importance and power. In the latter half of the\ntwelfth century the see was filled by Donald O\u2019Heney, who was of the\nroyal family of the Dalcassians. The Four Masters declare that he was\nthe fountain of religion in the western part of Europe, that he was\nsecond to no Irishman of his day in wisdom and piety, and that in the\nRoman Law he was the most learned doctor in the whole kingdom. He took\npart in a council held in 1097, in which Waterford was erected into a\nbishopric, and died in the following year.\n\nIn 1152 Pope Eugene III. sent Cardinal Paparo as legate to Ireland\nwith authority to confer the pallium upon four of the Irish prelates.\nOne of these was Donat O\u2019Lonargan, Archbishop of Cashel, during the\nlifetime of whose immediate successor Henry II. invaded Ireland. He\nlanded at Waterford on the 18th of October, 1171, with five hundred\nknights and four thousand men-at-arms, and appeared rather as a\nprotector than as an enemy of the Irish people. From Waterford he\nmarched with his army to Lismore, and thence to Cashel. Early in the\nfollowing year, by his order, a synod was held in Cashel for the\npurpose of regulating ecclesiastical matters in Ireland. The chief\npretext, as is known, for the Norman invasion was the correction of\nabuses in the Irish Church, and it was ostensibly with a view to\neffect this that the council was called. Its decrees have been\npreserved by Giraldus Cambrensis, the eulogist of Henry and the enemy\nof the Irish, and, far from confirming the prevailing notion\nconcerning the existence of grave disorders, they furnish the\nstrongest argument in favor of the purity of the Irish Church at that\ntime; and even had there been serious abuses, the murderer of St.\nThomas of Canterbury was, one would think, hardly a fit instrument for\ndoing away with them.\n\nGiraldus himself, the avowed partisan of the English and the author of\ninnumerable falsehoods relating to Irish history, was forced to admit\nthat the clergy were faithful in the discharge of their spiritual\nduties, pre-eminent in chastity, and remarkable for their exceeding\nabstinence from food.\n\n\u201cThe clergy,\u201d he says, \u201cof this country are very commendable for\nreligion, and, among the divers virtues which distinguish them, excel\nand are pre-eminent in the prerogative of chastity. They attend also\ndiligently to their psalms and hours; to reading and prayer; and,\nremaining within the precincts of the churches, do not absent\nthemselves from the divine offices to the celebration of which they\nhave been appointed. They likewise pay great attention to abstinence\nand sparingness of food; so that the greatest part of them fast almost\nevery day until dusk, and until they have completed all the canonical\noffices of the day.\u201d\n\nAs an off-set to this confession, drawn from him unwillingly, he\naccuses the Irish clergy of drinking at night more than is becoming\n(_plusquam deceret_), but does not go the length of saying that they\ndrank to inebriation, which, indeed, would be altogether incompatible\nwith the virtues which he is forced to admit they possessed. Felix,\nBishop of Ossory, who was present when Giraldus made this statement,\nresented as false his allusion to the indulgence of the Irish clergy\nin wine. But, even taking the account of Giraldus in its full extent,\nwe must admit that the Irish priests, at the time of the Norman\ninvasion, had nothing to learn from the example of the ecclesiastics\nwho had followed the conquerors from England; and we are inclined to\nhold with Lanigan that there was in that day no church in Christendom\nin which there were fewer abuses.\n\nIt was to Maurice, Archbishop of Cashel, who died in 1191, that\nGiraldus made the objection that Ireland had never had any martyrs.\n\u201cIt is true,\u201d replied the archbishop; \u201cfor, though the Irish are\nlooked upon as barbarous and uncultivated, yet have they always paid\nreverence and honor to priests; nor have they ever raised their hands\nagainst the saints of God. But now there is come amongst us a people\nwho know how and are accustomed to make martyrs. Henceforth Ireland,\nlike other nations, shall have her martyrs.\u201d\n\nGiraldus has himself recorded this retort as a sharp saying. His heart\nwould have failed him could he have looked into the future and beheld\nthe whole people weltering in their martyr-blood; the sword always\nuplifted ready to strike, the land made desolate, the populous cities\nempty, the solemn cathedrals in ruins, the monasteries sacked and\nburned, until Ireland, that made no martyrs for Christ, became, for\nhim, the great martyr-nation of all time. Cashel itself was to have\nits martyrs, chosen some of them from among its archbishops. Maurice\nFitzgibbon, of the noble family of the earls of Desmond, filled this\nsee when Elizabeth ascended the throne. His birth was not more eminent\nthan his virtue. Every effort was made by the queen to induce him to\nprefer honors to conscience. But in vain. He spurned the royal favor\nwhich could be obtained only by the sacrifice of his faith, was\narrested for refusing to take the oath of supremacy, and thrown into\nprison in Cork, where, after years of suffering and cruel treatment,\nhe died on the 6th of May, 1578. His successor was Archbishop\nO\u2019Hurley, who, through his mother, Honora O\u2019Brien, was descended of\nthe house of Thomond. A wretched informer was set to watch him, but,\nthrough the timely warning of a friend, he escaped just as he was on\nthe point of being delivered into the hands of the officers of the\ngovernment, and found an asylum in the castle of Slane. His place of\nrefuge was soon discovered, and Lord Slane was ordered under the\nheaviest penalties to bring the archbishop with the least possible\ndelay to the Castle of Dublin. On his trial he was put to torture, in\nthe vain hope that his excruciating sufferings might bring him to\nrenounce his faith. In the midst of his torments his only sister was\nsent into his prison to add her prayers to the cruelties of his\ntortures. He implored her to fall upon her knees and ask pardon for so\ngreat a crime. As a last resort he was offered pardon with the promise\nof high honors if he would yield. The heroic martyr replied that when\nhe had health to enjoy the world, such things had not power to move\nhim; and now that he was weak and broken, it would be folly to deny\nhis God for pleasures which he could not enjoy. Sentence was then\npassed upon him, and on the 6th of May, 1583, in the sixty-fifth year\nof his age, he was dragged to the place of public execution in\nStephen\u2019s Green, and there hanged. His head was then cut off, and his\nbody quartered and placed upon the four gates of the city.\n\nThe first Protestant Archbishop of Cashel was the notorious Miler\nMagragh, who apostatized during the reign of Elizabeth, and whom\nCamden calls \u201ca man of uncertain faith and credit, and a depraved\nlife.\u201d During the fifty-two years of his occupancy of this see he\nsquandered its revenues, alienated its lands, and, lest the memory of\nhis misdeeds should perish, took care to erect in the cathedral a\nmonument to himself to recall to succeeding generations the lavish\nmanner in which he spent the ill-gotten goods of apostasy and\nservility. The epitaph, which he wrote himself, records among other\nthings that for fifty years he worshipped England\u2019s sceptre and\npleased her princes. When Donald O\u2019Brien\u2019s grand cathedral passed into\nthe hands of Protestant bishops, it began to be neglected. In 1647\nLord Inchiquin, one of Cromwell\u2019s generals, laid siege to it, and,\nafter a severe bombardment, took it by storm. Twenty priests who had\ntaken refuge in the castle retired into the vault, and the soldiers,\nnot being able to break in the door, brought turf and made a fire, by\nwhich they were either roasted or suffocated. The western tower, which\nwas directly exposed to the battery of Inchiquin, was greatly damaged,\nand after the capture the roof of the cathedral was blown off with\ncannon. When the troubled times of the Commonwealth had passed away,\nthe choir was again fitted up and used for religious worship, until in\n1749 the Protestant Archbishop Price abandoned this hallowed sanctuary\naltogether, leaving it to the mercy of time and the elements. The\ngroined arch underneath the belfry was broken down, and the bells were\ncarried off to Fethard and Clonmel. The interior of the church was\nfilled with the fragments of the fallen roof, beneath which were\nburied tombstones, capitals, corbels, and pillars; and the noble Rock\nwhere for ages the heroes and saints of Ireland had dwelled and\nprayed, abandoned of men, was given up to the owl and the bat. In\n1848, while the people were dying from hunger, the great tower, that\nhad been battered by Cromwell\u2019s cannon, opened, and the southern half\nfell to the ground with a terrific crash; but so excellent was the\nmortar which had been used in the building that it remained firm while\nthe stones were shattered. The walls of the cathedral still stand firm\nand unshaken as the Rock on which they are built. There is no nobler\nruin in Great Britain. The abbeys of Melrose, Dryburgh, and Holyrood\nare contemptible when compared with the Rock of Cashel. Even in its\nfallen state it has the lofty bearing of a king.\n\n \u201cThey dreamed not of a perishable life\n Who thus could build.\u201d\n\nWhen Cromwell beheld it he exclaimed: \u201cIreland is a country worth\nfighting for.\u201d\n\nA fairer country, in truth, could not easily be found than that which\nunfolds itself beneath the eye of the traveller who ascends the\npentagon tower of the ancient castle of the kings of Munster. To the\nwest the Golden Vale expands in tracts of emerald and gold; to the\neast rich pastures and well-cultivated uplands gradually rise towards\nthe distant hills of Kilkenny; and on the north and the south the\nglorious prospect is bounded by the Slieve Bloom and Galty Mountains.\nIn the distance, under the hill of Knockgrenagh, is the ruin which\nsheltered Sarsfield the night before he fell upon and destroyed the\nsiege-train of William of Orange, which was on its way from Cashel to\nLimerick. In the vale under the Rock lies the noble ruin of Hore\nAbbey, originally founded by Benedictine monks, but transferred in\n1272, by Archbishop McCarvill, to the Cistercians. He also united with\nit the hospital for lepers built by David le Latimer in 1230, the\nruins of which may still be seen standing in a field on the road to\nCahir. In 1561 Queen Elizabeth, having expelled the monks, gave the\nabbey with its appurtenances to Henry Radcliffe, and to-day only the\nroofless walls remain. While the Penal Code was in vigor no Catholic\nwas allowed to dwell within the limits of the town of Cashel. At\npresent, in a population of six thousand, there are but a hundred and\neighty Protestants. Nevertheless, the venerable ruins of the Rock are\nstill in the hands of the dignitaries of the Church of England. It is\ncertainly a short-sighted and unwise policy which thus commits the\nancient sanctuaries of Ireland, so dear to the hearts of her people,\nto the custody of those who look upon them as relics of a\nsuperstitious faith, and prize them only as trophies of conquest. The\nIrish people cling to memories and are governed more than others by\ntheir affections; and so long as the English government persists in\nmaintaining a state of affairs which constantly places before their\neyes the wrongs and outrages of which they have been the victims, so\nlong will they be restless and dissatisfied.\n\nTo continue to allow an ecclesiastical establishment, which has never\nbeen and can never be anything else than a political contrivance for\nthe humiliation and oppression of the Irish people, to retain\npossession of these shrines of religion, is a wanton insult to the\ndouble love they bear to their country and their faith. It was this\ntwofold love, flowing in one channel, that upheld them in all the dark\ncenturies of woe; and now that brighter days have come, England cannot\nfail to recognize the increasing strength of Irish patriotism and\nIrish faith.\n\nLet the Rock of Cashel, with its holy ruins, its sacred tombs of kings\nand bishops, be given back to the people to whom it belongs. It is\nvalueless except for its associations, and these associations are\nwithout value to the persons in whose hands it is allowed to remain.\nLet the glory of other days come back to these sacred walls. Millions\nof Catholics in the United States would consider it an honor and a\nprivilege to be permitted to rebuild this sanctuary of God. Again on\nthe holy mount let the lamp of Christ\u2019s real presence burn as glowed\nthe light that for a thousand years burned before St. Bridget\u2019s\nshrine. Let the swelling notes of the deep-toned organ lift again the\nsoul to God, while mitred bishops and surpliced priests, with all the\nbelieving throng, sing forth the song of thanks and praise. In the\nresurrection of a people, in the new rising of a faith, let this\ntemple, given back to God and to Ireland, stand as a commemoration.\n\nSeven miles north of Cashel, and three miles south of Thurles, on the\nbanks of the river Suir, lie the ruins of the Abbey of Holy Cross. A\nconvent was built on this spot at a very early period of the Christian\nhistory of Ireland. The fame of the sanctity of the monks attracted\nmembers to the community, and also pilgrims from a distance. In 1169,\ntwo years before the Norman invasion, Donald O\u2019Brien, King of\nLimerick, accompanied by a brilliant retinue, visited the place, and\nwas led by his devotion to found and endow the abbey. The charter of\nfoundation, one of the witnesses to which was Maurice, Archbishop of\nCashel, of whom we have already made mention, opens with these words:\n\u201cDonald, by the grace of God, King of Limerick, to all kings, dukes,\nearls, barons, knights, and Christians of whatsoever degree,\nthroughout Ireland, perpetual greeting in Christ.\u201d This charter was\nafterwards confirmed by the English kings John, Henry III., Edward\nIII., and Richard II. The abbey received its name from the possession\nof a portion of the true cross which was given in 1110, by Pope Pascal\nII., to Donough O\u2019Brien, King of all Ireland and grandson of Brian\nBoru. Princes and bishops were eager to enrich this monastery, and the\nfame of the miracles wrought by the sacred relic drew to it crowds of\nworshippers. With increasing wealth, the buildings grew in splendor\nand extent. The church is built in the form of a cross, with nave,\nchancel, and transept. At the intersection of the cross there is a\nlofty square tower, and in the transepts two beautifully-groined\nchapels. In the monastery there were eight dormitories for the monks,\nbesides numerous chambers for the entertainment of visitors attracted\nby devotion; for the laws of hospitality were never forgotten. The\nabbot, who was mitred, was a peer of Parliament and secular lord of\nthe county of \u201cThe Cross of Tipperary.\u201d When Henry VIII. suppressed\nthe great abbeys of Ireland, he granted Holy Cross, with its\ntemporalities and also the spiritual jurisdiction, to James, Earl of\nOrmond and Ossory, whom he regarded with special favor. Elizabeth\nconfirmed this grant to Thomas, Earl of Ormond, who, though educated\nin the Anglican schism, became a Catholic several years before his\ndeath, and left his estates to Earl Walter, a stanch defender of the\nfaith.\n\nThe monks who had been expelled from the abbey still lingered in its\nneighborhood, in the hope that they might somehow be permitted to\nreturn and end their days in the sacred cloisters in which they had\ngiven to God the best part of life. At times they met by night within\nthe hallowed enclosure to offer up the divine Sacrifice; and when Mary\nascended the throne, they once more took possession, but were again\nexpelled by Elizabeth, and finally dispersed. The cells, dormitories,\nand guest-chambers, so long consecrated to meditation and all holy\nexercise, were converted into stables for the housing of cattle. The\nchurch, which contained the tombs of many noble families, escaped\ndesecration, but not the ravages of time and neglect. From the year\n1580 to the close of the century no priest dared appear in public\nthroughout the province of Munster, and even the most careful\ndisguises were not sufficient to hide them from the fury of their\nenemies; but in 1600 Hugh O\u2019Neil turned his army towards the south of\nIreland, and, proceeding by slow marches, finally encamped \u201cat the\ngate of the monastery of Holy Cross.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey were not long there,\u201d say the Four Masters, \u201cwhen the holy Rood\nwas brought to them, and the Irish gave large presents, alms, and\nofferings to its conservators and monks in honor of Almighty God; and\nthey protected and respected the monastery, with its buildings, the\nlands appropriated for its use, and its inhabitants in general.\u201d\n\nThe monks remained in possession of the abbey for several years, and\nfor the first time since its suppression in 1536 an abbot of Holy\nCross was chosen. The succession was kept up till the beginning of the\neighteenth century, and expired in the first dark years of the Penal\nCode with Thomas Cogan, the last of the abbots of Holy Cross, who died\non the 10th of August, 1700, and was buried in the choir of the old\nchurch, in the tomb where the bones of his predecessors are awaiting\nthe day of resurrection.\n\nO gray walls, sacred ruins of Holy Cross! ye have a spirit\u2019s feeling,\nand work upon the soul till it forgets all glad and pleasant scenes to\nblend with the gloom and desolation that have come to abide with you.\nThe gentle river still flows by, but where is the great strong\nlife-current of faith and love that here was fed from God\u2019s eternal\nfount? Cold are the burning lips of love that wore the pavement\nsmooth; cold the great warm hearts that beat with highest impulse of\ndivine charity. No more from their chalices mysterious monks drink\ndeep love of God and men; no more at early morn is heard their matin\nsong; no more to heaven ascends their evening hymn. Gone is the dim\nreligious light that shone through mystic windows. The tapers are\nquenched, the belfries mute. No more floats on the breeze\n\n \u201cThe heavenliest of all sounds\n That hill or vale prolongs or multiplies.\u201d\n\nThe dead only are here, and around them the silence they so loved and\nbroken walls, which, if they mourn not, make others grieve.\n\n \u201cOnce ye were holy: ye are holy still;\n Your spirit let me freely drink and live.\u201d\n\nAs a monastic ruin the Abbey of Holy Cross is, in the estimation of\nthe people, second to no other in Ireland; and it owes this celebrity\nless to the beauty of its architecture than to the possession of the\nholy Rood.\n\nThe marble shrine in which this famous relic was preserved may still\nbe seen in the southern transept of the church. The relic itself, at\nthe time of the suppression of the abbey, passed into the hands of the\nEarl of Ormond, in whose family it remained for nearly a century, when\nEarl Walter gave it for safe-keeping to Dr. Fennell, who left it to\nJames, second Duke of Ormond. It was finally deposited, in the early\npart of the present century, in a shrine in the chapel of the Ursuline\nNuns at Blackrock, near Cork, where it is to remain \u201cuntil such time\nas the church of the Holy Cross, with the monastery of Cistercian\nmonks attached thereto, shall be rebuilt.\u201d\n\nThough Holy Cross is a ruin and in the hands of Protestants, the\nCistercian Order still survives in Ireland in the monastery of Mount\nMelleray. It was, a few months ago, our privilege to pass a brief time\nin this sanctuary of religion, where the most unworldly life is made\nto subserve the highest social ends.\n\nMount Melleray is but a few hours\u2019 ride from Cork. The excursion is\nmade by railway to Youghal, an ancient town, once famous in Irish\nhistory, lying near the mouth of the Blackwater. At the entrance to\nits splendid and picturesque harbor, now almost entirely abandoned,\nthere stands a ruined tower, which was formerly part of a convent of\nnuns who at night kept torches blazing in this lighthouse to enable\nvessels to enter port with safety. Near the town the house which Sir\nWalter Raleigh owned, and in which he lived for several years, is\nstill pointed out to the traveller. In his garden here he planted in\n1586 the first potatoes grown in Ireland.\n\nA boat leaves Youghal twice a day and ascends the Blackwater as far as\nCappoquin. The trip is made in about two hours. The scenery is\nunsurpassed even in Ireland. There is nothing finer on the Rhine. The\nriver winds through fertile valleys with rich meadows and fields of\nwaving corn, until a sudden turn brings us into the presence of barren\nmountains, which, in their desolation, seem to mock the smiling\nprospect below. From almost every jutting rock ruined castles or\nchurches look down upon us. In these mountains above Cappoquin, and\noverlooking the Blackwater, lies the Trappist monastery of Mount\nMelleray.\n\nForty-five years ago a few poor monks, driven from their peaceful\nhome, settled here in the midst of a dreary wilderness. They had\nobtained from the Protestant landlord of the place six hundred acres\nof mountain peat-land on a lease of ninety-nine years. No one but an\nIrish landlord would have thought of demanding rental for what had\nalways been a desert, and, so far as he was concerned, might for ever\nremain a desert. The monks, however, paid him his price and set to\nwork to make the desert bloom. On their land there was not a tree or\nblade of grass, and before they could begin to plough or dig they had\nto go over the ground and pick up the stones with which it was\ncovered. But for them a life of solitude was to be a life of labor,\nand they were not discouraged. They knew that half the soil of Europe\nhad been reclaimed and brought under cultivation by monks, whose lives\nwere none the less consecrated to prayer and study. Half a century has\nnot yet passed, and the barren waste is covered with rich fields of\ncorn and green meadows. With their own hands the monks have built a\nlarge monastery and church, whose tall spire is seen from the whole\nsurrounding country. In their gardens the finest vegetables grow, and\nin their dairy the best butter is made. A few years ago they opened a\ncollege, in which they give an excellent classical education to youths\nwhose parents may not be able to pay the higher pensions of other\ninstitutions. The buildings are large and well provided with whatever\nis necessary to the health and comfort of the students; and the food,\nthough plain, is of the best quality. A part of the monastery is\nfitted up for the accommodation of guests; and, as the hospitality of\nthe monks is well known, they are rarely without visitors, drawn\nthither sometimes by curiosity, but oftener by the desire of spending\na few days in solitude in communion with God. In the guests\u2019 book we\nfound the names of persons from almost every part of Europe and\nAmerica. We have visited the monasteries of the Trappists in other\ncountries, but nowhere else have we received the impressions made upon\nus at Mount Melleray. It was Edmund Burke who said that to his mind\nthe Catholic Church of Ireland bore a closer resemblance than any\nother to the church of the apostles; and we could not help reflecting\nthat these monks were more like the Fathers of the Desert than any men\nwhom we had ever seen. How terrible is this place! How this life of\nhonest religion lays bare the shams and pretexts with which weak and\nsoft worldlings would hide the atheism of their faith! If God is all\nin all, and the soul more than the body, a Trappist is greater than a\nking. To these men the future world is more real than the present. The\nveil of time and space has fallen from their eyes; the immeasurable\nheavens break open, and God\u2019s kingdom is revealed. Divine power of the\nlove of Christ, which makes the desert beautiful, and solitude a\nperpetual feast! What heavenly privilege to forget the world and to be\nwith God only; to turn from men, not in loathing or hate or\nbitterness, but with a heart as sweet as a child\u2019s, and to follow\nChrist into the mount where the celestial glory encircles him! With\nSt. Peter we exclaim: It is good to be here! A single day, O Lord!\nspent in thy tabernacles is more precious than a thousand years.\n\nIn this life in death is found a life the world dreams not of, as\n\n \u201cChords that vibrate sweetest pleasure\n Thrill the deepest notes of woe\u201d;\n\nas in the presence of the dying we see only the blackness and the\ngloom, when the soul already hears God\u2019s angels sing, and beholds the\nlight that never fades.\n\nThe highest joy is of the soul, and the more it lifts itself from\nflesh and earth the greater is its delight. In these solemn walls,\nwith their silent monks clad in white, it seemed to us that we were\nupon the threshold of another world, far away from the ebb and flow of\nmen\u2019s affairs. We felt no more the feverish throb of the great world\u2019s\npulse, nor heard the noisy hum of commerce or the nations\u2019 angry\nbattle-cry. The blatant shout of Progress no longer deafened us. We\nwere in the mood to ask ourselves: Is it not, after all has been said,\nprogress towards death that men speak of? Do not all the lines along\nwhich they advance converge until they meet in the grave? But we crave\nlife, not death. Is there no hope? Must we join the rabble, the common\nherd, that stands in wonderment in the world\u2019s great toy-shop, eagerly\npeering at stones and metals and skins of beasts, gazing at blank\nwalls and rattling machinery, and shouting: Ha! this is progress? Is\nthere no room for the soul, no hope of life? Is mechanism all in all,\nand is all progress mechanical? Here, at least, were men who believed\nin the soul; who, despising all the counsels of fear and cowardice,\nhad turned from the world and set their faces towards the life that is\nand is to be. They never speak except in prayer and psalmody. They\nrise in the night and spend hours in the thought of God and the soul.\nSilently they go forth to their work, and in silence return to pray.\nTheir bed is a board, their food bread and coarse vegetables. And so\nfrom day to day and from year to year in their hearts they make the\nascent to God.\n\nIt is easy for us to deride the life which we have not the courage or\nthe strength to lead. These, at least, are men with brave hearts and\ngreat thoughts. They are not the creatures of circumstance, the slaves\nof routine, the self satisfied and unconscious victims of the\nuniversal tyrant. They are not held by bonds of flesh and blood. No\nmean ambition moves them. A king\u2019s crown is but a bauble, like the toy\nof a child; and whatever ceases to be has no kindred with the soul\nthat was not born to die. They wage battle for the possession of the\ninfinite, and in the divine struggle take on the heroic mood that\nmakes all things possible. And we who stood for a moment on this\nheavenly battle-ground, a looker-on, unfit to take part in such\ncelestial warfare, would fain have lingered on the hallowed spot,\nknowing full well that the world to which we turned again has no\nhappiness even to promise like that which is found in this holy\nmountain where God is seen and loved.\n\n\n\n\nA STORY OF THE FAR WEST.\n\n\nGold City they had called it in its palmy days, though even then it\nwas a city in name only. It was known as Gomorrah now; and its few\ninhabitants gloried in the title, for Edverson had struck a vein of\ngold there in the first flush of the mining fever, and a crowd of\nfortune-hunters flocked to the place, only to discover, when it was\ntoo late, that the first \u201clucky find\u201d was the last. Then the tide of\npopulation ebbed away, leaving behind it the refuse\u2015\u2015those who were\ntoo poor, too discouraged, too sunk in idleness or sin, to try for\nanything better. The houses were no more than shanties, which the\nwomen made no attempt to keep tidy; children lived and died there who\nnever heard God\u2019s holy name except in curses; to most of them even the\nday of the week was unknown.\n\nThree men ruled the place, one by fear, one by kindness, one because\nhe was tavern-keeper. They were familiarly known as the Lawyer, the\nDoctor, and the Parson. One day, worthy to be marked with red ink\njoyfully in the sad annals of Gomorrah, the Lawyer\u2015\u2015most evil soul\nthere, and most dreaded\u2015\u2015announced his intention of going to England,\nand, when the next day dawned, he had departed with no more warning\nand with no word of farewell. Men, women, and children drew a long\nbreath of relief, yet spoke of him for weeks afterwards in whispers\nand guarded words, as if they feared at any moment to see his hated\npresence among them once again, and feel his heel of iron on their\nnecks.\n\nOne afternoon, early in November, his two associates sat together in\nthe door-way of the tavern, the only decent dwelling within sight. He\nwho was known as the Parson was a short, stout man, who boasted a\ncollegiate and theological education of some sort, no one knew what,\nand a pastoral charge of five years, no one knew where. But it was a\nfact undisputed, either by himself or others, that he was now the very\nminister of Satan. Both he and the Lawyer knew how to sin as deeply as\nany one, but kept a kind of control over themselves. The man who was\ntheir boon companion, and yet hated them both with an impotent hatred,\nhad no such power.\n\nHe was far superior to them in most respects. Gentle born, with\nwealthy surroundings, he had received a superior education, and gave\npromise of superior excellence in his profession, but had never been\ntaught to curb a single passion. From one level to another he fell,\ntill in Gomorrah he hid himself from all who had known him or his in\nhis brighter days. Yet no man there was so liked and did so much to\nhelp as he. The love of his profession clung to him through\neverything, and it was impossible for him to see disease and accident\nwithout trying to alleviate the trouble. Boys and girls playing and\nquarrelling in the streets would stop the maddest sport, the bitterest\nfight, to help the Doctor home as he came reeling from the tavern, or\nto cover his face from the hot sun as he lay like a log by the\nroadside; would do it with a grateful remembrance of the time when \u201che\nnursed me in the fever\u201d or \u201che splintered my broken leg\u201d; and often he\nwas saved from a midnight carousal by a call to some forlorn bedside,\nwhere he waited on filthy wretches with as quick skill and attention\nas once he had served the finest ladies in his great city home. No one\nknew how he hated the place in which he lived, and above all the man\nwith whom he sat that autumn afternoon; but he had lost all hope of\nbetter things.\n\nThrough their gloomy silence and the clouds of tobacco-smoke the\nParson and the Doctor beheld a sight which had not been seen in\nGomorrah for many a day\u2015\u2015the white cover of an emigrant wagon.\n\n\u201cTom Townsend, from High Bend,\u201d exclaimed Syles, \u201cthe Lawyer\u2019s old\nchum there. Who\u2019s he got with him?\u201d\n\nThe Doctor made no reply, but stepped forward to meet the strangers.\nBehind the driver sat a young man with a good, kindly face, but\nlacking in practicality and force. On his arm he supported a woman,\nwhose broad forehead, square chin, and firm mouth bespoke strong\ncharacter, if one was able to think of that in noticing the serene\nholiness of the eyes and expression. Her face was pale as death.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re wanted here, Doctor,\u201d called the driver. \u201cHere\u2019s a case of\nchills and fever that\u2019s not a common one, and I\u2019ve seen \u2019em by\nhundreds.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre you the Doctor?\u201d the young man asked with a look of relief, as if\nhe had heard of him before; and together they carried into the tavern\nand laid upon the settle the powerless form of the woman.\n\n\u201cNot this place!\u201d the man exclaimed, lifting his head when he had laid\nhis precious burden down. \u201cWhere is Mr. Dalzell\u2019s house?\u201d\n\n\u201cMr. Dalzell?\u201d the Doctor repeated. \u201cI do not know what you mean.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, surely\u2015\u2015yes, we must be right. He came from here, he said.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho? What?\u201d his hearers asked, with a grim suspicion in their hearts.\n\u201cWhere are you from, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am Reuben Armstrong, from Suffolk, England. A Mr. Dalzell sold me\nhis house and claim in Gold City. Where are they?\u201d\n\nThe Doctor\u2019s eyes fell, and Syles slunk into the shadow of the door.\nIt was long before they could make him understand the truth; and when\nat last he comprehended it, Syles stole out of his presence with a\nsense of shame such as he had never felt before, leaving the Doctor to\ngive the almost heart-broken fellow the only reason for courage that\nhe knew how to give him\u2015\u2015to bear up bravely for his wife\u2019s sake.\n\nIt was but too easy to grasp the sad story. Armstrong had been a\nwell-to-do gardener, with a pleasant little house and a snug sum of\nmoney in the bank; but, as the Doctor inferred even then, he had\nmarried a woman much his superior in character and station, whose\nfriends looked down upon him, and thought he could never do anything\nworthy of her. When the Lawyer told his plausible story and showed his\nwell-planned map\u2015\u2015when he described his possessions, to be sold at a\nvery low figure, because, as the evil owner dared to affirm, he must\nbe with his aged parents in Nottinghamshire during their declining\nyears\u2015\u2015Reuben was only too ready to drop into the net.\n\nThey told his wife\u2015\u2015his \u201cpoor Esther\u201d\u2015\u2015nothing that night. Indeed, she\nwas too ill to notice that they moved her from the tavern to the cabin\nnext door, which was their home. In that tavern Reuben declared she\nshould not stay one hour.\n\nThat night the first snows fell, shutting off Gomorrah for the winter\nfrom any intercourse with the outer world, and for weeks the Doctor\nstrove against all odds to save Esther Armstrong\u2019s life. But for her\nReuben would soon have sunk to the level of his neighbors\u2015\u2015not in sin,\nbut in inertia. He seemed to have no courage left to begin life over\nagain; he was sure that Esther must die, and then there would be no\nuse of his living. He spent his time in watching beside her, doing\neverything about the house for her that was possible; refusing all\nhelp save the physician\u2019s, and only accepting that because he could\nnot avoid it.\n\nWhen the Doctor came in to see Esther on the morning after her\narrival, Reuben had made the room as comfortable as he could with the\nfurniture which they had brought from home, and Esther was lying in\nher bed, everything white about her, and she herself looking more pure\nand white than even the falling snow without.\n\n\u201cAm I very ill?\u201d she asked calmly; and before the grave eyes bent upon\nhim the Doctor could return no answer but the truth.\n\n\u201cYou are a very sick woman, Mrs. Armstrong,\u201d he said, \u201cbut I hope we\nmay see you pull through bravely yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you ask the priest to come to me?\u201d she said.\n\nThe Doctor started to his feet and made a rapid stride across the\nroom. It brought him face to face with a crucifix, a picture, and a\nrosary.\n\n\u201cMadam,\u201d he said reverently\u2015\u2015she seemed to him like a saint as she lay\nthere\u2015\u2015\u201cdo you know what sort of a place you are in? We have no such\nbeings as priests here.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d she replied serenely, \u201cyou must mistake. Mr. Lazell certainly\ntold us that there was one. We would never have come else.\u201d\n\nThe Doctor bit his lip to keep back the oath which rose. \u201cMr. Lazell,\nas you call him, lied, madam.\u201d\n\nShe asked no questions, but her searching eyes drew the truth from\nhim. Sooner or later she must know all. Before that holy calm a\ntempting desire came over him to try how deep her religious feeling\nreally was.\n\n\u201cMadam,\u201d he said, \u201cyou call this place Gold City, but we know it as\nGomorrah. There is no priest within miles of us. God isn\u2019t here at\nall.\u201d\n\nShe pressed her hands hard against her heart. He felt that she shrank\nfrom him inwardly.\n\n\u201cIs there any woman who will come to me?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cThere is not one who is fit to touch you,\u201d he replied\u2015\u2015\u201cnot one. We\ndo not know what goodness is. You have been deceived into coming here.\nNow, if you love your husband, live for him; for nothing else can keep\nhim from being like the rest of us.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are mistaken,\u201d she said gravely. \u201cYou do not know my husband.\nBut, Doctor, if I must die, will you promise me to send in time for a\npriest?\u201d\n\nThe Doctor bit back an oath. If \u201cMr. Lazell\u201d had been there at that\nmoment, not even Esther\u2019s presence could have saved him from the\nhatred of nine wretched years kindled that day into relentless fury.\nThe Doctor had known enough of Catholics at home\u2015\u2015God help him! but\nhis had been Catholic baptism in his babyhood\u2015\u2015to fear the effect on\nher of what he had to say. Had it been of any use, he would have lied\nto her; but the next neighbor entering would have revealed all.\n\n\u201cThere is no priest near us,\u201d he replied, \u201cand it is impossible to get\none in the winter.\u201d\n\nShe put her hand quickly to her heart again. \u201cGod\u2019s will be done,\u201d she\nsaid slowly; \u201cGod\u2019s will be done\u201d over and over and over again. They\ncould not stop her. Reuben begged her to hear him, to rest, to grow\ncalm, but it was of no avail. All day long, and far into the night,\nshe tossed in fever, delirious always, but her holy self even in her\ndelirium. Now she sang snatches of hymns; and now an exquisite strain\nof some old chant, which the Doctor had heard in great cathedrals,\nrose upon Gomorrah\u2019s tainted air; but oftenest she called for a\npriest, or said: \u201cGod\u2019s will be done.\u201d Late that night the fever\nabated a little, and she opened her eyes calmly; but it was only to\nhear the clamor upon the night air of stamping feet, ringing sounds\nlike tankards dashed on table or floor, the twang and clash of noisy\ninstruments, scraps of vile song, brawls and oaths and blows.\n\n\u201cWhat is it?\u201d she cried. \u201cWhere are we? Oh! I know\u201d; and then sank\ninto delirium again.\n\nSo for a week it lasted; then the fever died away, leaving her like a\nshadow. She made no complaint, never asked again for a priest, never\nspoke again of death; yet the Doctor knew, as well as if he had seen\nit, that hers was a broken heart. But another life was bound up with\nher life, and for its sake, as well as for Reuben\u2019s, she tried and\nprayed to live. It was plain that her affection for her husband was\nintense; no matter what his weakness and imprudence had made her\nsuffer, no one ever knew her fail in her honor and her love, and he\nseldom saw her otherwise than outwardly cheerful for his dear sake.\nWhat she endured perhaps only the Doctor truly fathomed, and his\nsounding-line was far too short. Reuben was too engrossed in her to\ncare much personally for what passed about them; but the Doctor judged\nby what the place had been and was to him, even in his degraded life.\nFallen as he was, he loathed it from the very bottom of his heart;\nstill, with every gentlemanly instinct that was left in him, he shrank\nfrom the outcasts whom he lived with daily, though knowing himself to\nbe fallen yet lower than they. By his own suffering, from which he did\nnot try to escape; by his own horror of the pit whose vileness\nsickened him while still he chose to sink even deeper in it, he knew\nsomething of what it must be to Esther\u2019s pure heart to live in\nGomorrah. Something\u2015\u2015that was all.\n\nHe and Reuben strove to keep sight and sound of evil from her; yet all\ntheir care could not banish at times strange visitors from her\nbedside\u2015\u2015haggard women, flaunting women, all of them with evil\ntongues; no care could keep the children always from door or window,\nand often she saw, by frosty dawn or at high noon or in the early\ntwilight, wild, wolfish eyes staring at her, gaunt fingers pointing,\nand heard children\u2019s voices speak of her in terms wherewith oaths and\nlow epithets were mixed\u2015\u2015not through malice, but because they knew no\nother way.\n\nNo one knew what hours she lay awake by day and night in one agony of\nintercession; and she herself, praying often and hoping against hope\nfor the sacraments to prepare her soul for death, never knew here into\nwhat union with her Lord that passion of prayer for souls was bringing\nher, as hour by hour the awful days wore on.\n\nThe Doctor saw her face, as it grew more sharp and thin, grow more\nholy, till he often felt unworthy to look upon it, and wondered how\nReuben Armstrong had ever won a treasure of which it seemed to him no\nmortal man was worthy.\n\nA poor, weak soul was Reuben\u2019s, truly, in man\u2019s sight. But God and the\nangels must have loved it with a special love. God knew how earnestly\nthat sorrowful heart implored that the light of its eyes might be\ntaken from it, if so Esther might escape from suffering and enter into\npeace; and when night shut him in with her alone, the angels heard how\nhe strove to drown the riot next door by prayers and litanies beside\nher, till often he slept exhausted on the hard floor by her bed.\n\nBut the children most of all weighed heavily upon Esther\u2019s soul. Even\nwhen she could not see them she heard their voices; even when she\ncould not hear them, she fancied how their lives were spent, though\neven her keen fancy did not reach the whole of the painful truth; and\nas the birthday of the Holy Child drew nearer, she felt more keenly\ntheir ignorance of all sacred things, shuddered to think of her own\nchild being born in such an atmosphere, then came to love those little\nones as if they were her very own, and to plead for them with a\nmother\u2019s insatiable pleading.\n\nEight days before Christmas they laid her baby in her arms and saw her\nsmile a happy mother\u2019s smile. Eight days they lived in trembling hope.\nOn Christmas morning the Doctor saw the dreaded, unmistakable sign of\nfever. She had wakened very bright, Reuben said, and very early, with\nwords of Christmas joy, as if she had forgotten where they were, and\nfancied it was home. Then some sound from the tavern had brought back\nthe truth; there had come the quick pain at her heart, and then\ndelirium. All day long she talked\u2015\u2015there was no possibility of\nsilencing her. She, so tender of others, now with no control over\nherself, laid her whole heart bare; and they, who thought they had\nknown and prized her well, knew as if for the first time what a saint\nof God had been among them\u2015\u2015prayers for her husband and for her baby,\nbut not for them alone: prayers for every soul in that place of death;\npeople named by name of whom they would have supposed she had never\nheard, but for whom she pleaded as if for her own flesh and blood;\neager, loving, most frequent supplication for the little children;\nprayers for the very man who had lured them from their happy home;\nintensest pleading for pity and pardon for his and all these souls.\n\n\u201cDidst thou not die for them, Jesus, my Jesus\u2015\u2015for them as well as for\nme? Save them with me, save them with me\u2015\u2015with me, my Jesus! By thy\nSacred Heart that broke for us, save us, have mercy on us!\u201d And then,\nover and over, as if with some peculiar, long-sustained intention or\ncompact, \u201cRemember, O most pious Virgin Mary! Remember, remember!\u201d\n\nAnd there was one frequent supplication in which no name was\nmentioned, as if it were borne so constantly from her heart to the\nSacred Heart that she had ceased to need to speak the name: \u201cGain\nthyself _that_ soul, my Jesus. By thy Cross, thy Heart, thy Mother,\ngain thyself _that_ soul.\u201d\n\nThey heard only one petition for herself, but that so anguished, so\ndesperate, that the strong man broke into sobs to hear it: one hungry\ncry for God\u2019s holy sacraments, for God\u2019s anointed priest, to come to\nher before her death, yet never uttered without a more intense prayer\nstill\u2015\u2015\u201cMy God, my God, _thy_ will be done, _thy_ will be done\u201d; and\neven that was entirely merged at last in her prayers for those who had\nmade her life one long agony at its close.\n\nSuddenly she sat straight up in her bed, her eyes blazing as if with\nan unearthly, reflected light, her cheeks brilliant with more than the\nfever flush.\n\n\u201cHark, hark, hark!\u201d she said, with a ring of ecstatic joy through\nevery word. \u201cDo you not hear the sacring-bell? Kneel, all of you. The\npriest comes\u2015\u2015comes with my Lord at last.\u201d\n\nHer eyes were fixed upon the door that no hand opened, yet she seemed\nto watch some one enter, and to see some one draw nearer, nearer to\nher, and she folded her hands reverently, and bent her head as if in\nadoration. They understood: she believed a priest was there; and they,\nseeing nothing, hearing nothing, of what she evidently was sure she\nsaw and heard\u2015\u2015they who watched her fell down upon their knees and hid\ntheir faces as in some divine presence. The next words that broke the\nstillness were the words of a dying penitent alone with a priest of\nGod: \u201cI confess to Almighty God and to you, my father.\u201d\n\nSteadily, as if for weeks she had prepared her soul for this in faith\nand penance, Esther Armstrong made her dying confession, with a\ncontrition sore as if she were the lowest sinner in Gomorrah\u2019s depths\nof sin, and then craved absolution humbly and in tears. When there was\nsilence, and they dared to look at her, she was lying back among her\npillows, whispering, \u201cForgiven, forgiven!\u201d\n\nThey moved to give her nourishment, and the movement roused her,\nthough not to recognition. She started up once more, lifting her hand.\n\n\u201cHark, hark!\u201d she said again. \u201cDo you not hear him? He is saying Mass,\nand they sing sweetly as angels.\u201d\n\nAll round the world, that Christmas day, one song of praise was\nrising, one pure offering was offered up to Him who was born and given\nfor us on that day. Grand cathedrals were ablaze with lights and rich\nwith bloom; far down the choir the altar tapers shone like stars\nthrough clouds of incense waving upward to the fretted roof, and the\nfull tide of chant swelled high to join the chant of angels; in lowly\nchapel as in great cathedral the priest of God and the people of God\nadored the Holy Babe upon his Mother\u2019s breast. In Gomorrah, in a\ndecaying chapel, while oath and brawl sounded without, one soul heard\nseraphic music which no other ear could hear; one soul beheld a Priest\nwhom no other eye could see\u2015\u2015joined in his offering of the tremendous\nSacrifice. For an hour, upheld by superhuman strength, she knelt\nupright, rapt in an ecstasy of spiritual communion that grew too deep\nfor prayer. When the clock struck twelve, she said slowly, \u201c_Ite missa\nest; Deo gratias_\u201d; then, with a long-drawn, rapturous sigh, lay down\nagain, but not as if she knew or remembered husband or child or\nfriend.\n\nThe Doctor left her then, but at the close of the day he was summoned\nhastily, to see now without mistake that the battle of her life was\nalmost ended.\n\n\u201cStay with her, Doctor,\u201d Reuben pleaded. \u201cIt\u2019s a sore struggle. Try\nsomething more.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t stay, man,\u201d he answered. \u201cThere is no more to do. I\u2019d give my\nright hand to save her; but I can\u2019t see her suffer and be unable to\nhelp her. She\u2019s the only white soul here, and now she is going.\u201d\n\nHe turned to the bedside, and stood silently looking at the face with\nthe dread shadow on it. Suddenly opening her eyes, her gaze fell first\non him, and, startled out of her usual composure, she gave an\nirrepressible shudder. He understood what it meant. She had treated\nhim always with perfect courtesy and confidence as her physician and\ntrue friend; he knew\u2015\u2015for there had not been wanting those to tell him\nof it\u2015\u2015that she had silenced with dignified rebuke the evil tales that\nmore than one had tried to tell her of him, not because they disliked\nhim, but because they loved to talk. But he knew also, what they did\nnot, that in her pure heart she shrank from him, that his very\npresence was loathsome to her; and there had been times when, in her\nbodily weakness, she had been unable to control her aversion to his\nslightest touch. He had borne it quietly, humbling as it was, but it\nwas doubly bitter to bear at the very last.\n\n\u201cI will bid you good-night, Mrs. Armstrong,\u201d he said, trying hard to\nsteady his voice. \u201cYou will not want me any more this evening, I\nthink.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood-by, Doctor,\u201d she said, and he saw that she knew all.\n\n\u201cYou will not want me,\u201d he repeated mechanically.\n\n\u201cI want you\u2015\u2015_there_,\u201d she answered with a great effort. \u201cPromise me\nthat you will be there.\u201d\n\nHe did not speak.\n\n\u201cPromise,\u201d she repeated, and the tone brought back the memory of her\nprayers that morning. \u201cI am dying\u2015\u2015dying; and yet I cannot die. Night\nand day I prayed it: \u2018Gain thyself _that_ soul, my Jesus. By thy\nCross, thy Mother, thy broken Heart, gain thyself that soul.\u2019 I prayed\nand prayed it; I am worn out with the praying, and yet I cannot die.\nPromise me to be there.\u201d\n\nThe sweat stood on his forehead in great drops. \u201cYou do not know what\nyou ask,\u201d he cried. \u201cThere are sins enough upon me without adding that\nof a broken vow to you, and here. There is no saving a soul like\nmine.\u201d\n\nShe did not answer him. She lifted up her eyes, away from him, away\nfrom earth, to God.\n\n\u201cSacred Heart of my Jesus,\u201d she prayed in agony, \u201cwin this soul, and\nlet me die.\u201d\n\nFor weeks he had kept himself sober and decent for her sake; now he\nhad thought to rush out from her presence, to drown his grief in viler\nsin than ever; and, lo! she was still holding him, was binding eternal\nchains upon him, to draw him away from corruption unto God. As a\nphysician he knew that it was a case where a mighty will alone was\nkeeping life in a body nearly dead; it would have been an awful sight\nto see, even had he had no interest in it. She was living only to win\nhim unto immortal life. Angels and devils may well have stood still\nbefore that struggle, where one dauntless soul at the point of death\nheld Satan\u2019s power at bay.\n\n\u201cI promise,\u201d he said at last, as if the words were wrung from him.\n\u201cBut pray for me always.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Mother of God prays for you,\u201d she said with strange emphasis.\n\u201cCall upon Jesus and Mary night and day. You will not need me.\u201d\n\nAnd then he saw that she needed him no longer, thought of him no\nlonger, and he went away.\n\nReuben Armstrong shut and locked the door behind him. There was no\nmore that science or skill could do. Now, for one brief hour, Esther\nwas his alone. The eyes which the Doctor had seen grow dim to him lit\nup with untired affection as Reuben drew near the bed; a look of rest\ncame over her, and she signed to him to lay her baby on her arm.\n\n\u201cMy baby, my little Christmas baby,\u201d she murmured tenderly. \u201cDid the\npriest baptize her this morning, Reuben? Oh! how could you overlook\nit, dear? Then you must do it. Now\u2015\u2015now!\u201d\n\nThere was an excited ring in her voice, and Reuben hastened to do at\nonce what he had felt from the first must soon be done; for the baby\u2019s\nlife evidently hung upon a thread. A few drops of water, a few divine\nwords, and Esther\u2019s eyes shone exultingly upon her child.\n\n\u201cShe will never be anything but God\u2019s child,\u201d she said. \u201cOh! I am glad\nshe cannot live. It is the other children, that are not his, that you\nmust care for, Reuben.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no!\u201d he cried. \u201cNo, Esther, I cannot live without you.\u201d\n\n\u201cListen, Reuben,\u201d she said. Lying there with her child upon her arm,\nshe looked like a vision of the Holy Mother herself, and when she\nspoke her voice had a tone in it which seemed divinely sweet. \u201cListen,\nReuben. This place is God\u2019s. He wants it. You must live and not\ndie\u2015\u2015_for him_.\u201d\n\n\u201cO Esther!\u201d he sobbed, \u201cnot without you\u2015\u2015not without you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, Reuben, without me\u2015\u2015all alone. My darling, my darling, save\nthese little children\u2019s souls for God.\u201d\n\nOne greater than she spoke, on that holy night, through Esther\u2019s lips,\nand touched and won her husband\u2019s wounded heart.\n\n\u201cI will, Esther,\u201d he sobbed. \u201cI will try hard\u201d; and even then, upon\nthat solemn parting, as if to stamp the promise with an awful seal,\nthe tavern clamor broke shrill and vile upon the Christmas air.\n\nHow long it was that she spoke no word\u2015\u2015wrapped for the last time in\nher passion of intercession\u2015\u2015Reuben did not notice; he only knelt on\nbeside her, living upon every breath she drew. But, at the turn of the\nnight, she looked full at him, clasped both his hands in hers, spoke\nso that the voice and the words rang in his heart through all his\nafter-life\u2015\u2015spoke not to him, but for him, and her words were those of\nthe _Memorare_. Then, like one who has laid down for ever in most safe\nand tender keeping a heavy burden borne long and painfully, she\ncrossed her hands upon her heart, but not now as if in pain; a look of\nglad surprise came upon her face.\n\n\u201cHark!\u201d she said. \u201cHe is coming _again_. My Lord and my God!\u201d\n\nWhen the Doctor entered Reuben\u2019s cabin next morning, he found it in\nperfect order\u2015\u2015the baby asleep in its cradle beside the hearth; Esther\nlying in a sort of funeral state, all done for her that could be done;\nand beside her knelt Reuben, whom the Doctor scarcely recognized at\nfirst for the change upon him. In that night he had become an old man,\nand his friend believed that but for the baby\u2019s sake he would have\ndied; yet, two days later, the baby died, and still Reuben lived.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\u201cA poor fool!\u201d people called him. He had lost all interest in temporal\nmatters, seemed hardly to know the use of money, and barely supported\nhimself by the odd bits of work which he did for the idle women from\nhouse to house. Soon, however, they discovered that he had one talent,\nand that was for managing children. A woman one day suggested to him\nthat he should \u201cbide at home, and mind some babies for \u2019em, to keep\n\u2019em out of harm\u2019s way; and he might teach the five-year-olds their\nletters, too\u2015\u2015being fit for naught else,\u201d she added in a tone as clear\nas that she used for the other words; but Reuben did not mind.\n\nThe proposal met with general favor; the women promised to supply him\nwith meals from their own poor tables, \u201cbetter than he\u2019d get hisself,\nanyhow,\u201d they said; and that was all he needed to keep him through the\nwinter.\n\nIt seemed at first sight a very forlorn life. Where others less\ncareless and simple could have lived in comfort, he lived in cold and\nhunger; one by one everything which he had brought from his distant\nhome disappeared\u2015\u2015given away to people in distress, or yielded without\nquestion to exorbitant and unfounded demands. Yet that bare,\npoverty-stricken room grew to be the one fair place in Gomorrah.\nThere, for long hours of the winter days, might be seen a cluster of\nchildren gathered about a man who seemed in some respects as much a\nchild as any of them, and who taught them to be tidy and affectionate\nand good. A few learned their letters, but many learned their prayers,\nand the babies often said for their first word the name of Jesus, and\nall came to gaze lovingly upon the crucifix, and touch with pitying\nreverence the wounded hands and feet. Often the parents heard from\nchildish lips the story of the Infant Saviour. No home now with a\nchild in it where Sunday was not known. Men and women, large boys and\ngirls, swore and fought in the streets still, but it soon became a\nrare sight to see a little child so forget itself; it would make\nMaster Reuben sorry, and he said that it made the Heart of Jesus\nbleed. No one stopped him at such work; he was too poor a fool for\nthem to mind him.\n\nBut he had another work with which they meddled much. The promise\nwhich the Doctor had made by Esther\u2019s death-bed was not forgotten by\nhim who made it, but it was broken again and again. His own lower\nnature which had ruled him all his life would have been enough, and\nmore than enough, for such a man to struggle against; but, besides\nthat, the fiends in human shape who peopled Gomorrah seemed leagued\nwith invisible evil ones to work his utter ruin. They scoffed at his\nfeeble efforts to do right; they lured him or they maddened him\u2015\u2015it\nwas all one to them\u2015\u2015into the old haunts of temptation; and the very\nefforts which he made to escape, the very memory of Esther\u2019s words and\nholy looks, the very thought of purity and self-control, seemed to\nmake the evil deadlier and grosser, when, after sore struggle, he gave\nway.\n\nAnd he did struggle, he did pray, poor soul! There were hours when he\nlay upon the earth in some cold hut or in the open air, fighting, it\nseemed to him, with no less than Satan\u2019s self. But he had been a slave\nto self too long and too deliberately to be able to gain freedom\neasily. Scenes of the past rose before him; he knew himself in his\ntrue degradation. Sins about which a kind of lurid fascination can be\nthrown in books or real life for a time he saw more and more plainly\nin their actual shape and color, and it drove him mad with disgust and\nshame. Few were daring enough that winter to trust their sick folk to\nhis skill. For days together he would join in riot and carousal, till\n_delirium tremens_ followed, and then strong men fled in fear before\nhim.\n\nBut when that time came, and houses were locked tight and no one else\ndared face him as he went raging about the town, falling on the uneven\nstreets, bruising and wounding himself, there was one who did go out\nto meet him. A tottering, feeble creature went meekly forth, stood in\nhis path, took blows and curses without resistance, and presently\u2015\u2015no\none knew by what magic spell\u2015\u2015led him to his own poor cabin and locked\nhimself in with him alone.\n\nThat was the reason why Master Reuben never did what his tender and\nlonely heart yearned to do\u2015\u2015to make a home for the orphan children of\nGomorrah. No one but himself must be allowed to see what passed in his\ncabin while the Doctor was there; no one else must be exposed to the\ndangers he had to meet. But the room where they had watched the\nmysterious joy of Esther\u2019s Christmas feast saw far other sights and\nechoed to far other sounds than angel music as the winter wore away.\nThere were mornings when no children came to Reuben\u2019s house, when some\nwoman more pitiful, some man more brave than the others, crept near\nand laid food on the threshold, then fled away to tell in trembling of\nthe cries they had heard as of some wild beast mad with fury, or some\nlost soul shrieking in the torment of despair. Sometimes, too, they\ntold of blows or noises like a heavy fall; and often, when Reuben came\namong them again, he bore marks that proved the stories true, but they\nnever learned the cause from him.\n\nAnd he\u2015\u2015as the winter passed, the only truly happy faces that Gomorrah\nsaw were Reuben Armstrong\u2019s and little children\u2019s. By and by they\nheard him sing sweet carols and hymns and chants; he taught the\nchildren to sing with him, and used to lead them down the streets, and\ninto the snowy fields, and to visit Esther\u2019s grave, to the sound of\nholy song. People stopped in many an evil deed or word to listen; then\nleft the word unsaid, the deed undone. It came to be a fashion in\nGomorrah to stroll to Reuben\u2019s cabin of a Sunday to see how joyfully\nthe children kept the day. Nay, it was even known that once a whole\nparty at the tavern had left their drinking-cups, to stand for an hour\nat the next door, listening to the music. Truly, good and evil were in\nstrange contrast that winter in the almost forgotten place which had\nno intercourse with the outer world. There was a world, unseen, in\nwhich it was remembered night and day.\n\nAt length they asked Reuben why he looked so happy, and he answered:\n\u201cIt is almost spring. Then the priest will come.\u201d And when they\nlaughed and asked him how he knew, he answered simply: \u201cGod will send\nhim.\u201d\n\nWhen the snow began to melt and the streams ran gayly down the\nhillside, and grass was green, one week, remembered for years after in\nthat region, the whole place rang with the story of a carousal which\neven Gomorrah wondered at; the whole place waited to see whether the\nDoctor or Reuben would ever come forth alive from their self-imposed\nprison. When Reuben opened his door again, and gathered his children\nround him, there was a look of peculiar expectation on his face. He\ngreeted each child with special gladness, and told one of the mothers\nthat he was quite sure the priest was coming very soon, \u201cfor we need\nhim a good deal now,\u201d he said.\n\nThat afternoon there came into Gomorrah a man wearing the religious\nhabit, and asked at the tavern if a Mrs. Armstrong was living in that\nplace.\n\nSyles stared at him blankly. \u201cWhat do you know of her?\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI met some one,\u201d the priest answered, \u201cwhile on my way to the States,\nwho begged me, if I ever came this way, to find such a woman and give\nher a message from him. Is she here?\u201d\n\n\u201cDead,\u201d said Syles briefly.\n\n\u201cShe had a husband. Where is he?\u201d\n\n\u201cNext door with a madman. We leave him alone such times.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, Parson,\u201d said a lounger near by. \u201cWhere\u2019ve ye been that ye\nhaven\u2019t heard? Doctor\u2019s out of his fit to-day, and Reuben\u2019s got his\nschool again. I\u2019ll take ye there, stranger. It\u2019s a sight we\u2019re proud\nof in Gomorrah.\u201d\n\nOut of the tavern into the filthy street, followed by a dozen or more\nwretches, the priest went sadly with a load upon his heart. The\nhorrors he had seen already were enough to sicken him; he wondered\nwhat new evils he would meet with now of which Gomorrah was proud.\n\n\u201cThey\u2019re used to spectators,\u201d said his guide. \u201cWe watch \u2019em as we\nlike. Door or window\u2015\u2015\u2019tan\u2019t no difference to them; we an\u2019t particular\nhere.\u201d\n\nIt was a bare, small room, with a table and some benches, an empty\nfireplace, beside it a powerfully-built man trembling and crying by\nhimself, like one unnerved by some long illness; on one wall was a\nprint of the Blessed Babe and the Holy Mother, and below this was a\ncrucifix. Facing these was a band of twenty little children in soiled\nand ragged garments, but with clean hands and faces, too absorbed by\nwhat was being said to them to heed what passed without. All eyes were\nfixed on a small man with a great fresh cut across his forehead and a\nbruised and very simple face.\n\n\u201cYes, children,\u201d he was saying, \u201cit was the blessed child Jesus who\nwas born on Christmas night. He loves us all very much indeed, and of\ncourse we all want to love him. Some time he is going to send his\npriest here to baptize you; then what will you all be?\u201d\n\n\u201cGod\u2019s little children.\u201d The answer rose sweetly and with a kind of\nmerriment from every lip, and Reuben\u2019s face shone.\n\n\u201cSurely, surely,\u201d he said. \u201cNow we will sing, because we love him and\nwant to thank him. Yes, I know the song you want\u2015\u2015\u2018The Three Poor\nShepherds.\u2019\u201d\n\n \u201cWe were but three poor shepherds,\n All keeping our flocks by night,\n When Monseigneur the blessed angel\n Came suddenly into sight\u2015\u2015\n\n \u201cCame suddenly through the darkness,\n While a glory round him fell;\n I wot not if it were Michael\n Or the Angel Gabriel.\n\n \u201cBut his voice was like a trumpet,\n So full, and glad, and true;\n \u2018Listen,\u2019 he said, \u2018my children:\n There is good news for you\u2015\u2015\u2019\n\n \u201c\u2018Good news for men and maidens,\n A great, glad gift for them;\n For the faire Sire Christ, the blessed,\n Is born in Bethlehem.\u2019\n\n \u201cThen a _Gloria in Excelsis_\n They sang with glad accord;\n Peace and good-will to all mankind\n From the Sire Christ the Lord.\n\n \u201cAnd unto a lowly stable\n Silently went we three,\n And there the kine, each in its stall,\n Was on a bended knee.\n\n \u201cAnd there was Messire St. Joseph;\n And Mary the mother lay,\n With the Holy Child in swaddling bands,\n All on a cushion of hay.\n\n \u201cEach dumb beast looked in our faces,\n But never unbent the knee;\n Our sweet Ladye she raised her eyes\n And smiled full tenderly.\n\n \u201c\u2018Ah! faire Sire Christ,\u2019 all humbly\n We cried with urgent plea,\n \u2018Anneal us now of thy great mercie,\n For that we are so glad of thee.\u2019\n\n \u201c\u2018For that we are glad and joyful\n That good days are begun,\n That the great God for a blessing\n Hath sent us his faire Childe Son.\u2019\n\n \u201cThen Our Ladye the Holy Mary\n Took some wood in her hand,\n And crossed the pieces, and gave them,\n That we all might understand.\n\n \u201cAnd we kissed the token humbly,\n And bowed before the Childe;\n For we knew, like Monseigneurs the angels,\n That God had been reconciled.\n\n \u201cSo joyfully and with gladness\n All softly we went our way,\n And with many an old _Te Deum_\n We tell the tale to-day.\u201d\n\nThen once more, like a chorus which even the children just beginning\nto talk seemed to know in part:\n\n \u201cFor that we are glad and joyful\n That good days are begun,\n That the great God for a blessing\n Hath sent us his faire Childe Son.\u201d\n\nThe door opened slowly and a voice which all ears could hear said\nreverently, \u201c_Pax vobiscum_.\u201d The good days were begun.\n\nStrange how calmly they all received him! Reuben never asked him how\nhe came there; he had looked for him and prayed for him a long while,\nand he was there at last. God, of course, had sent him. One by one he\nbrought the children to speak with him, and to have him pronounce on\ntheir fitness to be made God\u2019s children; and the tears stood in the\npriest\u2019s eyes as he listened to their simple, fearless answers, that\nwitnessed to what Reuben\u2019s work of faith had been. When they were gone\naway to their homes, which were far less homes to them than Reuben\u2019s\ncabin was, Reuben came to the priest as simply as any one of them had\ncome, and asked to be allowed to make confession.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll stay here and be good, Doctor,\u201d he said soothingly. \u201cI shall\nonly be in the other room, and I\u2019ve locked the door hard.\u201d\n\nThe Doctor made a sort of moaning assent.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s just had a very sad time,\u201d explained Reuben, \u201cand he needs you\nvery much, father. By and by please let him speak to you.\u201d\n\nHow wonderful to listen, in that place of revenge and murder, to\nReuben\u2019s quiet, brief confession\u2015\u2015no complaints, no bitterness, no\nanger, except that for one day he had felt hatred toward some one,\nagainst whom, however, he brought no accusation, and for this sin he\nfelt especial contrition.\n\n\u201cI met lately,\u201d the priest said slowly, when the confession was\nfinished, and marking with care the effect his words would have, \u201ca\nman known sometimes as Lazell.\u201d\n\nReuben gave a start as of joyful surprise, and would have spoken, but\nthe priest continued:\n\n\u201cI saw him die a felon\u2019s death upon the gallows.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no!\u201d cried Reuben in distress\u2015\u2015one might have supposed he had\nbeen told of a brother\u2019s shameful death. \u201cOh! no, father.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was a just punishment,\u201d the priest replied.\n\n\u201cNo, no!\u201d cried Reuben. \u201cYou do not know this place. They do not have\nhelps here like other people, or like me. Oh! but God saved his poor\nsoul at the last?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe spoke to me,\u201d said the priest, \u201cof a woman named Esther Armstrong,\nto whom he had done a great injury. Was not that true?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe did not understand,\u201d said Reuben with sorrowful compassion\u2015\u2015\u201cI am\nsure he did not understand what harm he did, because, you know, he\n_couldn\u2019t_ have hurt _her_. And he did not see good women here; they\nhave such hard times here, poor things.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe said he could not forget her\u2015\u2015that something always reminded him\nof her. He begged me to find her out and ask her to forgive him.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe died,\u201d said Reuben softly. \u201cShe forgave him. She prayed for him a\ngreat deal, I think.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod answered her, then,\u201d the priest said. \u201cI trust that he repented\ntruly.\u201d\n\nA great light of joy woke upon Reuben\u2019s face. \u201cThen he will save the\nrest,\u201d he exclaimed triumphantly.\n\n\u201cBut you,\u201d the priest asked\u2015\u2015\u201cdo you forgive him?\u201d\n\n\u201cI?\u201d repeated Reuben with a puzzled look. \u201cO father! it was very wrong\nof me; I was angry with him at first. But it was my fault, really,\nthough Esther never blamed me; I was a poor fool, father, or I never\nshould have brought her here.\u201d\n\nAnd so Reuben Armstrong took to himself his lifelong title humbly\u2015\u2015so\npoor a fool, indeed, that he had forgotten that he had anything to\nforgive his fellow-men.\n\nThe next day Reuben saw his whole flock of little ones gathered into\nthe Good Shepherd\u2019s fold; and then the Holy Sacrifice was offered up,\nand Reuben\u2019s soul was strengthened by the Divine Food.\n\nThe Doctor had sullenly refused to be present. Reuben found him, on\nhis return, lying face downwards on the cabin floor, the picture of\ndespair.\n\n\u201cThere is no hope,\u201d he said when Reuben knelt by him, and begged him\nto have recourse to confession. \u201cI want drink\u2015\u2015nothing but drink. I\nmust have it. I cannot save myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s true enough,\u201d said Reuben. \u201cYou can\u2019t, and I can\u2019t, but God\ncan. You keep saying that I don\u2019t know everything about you, and that\nnobody does, and that God will never forgive you. But he has sent his\npriest at last, and you need not be afraid to say anything to him. You\nmust not hide anything, and he has the power to hear it and tell you\nwhat God says.\u201d\n\nLike one driven to a last resort, the Doctor turned to the waiting\npriest, and Reuben in the next room gave thanks and prayed, while, in\nthe place where a saint had made her last confession, this man, who\nwas indeed of \u201cthe scum of sinners,\u201d made his first.\n\nTruly, the Sacrament of Penance is a divine and awful thing. God grant\nthat they who vilify and reject and misrepresent it know not what they\ndo! The burden of souls which a missionary priest in the far West has\nto bear in the confessional is a tremendous one; this priest had been\nin prison-hulks of Australia, and through all the mining regions of\nCalifornia and Arizona, yet had never met a case so desperate as that\nbefore him now, where hope seemed so hopeless, the power for better\nthings so nearly overcome. But the poor penitent, as one by one\nwithout reserve he revealed the sins so long kept secret, as well as\nthose that were known of men and noised abroad, felt keen relief\nthrough all the degradation, tasted somewhat of the sweetness hid in\nthis sacrament of blessed bitterness, won from it that strength which\nis a better thing to have than joy or consolation, met there and knew\nthere Him \u201cat whose feet Mary Magdalene came to kneel in the house of\nSimon the leper.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am going away, Reuben,\u201d the Doctor said that night, abruptly and\nsadly. \u201cYes,\u201d seeing the other\u2019s look of surprise, \u201cthere is hope for\nme, perhaps, but not here.\u201d\n\n\u201cAway?\u201d Reuben repeated. \u201cAway from me? I thought I\u2019d have you always,\nDoctor.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be the hurt and the trouble I have been to you?\u201d said the Doctor,\ndeeply touched. \u201cNo, no, Reuben, I cannot keep my promise here. I must\nleave the past entirely, and the old associates, and go where I can\nrepent\u2015\u2015if I ever can. There is no such thing as an easy repentance\nfor me.\u201d And Reuben felt in his tender heart, once more to be\nbereaved, that the words were true.\n\nWhen the priest left Gomorrah the next day, promising that it should\nnot be forgotten, one went with him for whom no other hope remained\nbut the total surrender of will and liberty, the total crucifixion of\nthe flesh. Reuben heard from him once, in the course of his journey,\nthen all tidings ceased; but he was too simple and too busy to wonder\nat it, too full of faith to doubt the final triumph. His character was\nnot like Esther\u2019s; the burden of souls could never be to him what it\nhad been to her; God led him by a different path from that she trod in\npain.\n\nBut in a lonely monastery, high up among frowning rocks and perpetual\nsnows, a man who had come to it from far across the seas lived, for a\nfew sad years, a life of deepest penance. Never by day or night did\nthe battle with evil cease, yet over him there seemed to be by day and\nnight a special heavenly care. That lonely cell was haunted constantly\nby visions of the past, by temptations that were maddening, by\nthoughts and words of evil import, which an increasing approach to\nholiness made flesh and heart shrink to recall. No sign of the cross,\nno prayer, no penance, could banish them. Pursued, haunted, tempted to\nthe very end, yet to the very end he called on Jesus, Mary, and to the\nvery end the answer came.\n\nNone but those whose lives were one of close union with the Sacred\nHeart of Jesus dared minister at that death-bed, learning there, in\nfear and trembling, new lessons of the hideousness of sin, and of the\npower which an evil life can give to Satan in the hour of death. But\nagain and again they heard the poor lips whisper, \u201cI deserve it, I\ndeserve it; I thank God\u201d; they saw the weak hands cling to the\ncrucifix, the glaring eyes gaze in their anguish upon the Word made\nflesh; and he who endured to hear the last confession brought to him\nafterward, with awed and pitying reverence, the Body of the Lord. It\nwas no saint, no life-long, scarred, victorious warrior of the Cross,\nwhom they laid to rest at last, his hard fight done; yet over that\nbody\u2015\u2015which, even in their snow-clad region, they had to hurry to its\nburial\u2015\u2015they dared to give God thanks in humble faith for another\nsinner ransomed.\n\nHumbly and faithfully, in far-away Gomorrah, Reuben Armstrong lived to\na good old age his poor fool\u2019s life; and men and women came to look\nwith gentle reverence upon the feeble form which went in and out among\nthem on errands of daily mercy, never tiring. By and by the neighbors\nlearned to know the place by a better name than the evil one which it\ngrew to hate rather than glory in. \u201cIt cannot be so very bad,\u201d they\nsaid, \u201cwhen there are such good children in it.\u201d And as from time to\ntime a priest came there, he always found one more soul desirous for\nconfession, or one more child or grown person ready for holy baptism,\nand Reuben never again knelt alone to receive holy Communion.\n\nWhen the Doctor went away, Reuben opened his heart and home to the\nvagrant orphans, and there, some years after, he welcomed gladly the\nmiserable Parson, more pitiably needy than any of them. \u201cMaster\nReuben\u2019s baby\u201d they called him, and Reuben often told exultingly how\ngood and obedient he was. No one envied him his charge\u2015\u2015unless it was\nthe angels, who share in such blessed work.\n\nA railroad runs through the town now, and it is becoming a place of\nsome importance\u2015\u2015poor enough and bad enough, alas! but stamped\noutwardly and openly with the sign of the Cross. For over Esther\u2019s\ngrave loving hands have reared a little chapel\u2015\u2015a constant token that\nthe offering of her broken heart has been accepted, that her dying\nprayer has been _remembered_.\n\nAnd there, troubled by no doubts and haunted by no fears, weak in body\nand weaker still in intellect, but very strong in his immortal soul,\nReuben waits patiently and happily till his work is done.\n\n\n\n\nTHREE LECTURES ON EVOLUTION.\n\n\nWe live in a time when scientific men seem to acquire celebrity almost\nin proportion as they succeed in perverting the conclusions of natural\nscience so as to make them contradict revealed truth. At this we are\nnot surprised; for the management of the interests of science has\nlately fallen, to a great extent, into the hands of an anti-Christian\nsect, which is either unable to understand or unwilling to recognize\nthe testimony that nature bears to the existence, power, and wisdom of\nits Creator, and to the veracity of his word. To this sect Professor\nHuxley belongs. They call him \u201ca great scientist\u201d and \u201ca great\nphilosopher\u201d; and people invite him to lecture; and a certain press\nhastens to publish his thoughts, that the world may learn how\nreligious dogmas can be swept away by \u201cscientific\u201d discoveries, and\nespecially by \u201cscientific\u201d reasonings. Unfortunately for Prof. Huxley,\nhis lectures on the _Evidences of Evolution_, which are the last\neffort of his mind, are as deficient in logic as most of his other\nproductions. In other words, the conclusions of the lecturer are not\nlegitimate, and the premises themselves are not always exempt from\nobjectionable features. We hardly need tell our readers that neither\nany Christian dogma has been swept away by these lectures nor any\nevolution established, except in so far as the lectures themselves may\nbe considered as an evolution of sophistry.\n\nIn the first of his three lectures Prof. Huxley begins with a false\nstatement of facts:\n\n \u201cIt has taken long indeed, and accumulations of often\n fruitless labor, to enable men to look steadily at the\n glaring phantasmagoria of nature, to notice her fluctuations\n and what is regular among her apparent irregularities; and\n it is only comparatively lately, within the last few\n centuries, that there has emerged the conception of a\n pervading order and definite force of things, which we term\n the course of nature. But out of this contemplation of\n nature, and out of man\u2019s thought concerning her, there has\n in these later times arisen that conception of the constancy\n of nature to which I have referred, and that at length has\n become the guiding conception of modern thought. It has\n ceased to be almost conceivable to any person who has paid\n attention to modern thought that chance should have any\n place in the universe, or that events should follow anything\n but the natural order of cause and effect.\u201d\n\nThe truth is that \u201cmodern thought\u201d has had no part whatever in the\ndiscovery of the constancy of nature. This discovery is as old as\nmankind. All ancient philosophers, even before Aristotle, knew the\nconstancy of the natural laws, and this knowledge has never died away,\nthat modern thinkers should claim the honor of reviving it. The same\nis to be said of \u201cthe conception of a pervading order and definite\nforce of things,\u201d as we find that old Greek and Latin books are full\nof this conception, which is likewise common to all our medi\u00e6val\nwriters, and, indeed, to all reasonable men. That \u201cchance\u201d could have\nno place in the universe was so well known to the ancients that Cicero\nemphatically declared any man to be silly who would suspect the\npossibility of the contrary.[152] Hence no person ever needed \u201cto pay\nattention to modern thought\u201d to conceive that chance could have no\nplace in the government of the world. Finally, that events cannot but\nfollow \u201cthe natural order of cause and effect\u201d is the oldest of\nscientific truths, and the first principle of scientific reasoning. A\nlecturer who pretends that we owe these truths to \u201cmodern thought\u201d\nshows no respect for his audience. On the other hand, if \u201cmodern\nthought\u201d is so poor and barren that it envies the scientific claims of\npast generations, and stakes its reputation on fiction and plagiarism,\nwhat can we say of the wisdom of the modern thinker who affords a\nground for arguing that \u201cmodern thought\u201d stands convicted of\ndishonesty as much as of incapacity?\n\nThe professor a little later says:\n\n \u201cThough we are quite clear about the constancy of nature at\n the present time and in the present order of things, it by\n no means follows necessarily that we are justified in\n expanding this generalization into the past, and in denying\n absolutely that there may have been a time when evidence did\n not follow a first order, when the relations of cause and\n effect were not fixed and definite, and when external\n agencies did not intervene in the general course of nature.\n Cautious men will admit that such a change in the order of\n nature may have been possible, just as every candid thinker\n will admit that there may be a world in which two and two do\n not make four, and in which two straight lines do not\n enclose a space.\u201d\n\nThis sentence shows that we are dealing rather with an empiricist than\nwith a natural philosopher. Why should not the constancy of nature at\nthe present time justify our conviction that nature has been no less\nconstant in the past? Surely, if we proceed only empirically, the\nfacts of the present will teach us nothing certain as to the facts of\na remote and unknown past. But it is remarkable that this purely\nempirical method would leave us equally uncertain as to the facts of\nthe future, though modern scientists assure us that \u201cthe future must\nbe similar to the past.\u201d The truth is that no valid induction can be\nmade from mere facts without the aid of a rational principle as the\nground of our generalization. If such a principle is certain, our\ninference is certain; and if the principle is only plausible, our\ninference will be plausible in the same degree. Now, have we not a\ncertain principle from which the constancy of nature can be\ndemonstrated with no reference to particular time? We have such a\nprinciple. We infer the constancy of nature from the constancy of the\nagencies by which the physical order is ruled. All elementary\nsubstances are permanent; their matter and their active power are\nnever impaired; the law of their activity is as fixed and definite as\ntheir permanent constitution; and therefore they do not, and they\ncannot, act at present in a different manner from that in which they\nhave acted from the beginning, or from that in which they will act as\nlong as they last. This is the principle by which we are fully\njustified in extending the constancy of nature to all antiquity and to\nall futurity, and in averring that such a constancy is not an\naccidental result of circumstances, but a necessary consequence of the\nprinciple of causality.\n\nBut Mr. Huxley seems not to understand this principle. He imagines a\ntime when the relations of cause and effect may not have been fixed\nand definite, and even conceives the possibility of a world in which\ntwo and two do not make four. This is modern thought indeed; for we do\nnot believe that any indication can be found of a similar thought\nhaving ever been entertained in past ages. But we would ask: If in a\ncertain world two and two did not make four, how could Mr. Huxley know\nthat they make four in this world? And if the relations of cause and\neffect had at any given time remained vague and indefinite, how could\nhe account for the fact that they are now definite and fixed? For the\nrelation of cause and effect consists in this: that the impression\nproduced by the cause is the exact equivalent of the exertion made in\nits production; and he who imagines a time when such a relation was\nnot fixed and definite must assume that an effect can be greater than\nthe exertion in which it originates, or that the exertion can be\ngreater than the impression it produces. But if so, on what ground can\nthe professor affirm that the relation of cause and effect has now\nbecome fixed and definite? We see the effect, but we cannot see the\nexertion; we see the fall of a body, but we cannot see the action of\ngravity. How, then, can Mr. Huxley ascertain that the action of\ngravity is neither greater nor less than the momentum impressed on the\nbody? Thus the relation of cause and effect, in his theory, cannot be\nknown; and mechanical science becomes impossible. In the same manner,\nif, in another world, two and two do not make four, mathematics are an\nimposition.\n\nThe lecturer says also that there may have been a time \u201cwhen external\nagencies did not intervene in the general course of nature\u201d; but we\nbelieve that this must be a _lapsus lingu\u00e6_; for, as he does not admit\nthat external agencies do now intervene in the general course of\nnature, to say that the case may have been exactly the same in all\nremote times is not to adduce a reason of the supposed disturbance of\nthe relations of cause and effect, of which he is speaking, nor would\nit serve to limit, as he wishes, our \u201cgeneralization.\u201d The context,\ntherefore, shows that what the lecturer intended to say was that there\nmay have been a time when external agencies _did_ intervene in the\ngeneral course of nature. In fact, however, he said the contrary.\nPerhaps the professor, considering that he was speaking to an American\naudience with whose religious opinions he was little acquainted,\nthought it wise to give such a turn to his phrases as to avoid all\nprofession of belief or disbelief in the existence of a Creator. But,\nhowever this may be, the idea that God\u2019s intervention in the course of\nnature would disturb the relation of cause and effect is quite\npreposterous; for if God intervenes, his action carries with itself\nits proportionate effect, while the actions of other causes maintain\ntheir natural relations to their ordinary effects. When a man raises a\nstone from the ground, does he disturb the relation of cause and\neffect? or does he abolish gravitation? Certainly not. Gravity\ncontinues to urge down the body, while it is raised; but the effect\ncorresponds to the combined actions of the two distinct causes. Now,\nthe same must be said of God\u2019s intervention with natural causes. The\neffect will always correspond to the combined causalities; and\ntherefore the relation of the effect to its adequate cause remains\nundisturbed.\n\nTo assume, as the lecturer does, that at the present time God has\nceased to intervene in the course of nature, is to assume something\nfor which there is not the least warrant. God\u2019s intervention in the\ncourse of nature is continuous; for without it nature can neither act\nnor exist for a single moment, as every one knows who is not\nabsolutely ignorant of philosophy. But this is not all. God, seeing\nthat men try to blind themselves to the fact of his intervention in\nthe ordinary course of nature, gives us in his mercy not unfrequent\nproofs of his intervention by works so far above nature that no effort\nof scientific infidels can evade their testimony. These works are\n_miracles_. \u201cModern thought\u201d denies miracles, as irreconcilable with\nthe \u201cconstancy of nature\u201d; but the history of the church is full of\nwell-authenticated miracles, and there are to-day living in different\ncountries thousands of unexceptionable witnesses who can testify that\nmiracles are, even now, an almost daily occurrence among the Christian\npeople. We, too, admit \u201cthe constancy of nature,\u201d but we are not so\ndull as to interpret this constancy as modern thought strives to\ninterpret it. It is the _laws_ of nature that are constant, not the\n_course_ of nature; the former alone are connected with the essence of\nthings and are immutable; the latter depends on accidental conditions,\nand can be interfered with not only by God, but even by man, as daily\nexperience shows. Hence the intervention of external agencies does not\nimpair the constancy of nature, and the argument of modern thinkers\nagainst the possibility of miracles falls to the ground.\n\nMr. Huxley, after stating that the question with which he has to deal\nis essentially historical, affirms that \u201cthere are only three\nviews\u2015\u2015three hypotheses\u2015\u2015respecting the past history of nature.\u201d The\nfirst hypothesis is that\n\n \u201cThe order of nature which now obtains has always obtained;\n in other words, that the present course of nature, the\n present order of things, has existed from all eternity. The\n second hypothesis is that the present state of things, the\n present order of nature, has had only a limited duration,\n and that at some period in the past the state of things\n which we now know\u2015\u2015substantially, though not, of course, in\n all its details, the state of things which we now\n know\u2015\u2015arose and came into existence without any precedent\n similar condition from which it could have proceeded. The\n third hypothesis also assumes that the present order of\n nature has had but a limited duration, but it supposes that\n the present order of things proceeded by a natural process\n from an antecedent order, and that from another antecedent\n order, and so on; and that on this hypothesis the attempt to\n fix any limit at which we could assign the commencement of\n this series of changes is given up.\u201d\n\nOf these three hypotheses, the first is discarded by the lecturer as\nuntenable, because \u201ccircumstantial evidence absolutely negatives the\nconception of the eternity of the present condition of things.\u201d In\nthis we agree with him, not only on account of geological evidence,\nbut also, and principally, because the world is mutable, and therefore\ncontingent; which proves that it must have had a beginning. It is\nremarkable that he denies the eternity of the present condition of\nthings, but does not deny the eternity of matter. Modern thought could\nnot admit of such a denial; because, if matter is not eternal, the\nadmission of a Creator becomes unavoidable.\n\nThe second hypothesis the professor calls the \u201cMiltonic\u201d hypothesis,\nand he proceeds to explain why he calls it so:\n\n \u201cI doubt not that it may have excited some surprise in your\n minds that I should have spoken of this as Milton\u2019s\n hypothesis rather than I should choose the terms which are\n much more familiar to you, such as \u2018the doctrine of\n creation,\u2019 or \u2018the Biblical doctrine\u2019 or \u2018the doctrine of\n Moses,\u2019 all of which terms, as applied to the hypothesis to\n which I have just referred, are certainly much more familiar\n to you than the title of the Miltonic hypothesis. But I have\n had what I cannot but think are very weighty reasons for\n taking the course which I have pursued. For example, I have\n discarded the title of the hypothesis of creation, because\n my present business is not with the question as to how\n nature has originated, as to the causes which have led to\n her origination, but as to the manner and order of her\n origination. Our present inquiry is not why the objects\n which constitute nature came into existence, but when they\n came into existence, and in what order. This is a strictly\n historical question, as that about the date at which the\n Angles and Jutes invaded England. But the other question\n about creation is a philosophical question, and one which\n cannot be solved or approached or touched by the historical\n method.\u201d\n\nThen he gives his reasons why he avoids the title of Biblical\nhypothesis:\n\n \u201cIn the first place, it is not my business to say what the\n Hebrew text contains, and what it does not; and, in the\n second place, were I to say that this was the Biblical\n hypothesis, I should be met by the authority of many eminent\n scholars, to say nothing of men of science, who, in recent\n times, have absolutely denied that this doctrine is to be\n found in Genesis at all. If we are to listen to them, we\n must believe that what seem so clearly defined as days of\n creation\u2015\u2015as if very great pains had been taken that there\n should be no mistake\u2015\u2015that these are not days at all, but\n periods that we may make just as long as convenience\n requires. We are also to understand that it is consistent\n with that phraseology to believe that plants and animals may\n have been evolved by natural processes, lasting for millions\n of years, out of similar rudiments. A person who is not a\n Hebrew scholar can only stand by and admire the marvelous\n flexibility of a language which admits of such diverse\n interpretations.\u201d (At these last words the audience is said\n to have laughed and applauded.) \u201cIn the third place, I have\n carefully abstained from speaking of this as a Mosaic\n doctrine, because we are now assured upon the authority of\n the highest critics, and even of dignitaries of the church,\n that there is no evidence whatever that Moses ever wrote\n this chapter or knew anything about it. I don\u2019t say\u2015\u2015I give\n no opinion\u2015\u2015it would be an impertinence upon my part to\n volunteer an opinion on such a subject; but that being the\n state of opinion among the scholars and the clergy, it is\n well for us, the laity, who stand outside, to avoid\n entangling ourselves in such a vexed question.\u201d\n\nThen the lecturer makes a short refutation of Milton\u2019s hypothesis, and\nconcludes his first lecture by promising to give in the following\nlectures the evidences in favor of the hypothesis of evolution.\n\nIt seems to us that the whole of the preceding reasoning is nothing\nbut plausible talk, and that the explanations of the lecturer lack\nsincerity. First, he pretends that the \u201cdoctrine of creation\u201d is a\nphilosophical question, which cannot be solved by the historical\nmethod. Why can it not? Creation is no less a historical than a\nphilosophical fact. The book in which we read it is a historical book,\nmore than three thousand years old, whose high authority has been\nrecognized by the wisest men of all past generations, and whose\ntruthfulness has been confirmed by monuments of antiquity and by the\nstudy of profane histories. If, then, Prof. Huxley was truly anxious\nto follow the historical method, why did he not compare the details\ngiven in Genesis about the manner and order of the origination of\nnature with the manner and order suggested by geological discoveries?\nOn the other hand, if the question was to be treated by the historical\nmethod, was it wise to appeal to a poet as the best interpreter of\nhistory?\n\nAs to the philosophical treatment of the doctrine of creation, we are\nglad to see that the professor has had the good sense of abstaining\nfrom it. This forbearance on his part was imperative for many reasons,\nand especially because, as appears from some expressions of his, he\nwas quite incompetent to judge of the doctrine on its philosophical\nside. He says that it is not his present business to investigate \u201cthe\ncauses which have led to the origination of nature,\u201d nor to inquire\n\u201cwhy the objects which constitute nature came into existence\u201d; as if\nthere were any other _why_ besides the will of the Creator, or any\nother _causes_ besides his omnipotence. But Mr. Huxley seems afraid of\na Creator; hence he does not speak of a God, but of \u201ccauses\u201d and\n\u201cexternal agencies\u201d; nor does he mention creation, but only\n\u201corigination.\u201d Vain efforts! For, if nature has had an origination, it\neither originated in something or in nothing: if in nothing, then such\nan origination is a real creation; if in something, then such an\norigination was only a modification of something pre-existing\ncontingently (for nothing but the contingent is modifiable), whose\nexistence must again be traced to creation. Had the lecturer honestly\nfollowed the historical method, he would have boldly started with\nthose profound words of Genesis: \u201cIn the beginning God created heaven\nand earth,\u201d and he would have found a solution, no less philosophical\nthan historical, of his question.\n\nThese remarks go far to show that the professor\u2019s reasons for ignoring\nthe Biblical history (which he, of course, calls the \u201cBiblical\n_hypothesis_\u201d) are mere pretexts. Surely it was not his business to\nexplain the Hebrew text; but this is no excuse. The only point which\nhad a real importance in connection with the question at issue was\nwhether the so-called _days_ of creation were natural days of\ntwenty-four hours or periods of a much greater length. Now, this point\ncould have been investigated with the Latin or the English text as\nwell as with the Hebrew. Moreover, since \u201cmany eminent scholars,\u201d and\neven \u201cmen of science,\u201d as he states, have absolutely denied that the\ndoctrine of the six natural days is found in Genesis at all, was it\nnot plain that the geological epochs, wholly unknown to Milton, could\nnot be considered as contradicting the Biblical record, but might\nrather coincide with that narrative, and help us to clear up some\nobscure phrases which we read in it? Prof. Huxley pretends that, if we\nlisten to these eminent scholars and men of science, \u201cwe must believe\nthat what seem so clearly defined as days of creation are not days at\nall, but periods that we may make just as long as convenience\nrequires.\u201d This is, indeed, the conclusion we draw from a full\ndiscussion of the subject; but we should like to know on what ground\nthe professor assumes that the Genesis speaks _so clearly_ of natural\ndays. It is the contrary that is _clearly_ implied in the language of\nthe sacred writer; for it is evident that the three days which\npreceded the creation of the sun could not be natural days of\ntwenty-four hours; and since their length has not been determined by\nthe sacred writer, we are free \u201cto make them just as long as\nconvenience requires.\u201d This reason, which may be strengthened by other\nexpressions in the context, and by many other passages of the Bible\nwhere the word _day_ is used indefinitely for long periods of time,\nled many old interpreters, St. Augustine among others, to deny what\nProf. Huxley so confidently asserts about the _clearness_ of the\nScriptural testimony in favor of natural days. The professor evidently\nspeaks of a subject which he has never studied, with the mischievous\npurpose of creating a conflict between science and faith.\n\nWhat shall we say of his amusing hint at the \u201cmarvellous flexibility\u201d\nof the Biblical language? Though greeted with _applause and laughter_\n(by an audience that knew nothing about the Hebrew language), such a\nhint was a blunder. It is not the flexibility of the language that has\never been appealed to as the ground of different interpretations; it\nis the extreme conciseness of the narration, and the omission of\nnumerous details, which might have proved interesting to the man of\nscience, but which had nothing to do with the object pursued by the\nsacred writer. For the aim of the writer was to instruct men, not on\nscience, but on the unity of God and his universal dominion. On the\nother hand, all languages have numbers of terms which can receive\ndifferent interpretations; and the very word _day_, which the lecturer\ntakes to mean _so clearly_ twenty-four hours, is used even by us in\nthe sense of an indefinite length of time. We say, for instance, that\n_to-day_ anti-Christianity is rampant, just as well as that _to-day_\nit has rained; and we hope that Professor Huxley will not on this\naccount find fault with the English language, or sneer at its\n\u201cmarvellous flexibility.\u201d\n\nFinally, the professor says that he spoke of the Miltonic theory\nrather than of the \u201cMosaic doctrine,\u201d because \u201cwe are now assured upon\nthe authority of the highest critics, and even of dignitaries of the\nchurch, that there is no evidence whatever that Moses ever wrote this\nchapter or knew anything about it.\u201d This allegation is not creditable\nto the judgment of the lecturer.\n\nThe Genesis is the undoubted work of Moses, as all ancient and modern\nscholars, both Jew and Christian, testify. If, however, Professor\nHuxley, upon the authority of his perverse or ignorant critics and of\nthe rationalistic dignitaries of a false church, believes the\ncontrary, it does not follow that the historical method obliged him to\nsubstitute the Miltonic theory for the Biblical history under pain of\n\u201centangling himself in a vexed question.\u201d If there was a vexed\nquestion, he could discard it with a word. Nothing prevented him from\nspeaking of \u201c_what is styled_ the Mosaic doctrine.\u201d The truth is that\nthe professor labored all along to demolish the Mosaic doctrine under\nthe name of Miltonic hypothesis, thinking, no doubt, that by this\nartifice he might just say enough to satisfy his friends the\nfree-thinkers, without shocking too violently the public mind. The\nartifice, however, proved unsuccessful; and if the professor has seen\nthe criticism passed on his lectures by the American press, he must\nnow have acquired the conviction that the Miltonic hypothesis did not\ndeserve the honor of a scientific refutation.\n\nIn his second lecture Mr. Huxley begins to deal with the evidences of\nevolution. He points out that such evidences are of three kinds\u2015\u2015viz.,\n_indifferent_, _favorable_, and _demonstrative_. The first two kinds\nhe is prepared to examine at once, whilst the third he keeps in\nreserve for his last lecture. One might ask what an \u201cindifferent\nevidence\u201d is likely to mean. For, if any fact has no greater tendency\nto prove than to disprove a theory, such a fact does not constitute\n\u201cevidence\u201d on either side. This, of course, is true; but, in the\nlanguage of the professor, \u201cindifferent evidence\u201d designates those\nfacts which are brought against his theory, and which he believes to\nadmit of a satisfactory explanation without abandoning the theory.\nThus he relates how\n\n \u201cCuvier endeavored to ascertain by a very just and proper\n method what foundation there was for the belief in a gradual\n and progressive change of animals, by comparing the\n skeletons of all accessible parts of these animals (old\n Egyptian remains)\u2015\u2015such as crocodiles, birds, dogs, cats,\n and the like\u2015\u2015with those which are now found in Egypt; and\n he came to the conclusion\u2015\u2015a conclusion which has been\n verified by all subsequent research\u2015\u2015that no appreciable\n change has taken place in the animals which inhabited Egypt,\n and he drew thence the conclusion, _and a hasty one_, that\n the evidence of such fact was altogether against the\n doctrine of evolution.\u201d\n\nAgain, the professor states that the animal remains deposited in the\nbeds of stone lining the Niagara \u201cbelong to exactly the same forms as\nnow inhabit the still waters of Lake Erie\u201d; and these remains,\naccording to his calculation, are more than thirty thousand years old.\nAgain:\n\n \u201cWhen we examine the rocks of the cretaceous epoch itself,\n we find the remains of some animals which the closest\n scrutiny cannot show to be in any respect different from\n those which live at the present time.\u201d \u201cMore than that: At\n the very bottom of the Silurian series, in what is by some\n authorities termed the Cambrian formation, where all signs\n appear to be dying out, even there, among the few and scanty\n animal remains which exist, we find species of molluscous\n animals which are so closely allied to existing forms that\n at one time they were grouped under the same generic name.\u2026\n Facts of this kind are undoubtedly fatal to any form of\n evolution which necessitates the supposition that there is\n an intrinsic necessity on the part of animal forms which\n once come into existence to undergo modifications; and they\n are still more distinctly opposed to any view which should\n lead to the belief that the modification in different types\n of animal or vegetable life goes on equally and evenly. The\n facts, as I have placed them before you, would obviously\n contradict directly any such form of the hypothesis of\n evolution as laid down in these two postulates.\u201d\n\nHere, then, we have facts which \u201ccontradict directly\u201d any form of\n_necessary_ evolution. Now let us see how the professor strives to\nturn them into _indifferent evidences_ of _spontaneous_ evolution. He\nsays:\n\n \u201cNow, the service that has been rendered by Mr. Darwin to\n the doctrine of evolution in general is this: that he has\n shown that there are two great factors in the process of\n evolution, and one of them is the tendency to vary, the\n existence of which may be proved by observation in all\n living forms; the other is the influence of surrounding\n conditions upon what I may call the parent form and the\n variations which are thus evolved from it. The cause of that\n production of variations is a matter not at all properly\n understood at present. Whether it depends upon some\n intricate machinery\u2015\u2015if I may use the phrase\u2015\u2015of the animal\n form itself, or whether it arises through the influence of\n conditions upon that form, is not certain, and the question\n may for the present be left open. But the important point is\n the tendency to the production of variations. Then whether\n those variations shall survive and supplant the parent, or\n whether the parent form shall survive and supplant the\n variations, is a matter which depends entirely on\n surrounding conditions.\u201d\n\nFrom this theory the lecturer concludes that the facts above mentioned\nas contradicting the doctrine of evolution are \u201cno objection at all,\u201d\nbut belong to that class of evidence which he has called indifferent.\n\u201cThat is to say,\u201d as he explains, \u201cthey may be no direct support to\nthe doctrine of evolution but they are perfectly capable of being\ninterpreted in consistency with it.\u201d This is to tell us that Darwin,\nin order to evade the testimony of numerous facts which contradict\nevolution, had to resort to a very bold but gratuitous assumption. In\nfact, on what ground can he pretend that all living forms have a\ntendency to vary from one species to another, and that such a tendency\nmay be proved by observation, when we have so many facts which prove\nthat such a tendency has not shown itself for thousands and tens of\nthousands of years? As yet, no case of evolution from one species to\nanother has been ascertained; and it surely requires a peculiar\nevolution of logic to affirm, in the presence of such a known fact,\nthat the tendency to vary may be proved by observation. That there may\nbe varieties within the range of one and the same species is a\nwell-known truth; this is what observation has abundantly proved. But\nMr. Darwin pretends that the tendency to vary is not confined within\nthe range of the species, but extends from one species to another, so\nas to produce not only individual and accidental modifications, but\nalso essential changes and differentiations; and this is what\nobservation has hitherto been unable to prove. Thus the professor\u2019s\nappeal to the Darwinian hypothesis is quite illogical, as it is\nnothing but a begging of the question.\n\nIt is singular that Professor Huxley himself, after telling us that\nthe tendency to vary is proved by observation, immediately refutes his\nown assertion by showing that the whole theory of evolution rests on\nno actual observation, but on the mere hope of some possible\nobservations which the future may keep in reserve for its triumph.\nHere is what he says:\n\n \u201cThe great group of _lizards_, which abound so much at the\n present day, extends through the whole series of formations\n as far back as what is called the Permian epoch, which is\n represented by the strata lying just above the coal. These\n Permian lizards differ astonishingly little\u2015\u2015in some\n respects\u2015\u2015from the lizards which exist at the present day.\n Comparing the amount of difference between these Permian\n lizards and the lizards of the present day with the\n prodigious lapse of time between the Permian epoch and the\n present age, it maybe said that there has been no\n appreciable change. But the moment you carry the researches\n further back in time you find no trace whatever of lizards,\n nor any true reptile whatever, in the whole mass of\n formations beneath the Permian. Now, it is perfectly clear\n that if our existing pal\u00e6ontological collections, our\n existing specimens from stratified rock, exhaust the whole\n series of events which have ever taken place upon the\n surface of the globe, such a fact as this directly\n contravenes the whole theory of evolution, because that\n postulates that the existence of every form must have been\n preceded by that of some form comparatively little different\n from it.\u201d\n\nSo far, then, as existing specimens of pal\u00e6ontology are concerned,\neverything \u201cdirectly contravenes the whole theory of evolution\u201d; that\nis to say that observation, far from proving the theory, tends to\ndisprove it. The lecturer, however, not dismayed by this crushing\nevidence, appeals to \u201cthe whole series of events\u201d which must have\npreceded the epoch of the oldest existing specimens; and he invites us\nto take into consideration \u201cthat important fact so well insisted upon\nby Lyell and Darwin\u2015\u2015the imperfection of the geological record.\u201d No\ndoubt the geological record is imperfect; but this imperfection cannot\nbe made the ground of an argument in favor of evolution. To make it\nsuch would be like interpreting the silence of a witness for positive\ninformation. Prof. Huxley saw this, and, anticipating the objection\nwhich was sure to rise in the minds of his hearers, made an effort to\nevade it by saying: \u201cThose who have not attended to these matters are\napt to say to themselves, \u2018It is all very well; but when you get into\ndifficulty with your theory of evolution, you appeal to the\nincompleteness and the imperfection of the geological record\u2019; and I\nwant to make it perfectly clear to you that that imperfection is a\nvast fact which must be taken into account with all our speculations,\nor we shall constantly be going wrong.\u201d The reader will notice how\nbluntly the lecturer ignores the drift of the objection. The objection\nis: \u201cWhen you appeal to the remotest epochs, about which geology gives\nus so very scanty information, you appeal to _the unknown_; and this\nis a very singular method of answering that series of _known_ facts\nwhich directly contravene the theory of evolution.\u201d The answer of the\nprofessor is: \u201cYou have not attended to these matters. Do you think\nthat the geological record is perfect? I tell you that it is most\nimperfect and incomplete, and I am going to show that such is the\ncase.\u201d This answer confirms the objection, and shows that the theory\nof evolution is illogical.\n\nThe professor then mentions \u201cthe tracks of some gigantic animal which\nwalked on its hind legs,\u201d and remarks that, although untold thousands\nof such tracks are found upon our shores, yet \u201cup to this present time\nnot a bone, not a fragment, of any one of the great creatures which\ncertainly made these impressions has been found.\u201d And he concludes: \u201cI\nknow of no more striking evidence than this fact affords from which it\nmay be concluded, in the absence of organic remains, that such animals\ndid exist.\u201d Of course they did exist; but their existence is no\nargument against those innumerable facts which bear positive witness\nagainst the theory of evolution. And yet the lecturer ventures to say:\n\n\u201cI believe that having the right understanding of the doctrine of\nevolution on the one hand, and having a just estimation of the\nimportance of the imperfection of the geological record on the other,\nwould remove all difficulty from the kind of evidence to which I have\nthus adverted; and this appreciation allows us to believe that all\nsuch cases are examples of what I may here call, and have hitherto\ndesignated, negative or indifferent evidence\u2015\u2015that is to say, they in\nno way directly advance the theory of evolution, but they are no\nobstacle in the way of our belief in the doctrine.\u201d That a long series\nof positive facts establishing the fixity of species during a great\nmany thousand years are no obstacle in the way of our belief in an\nopposite theory, owing to the mistiness of all older geological\nrecords, which allows us to dream of facts contrary to the course of\nthings, ascertained by constant observation, is an idea which \u201cmodern\nthought\u201d may consider brilliant, but which common sense absolutely\nrejects.\n\nIn the remaining part of this second lecture Mr. Huxley deals with the\nevidence of intermediate forms: \u201cIf the doctrine of evolution be true,\nit follows that animals and plants, however diverse they may be, must\nhave all been connected together by gradational forms, so that from\nthe highest animals, whatever they may be, down to the lowest speck of\ngelatinous matter in which life can be manifested, there must be a\nsure and progressive body of evidence\u2015\u2015a series of gradations by which\nyou could pass from one end of the series to the other.\u201d Let us\nremark, by the way, that the phrase \u201cthe highest animals, _whatever\nthey may be_,\u201d comprises rational animals\u2015\u2015that is, all mankind; which\nwould imply that our rational soul should be traced \u201cto the lowest\nspeck of gelatinous matter\u201d as its first origin. We need not dwell\nhere on this absurdity. The professor confesses that \u201cwe have\ncrocodiles, lizards, snakes, turtles, and tortoises, and yet there is\nnothing\u2015\u2015no connecting link\u2015\u2015between the crocodile and lizard, or\nbetween the lizard and snake, or between the snake and the crocodile,\nor between any two of these groups. They are separated by absolute\nbreaks.\u201d Such being the case, it would seem that the professor had a\nsufficient ground for denying the theory of evolution altogether. But,\nno; whilst confessing that there is \u201cno connecting link,\u201d he pretends\nthat we must show that no connecting link has _ever_ existed. His\nwords are:\n\n \u201cIf, then, it could be shown that this state of things was\n from the beginning\u2015\u2015had always existed\u2015\u2015it would be fatal to\n the doctrine of evolution. If the intermediate gradations\n which the doctrine of evolution postulates must have existed\n between these groups\u2015\u2015if they are not to be found anywhere\n in the records of the past history of the globe\u2015\u2015all that is\n so much a strong and weighty argument against evolution.\n While, on the other hand, if such intermediate forms are to\n be found, that is so much to the good of evolution, although\n \u2026 we must be cautious in assuming such facts as proofs of\n the theory.\u201d\n\nThe wisdom of this last caution is undeniable; but is there not a\ncontradiction in the phrases \u201cthere is no connecting link\u201d and \u201cthe\nintermediate forms may be found\u201d?\n\nHe then proceeds to show some osteologic relations by which birds and\nreptiles seem to be connected, but from which, as he concedes, no\nproof of the theory of evolution can be formed, and he concludes in\nthe following words: \u201cIn my next lecture I will take up what I venture\nto call the _demonstrative evidence_ of evolution.\u201d Let us, then, give\nup all further examination of the second lecture, and proceed to a\nshort inquiry upon the kind of evidence condensed in the third.\n\nWe must say at once that the evidence contained in the whole of this\nthird lecture neither directly nor indirectly demonstrates that one\nspecies of animals has been evolved out of another species. Granting\nthat the animal remains described by the professor correspond entirely\nto his description of them, and waiving all question about the correct\ninterpretation of the same, we shall merely pass in review the logical\nprocess by which such remains are made to give testimony to the\nDarwinian view.\n\nIn the exordium Mr. Huxley assumes, as a point already established in\nhis second lecture, that the evidence derived from fossil remains \u201cis\nperfectly consistent with the doctrine of evolution.\u201d We have seen\nthat this is not true. The professor, entirely forgetful of all the\nfacts which he himself had acknowledged to \u201cdirectly contravene the\nwhole theory of evolution,\u201d insists on the relations between birds and\nreptiles and their intermediate forms. \u201cWe find,\u201d he says, \u201cin the\nmesozoic rocks animals which, if ranged in series, would so completely\nbridge over the interval between the reptile and the bird that it\nwould be very hard to say where the reptile ends and where the bird\nbegins.\u201d And he adds that \u201cevidence so distinctly favorable as this of\nevolution is far weightier than that upon which men undertake to say\nthat they believe many important propositions; but it is not the\nhighest kind of evidence attained.\u201d If we ask the professor why this\nevidence is not the highest, he will give us this reason:\n\n \u201cThat, as it happens, the intermediate forms to which I have\n referred do not occur in the exact order in which they ought\n to occur if they really had formed steps in the progression\n from the reptile to the bird; that is to say, we find these\n forms in contemporaneous deposits, whereas the requirements\n of the demonstrative evidence of evolution demand that we\n should find the series of gradations between one group of\n animals and another in such order as they must have followed\n if they had constituted a succession of stages in time of\n the development of the form at which they ultimately arrive.\n That is to say, the complete evidence of the evolution of\n the bird from the reptile should be of this character, that\n in some ancient formation reptiles alone should be found, in\n some later formation birds should first be met with, and in\n the intermediate formations we should discover in regular\n succession forms which I pointed out to you, which are\n intermediate between the reptile and the birds.\u201d\n\nThis answer proves not only that the evidence alleged is not the\nhighest kind of evidence in favor of evolution, but also that the\nevidence conflicts with the hypothesis of evolution in such a manner\nas to cut the ground from under the feet of the lecturer. For if the\nintermediate forms between the reptile and the bird are\ncontemporaneous with the reptile and the bird, it follows that the\nbird has not been evolved from the reptile through those intermediate\nforms. It is therefore in vain that Mr. Huxley appeals to this\nevidence as \u201cso distinctly favorable to evolution.\u201d\n\nThe body of the lecture consists of an attempt to show, from the\nosteology of the genus _Equus_, that our modern horse proceeds from\nthe _Orohippus_. The lecturer first describes the characteristics of\nthe horse, using the term \u201chorse\u201d in a general sense as equivalent to\nthe technical term _Equus_, and meaning not only what we now call the\nhorse, but also asses and their modifications\u2015\u2015zebras, etc. He invites\nus to pay a special attention to the foot and the teeth of the horse;\nand then he reasons as follows:\n\n \u201cIf the hypothesis of evolution is true, what ought to\n happen when we investigate the history of this animal? We\n know that the mammalian type, as a whole, that mammalian\n animals are characterized by the possession of a perfectly\n distinct radius and ulna-two separate and distinct movable\n bones, We know, further, that mammals in general possess\n five toes, often unequal, but still as completely developed\n as the five digits of my hand. We know, further, that the\n general type of mammals possesses in the leg not only a\n complete tibia, but a complete fibula. The small bone of the\n leg is, as a general rule, a perfectly complete, distinct,\n movable bone. Moreover, in the hind-foot we find in animals\n in general five distinct toes, just as we do in the\n fore-foot. Hence it follows that we have a differentiated\n animal like the horse, which has proceeded by way of\n evolution or gradual modification from a similar form\n possessing all the characteristics we find in mammals in\n general. If that be true, it follows that, if there be\n anywhere preserved in the series of rocks a complete history\n of the horse\u2015\u2015that is to say, of the various stages through\n which he has passed\u2015\u2015those stages ought gradually to lead us\n back to some sort of animal which possessed a radius, and an\n ulna, and distinct complete tibia and fibula, and in which\n there were five toes upon the fore limb no less than upon\n the hind limb. Moreover, in the average general mammalian\n type, the higher mammalian, we find as a constant rule an\n approximation to the number of forty-four complete teeth, of\n which six are cutting teeth, two are canine, and the others\n of which are grinders. In unmodified mammals we find the\n incisors have no pit, and that the grinding teeth as a rule\n increase in size from that which lies in front towards those\n which lie in the middle or at the hinder part of the series.\n Consequently, if the theory of evolution be correct, if that\n hypothesis of the origin of living things have a foundation,\n we ought to find in the series the forms which have preceded\n the horse, animals in which the mark upon the incisor\n gradually more and more disappears, animals in which the\n canine teeth are present in both sexes, and animals in which\n the teeth gradually lose the complication of their crowns,\n and have a simpler and shorter crown, while at the same time\n they gradually increase in size from the anterior end of the\n series towards the posterior.\u201d\n\nThe professor then proceeds to show that all these conditions are\nfulfilled:\n\n \u201cIn the middle and earlier parts of the pliocene epoch, in\n deposits which belong to that age, and which occur in\n Germany and in Greece, to some extent in Britain and in\n France, there we find animals which are like horses in all\n the essential particulars which I have just described, \u2026 but\n they differ in some important particulars. There is a\n difference in the structure of the fore and hind limb, \u2026 but\n nevertheless we have here a horse in which the lateral toes,\n almost abortive in the existing horse, are fully developed.\u201d\n\nThis horse is the _Hipparion_.\n\nIn the miocene formations \u201cyou find equine animals which differ\nessentially from the modern horse \u2026 in the character of their fore and\nhind limbs, and present important features of difference in the teeth.\nThe forms to which I now refer are what are known to constitute the\ngenus _Anchitherium_. We have here three toes, and the middle toe is\nsmaller in proportion, the lower toes are larger \u2026 and in the fore arm\nyou find the ulna, a very distinct bone,\u201d etc., etc.\n\nLastly, in the oldest part of the eocene formation we find the\n_Orohippus_, which is the oldest specimen of equine animals:\n\n \u201cHere we have the four toes on the front limb complete,\n three toes on the hind limb complete, a well-developed ulna,\n a well-developed fibula, and the teeth of simple pattern. So\n you are able, thanks to these great researches, to show\n that, so far as present knowledge extends, the history of\n the horse type is exactly and precisely that which could\n have been predicted from a knowledge of the principles of\n evolution. And the knowledge we now possess justifies us\n completely in the anticipation that when the still lower\n eocene deposits and those which belong to the cretaceous\n epoch have yielded up their remains of equine animals, we\n shall find first an equine creature with four toes in front\n and a rudiment of the thumb. Then probably a rudiment of the\n fifth toe will be gradually supplied, until we come to the\n five-toed animals, in which most assuredly the whole series\n took its origin.\u201d\n\nTo say plainly what we think of this long argumentation, we believe\nthat it demonstrates nothing but the eminent talkative faculty of the\nlecturer. It all comes to this: Unmodified mammals have five fingers\nand five toes, whereas the modern horse has only one. Therefore the\nmodern horse is but a modification of a pre-existing form, and is to\nbe traced to the _hipparion_, the _anchitherium_, the _orohippus_, and\nother more ancient forms which we have not yet discovered, but which\nwe hope to discover hereafter. Now, this style of reasoning is simply\nridiculous.\n\nFirst, even granting all the premises of the professor, the conclusion\nthat one species is derived from another by evolution would still\nremain unproved. For who told Prof. Huxley that the animal remains on\nwhich he bases his argument belong to different species, and not to\ndifferent varieties of one and the same species? Surely, a greater or\nless development of one or two bones cannot be considered a sufficient\nevidence of specific difference; for we know that even in the same\nvariety there may be a different development; as in the hound, which\nsometimes possesses a spurious hind toe, and in the mastiff, which\noccasionally shows the same peculiarity. Hence the professor has no\nright to assume that the horse, the hipparion, the anchitherium, etc.,\nare animals of different species; and therefore his argument has\nnothing to do with the evolution of one species from another.\n\nSecondly, to assume without proof that \u201cunmodified mammalia\u201d have five\nfingers and five toes is to assume without proof the very conclusion\nwhich was to be demonstrated; for it is to assume that the modern\nhorse, which has neither five fingers nor five toes, is not an\nunmodified mammal, but a product evolved by some more ancient form.\nNow, this is what logicians call _petitio principii_.\n\nThirdly, what does Prof. Huxley mean by _unmodified_ mammalia? What\nare they? For, in his theory of evolution, every animal is a\n_modification_ of a preceding form, and the whole series of living\nbeings contains nothing but _modified_ organisms. To find, therefore,\nan unmodified mammal, it would be necessary to find the _first_ of all\nmammals from which all other mammals of the same class have proceeded.\nThis first mammal is still to be discovered, as the professor\nconcedes. How, then, could he know that the unmodified mammal has five\nfingers and five toes? And if he did not know this, how did he assume\nit as the very ground of his pretended demonstration?\n\nFourthly, how does Prof. Huxley know that the horse proceeds from the\nhipparion, the hipparion from the anchitherium, and the anchitherium\nfrom the orohippus? Of this he knows nothing whatever. He has no other\nground for his assertion, except the different ages to which those\ndeposits belong: but a difference of age does not prove that the older\nis the parent of the younger. Alexander the Great existed before\nAnnibal, Annibal before C\u00e6sar, C\u00e6sar before Napoleon. Will our\nprofessor infer from this that Napoleon was the lineal descendant of\nAlexander the Great?\n\nFifthly, it is not true that \u201cthe history corresponds exactly with\nwhat one could construct _a priori_ from the principles of evolution.\u201d\nThe principles of the theory of evolution demand that the more complex\norganisms be considered as evolved from the less complex, and the more\ndeveloped as evolved from the less developed; for, according to the\ntheory, the further we go back towards the origin of life, the nearer\nwe approach the \u201cprotoplasm\u201d or the \u201cgelatinous matter.\u201d It would\ntherefore be more in accordance with the theory of evolution to say\nthat the five-toed animals must have proceeded from animals possessing\na simpler and less developed organism, and that the horse is the\nparent of the hipparion, and of the anchitherium and of the orohippus,\nwhich is quite contrary to geological evidence. Hence geological\nevidence flatly contradicts the principles of evolution. In other\nterms, if mammalia of different species have been evolved from one\nanother, those animals whose organism is more developed must be more\nmodern. Now, the orohippus has an organism more developed than that of\nthe horse. Therefore the orohippus, by the principles of the theory,\nis more modern than the existing horse. But geological evidence shows\nthe contrary. Therefore geological evidence directly conflicts with\nthe principles of evolution.\n\nSixthly, the whole argument of the professor may be condensed in the\nfollowing syllogism: If the theory of evolution is true, then we must\nfind such and such fossils. But we find such and such fossils.\nTherefore the theory of evolution is true. By this form of reasoning\none would prove anything he likes. Thus, for example, we might say, if\nProfessor Huxley has graduated at Yale College, New Haven, he must\nknow the English language. But he knows the English language.\nTherefore he has graduated at Yale College, New Haven. The fallacy\nconsists in supposing that such and such fossils could not be found,\nexcept in the hypothesis that evolution is true. Hence, to avoid the\nfallacy, the conditionate proposition should have been inverted\u2015\u2015that\nis, it should have been: If we find such and such fossils in such and\nsuch deposits, then the theory of evolution is true. But this\nproposition could not be assumed without proofs.\n\nBut, says the lecturer:\n\n \u201cAn inductive hypothesis is said to be demonstrated when the\n facts are shown to be in entire accordance with it. If that\n is not scientific proof, there are no inductive conclusions\n which can be said to be scientific. And the doctrine of\n evolution at the present time rests upon exactly as secure a\n foundation as the Copernican theory of the motion of the\n heavenly bodies. Its basis is precisely of the same\n character\u2015\u2015the coincidence of the observed facts with\n theoretical requirements. As I mentioned just now, the only\n way of escape, if it be a way of escape, from the\n conclusions which I have just indicated, is the supposition\n that all these different forms have been created separately\n at separate epochs of time; and I repeat, as I said before,\n that of such a hypothesis as this there neither is nor can\n be any scientific evidence; and assuredly, so far as I know,\n there is none which is supported, or pretends to be\n supported, by evidence or authority of any other kind.\u201d\n\nThese sweeping assertions are all founded on the assumption that the\nfacts have been shown to be in entire accordance with the hypothesis.\nBut we have shown that the facts contradict the hypothesis. It is\ntherefore a scientific necessity to deny the hypothesis. Moreover,\nscientific hypotheses are not proved by the mere coincidence of the\nobserved facts with theoretical requirements; it is necessary to show,\nfurther, that the observed facts cannot be reconciled with a different\ntheory. Hence, even if the professor had shown the agreement of the\nfacts with his hypothesis, he would still have had no right to\nconclude in favor of his hypothesis on that ground alone; for he would\nhave been obliged to show also that the Mosaic theory does not agree\nwith those facts. What he says about \u201cthe only way of escape\u201d is a\nvain boast, which has no real importance except in as much as it may\nserve for rhetorical effect. We have no need of seeking a way of\nescape; for we still follow our own old way, which remains\nunobstructed. We need not \u201cmake the supposition that all different\nforms have been created at separate epochs of time,\u201d though they may\nhave been so created; nor do we require \u201cscientific evidence\u201d of the\ntruth of creation, for we have sufficient Biblical and philosophical\nevidence of it; nor do we want evidence of certain distinct or\n\u201cseparate\u201d creations, for we have this evidence in the Book of\nGenesis. If any one needs \u201ca way of escape,\u201d it is the professor\nhimself, who has ventured to defend a theory equally condemned by the\nMosaic history of the origin of things and by the characteristic\npeculiarities of the geological remains which he has produced. As for\nus, even if it were proved that the horse, the hipparion, the\nanchitherium, and the orohippus are animals of different species,\nnothing would oblige us to admit that these animals have been created\n\u201cat separate epochs of time\u201d\u2015\u2015that is to say, in different Scriptural\ndays; for these days, or epochs, are each sufficiently long to\nencompass the events to which the geological record bears testimony.\nOn the other hand, were we to assume that such animals have been\ncreated at separate epochs of time, we do not see on what ground the\nprofessor could refute such a conjecture. He might say, of course,\nthat there is no \u201cscientific evidence\u201d for the supposition; but we\nmight reply that there are many facts which science must accept on\nother than scientific evidence; and we might even maintain that those\nfossil remains on which the lecturer has founded his pretended\ndemonstration are themselves a _prim\u00e2 facie_ evidence in favor of said\nsupposition. But the supposition is not needed, as we have remarked.\n\nThe professor concludes his lecture thus: \u201cI shall consider I have\ndone you the greatest service which it was in my power in such a way\nto do, if I have thus convinced you that this great question which we\nare discussing is not one to be discussed, dealt with, by rhetorical\nflourishes or by loose and superficial talk, but that it requires the\nkeenest attention of the trained intellect, and the patience of the\nmost accurate observer.\u201d\n\nThese words were applauded by the audience, and we too are glad to\napplaud. But we may be allowed to doubt if the lecturer, in dealing\nwith the question of evolution, has shown much respect for the maxim\nwhich he proclaims. We do not mean, of course, that Professor Huxley\u2019s\nintellect is untrained, or that his scientific observations are\ninaccurate, but we think we can safely say that his logic is not as\naccurate as his scientific observations, and that his trained\nintellect is apt to relish sham arguments and superficial talk. When a\nman can gravely express the opinion that \u201cthere may be a world where\ntwo and two do not make four,\u201d the intellect of that man makes a poor\nshow indeed; nor does it make a better show by assuming that \u201cthere\nmay have been a time when the relation of cause and effect was still\nindefinite.\u201d In like manner, when a man in the discussion of a\nhistorical question ignores all historical documents except those\nwhich he thinks favorable to his views; when he strives to evade the\nevidence of certain facts which cannot be reconciled with his theory;\nor when he brings as a proof of the theory what under examination is\nfound to clash with the principles of the same theory, we must be\nexcused if we cannot admire his logic.\n\nThe lecturer\u2019s misfortune is that he is a victim of that proud and\nabsurd system of knowledge which is named \u201cmodern thought.\u201d The\napostles of this system strive to suppress God. The universe,\naccording to them, is not necessarily the work of an intelligent\nBeing. Give them only a few specks of \u201cgelatinous matter,\u201d and they\nwill tell you that nothing else is required to account for the origin\nof life, intellect, and reason. If you say that this is impossible,\nbecause the effect cannot be more perfect than its causality, they\nwill inform you that the words _cause_ and _effect_, though still\ntolerated, are becoming obsolete, just as the ideas which they\nexpress. If you ask, How did the \u201cgelatinous matter\u201d itself originate?\nthey will let you understand that their science cannot go so far as to\nattempt a clear answer; because, as Prof. Huxley adroitly puts it,\n\u201cthe attempt to fix any limit at which we should assign the\ncommencement of the series of changes is given up.\u201d This suffices to\nform a just estimate of the scientific hypotheses concocted by the\nleaders of \u201cmodern thought.\u201d We are apt to boast of our superior\nknowledge: but it is one of the disasters of our time that the absurd\ntheories of such a perverted science find ready acceptance among\neducated men.\n\n\n [152] _Quis est tam vecors, qui ea qu\u00e6 tanta mente fiunt,\n casu putet posse fieri?_\u2015\u2015Who is so silly as to believe that\n things so wisely ruled can be the effect of chance?\n\n\n\n\nUP THE NILE.\n\nI.\n\n\nWhen Philip\u2019s son, on his way to the temple of Jupiter Ammon in the\nAfrican desert, selected the abode of the fabulous Proteus for his\nfuture city, the gods encouraged their much-loved child with a\nfavorable omen. For whilst Dinocrates, the architect, was marking out\nthe lines upon the ground, the chalk he used was exhausted; whereupon\nthe king, who was present, ordered the flour destined for the\nworkmen\u2019s food to be employed in its stead, thereby enabling him to\ncomplete the outline of many of the streets. An infinite number of\nbirds, says Plutarch, of several kinds, rising suddenly like a black\ncloud out of the river and lake, devoured the flour. Alexander,\ntroubled in mind\u2015\u2015as the workmen, no doubt, were both in mind and\nbody, although the historian does not so relate\u2015\u2015consulted the augurs.\nThese discreet men, who read the divine Mind in their own fashion,\nadvised him to proceed, by observing that the occurrence was a sign\nthe city he was about to build would enjoy such abundance of all\nthings that it would contribute to the nourishment of many nations.\nThe workmen having swallowed their indignation in place of their food,\nthe work proceeded, and Alexander, before continuing his journey,\nwitnessed the commencement of his flourishing city, B.C. 323. Thus\nrose up Alexandria, the gate of the Orient. Centuries are as naught in\nits calendar; nay, thousands of years give but a feeble idea of the\nlength of its civilized existence. Enter the portals of the Alexandria\nof to-day. What a new world spreads out before you! Is it not all a\nmasquerade? These strange boatmen with their bright-colored robes,\ntheir magpie chattering\u2015\u2015are they real? Color\u2015\u2015color everywhere: the\ncloudless blue sky above, the green waters beneath, the dark\ncomplexions, the red, green, yellow of their garments, the endless\nconfusion of colors in, around, and about. Close the eyes, or they\nwill be dazzled. Struggle now, or see, those fellows will tear you\napart and carry you in pieces to the shore, head in one boat, legs in\nanother\u2015\u2015happy you if even both legs are in the same boat. Fight hard\nnow to retain your entire individuality. Well done! Now follow this\nhandsome Arab; he is a dragoman and will protect you. Take his\nolive-green suit and bright red fez for a guide. See how he strikes\nright and left; and, by Allah! down go a score of boatmen. Are they\nhurt? No matter; they are only Arabs, and menials at that. He has you\nin his own boat now\u2015\u2015sound, too, nothing wanting; feel, if you are in\ndoubt\u2015\u2015yes, head, arms, legs, body, all here; and he stands in the\nstern and smiles complacently. He will talk to you in any language,\nunintelligibly perhaps, but then with such grace and dignity; you must\npretend to understand him. He will give you any information, from the\ncost of building the pyramids to the price of donkey-hire; will take\nyou anywhere\u2015\u2015to Pompey\u2019s Pillar, Assouan, the Mountains of the Moon.\nAnd when you timidly inquire where the mountains are, thinking you\nmight like to make a short visit, he smiles patronizingly, and waves\nhis hand gracefully to the south. Up there!\u2015\u2015three thousand miles or\nmore. But what is that to him? You are surprised that he should have\ncreditors, a man of his appearance; but you are relieved, for he pays\nhis debts, and the custom-house officials smile, place their hands on\ntheir hearts, and bow your luggage out of the custom-house. You are\nalready beginning to feel proud at being the friend of so great a man.\nThat famous flirt Cleopatra lived here, and toyed with the hearts of\nmen\u2015\u2015some of them real men, too; not the Egyptian fops of the day, the\nGreek society men, or the Roman swells, but such men as Antony, who\nlost half the world for her at Actium. She it was who amused herself\nby swallowing pearls, and finally left this world to avoid the honor\nof adorning the triumph of Octavius. The augurs were right.\nAlexander\u2019s city did contribute to the nourishment of many nations,\nphysically and intellectually. Its sails whitened every sea, bearing\nto the capital and provinces of the empire the treasures of Egypt,\nArabia, and India. Students flocked to its schools; its great library\ncontained over seven hundred thousand volumes. Even as late as A.D.\n641, when Amru captured the city after a siege of fourteen months, in\nhis letter to Omar he tells him that he found there four thousand\npalaces, as many baths, four hundred places of amusement, and twelve\nthousand gardens. Amru was inclined to spare the library, being urged\nto do so by John Philopanus; but Omar sent orders: \u201cIf the books\ncontain the same matter as the Koran, they are useless; if not the\nsame, they are worse than useless. Therefore, in either case, they are\nto be burnt.\u201d Even in their destruction they were made useful; for\nAbdollatiff says there were so many books that the baths of Alexandria\nwere heated by them for the space of six months. Those mystical\nenigmas of Western childhood\u2015\u2015Cleopatra\u2019s Needles\u2015\u2015turn out to be but\nobelisks after all, and not of the best. They stood originally at\nHeliopolis, but Tiberius set them up in front of the C\u00e6sarium in honor\nof himself. Those old emperors were fond of raising monuments to\nthemselves, that future generations might wonder at their exploits,\nwhich many times were performed in imagination only. One has fallen,\nand is a white elephant on the hands of England. The English do not\nknow what to do with it. Mohammed Ali gave it to them, and even\noffered to transport it free of expense to the shore and put it on any\nvessel sent to remove it. Possibly he thought it reminded the people\ntoo much of Tiberius, and wanted to set up one for his own\nglorification. No vessel was sent, and here it remains, half covered\nwith _d\u00e9bris_. Pompey\u2019s Pillar is a column of highly-polished red\ngranite ninety-eight feet nine inches in height, twenty-nine feet\neight inches in circumference, erected by another of those modest\nRoman emperors\u2015\u2015Diocletian by name\u2015\u2015for the same purpose that Tiberius\nset up the old obelisk. It is a wonder that some of these\nunpretentious rulers, with their characteristic modesty, did not carry\nout the idea proposed to Alexander by Dinocrates, and have Mount Athos\ncut into a statue of themselves, holding in one hand a city of ten\nthousand inhabitants, and from the other pouring a copious river into\nthe sea. Perhaps they thought this city would be deserted, the\ninhabitants fearing that natural instinct would cause the hand to\nclose and grab up everything, people and all. What a motley mass of\nhumanity throng its narrow streets\u2015\u2015Greeks, Jews, Turks, and people of\nalmost every nation in Europe, but few Copts, the descendants of the\nold Egyptians. When Cambyses made his trip to Egypt, 524 B.C., he\npersuaded most of them to leave the Delta and retire to the Thebaid,\nwhere their descendants are found to this day. It is hard to\nunderstand the Copt. In other parts of the world a man who can trace\nhis pedigree a few centuries back carries that fact in his face, and\nconsiders himself, and is considered, above other men. Here we talk in\nan off-hand, familiar way with Copts living in the same place where\ntheir ancestors have lived for six thousand years or more\u2015\u2015men who can\ntrace their ancestry through a long roll of illustrious names to the\nworld\u2019s conquerors, the Rameses and Ositarsens; and they were not\nproud of it\u2015\u2015in fact, they did not seem to know anything about it.\nPerhaps it was such an old, old story that it had been forgotten ages\nbefore.\n\nA well-managed railway leads to Cairo. Strange!\u2015\u2015a railway in the land\nwhere the grandson of Noe settled, where Joseph outwitted the king\u2019s\ncunning ministers: Mash el K\u00e1heral, the victorious city, called Cairo\nby the Western barbarians, with donkeys and camels, eunuchs and\nharems, palm-trees and dahabee\u00e1hs, all within sight of the station,\nand yet to be pushed into an omnibus! O Western civilization! will you\nnever let this picturesque world alone? To travel five thousand miles,\nthinking all the way of riding on donkeys like Ali Baba, or perched\nhigh on a camel like Mohammed, and then be conveyed to the hotel in an\nomnibus, as though in London or New York! I thought I could detect a\nfrown on the Sphinx\u2019s usually impassible face, as one passed it the\nother day. You can easily imagine the pyramids holding serious debate\nas to the advisability of ruining themselves as objects of interest by\ntumbling over and crushing out these new-fangled contrivances. We are\ngoing up the Nile, so we steal a hasty glance at the pyramids, nod to\nthe Sphinx as though we had been on speaking terms for three or four\nthousand years, visit the citadel at sunset, get bewildered at the\nstrange sights, do and see everything in the orthodox style, and are\noff. Going up the Nile, I determined to write a book, so voluminous\nnotes were taken\u2015\u2015measurements and statistics enough to puzzle the\nbrain of an antiquarian; such meteorological observations,\ntoo!\u2015\u2015Probabilities would have found it hard to digest them. All\ntravellers do this. Coming down the Nile, I concluded that I would not\nwrite a book. Most travellers do this. Before going to the East I had\nno idea of the vast amount of literature existing touching Egypt, the\nEgyptians, and the Nile trip. Returning, I was conversant with it. I\nhad seen the people through the richly-tinted glasses of euphonious\nCurtis, had studied them through the sombre spectacles of erudite\nWilkinson and Lane. I had watched them through the soft lens of a\nwoman\u2019s tender mind, and been startled at their wondrous doings under\nthe magnifying-glasses of highly marvellous Prime. I intended telling\nwhy I went to the East. Most writers think an apology due their\nreaders for leaving home, or, at least, that they should give their\nreasons, the difficulties of engaging a dahabee\u00e1h, to report what the\nreis said, and how our dragoman answered him\u2015\u2015all in broken English,\nof course. But I will simply tell a short story\u2015\u2015how certain\npale-faced howadjii from the West sailed up to the second cataract of\nthe Nile and back again, and what befell them.\n\nThe wind blew from the north, and we started. Now, it is a peculiarity\nof the Nile trip that the wind always blows from the north before the\ndahabee\u00e1hs start, although it generally takes four or five pages to\ntell it, after \u201ceverything is on board and all impatient for the\nstart,\u201d and the reader is left in some doubt as to whether the boat is\ngoing at all. But as the course is to the south, and these boats\ncannot tack, the reader may now understand why he is kept so long\nwaiting until \u201cthe breeze blows fresh from the north, the great sail\ndrops down like the graceful plumage of some giant bird, and the\nshores glide past like the land of the poet\u2019s dream.\u201d We commenced the\nvoyage by running aground, and we continued it somewhat in the same\nway. We did not travel on land; for I said something above about the\ndirection of the wind and its connection with our starting, so that\none might infer we were on a boat. But scarce a day passed that we did\nnot run aground at least once, and often three or four times. Finally\nwe became so used to it that, seated in the cabin, we could tell by\nthe shouting what means were being employed to shove the boat off. The\ninvocations were always the same. Would a good Moslem, think you, call\nupon any but the two sacred names, Allah, Mohammed\u2015\u2015the God and the\nProphet? But the intonations of the voice told the story. Grunting out\nthese sacred names, starting from the extremity of the toes,\nstruggling and fighting with each nerve and muscle as they came up,\ntold us unmistakably that they were pushing with long poles. Now a\nfearful colic seizes the crew; they groan and cry, and in the deepest\nmisery implore God and the Prophet to free them from their sufferings;\nand we are well aware that they are in the water, making pretended\nstrenuous efforts to raise the boat with their backs. A bright, lively\nchorus tells us that they are setting sail. A dead silence informs us\nto a moral certainty that they are eating their meals. Let me tell you\nsomething about the dahabee\u00e1h; for it is to be our home for many\nweeks. The _Sitta Mariam_, as we called it, was ninety-seven feet\nlong, sixteen in width, and drew three feet of water. The forward part\nwas reserved for the use of the crew. In the hold they kept food and\nclothes. On the deck they slept\u2015\u2015the more fastidious ones on\nsheepskins, the others upon the bare boards. In the Orient everything\nis just the reverse of the Occident. We cover our feet and expose the\nhead while sleeping. They wrap up the head with care, and expose the\nfeet to the sometimes chilly air of the night. A box placed near the\nbow, six feet high, the same width, and two feet deep, served for a\nkitchen. Aft of the forecastle were nine state-rooms, and a\ndining-saloon fifteen feet square. A flight of steps led to the upper\ndeck, which extended to the stern of the boat. Handsome Turkey rugs,\ndivans, and easy-chairs made this a most comfortable lounging place\nfor the howadjii; and, in sooth, when not eating or sleeping, we spent\nall our time here. Near the stern we had a poultry-yard, several coops\nfilled with turkeys, chickens, and squabs. We always had one or two\nlive sheep with us, carried in the rowboat\u2015\u2015called felluka\u2015\u2015which\nfloated astern. The foremast was placed near the bow, and from its\nsummit, forty-two feet from the deck, swung the large yard or\ntrinkeet, one hundred and fifteen feet long. From this was suspended\nthe triangular sail called \u201clateen.\u201d When furled, the rope was so\nbound around it that, although securely held, yet, by a strong pull\ndirectly downwards, it was immediately let loose. In the rear, aft the\nrudder, we carried a smaller sail of the same description, called a\n\u201cbalakoom.\u201d The boat was of three hundred and eighty ardebs\u2015\u2015about\nforty tons\u2015\u2015burden. I have said that we called it the _Sitta Mariam_,\nor \u201cLady Mary.\u201d Originally it was named _The Swallow_, and the year\nbefore a native artist had been engaged to paint this name upon it.\nThinking the word should be written as an Arabic one, he commenced at\nthe wrong end. To add to this, by some mischance he omitted a letter;\nthe result was the name on the side of the boat in large, bold\nletters, \u201cWallow.\u201d\n\nA few words concerning the ship\u2019s company. The howadjii were four\nAmericans. The next most important personage is Ahmud Abdallah\u2015\u2015_i.e._,\nservant of God\u2015\u2015our dragoman, he of the olive-green suit and red fez.\nHas any one ever determined the precise etymology of the word\ndragoman? Often I am constrained to think that it is an abbreviation\nof the words \u201cdragger-of-man.\u201d On one point I am clear: this will give\na more accurate idea of the position of the individual than any other\nyet suggested. From the time you come in contact with one of this\nspecies until you run away from him\u2015\u2015for he will never leave you,\nunless your money should become exhausted\u2015\u2015he is continually dragging\nyou around. Do not think the howadji is bullied by his dragoman. On\nthe contrary, the meekness, suavity, and urbanity of that individual\nare beyond description. He receives his master\u2019s orders in silence and\nwith bowed head, but a keen observer might often detect a sneering\nsmile, showing how little he thinks of obeying them. Ahmud was a\nhandsome Arab, thirty-six years of age and an Oriental Brummel. What a\nwardrobe of bright-colored trousers and richly-embroidered vests he\nhad! Each afternoon he would squat cross-legged upon his bed, and\nponder for an hour or more over the sacred mysteries of the Koran. An\nhour scarce sufficed to dress, and then he would appear on deck in his\nsuit of bright Algerine cloth, the little jacket relieved by a white\nvest set off with red or blue, his feet encased in red slippers\nbeautifully contrasting with his stockings of immaculate whiteness, on\nhis head the jaunty fez. When the sweet breezes were wafting us softly\nup the stream, and a stillness and repose unknown in other lands\nseemed to pervade all nature, Ahmud, in his gorgeous attire, would\nappear on the quarter-deck, seat himself in the most complacent\nmanner, light his cigarette, and appear the ideal of self-satisfaction\nand contentment. We had contracted to pay him a certain sum _per\ndiem_; in return he was to supply boat, sailors, food, and everything\nrequisite for the voyage\u2015\u2015as he expressed it: \u201cYou pay me so much\nevery day; no put hand in pocket at all.\u201d When reproved, he would\nbecome sulky like a spoilt child, and remain in that state for several\ndays, replying as concisely to our questions as politeness would\npermit, and otherwise having nothing whatsoever to say to us. Ali\nAbdakadra, his brother-in-law, was a fine-looking young Arab of\ntwenty-three. He was supposed to be the assistant dragoman. My private\nopinion\u2015\u2015of course not communicated to him\u2015\u2015is that he was solely\ninterested in supplying those materials with which the highways of\nanother and still warmer clime are thought to be paved. This is not a\nvery lucrative occupation, nor one conducive to man\u2019s advancement in\nthis world; but, notwithstanding our advice, he persisted in it. I do\nnot think there ever issued from the lips of any man so many\nresolutions of doing so much, so many good intentions; and I am\nmorally certain that so many resolutions and intentions never before\nwere so utterly fruitless. Shortly after we started he came to me full\nof excitement, and informed me that he was going to write a guide-book\nfor the Nile. \u201cNow,\u201d said he, \u201cthere is Ibrahim, our waiter; he has\nmade this trip several times, and yet knows nothing about the temples\nor tombs\u2015\u2015I doubt whether he has even seen them. This is my first\ntrip. I will take notes and write a book. Will you lend me your Murray\nto assist me?\u201d I consented. The book remained unopen in his room for\ntwo months. I then called the loan. He took not a note, but left many,\non temples, obelisks, and tombs. When visiting temples, Ali was the\nfirst to arrive, and when we came up we were informed by enormous\nletters, written with a burnt stick, that Ali Abdakadra had visited\nthat temple on the current day. When sent upon an errand he did not\nwish to perform, he would proceed at a pace which could be easily\nexcelled by a not overfed crab. One of our party, at Ali\u2019s earnest\nrequest, spent some time instructing him in taxidermy. He would take\nback to Cairo any number of birds and sell them; had even counted his\nprofits, and told us how he would expend them. Result: He half-skinned\na hawk in the most bungling manner, and then left it hanging up until\nthe offensive odor caused us to order it to be cast overboard. Ibrahim\nSaleem is our waiter\u2015\u2015not a talker, but a worker, a model of neatness\nand propriety, performing his duties with perfect regularity and\norder. Reis Mohammed Suleyman, a short, well-built man, is the most\nlaborious of them all. The responsibility of the boat is upon him, and\nhe is fully equal to it. He is a very quiet man, except when angered,\nand then through his set teeth swears by Allah and the Prophet to\nwreak the direst vengeance upon the offender. He is pious, however,\nand prays frequently. When a sheep is to be killed, he is the butcher;\nand never was sheep more skilfully killed and prepared for the table.\nAny sewing of sails, clothes, or of anything else that is to be done\nis brought to him and, squatted cross-legged on the deck, he is\ntransformed into a tailor. In the evenings, when the rest of the\nsailors amuse themselves with song and dance, Reis Mohammed will sit\nfor hours in perfect silence, holding the line in his hand, and, after\nthus patiently waiting, will draw up a catfish weighing from twenty to\nthirty pounds. He is devotedly attached to his merkeb (boat), and woe\nbetide the unfortunate sailor who injures it in the slightest manner!\nIt is customary, when we reach the towns wherein any of the sailors\nreside, for them to leave the boat for a few hours\u2015\u2015or for the night,\nif we remain so long\u2015\u2015and visit their homes. Reis Mohammed lived at\nMinieh; when we reached it he would not leave, preferring to stay with\nhis boat to the pleasure of seeing his wife or wives. I can see Reis\nAhmud, the second captain, before me now, leaning like a statue upon\nthe broad handle of the rudder, the only evidence of life being the\nthin clouds of smoke issuing from his lips. Hour after hour he would\nmaintain that position, moving only when it was necessary to shift the\nhelm, and then not using his hands, but moving it by the weight of his\nbody resting against it. His eyes were most singular in appearance,\nand for a long while I was puzzled to account for their strange\neffect. Coming on the quarter very early one morning, I found him\nkneeling before a small glass and staining around his eyes with a\nblack substance called kohl. He is the drummer of the crew, and in the\nevenings, seated with the sailors, he plays the darbooka, or native\ndrum. This instrument is of the same shape and material as those used\nat the festive gatherings of the Egyptians ere Moses was\u2015\u2015nay, even\nbefore the wrath of God had showered the deluge of waters upon the\niniquitous world. It is made of earthenware in the shape of a hollow\ncylinder surmounted by a truncated cone; this is covered with\nsheepskin. It is played with the fingers. Ali Aboo Abdallah, our cook,\nis to be noticed principally on account of his name, which illustrates\nthe system of nomenclature in vogue among certain Mohammedans. Before\nhe was married his name was Ali something or other. His first boy was\nnamed Abdallah, and the father then became Ali Aboo\u2015\u2015_i.e._, the\nfather of Abdallah\u2015\u2015the son giving the name to the father, to show the\nworld that the latter was the proud possessor of an heir. A seeming\nbundle of old clothes lying on the deck, but showing, by faint signs\nof animation at meal-time, that animal life existed within it,\nrepresented Ali el Delhamawi, Reis Mohammed\u2019s uncle, the oldest man of\nthe crew. The duty of this animated rag-bag was to hold the tail of\nthe sail during the upward voyage, and to go through the movements of\nrowing on the home-trip. Next in order come Haleel en Negaddeh, a\nsurly, well-built Arab, appointed by the owner to look after the\nwelfare of the boat; Mahsood el Genawi, a slim, cross-eyed fellow;\nAhmud Said el Genawi, a fine specimen of a man, the most powerful and\nthe hardest worker among them all; Hassein Sethawi, a tough, wiry\nlittle fellow, the barber of the crew; Ashmawi Ashman, the baby of the\nparty, the best-dressed man, petted by the others, and, as a natural\nconsequence, doing but little work; Gad Abdallah, another servant of\nthe Deity; Ahmud es Soeffle and Hassein es Soeffle, known to us by\ntheir most striking non-Arabic peculiarity\u2015\u2015silence\u2015\u2015and Haleel el\nDeny, the queer-looking old man who cooks for the crew. Last, but not\nleast, comes Mohammed el Abiad, or Mohammed the White, the blackest\nman of all. He was the funny man, the court-jester. He was always\nsaying funny things, so we were told, and whenever he opened his lips\nthe others burst out laughing, including sober old Reis Mohammed. He\nwas useful to us by keeping the crew in good-humor. All his physical\nstrength was exhausted in expelling the sallies of wit from his mouth.\nHe had his own ideas concerning manual labor, which, summed up into a\nmaxim, were about as follows: Make it appear to others that you do\nmore work than any one else; do as little as you possibly can. For\nsquatting and doing nothing he was unsurpassed. In grunting, singing,\nand contorting every lineament of his visage when at work he excelled\nall the others taken together. Here is a specimen of his funny\nsayings: On asking him, through Ahmud, why he was called \u201cthe white\u201d\nwhen he was so black, he said it was because his father was called\nMohammed the Green, and he was the blacker of the two. At this the\ncrew laughed immoderately. Oriental wit or humor is doubtless\nunappreciable by the dull minds of the Western Christian dogs.\n\nNow that you know us all\u2015\u2015boat, crew, and howadjii\u2015\u2015come, sail with\nus, see the strange scenes, watch the moving panorama, and witness the\ndaily comedies enacted around us.\n\nWe are about to stop under the cliffs of Gebel Aboo Layda, the Arabian\nchain, which here borders immediately on the river\u2015\u2015not a very safe\nplace, either; for Ali requests me to fire some pistol-shots to\nfrighten away the thieves. There is no village near, and we have no\nguard. When we stop near a village, two or three miserable-looking\ncreatures crouch around a fire on the bank. They are our guard. I feel\nmorally certain that as soon as we leave the quarter-deck the guard\ngoes to sleep. I have come to this determination from a study of these\nArabs. Their idea of worldly happiness is eating, smoking, and\nsleeping; of heavenly bliss, the same, with the beautiful houri added.\nThe next day we reach Manfaloot. It is market-day, and the sailors are\ngoing ashore to buy provisions. The strange sights and scenes so\nconfused me that I was not quite sure of being awake. Sometimes it\nseemed like a play; I was nervous, and hurried for fear the curtain\nshould fall before everything could be seen. How I wished my ears\nchanged into eyes, and a pair set in the back of my head! Now I begin\nto comprehend the scenes about me. Perhaps this is real life after\nall. That tall, handsome woman carrying herself so erect, with the jar\nbalanced on her head, is perhaps not doing this for our amusement\nmerely. I can sleep now without laughing. I am becoming part of this\nstrange world. Let us look around Manfaloot while the sailors are\nlaying in our stock of provisions. Here is the shopping street. Nature\nhas kindly spared these people the need of a committee on highways.\nEach individual has resolved himself into a pavier. No taxes for these\nstreets\u2015\u2015two rows of houses built of sun-dried bricks, running\nparallel, with a space of seventy feet between. Sidewalks and gutters\nare trodden hard by the passers-by\u2015\u2015a cheap, primitive mode of paving;\na little dusty at times, \u2019tis true, but then Allah sends the dust: it\ncan do no great harm, and there is no need of repairs. Look at this\nhouse. The owner has visited Mecca. How do we know it? See that\nrailway train painted over the door, with a bright blue engine; two\nengineers, each three times as tall as the engine, smoke-stack and\nall; the cars red, green, yellow, running up and down hill at the same\ntime. Six of them are filled with giants painted green\u2015\u2015apt color,\ntoo, for men who would travel on such a train. It looks like the\nslate-drawing of a school-boy. Yes; but these are modern Egyptian\nhieroglyphics. The train tells us that the owner has travelled; and\nwhere should a good Moslem go but to Mecca? So the owner is a hadji\nand wears a green turban. All the children suffer with ophthalmia.\nThis ophthalmia must be something like lumps of sugar; the flies seem\nto think so, at least. What a crowd is following us! But they are\nrespectful; seem amused at the pale faces and curious garments of the\nhowadjii. How their eyes dilate at the sight of Madam\u2019s gloves! \u201cThe\nSitta has a white face and black hands. Allah preserve us! she is\nactually taking off her hands. No, it is the outer skin; and now they\nare pale like her face. By the Prophet! this is strange.\u201d They crowd\naround her, touch her hands, then her gloves, timidly and\nrespectfully; no, they cannot understand it. Abiad is going to ask for\na sheep; the crew have selected him, for they feel confident we cannot\nrefuse him when he asks in his humorous way. Followed by the grinning\ncrew, he appears before us, and, putting up his hands to the sides of\nhis head to represent long ears, ejaculates, \u201cBa-a! ba-a!\u201d We were not\nconvulsed with laughter, but the good-hearted \u201cSitta\u201d promised them a\nsheep for Christmas-time, which was near at hand.\n\nThis fertile country contains about five millions of inhabitants.\nAbove Cairo the valley of the Nile and Egypt are synonymous. For,\nwhere neither artificial irrigation nor the magic waters of the Nile\ngive life to the parched soil, the sand of the desert renders the\ncountry as utterly unproductive as the bitter waters of the Dead Sea.\nThe river varies in width from three hundred and sixty-five yards at\nHagar Silseleh to a mile or more in other parts. The narrow strip of\nproductive soil is in no part more than ten miles in width, save where\nthe quasi-oasis of the Fyoom joins the west bank near Benisoeef. In\nmany places the banks of the river mark the boundaries of the\navailable soil. The cultivation of the land follows the receding\nwaters. The rising of the Nile commences in July, and the greatest\nheight is reached about the end of September, from which time the\nwaters gradually recede. In December we grounded upon a certain\nsandbank covered with two feet of water. I noted the spot, and when we\npassed it on our return voyage, about the 6th of March following, the\nnatives were planting melons upon it in a layer of the richest and\nmost productive soil, left there by the receding waters, borne upon\ntheir bosom from the far-distant sources of the Blue Nile. From its\nfar-off Abyssinian home the fertilizing Blue Nile flows on to\nKhartoom, where it meets the White Nile coming from still more distant\nparts, and from there the single river rushes on in its long,\nuninterrupted voyage to the sea. Until quite recently the cause of the\nannual overflow of the Nile was unknown. The priests, the most learned\nmen of ancient Egypt, were unable to give Herodotus any reason for it.\nSome of the Greeks, wishing, says he, to be distinguished for their\nwisdom, attempted to account for these inundations in three different\nways. But the careful historian, placing no confidence in them,\nrepeats them, as he says, merely to show what they are: The Etesian\nwinds, preventing the Nile from discharging itself into the sea, cause\nthe river to swell. The ocean flowing all around the world, and the\nNile flowing from it, produce this effect\u2015\u2015an opinion, he observes,\nshowing more ignorance than the former, but more marvellous. The third\nway of resolving this difficulty is by far the most specious, but most\nuntrue: the Nile flowing from melted snow. For how, he asks in his\nquaint way, since it runs from a very hot, from Libya through the\nmiddle of Ethiopia to a colder region\u2015\u2015Egypt\u2015\u2015can it flow from snow?\nAnd he then goes on, with seeming modesty, to venture his own opinion:\n\u201cDuring the winter season the sun being driven from his former course\nby storms, retires to the upper part of Libya. This, in a few words,\ncomprehends the whole matter; for it is natural that the country which\nthe god is nearest to, and over which he is, should be most in want of\nwater, and that the native river streams (_i.e._, the sources of the\nNile) should be dried up. He attracts the water to himself, and,\nhaving so attracted it, throws it back upon the higher regions. I do\nnot think, however, that the sun on each occasion discharges the\nannual supply of water from the Nile, but that some remains about him.\nWhen the winter grows mild, the sun returns again to the middle of the\nheavens, and from that time attracts water equally from all rivers. Up\nto this time those other rivers, having much rain-water mixed with\nthem, flow with full streams; but when the showers fail them, and they\nare attracted in summer by the sun, they become weak, and the Nile\nalone, being destitute of rain, is hard pressed by the sun\u2019s\nattraction in winter. In summer it is equally attracted with all other\nwaters, but in winter it alone is attracted. Thus I consider the sun\nis the cause of these things\u201d (Herodotus, _Euterpe_). From that time\nmany able minds have given to the world vain conjectures upon this\nmost interesting subject. The extensive discoveries of modern African\nexplorers have furnished a much clearer idea of the cause of this\nbeneficent overflow than the ingenious theory of Herodotus or the\nopinions of his wise Grecian friends. During the first few days of the\ninundation the water has a green tint, which is supposed to be caused\nby the first rush of the descending torrents, carrying off the\nstagnant waters from the interior of Darfour. This is thought to be\nunwholesome, and the natives store up beforehand what water they may\nneed for these few days. A red tint follows this, caused by the\nsurface-washing of red-soiled districts. When the inundation subsides,\nthe water is of a muddy color, pleasant to drink, and quite innocuous.\nThe paintings of the old Egyptians represent these three conditions of\nthe river by waters colored green, red, and blue.\n\n\n\n\nSIX SUNNY MONTHS.\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF \u201cTHE HOUSE OF YORKE,\u201d \u201cGRAPES AND THORNS,\u201d ETC.\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nA BRIGHT EVENING.\n\n\nEverybody knows the great sights of Rome by repute, if not by sight,\nand it may safely be said that no one cares to hear more of them in\nthe way of description. Indeed, seeing them first, we almost regret\nhaving heard so much, and find it difficult to free the real object\nfrom the _d\u00e9bris_ of our preconceptions. There is, however, an endless\nnumber of less notable objects, little bits here and there\u2015\u2015a stair, a\nstreet, a door-way, or garden, half rough, or almost altogether rough,\nbut with some beautiful point, like a gem that has had one facet only\ncut. These, besides their own beauty, have the charm of freshness. The\nstale, useful guide-book, and the weary tribe of tourists, know them\nnot.\n\nOne of these unspoilt places is to be found almost next door to _casa\nOttant\u2019Otto_. It is a chapel attached to an Augustinian convent in\nwhich the changed times have left only one _frate_ with his attendant\nlay brother. The chapel has a rough brick floor, and large piers of\nstone and mortar supporting, most unnecessarily, the white-washed\nroof, and the walls at either side are painted with a few large\nfrescos of saints. There are two chapels only, one at each side of the\nprincipal altar, adorned with such poor little bravery as the _frati_\nand the frequenters of their church\u2015\u2015nearly all beggars, or very\npoor\u2015\u2015could afford. The chapel has, however, one beauty\u2015\u2015a Madonna and\nChild over the high altar. The Mother, of an angelic and flower-like\nbeauty, holds the Infant forward toward the spectator, and the Infant,\nradiant with a sacred sweetness, extends his right hand, the two\nfingers open in benediction.\n\nMass is said here early in the morning, and a Benediction of the\nBlessed Sacrament given every Tuesday evening an hour before _Ave\nMaria_, the bells ringing always three times for each service.\n\nThe Signora had spoken at home of this little church of Sant\u2019Antonino,\nand had laughingly called the attention of the family to the slipshod\nringing of the Angelus, where the different divisions of strokes, the\nbell being swung from below, \u201cspilled over,\u201d as she expressed it, in a\nnumber of fainter strokes before and after the regular ones. \u201cBut it\nis a dear little place to go to,\u201d she said. \u201cThere one finds the Lord\nas one might have found him when on earth visibly\u2015\u2015in the midst of the\npoor, with but few followers, and no splendor of circumstance to take\none\u2019s eyes away from him. And sometimes, if one\u2019s disposition be\nfortunate, his presence overflows the place.\u201d\n\nComing homeward alone, one evening, just as the bell rang, Mr. Vane\nstepped into the chapel, and, after hesitating a moment inside the\ndoor, went up the side aisle and seated himself in a corner. He had\nbeen there more than once early in the morning, but this was his first\nevening visit, and he did not care, for several reasons, to encounter\nany of his family, should they come.\n\nThe congregation was, as the Signora had said, poor enough. There were\na few old women, with kerchiefs on their heads; a sober, decent man,\nwho hid himself in a retired corner, and knelt with his hands covering\nhis face during the whole service; a lame old man, with a worn and\nsorrowful face; and a young mother, with an infant in her arms and two\nlittle ones clinging to her skirts.\n\nNot one of these paid the slightest attention to the others, or showed\nany consciousness of being, or expecting to be, observed. All looked\ntoward the altar, on which the Host was now exposed, and all prayed\nwith a fervor which could not but communicate itself to the spectator;\nfor it was the quiet fervor of faith and habit, and was not excited by\nbeautiful sights, or music, or the presence of a crowd. They beheld\nthe mysterious token of the Holy Presence, and the Madonna\u2015\u2015the Lady\nof Health, they called her\u2015\u2015and worshipped, as untroubled by vanity as\nby doubt.\n\nThe two little ones whispered and played behind their mother\u2019s back,\nbut no one was disturbed by them. No one ever hushes the play of\nchildren in a Roman church. The infant crowed and prattled at first,\nand pulled the kerchief from its mother\u2019s head; but espying presently\nthe candles, and hearing the organ and voices, it fell into a trance,\ndivided between staring and listening, which held it motionless till\nthe service was over. Rather late came a young woman dressed in an\nabsurd travesty of the prevailing fashion, with a cheap soiled skirt\ntrailing behind her, a hideous tunic pulled in about her and tied\nbehind in that style that gives a woman the appearance of one trying\nto walk in a sack, and a bonnet made up of odds and ends of ribbon and\nflowers and feathers pitiable to see. But the poor thing had donned\nthis miserable finery with no worse intention than that any lady has\nwhen assuming Worth\u2019s last costume, and, hearing the voice of prayer\nas she passed, had done what the lady of fashion would not, perhaps,\nhave done\u2015\u2015obeyed its summons, and entered modestly and humbly the\npresence of God. Perhaps it was the one pleasure in a hard life, that\noccasional promenade in what she conceived to be a fine dress; perhaps\nshe had been pleased, and was thankful for it, as we sometimes are for\npleasures no more harmless; it may be she was disappointed and had\ncome to find comfort. Who knows?\n\nMr. Vane looked intently at this girl a few minutes in a way he had,\nsomething penetrating in his scrutiny, yet nothing offensive; for it\nwas as far removed from impertinent curiosity as from a too familiar\nsympathy. Then the Litany recalled him. As he listened to it, he\nthought that he had never heard music at once so good and so bad. The\norgan was like a sweet, courageous soul in an infirm body. All the\nwheezing and creaking of the bellows could not prevent the tones from\nbeing melodious. How many there were in the choir he could not tell.\nThe absurd little organ-loft over the door, reached by a ladder in\nfull view at the side, had so high a screen that the singers were\nquite hidden. They sounded like a host, however, for their voices\nechoed and reverberated from arch to arch and from end to end of the\nchapel, so that, without the aid of sight, it was hard to know where\nthe sound had its origin; and when, at every fourth verse, the priest\nand congregation took up the song, the air literally trembled with the\nforce of it. Mr. Vane fancied he felt his hair stir.\n\nHis heart stirred, most certainly; for the power and earnestness of\nthe singing, which made a mere cultivated vocalism trivial and tame,\nand perhaps the sustained high pitch of it\u2015\u2015all contained within four\nnotes\u2015\u2015touched the chord of the sublime. They sang the titles of the\nVirgin-Mother, calling on her, by every tender and every glorious\nprivilege of hers, to pray for them; and their prayer was no more the\npart of an oft-repeated ceremony, but the cry of souls that might each\nor all, in an instant, be struggling in the waves of death. Life\nitself grew suddenly awful while he listened, and he remembered that\nsalvation is to be \u201cworked out in fear and trembling.\u201d\n\nHe lifted his eyes to the picture over the altar, and it was no longer\na picture. The figures floated before him in the misty golden light of\nmany candles, as if there were blood in their veins and meaning in\ntheir faces. The Mother extended her Child, and the Child blessed\nthem, and both listened. She was the Mystical Rose, the Morning Star;\nshe was the Help of the weak, the Mother of divine Grace. They sang\nher glories, and this listener from a far land forgot the narrow walls\nthat hemmed him in, and saw only those faces, and felt, as it were,\nthe universe rock with acclamations. She was a queen, and under her\nfeet, and about her, bearing her up, were angels, prophets, martyrs,\nconfessors, and patriarchs. Their wings, wide-spread and waving; their\ngarments of light, as varied in hue as the rainbow; their radiant\nfaces were like the crowding clouds of sunset; and over them all,\nbuoyant, glowing with celestial sweetness and joy, floated the woman\ncrowned with stars, the only human being whom sin had never dared to\ntouch. The stars swam about her head like golden bees about a flower;\nand as a flower curls its petals down, half hiding, half revealing,\nthe shining heart which is its source and life, so the Mother bent\nabove and clasped the Infant. In the centre of this vision was the\nBlessed Sacrament exposed, more marvellous than any vision, more real\nthan any other tangible thing; so that Imagination was bound to Faith\nas wings to the shoulders of an angel.\n\nThere was a little stir in one corner of the chapel; for the strange\ngentleman had nearly fallen from his chair, and a lay brother, passing\nat the moment, supported him, and asked what he would have and what\nailed him.\n\nThe gentleman replied that nothing ailed him, that he needed nothing\nbut fresher air, and he immediately recovered so far as to go out\nwithout assistance. He had, indeed, been more self-forgetting and\nentranced than fainting, and even when he stood on the sidewalk, with\nfamiliar sights and sounds all about, could hardly remember where he\nwas. He walked a little way up the hill opposite, and stood looking\nabsently along a cross-street at the other end of which a new Gothic\nchurch was in progress.\n\nA man who had been standing near approached him with an insinuating\nsmile. \u201cOur church is getting along rapidly,\u201d he said in English,\nappearing to know whom he addressed. \u201cWe shall soon have divine\nservice in it, I hope.\u201d\n\n\u201cDivine service!\u201d repeated Mr. Vane rather absently, not having looked\nat the meeting-house, and scarcely knowing what was being said to him.\n\u201cWhat divine service?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! the Protestant, of course,\u201d the stranger answered with great\nsuavity. \u201cI am a minister of the Gospel.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat Gospel?\u201d inquired Mr. Vane, looking at the speaker with the air\nof one who listens patiently to nonsense.\n\nThe man stared. \u201cThe Gospel of Christ. There is no other.\u201d He knew who\nMr. Vane was, and had expected to be himself recognized. \u201cIt is time\nthe Gospel should be preached in this wicked and idolatrous city.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it worse than other cities?\u201d Mr. Vane asked calmly. \u201cMost cities\nare wicked, but few cities have saints in them, as this has. We are\ntold that the wheat and the tares shall grow together till the final\nharvest. As for your religion\u201d\u2015\u2015he stretched his hand to a load of\nstraw that was passing, and drew a handful out\u2015\u2015\u201cit has no more Gospel\nin it than there is wheat in that straw.\u201d\n\nThe rattling bells of Sant\u2019Antonino were ringing for the _Tantum\nErgo_. He turned, without another word, and went back, kneeling just\nwithin the door till the Benediction was over.\n\nWhen he went into the house the Signora was singing the \u201cHe was\ndespised and rejected of men,\u201d from the _Messiah_. Before her on the\npiano stood a picture that had just been sent her\u2015\u2015her favorite\ndevotional picture, which she had long been trying to get. Outside a\ndoor, overgrown with vines and weeds, and fastened by a bolt, stood\nthe Lord, waiting sorrowfully and patiently, listening if his knock\nwould be answered. Solitude and the damp shades of night were all\nabout him, the stars looked cold and far away, and the lantern he held\nat his side, faintly lighting his face, showed through what rough,\ndark ways he had come to that inhospitable heart. Underneath was\nwritten: \u201cBehold, I stand at the door, and knock.\u201d\n\nThe Signora was singing, \u201cAnd we hid, as it were, our faces from him:\nhe was despised, and we esteemed him not,\u201d tears rolling down her\nface, her eyes fixed on the picture. Finishing, scarcely uttering,\nindeed, the last word, she started up and kissed the picture in a\npassion, then, hurrying across the room, flung the door wide.\n\n\u201cOpen every door in the house!\u201d she cried out.\n\nBianca, surprised but sympathizing, simply obeyed, and pushed open the\ndoor near her; Isabel exclaimed, \u201cDear Signora!\u201d and seemed half\nfrightened. Mr. Vane stood silent and looked at the picture.\n\n\u201cOh! I know it is figurative and means the heart!\u201d the Signora went\non, as if some one had reproved her. \u201cBut when we do something\nmaterial, we know that we have done it. When we think we have done a\nspiritual good, how can we know that it is worth anything for us\u2015\u2015that\nthe motive was not selfish? If, for example, the Lord should come here\nnow, poor and hungry, and knock at my door, I would serve him on my\nknees; but if I should say I love him, who knows if it would be true?\u201d\n\n\u201c_Signora mia!_\u201d It was a thin and feeble voice, but she heard it\nthrough the passion of her talk, and, turning, saw on the threshold an\nold man, who stood trembling, hat in hand, and leaning against the\nside of the door for support. He had followed Mr. Vane home from the\nchapel to beg for alms, but had not been able to reach or make him\nhear or understand before the door was shut. He was going painfully\naway again, when it was flung open by the Signora.\n\nShe went to him with her hands outstretched. \u201cEnter, in the name of\nthe Lord,\u201d she said joyfully, and led him to a chair. Kind as she was\ninvariably to the poor, this one she looked on as almost a miraculous\nguest. He had come at the very moment when her heart was breaking to\ndo some active good, as if her wish had called him, or as if the Lord\nshe compassionated had taken his form to prove her.\n\nNever was a beggar more welcomed, more tenderly questioned as to his\nneeds. He was fed as, probably, he had never been fed before; for the\nSignora gave him of what had been prepared for her own table, and\nserved him like an honored guest.\n\nHe was pleased, but did not seem to be either surprised or\nembarrassed. He ate and drank rather lightly, and, without being\nbidden, put in a leathern pocket he wore what was left of the food.\nThere was no air of greediness in the act, but rather an intimation\nthat no one would think of eating what he had left, and that what had\nbeen offered him must not be wasted. When Mr. Vane gave him some\ndecent clothing in place of his faded rags, he was grateful, but by no\nmeans elated. How he looked was to him a matter of the smallest\npossible consequence. He could feel hunger, thirst, and cold, but\npride or vanity he knew not. His body, ugly, emaciated, and diseased,\nobtained from him no attention, except when it could obscure and\ntorment his mind with its own torments. He never thought for it, but\nwaited till it called. When the sisters gave him money, he looked at\nthem earnestly, with his dim and watery eyes, and wished that the\nMadonna might ever accompany them. He did not predict for them riches\nor happiness, but only that gracious company. When the Signora bade\nhim come to her every day for a loaf of bread and a glass of wine, he\nthanked her in the same way. Evidently he understood that what he was\nreceiving was a heavenly charity, of which God was the motive and\nreward, and that he had, personally, nothing to do with it, except as\nhe profited by it. But he had, indeed, more to do with it than he\nbelieved; for it was impossible that kind hearts should remain unmoved\nby the sight of such forlorn poverty and suffering.\n\nThey questioned him about his life and circumstances. He was quite\nalone. One son he had had, who went to some foreign country years\nbefore, and had never been heard of since. He supposed that he must\nhave died on the passage or immediately on arriving; for Filippo had\npromised to write and send for him, or send him money, and nothing but\ndeath would have made him break his promise to his father. His wife\nhad died more than ten years before; and he had no one left to care\nfor him. Where was his home? they asked. Well, he slept in the\nlodgings provided by the city, because they did not allow people to\nsleep in the street. He used to sleep on one of the steps of the\nchurch of _Ara C\u0153li_ and he liked it better, for he could go off by\nhimself. Still, the government gave them straw to sleep on, and that\nwas something. It was rather cold on the steps, even in summer.\n\n\u201cBut where do you go in the daytime?\u201d they pursued, finding the idea\nof no house or home of any description a hard one to take in.\n\nHe went into churches sometimes; at others he sat on a house-step, and\nstood under the eaves if it rained. He was indeed able to say, \u201cThe\nbirds of the air have their nests, and the foxes their holes,\u201d but he\nhad not where to lay his head.\n\n\u201cI cannot listen to any more,\u201d the Signora said. \u201cDo you know, my\nfriends, what seems my duty to do? Well, I will tell you. At this\nmoment it seems to me that I should send you all to a hotel, or to any\nplace you can find, and fill half my rooms with little beds for poor\nmen, and the other half with beds for poor women, and spend all my\ntime and money in taking care of them. Gloves, and a bonnet, and all\nsorts of luxuries look to me like sins, in the light of this man\u2019s\nstory; and as to having more than one room for myself, it is\nmonstrous. Either pack your trunks at once, or send this fascinating\nwretch off to sleep on the municipal straw.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou can\u2019t send us off; for you have promised to keep us as long as we\nstay in Rome,\u201d Isabel said triumphantly. \u201cIf you should turn your\nhouse into a refuge, you would be doing evil that good may come, by\nbreaking a promise.\u201d\n\nWhen their guest had gone and they were sitting at supper, the\nconversation still turned on the Roman poor and their manner of\nreceiving charity, and Mr. Vane expressed his astonishment that so\nlittle of servility should be mingled with this constant begging.\n\n\u201cYou must remember,\u201d the Signora said, \u201cthat the mendicant religious\norders have given a sort of dignity to poverty, and, though theirs is\nof a different kind, the people do not distinguish. Then among the\nmany voluntary poor there are two who are particularly cherished in\nRome\u2015\u2015Santa Francesca Romana and Blessed Labr\u00e9. The women sitting at\nthe church-door could tell you, if you should try to shame them, that\nSanta Francesca once sat at a church-door and begged from early\nmorning till _Ave Maria_; and the poor who ask you for a _centessimo_\nin the street know that Labr\u00e9 went about begging, and in clothes as\nfilthy and ragged as any of theirs. Of course they do not distinguish\nthe motives, and have, many of them, made a Christian virtue an excuse\nfor a miserable vice; but, _come si fa?_ as they would say. We cannot\nspend our time in arguing with them; and, if we should, it would be\ntime thrown away. They have no comprehension of what we call\nindependence; and they think that the blessings they bestow, and the\nmerit we acquire in giving to them, are worth far more than the paltry\ncopper coin they receive from us, and that we are, in reality, their\ndebtors.\u201d\n\nThey hurried their supper a little; for they were going out, and it\nwas already nine o\u2019clock. Before they had risen from the table Marion\ncame in to accompany them, and the carriages were at the door.\n\nThis matter of the carriages, and the division of her party in them,\nsimple as it seemed, had given the Signora some thought. She was\nafraid that some new complication might arise between Marion and\nBianca, and wished earnestly that they should come to an understanding\nimmediately. Nothing appeared to be easier, yet every day was a\nsuccession of little obstacles to their speaking together in that\naccidental privacy which they would naturally prefer. Still, she could\nnot well put them in a carriage together. It would look too pointed.\nThere seemed no other way, then, than to take him in the cab with her,\nand give the _cal\u00e8che_ to Mr. Vane and his daughter. That any one\nshould suppose that an attraction was growing up between her and this\nnew friend had never occurred to her mind; yet both Mr. Vane and\nBianca saw in every word and act of hers a new proof of it. Any one\nwith eyes could see that Marion and Bianca liked each other\nparticularly, the Signora believed. One had but to watch a few\nminutes, and it became evident that in company each was always so\nplaced as to see and, if possible, to hear the other; and though one\nmight not detect them looking directly, yet sometimes a glance,\npassing from one part of the room to another, swooped like a bird, and\ncaught the one object it wished to seize within its ken. Yet Bianca\nprovoked her somewhat. The girl was too serious and gentle, too\ndiscouragingly friendly. Why, thought the Signora, with that admirable\ngood sense which we sometimes have when we think for others\u2015\u2015why, when\ntwo persons are admirably fitted for each other, and everybody is\nwilling, and neither of them can quite set about anything till the\nmatter is decided; and when the gentleman, not to be too abrupt in his\nproposal, or expose himself to an unnecessary mortification, gives the\nlady that gentle, questioning glance which says so plainly, \u201cMay I\nspeak?\u201d\u2015\u2015why, in the name of common sense, should she not drop her\npretty head in token of assent, and allow at least a hint of a smile\nto encourage him? Echo answered, Why?\n\nThe upper air was silver with a late moonrise when they went out,\nwhile below the lamps burned goldenly through a velvety darkness.\nTheir own street was quiet; but there was a crowd on Monte Cavallo.\nThe glimpse they caught of the piazza of the Trevi fountain in passing\nshowed it full and bright, and the Corso, when they reached it, was\nswarming with people and brilliant with lighted shops.\n\n\u201cWhat contrasts there are in Roman life, even in its most quiet\ntimes!\u201d Marion said. \u201cI wonder if any one ever was bored here? I doubt\nit. How well I remember one day of my last visit, three years ago now!\nIt was a bright February afternoon, and I went out for a walk in the\nCampagna, and saw the ground covered with flowers, and myriads of\nbirds flying about and singing. Coming back to town out of that\nverdant quiet, I went to the Corso. It was roaring with the height of\nthe last day of Carnival. It looked as if all the world had gone mad\nwith reckless mirth, and, by a common consent, were pressing to that\none spot. It was with difficulty I got across the street, shaking a\nmonkey from one arm, and escaping from the lasso of a huge devil on\nthe other side. A few minutes brought me to the Ges\u00f9. There what a\nscene! The church all in darkness, except the tribune, where the\nBlessed Sacrament was exposed in the midst of a blaze of candles that\nshone on a crowd of faces all silent and turned toward the altar. Now\nand then the organ played softly; now and then a quiet figure stole in\nand found room to kneel where it seemed there was no room for more. It\nwas so still that every time the heavy curtain lifted there could be\nheard through the whole church the rattling of the tin boxes of the\nbeggars outside. Half an hour later I reached the Corso again, just in\ntime to see the horses rush by like meteors between two solid walls of\nmen and women. And, lastly, just as the stars were coming out, burst\nthe fairy spectacle of the _moccoletti_, when the narrow street became\nlike a strip cut out of the live sky, thick with dancing stars, and\npalpitating with the soft pulses of the Northern Lights, blue, green,\nrosy, and white. I could have said it was not ten minutes before it\nwas all over and I was walking home through a silent, star-lit night.\nThe next morning at six I went to a church and received the Lenten\nashes on my forehead. I do not wonder that Romans are lazy, for their\nimaginations are so kept on the _qui vive_ that muscular action must\nnecessarily be distasteful. They cannot help regarding life as a\n_festa_.\u201d\n\nThey reached their destination, a palace close to St. Peter\u2019s. Two\nservants stood bowing in the _portone_, and a little girl, the\ndaughter of one, presented each of the ladies with a bunch of\norange-blossoms. They passed into the court, where a fountain tossed\nits sparkling arch of water, sprinkling the greensward, which here\nreplaced the usual pavement, and went up the grand stairs. The groined\narches over their heads were glowing with color, trees, flowers,\nvines, birds, and butterflies\u2015\u2015not an inch of wall was unpainted. Pots\nof flowering plants stood at the ends of the stairs and at the\nlandings, and statues showed whitely through their fragrant screens.\nHere and there a lamp dropped from a gilt chain, and softly illumined\nthis superb entrance. At the end of the first entry two servants held\nback the crimson velvet curtains of an open door, receiving the\nvisitors into a chamber furnished in crimson, the walls of crimson and\ngold, the ceiling painted with sunset clouds, and a crescent of\ncandles burning in front of crystal lustres. Reaching the next door,\nthey looked down a vista composed of twelve or fourteen rooms, all\nsoftly lighted except the last, which was brilliant. The light struck\nalong on door after door, all gilded, and set with mirrors at one side\nand paintings at the other, the curtains of silk or velvet drawn back\non gilt spears or arrows. The floors were mostly uncovered, some of\nthem of rare marbles or mosaics; a few were partially covered with\nthick Persian mats or carpets. One room was furnished in gold-colored\nsatin, and profusely ornamented with the most delicate porcelain; a\nsecond was of a rich sea-green, sparkling all through with crystal\nornaments, the chandelier of Venetian glass, the cornice made of large\nshells, and the ceiling painted in coral branches, tangled full of\nlong grasses. Another chamber, of deep blue, was rich in old\nporcelain; another, hung with tapestry, bristled with old armor, and\nevery sort of sword and knife arranged in figures, daisies of\nradiating daggers, and swords and shields made into mimic suns.\nEverywhere that gold could be it was lavished\u2015\u2015on doors and windows\nand cornices; and one room had the whole panelling breast-high, and\nthe large fireplace, heavily gilded.\n\nIn the last room they found the people they had come to see\u2015\u2015a young\ncouple as bright and pretty as a pair of canaries in their gilded\ncage.\n\nThere was no other company except a white-haired old _canonico_, who\nhad an apartment in the palace, and who was in some way related to the\nfamily. To this clergyman Bianca, at first a little shy among\nstrangers, took immediately, and, seated by his side, became at once\non the most friendly terms with him. His sweet and dignified manner,\nand the pleasure he showed in her evident confidence, were very\npleasant to see. She told him all her story that could be told to any\none, what she had seen and what she wished to see, and answered his\nquestions with a childlike frankness; and, in return, he showed his\ninterest in her by the number of his questions, and promised her all\nsorts of favors.\n\nThere was something peculiarly attractive and beautiful in this man,\nin whom were united the sacredness of a holy vocation, the\nvenerableness of age and of a pure and unstained character, and the\ngraciousness of an accomplished gentleman.\n\n\u201cI think you will all like to hear of something which I saw at the\nVatican this morning,\u201d he said when the conversation became more\ngeneral. \u201cI was presenting two French ladies. The audience was small,\nand among the persons present were the superior of the nuns of the\nTrinit\u00e0 dei Monti, and a younger nun of her community who had come\nwith her as companion. This young nun had for several years been\nafflicted with a stiffening of the right hand and arm which drew them\nclose to the breast, rendering them of course perfectly useless as\nwell as painful. Before starting, the superior had told her to put a\nblack glove on this right hand, so that it should not show so much, as\nher black habit and veil would render it less prominent than if it\nwere bare; but when they had gone a part of the way the nun begged\npermission to take the glove off. The superior objected, saying that\nit might be unpleasant to the Holy Father to see her hand in that\nposition, the fingers stiffened as they were. The nun said nothing for\na while, but, when they had nearly reached the Vatican, begged again,\nstill more earnestly, to be permitted to remove the glove. This time\nthe superior consented. Well, they went in, and the audience was about\nover, when, in giving his benediction, the Pope observed that the\nyoung nun blessed herself with her left hand.\n\n\u201c\u2018_Filuola mia_, why do you not bless yourself with your right hand?\u2019\nhe asked.\n\n\u201c\u2018_Beato padre_,\u2019 she replied, \u2018I cannot move my right hand; but if\nyou would do me the grace\u2015\u2015\u2019 She said no more, but looked at him with\nimploring eyes.\n\n\u201cHe was silent a moment, then he said, \u2018Pray!\u2019 and covered his face\nwith his hands, as if praying or recollecting himself. Looking at her\nagain then, he told her to bless herself with her right hand.\n\n\u201c\u2018But, _santo padre_, I cannot move my right hand,\u2019 she said.\n\n\u201cHe persisted: \u2018Nevertheless, do as I bid you.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe superior took the nun\u2019s right hand, and, lifting it for her, made\na sort of cross with it.\n\n\u201c\u2018Pray again,\u2019 said the Holy Father, and hid his face a second time,\nand seemed to pray.\n\n\u201c\u2018Now bless yourself with your right hand, and do it without help,\u2019 he\nsaid.\n\n\u201cShe immediately lifted her hand and made the sign of the cross on her\nforehead and breast as freely as if nothing had ever ailed her. She\nwas cured.\u201d\n\nThe prelate told his story with simplicity and in a soft and slightly\ntremulous voice, affected by the sacred and tender scene he had so\nlately witnessed, and his audience exclaimed with delight. None of\nthem, except the two American gentlemen and Isabel, were at all\nsurprised. Too many such tales are known in Rome of Pius IX. to excite\nastonishment.\n\n\u201cI have seen the good nun this afternoon,\u201d he continued, \u201cand she is\nperfectly happy. She can play on the piano again, and do everything\njust as before.\u201d\n\nFinishing, he nodded toward the door, where a servant was standing,\nand presently rose to take leave. His evening visits never exceeded an\nhour, and, since he did not like to disturb the pleasure of social\nintercourse with the thought of going, a servant was always instructed\nto intimate to him when the hour was past.\n\n\u201cThe only parting which I wish to foresee and prepare for is the final\none,\u201d he said smilingly.\n\n\u201cWhat a terrible sound that expression \u2018final parting\u2019 has!\u201d Bianca\nexclaimed, seeming to be already pained at the thought of losing this\nnew friend.\n\n\u201cThat is because you interpret it wrongly,\u201d he replied, with a kind\nglance at her. \u201cYou know it does not mean everlasting separation, but\nthat there are to be no more partings, because after the next meeting\nwe need never part again. It is simply the end of a long pain.\u201d\n\nHe gave her his hand, which she kissed as naturally as an Italian\nwould have done, though it was the first time she had rendered that\nhomage to any one.\n\nWhen he had gone, the company went up to the _loggia_, which was one\nof the attractions of the house.\n\n\u201cYou see we have a private stairway,\u201d the Contessa M\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 said, opening\na narrow door hidden in the panelling of the room they had been\nsitting in. \u201cBut it is so very narrow, enclosed in the thickness of\nthe wall, that I will not ask you to go by it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do wish she would let us go this way, though,\u201d Isabel whispered to\nthe Signora. \u201cHow romantic it is! Who knows who may have slipped up or\ndown that stair in the wall, who may have stood listening behind the\npanel while people were talking in the _sala_, and what may have been\nrevealed or hidden there? It is like a chapter out of a tragical\nstory\u2015\u2015one of Mrs. Radcliffe\u2019s, for example. Do you think we might not\ngo up?\u201d\n\nTheir hostess had, however, already led the way to a more commodious\nstair, and they could but follow. Besides, it is only in very romantic\nstories that ladies in beautiful silk and gauze dresses can go through\nsecret and narrow stairways, cobwebbed attics, and dusty, haunted\nchambers, without detriment to their toilets, and the young _contessa_\nwore that evening a lace flounce which she might not care to injure\neven for the sake of hospitality.\n\nThey passed through room after room, each worthy of a palace, mounted\nstair after stair, one servant preceding them with a lamp, and another\nfollowing, walked over the roof of a part of the palace, climbed\nanother stair, and came out on the _loggia_, or highest house-top.\n\nThe scene was enchanting; for the whole city was visible, and, by one\nof those kaleidoscopic changes constantly seen in a town built on\nhills, the city looked from here lo be situated in a round basin\nrising evenly on all sides to the tree-fringed horizon. The grand\nfront of St. Peter\u2019s was scarcely a stone\u2019s throw from them,\napparently, and the two fountains of the moonlighted piazza stood\nwavering and white. It was not difficult to imagine them two angels\nstanding there with garments softly waving in the night air.\n\nMr. Vane paused a moment at the Signora\u2019s side. \u201cI perceive more\nclearly every day why you may well be unwilling to leave Rome,\u201d he\nsaid. \u201cI wonder I could ever have expected it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet it never appeared to me easier,\u201d she replied very gently. \u201cI\nhave had all the happiness that can be had here, and \u2018enough is as\ngood as a feast,\u2019 you know.\u201d\n\nShe meant to please him, yet she fancied that he frowned slightly. He\nsaid no more, however, but stood looking about, and, after a moment,\njoined Isabel, with whom the young couple were having a lively\nconversation.\n\nThe Signora felt hurt. It seemed that Mr. Vane was losing confidence\nin her and becoming every day more distant. For a week or more she had\nfelt that he was withdrawing his friendship from her, and changing in\nmany ways. When had she heard a jest from him, or seen in him that\nquiet and deep contentment which he had shown at first? She had half a\nmind to ask him what the matter was. Perhaps she would some time, if\nopportunity favored. Meantime, it would be wiser not to distress\nherself. And just as she came to this conclusion an interpretation of\nhis remark suggested itself to her that made the blood rush to her\nface painfully. Had he remembered with annoyance that half-proposal of\nhis, and, either to remove any lingering pity she might feel for him\nor to save his own pride, wished her to understand that it had been\nthe impulse of the moment, and that he no longer entertained the wish\nto be more than a friend to her? In such a case her reply, with its\nhint of a possible change in her, had been most unfortunate.\n\nThere was one moment of cruel doubt and mortification, then she put\nthe subject resolutely away. \u201cI have been neither unkind nor bold nor\ndishonorable, and I have therefore nothing to be ashamed of,\u201d she said\nto herself.\n\nMeantime, Marion had stopped near Bianca, who stood looking at her\nfather and the Signora. \u201cHow beautiful the Signora is!\u201d he said. \u201cDo\nyou see that the golden tinge in her hair is visible even in the\nmoonlight? And her eyes are the color of the Borghese violets she\nloves so much. I sometimes think that a rather tall and noble-looking\nwoman like her should always be _blonde_, and that dark eyes belong to\nthe slight and graceful ones.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have always thought her beautiful,\u201d she replied. \u201cBut we are so\nfond of her that we should admire her if no one else did. You must\nremember how we always praised her to you.\u201d\n\nHe had been wondering how she would like having the Signora for a\nstep-mother, and if she saw the likelihood of it. Perceiving a slight\nreserve in her speech, he did not pursue the subject, but stood\nlooking at her a moment. Since he was silent, she glanced up in his\nface to see what it meant\u2015\u2015if he were dissatisfied, perhaps, with her\nreply, or if he had taken any notice of it. He was certainly taking\nnotice of her, and so close a notice that her eyes dropped again under\nit.\n\nA quick glance showed him that he should have another minute\nuninterrupted with her, and he spoke: \u201cDear Bianca, I came to Europe\nto seek you. When I found in Rome that you had gone into the country\nfor a visit, I could not wait, but followed you. I went to your\nlodgings in Frascati, and learned that you had all gone up to\nTusculum. I meant to watch, and meet you as you came down, and know by\nyour first glance at me if I was as welcome as I could wish to be. I\nhad with me the spy-glass that I always take into the country, and, as\nI swept the country with it, I espied a little party standing under\nthe wall of the Cappucini villa on the Tusculan hill. One of their\nnumber had climbed the steps of the shrine there to decorate it, and,\njust as I recognized her, she turned and stepped down toward me. The\nglass was so clear and strong that she seemed stepping within my\nreach, and to me. I accepted it as a good omen, and returned to Rome\ncontent. I think you know me well enough to be sure that this is no\ntrifling fancy, and that, if you can put your hand in mine, with the\nhelp of God, I will never allow you to regret it. Was my omen false?\u201d\n\nShe listened with her lovely face lifted and lighted, and, when he\nended, uttered a soft little exclamation, \u201cO Marion!\u201d and gave him her\nhand.\n\n\u201cHow beautiful St. Peter\u2019s is by this light!\u201d Mr. Vane said, glancing\nround at them from the other side of the _loggia_, whither he had\ngone.\n\nHis glance became a gaze as he saw them coming toward him; for Marion\nheld openly the hand that Bianca had given him, and led her to her\nfather. \u201cAre you willing, sir?\u201d he asked in a low voice.\n\nThe others were about joining them, and Mr. Vane could only press\ntheir two hands together. He glanced sharply at the Signora as she\napproached, and saw her face flash out in a swift smile when she\ncaught sight of their position.\n\n\u201cI have been a fool,\u201d he muttered.\n\n\u201cEverything is beautiful by this light,\u201d Marion said, with a smile\nthat gave a double meaning to his rather tardy answer.\n\nWhen they started for home, they found that, by some happy mistake,\nthe cab had been sent away, and there was no other in sight, so that\nthe simplest way was for them all to return in the _cal\u00e8che_, crowding\na little. The crowding was effected by Bianca sitting on the front\nseat between her father and lover. Leaning back there, she gave\nherself up to a delicious silence, only half-listening, except when\nMarion spoke, then drinking in every word. What a wonderful thing it\nwas that here, by her side, sat her future husband, the man to whom\nshe was to be united for ever and ever! Her life, as she thought,\nswung round into a harmony unknown to it for a long time, never known\nin its perfection till now. Looking forward, she had no fear. Nothing\nbut death could separate them, and death must come to all. Let it come\nsooner or later, when God should appoint; she could bear it for him or\nfor herself. She was full of courage and thankfulness, and ready now\nto live a full life, and begin to do some good in the world.\n\nMr. Vane spoke of the young woman he had seen that afternoon in the\nlittle church of Sant\u2019Antonino. \u201cShe made an impression on me,\u201d he\nsaid. \u201cShe set me thinking; or, rather, the sight of her condensed\nsome floating impressions in my mind into thoughts. She was a figure\nthat almost any well-dressed lady or gentleman would smile at\ninvoluntarily, if they did not pity her. But looking into her face,\nwhen she was serious and thought herself unobserved, I found it an\nuncommon one. I fancied there was something enthusiastic and aspiring\nin her, and that her ridiculous dress was an abortive expression of a\nfine impulse. She wanted to do or be something more and better than\nshe had yet done or been; and having, perhaps, no sympathy from any\none, and no education to assist her, knew not how to act, and thought\nmore of getting out of the position she was in than of choosing\nproperly what change she should make. Fancy how easily a girl of\nuneducated mind and tastes, and of an enthusiastic disposition, might\nmake such an absurd attempt. She is, perhaps, disgusted with the\nsordidness and vulgarity of her life, and believes that the ideal life\nis that which appears beautiful to the eyes. She has heard, maybe has\nread, a little of great deeds and heroic adventures, and she\nassociates them always with the well-dressed and the high-living. She\nthinks, very likely, that the noble have always noble thoughts, and\nthat beautiful sentiments go with beautiful dresses. And so the poor\nthing cuts her dowdy petticoat into a train, and puts a cheap feather\nin her hat, and fancies that she is nearer the sublime. I don\u2019t\nbelieve she really sees the trumpery things when she puts them on. She\nis looking at them through a thousand visions, and sees the velvet\ntrain of some heroine, and the jewelled cap and feather she wore. Poor\nthing! These visions of hers cannot, however, hide the sneering laugh\nfrom her, nor make her deaf to the scornful word; and I have an\nimpression that to-night she took off her stage-robes with a bitter\nheart\u2015\u2015unless, indeed, the Benediction consoled her.\u201d\n\nIsabel looked at her father with a steady and serious gaze while he\nwas speaking, and, the moment he ended, said to him with an air of\nconviction: \u201cPapa, you have the best heart in the world.\u201d\n\nHe laughed a little, but seemed to be touched by this tribute. \u201cI am\nglad you think so, my daughter,\u201d he said. \u201cIndeed, I am particularly\nglad just now, for a reason I will tell you, if you come here a\nmoment.\u201d\n\nShe leaned forward instantly on to his knees, and put her cheek close\nto his face.\n\n\u201cBecause,\u201d he whispered, \u201cmy other daughter thinks that there\u2019s a\ncertain heart worth more than mine.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhose?\u201d she demanded in an indignant whisper.\n\n\u201cMarion\u2019s.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t mean\u2015\u2015\u201d she exclaimed, and glanced round at her sister.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re the only one of the family who didn\u2019t know it, and I don\u2019t\nwant you slighted,\u201d he replied. \u201cIt\u2019s a settled affair.\u201d\n\nIsabel threw her arms around her sister\u2019s neck and kissed her. \u201cI\nnever dreamed of such a thing,\u201d she said; \u201cbut I am delighted all the\nsame. You\u2019re a million times welcome into the family, Marion. But I\nwant you to understand that you are not better than papa.\u201d\n\nBy this they had reached home, just as the soft bells of their\nbasilica were striking midnight.\n\nWhen they had said good-night to Marion and gone up-stairs, all turned\nwith smiling faces to Bianca, and gathered about her, waiting one\nmoment to see who should speak first, or if the congratulation was to\nbe silent. By some slight motion or look she imposed silence, at the\nsame time that her face expressed the sweetest happiness and\ngratitude.\n\n\u201cThat dear _canonico_ has given me an invitation for us all to go next\nweek and hear his Mass in the crypt of St. Peter\u2019s,\u201d she said. \u201cOur\nnumber is just right; for only five can go at a time. We are to be\nthere at eight o\u2019clock.\u201d\n\n\u201cAm I included?\u201d Mr. Vane asked.\n\n\u201cO papa!\u201d Bianca turned to him, and, putting her hand in his arm,\nleaned against his shoulder. No plan of hers could be perfect that did\nnot include him; yet the cruel thought flashed through her mind, in\nspite of her love for him, that in the crypt of St. Peter, next to\nCalvary the most regally sacred spot on earth, a Protestant was\nsingularly out of place, and that no one should enter there who did\nnot bow to St. Peter as the Prince of the Apostles and the holder of\nthe awful keys.\n\nThe question produced a momentary painful embarrassment in the others,\ntoo, by reminding them strongly of that difference of faith which they\nsometimes were able to quite forget.\n\n\u201cMy little girl must not have a cloud on her sky to-night,\u201d the father\nsaid tenderly. \u201cWhat is wanting to your happiness, Bianca?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat you should be a Catholic,\u201d she replied, trembling; for, with all\ntheir affection and confidence, she had never presumed to speak to him\non the subject.\n\n\u201cYou have your wish,\u201d he answered.\n\nShe looked at him doubtfully, but did not dare to say a word.\n\n\u201cI am in earnest, children,\u201d he said, feeling a hand clinging to his\nother arm. \u201cI was baptized this morning at the American College.\u201d\n\nNot a word was said, but on either side his daughters surrounded him\nwith their arms, and pressed their faces to his breast.\n\nWhen at length they remembered to look for the Signora, she had\ndisappeared.\n\n\nTO BE CONTINUED.\n\n\n\n\nDR. KNOX ON THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH.[153]\n\n\nThe disjointed state of Christendom, resulting from the divisions\nexisting among those who profess the Christian religion, whether we\nregard it in the light of reason or of faith, is both grievous and\ndeplorable. Much labor has been expended on the removal of the causes\nwhich have produced these divisions, at different periods in the\nhistory of the Christian Church. In recent times\u2015\u2015not to speak of the\nlong past, for the evil is of remote date\u2015\u2015several efforts have been\nmade to bring about the return of those who, three centuries ago, went\nout from the sacred fold of the Catholic Church. Men of genius,\nlearning, and virtue took a leading part in some of these movements;\nnevertheless, they did not meet with any notable success. The best\nknown of these, perhaps, was the one made in the latter part of the\nseventeenth century, in which the celebrated Leibnitz and the great\nBossuet were the principal actors engaged. If this effort was not\notherwise fruitful, it at least was the occasion of their contributing\ntwo of the most valuable works on the subject\u2015\u2015_The System of\nTheology_, by the German philosopher, and _The Exposition of the\nCatholic Faith_, by the Bishop of Meaux. In the Established Church of\nEngland, in our own day, a number of its members, especially among the\nclergy, profess to seek and to labor for what they call \u201ca corporate\nunion\u201d with the Catholic Church. So far as one can see up to this\nmoment, though no one can tell what may happen, there has been in this\ndirection no promise of great results. In this country the efforts for\nunity have taken a more limited sphere for their activity, and ever\nand anon there is a stir made in public about a union among\nProtestants, confined, however, to those who are called\n\u201cevangelicals.\u201d\n\nThe unperverted religious sentiment naturally yearns after an\nall-embracing and real unity. Man\u2019s heart has sympathies which cannot\nbe confined to himself, or to a family, or to a nation, or to a race.\nOnly when man is so devoted to purposes which embrace the whole human\nrace as to raise him above all lower instincts of his nature, does he\nbecome conscious of his true dignity and of the greatness of his\ndestiny. Humanity is a word that has a real meaning, conveying a great\ntruth, and it is fraught with mysterious power. These aspirations of\nthe soul are the workmanship of God, and Christianity, as a universal\nreligion, must aim at directing them to their proper objects. For\nChristianity is the universal religion, or it is nothing.\n\nThe symptoms of unrest which manifest themselves among those\nChristians who are divided up into hostile sects are a sign of a noble\nlife stirring within their souls\u2015\u2015a life which cannot contemplate with\njoy the wranglings of hostile creeds. These aspirations after that\nunity which will bind all men, without distinction of race,\nnationality, or color, into one common brotherhood of love\u2015\u2015these\ncravings of the heart to act for universal ends, for the realization\nof God\u2019s kingdom upon earth\u2015\u2015are the evidences of a Christian spirit\nwhich seeks for a clearer vision and a closer communion with the true\nchurch of Christ.\n\nWith these views and in this spirit, which are in harmony with his\nown, we purpose to consider the interesting and important article of\nDr. Knox on \u201cThe Organic Unity of the Church.\u201d\n\n\nWHAT IS THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH, ACCORDING TO DR. KNOX?\n\nHere is his answer to this question in his own words:\n\n \u201cFirst, as to the nature of the expected church unity and\n the elements that compose it. We assert, in the general,\n that it is the highest possible unity. Christ prayed that\n his disciples might be made _perfect_ in one. The adjective\n \u03c4\u03ad\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03bf\u03c2 is defined by Robinson as something \u2018complete, full,\n perfect, deficient in nothing.\u2019 The word used by the Saviour\n is \u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03b9\u03c9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03bf\u03b9, and had an adverbial sense, so that Robinson\n would have us read: \u2018That they may be perfected so as to be\n one\u2015\u2015_i.e._, that they may be perfectly united in one.\u2019\n Tholuck says the idea of unity is expressed in a stronger\n way here than elsewhere\u2015\u2015\u2018it is a perfect unity.\u2019 Other\n authorities might be cited as showing that the unity in the\n divine thought, and which ought to be in our own, is a\n complete unity, in distinction from one that is partial,\n unsymmetrical, ineffective.\u201d\n\nThat the unity which makes the church of Christ one \u201cis the highest\npossible unity\u201d there can be no manner of doubt, since its animating\nprinciple is that unity which springs from the relation subsisting\nbetween Christ and his Father. This relation which unites Christ to\nthe Father, and the church to Christ, and the members of the church to\nthe Father through Christ in most perfect unity, is a unity than which\na higher and more perfect cannot be conceived, for it springs\nimmediately from the divine Essence. The language of Christ\u2019s prayer\nfor unity makes this evident beyond all dispute. \u201cThat they,\u201d he says,\n\u201call may be one, as thou, Father, in me, and I in thee.\u201d Again: \u201cThat\nthey may be one, as we also are one.\u201d Once more: \u201cI in them, and thou\nin me: that they may be made perfect in one.\u201d Finally: \u201cThat the love\nwherewith thou hast loved me, may be in them, and I in them.\u201d[154]\nOnce would have been doubtless sufficient to have rendered this\npetition of Christ effective, yet he repeats the same in almost every\nsentence in this memorable and most solemn prayer. What else could\nhave been Christ\u2019s purpose, in the reiteration of his petition for\nunity, than to explain clearly his meaning, to make manifest the\nearnestness of his desire for it, and to impress upon his disciples\nits transcendent importance?\n\nBut this relation subsisting between Christ and his Father, and which\nis the type of the essence of the church, is an essential,\nindivisible, and indestructible relation. The relation, therefore,\nexisting between Christ and his church and her members, from which her\nunity springs, is also essential. That is, aside from this unity, the\nchurch cannot be a subject even of thought\u2015\u2015is unthinkable. Were it\npossible that it should be lost for a moment, the church, at the\ninstant her unity was lost, would no longer exist. For the unity of\nthe church is not derived from her organism, but, on the contrary, the\norganism of the church is derived from her unity, which has its rise\nin that essential, indwelling, and abiding presence of the invisible\nrelation which exists between Christ and his Father: \u201cI in them, and\nthou in me: that they may be made perfect in one.\u201d Just as the life of\nthe soul springs from the presence of the divine Essence, and this\nlife pervades and sustains the whole body and its members, so, in like\nmanner, the unity of the church, which springs from the presence of\nthis divine relation, pervades and sustains the whole church and her\nmembers. The unity of the church is also indivisible. Multitudes may\nleave the church, but their absence does not break her unity. Many may\nlose the unity of the church, but it never can be lost from the\nchurch. Thousands may deny the unity of the church, but it will\ncontinue to exist in spite of their denial. In the nature of perfect\nunity, one and indivisible are correlative; for each of its parts\ncontains and acts with the force of the whole. As God is everywhere\npresent in the world, and the soul everywhere present in the body, so\nthe unity of the church is everywhere present and pervades the whole\nbody of the church. It is also an indestructible unity. For whatsoever\nmay be the action of the lapse of time or the deeds of men, they can\nneither disorganize, reduce, nor overthrow it. Being divine in its\nnature, the hand of man may menace, but it is powerless to destroy the\nunity of the church. It will remain, after men have done their utmost\nand worst against it, as it was before.\n\nThis unity in which the Divinity dwells is the primal source of the\nlife of the church, and, through her, of each and all of her members;\nis the type and exemplar of the perfect organism in which each and all\nof her acts proceed from one formal principle and one central point of\nactive force. The church, therefore, may be defined, in the sense of\nChrist\u2019s prayer, as that visible, organized body, in which the members\nare made one with God and with each other in Christ, by a\nparticipation of the invisible communion existing between Christ and\nhis Father in the unity of the divine Essence.\n\nIn all this we have added nothing to the above passage from our author\nexplanatory of \u201cthe expected church unity.\u201d What we have done was to\nrender its meaning more explicit, and this will be readily\nacknowledged in reading his own explanation, as follows:\n\n \u201cThe starting-point, of course, is unity of faith,\n especially faith in Christ. The union of believers to one\n another results from their union to a common Lord and\n Saviour: \u2018I in them, and thou in me: that they may be made\n perfect in one.\u2019 The second element of a true unity is love.\n We need not dwell here, for it is a point conceded. The\n third element is oneness of aim and effort. The\n conversations and prayer of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and\n seventeenth of John show that faith and love in Christian\n hearts are with a view to definite results. In the fifteenth\n chapter it is said: \u2018He that abideth in me, and I in him,\n the same bringeth forth much fruit; for without me ye can do\n nothing.\u2019 And in the seventeenth chapter this fruit and this\n doing are declared to be the glorifying of Christ, and, as\n contributing to that, the bringing the world to believe in\n him. All highest glory to God and good to man are contained\n in believing and loving the Lord Jesus. All the fruits of\n the Spirit enumerated by Paul in Galatians depend from the\n branch that abideth in Christ the vine. No man can be in\n Christ by faith without wishing all others to be\u2015\u2015without\n praying the prayer of Jesus, and working the work of Jesus,\n that they may be. And this being the effect on all real\n disciples, it is clear that a union of faith and love is\n also a union of aim and effort.\n\n \u201cWe are prepared to say, in the fourth place, that the one\n thing remaining to render this union complete\u2015\u2015a perfect\n unity, such as Christ prayed for\u2015\u2015is oneness of\n organization. By organization is meant, as the word imports,\n everything pertaining to the outward structure and furniture\n of the church\u2015\u2015its government, methods of operation,\n ordinances, worship, etc.\u201d\n\n\nDR. KNOX ON THE NECESSITY OF THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH.\n\n \u201cWe can but observe,\u201d he says, \u201cin the first place, that\n most of the good we know in this world is connected with\n organization, and is nothing without it. It is the nature of\n all life to organize, and the most perfect of organisms is\n that which we have in the human form\u2015\u2015Scriptural type, by\n the way, of the organization belonging to the spiritual life\n that is in Christ\u2019s body, the church. No one thinks it\n necessary to depreciate the organic part of man in order to\n exalt that which is intellectual and moral.\u2026 It is not\n enough to say of human life in the general: \u2018What we want is\n good-will, right understanding between man and man\u2015\u2015no\n matter about society and government. That is merely exterior\n and organic; we wish to do with essentials.\u2019 For all the\n ends of social welfare it has ever been found that organized\n society _is_ one of the essentials, and without it the\n public weal cannot be promoted.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is the nature of all life to organize.\u201d Precisely so. Perhaps it\nwould be more accurate to say that the nature of all life is organic;\nfor life and organism are related to each other as cause and effect,\nand hence are inseparable. Christianity unorganized would be a pure\nnonentity. Christianity is a life\u2015\u2015specific life; it is therefore by\nits very nature specific, visible, organic.\n\n\u201cFor all the ends of social welfare it has ever been found that\norganized society is one of the essentials, and without it the public\nweal cannot be promoted.\u201d Organized society is essential to all life,\nand no less essential to its own defence and preservation; for what\nwould have become of Christianity without organization when the\ncolossal power of the Roman Empire was set to work to exterminate it?\nChristianity would have been strangled in its cradle. What would have\nbecome of Christianity unorganized when the barbarians from the North\noverthrew the Roman Empire? Christianity would have been swept from\nthe face of the earth. What would have been the issue if Christianity\nhad been left to individual effort when the Moslems attacked Europe\nand threatened to feed their horses from the altars of Christian\nchurches? Why, Europe would be to-day Mohammedan, and, if any\nChristians were left, they would be at the mercy, as the Servians\nwere, of the Grand Turk. Christianity unorganized, facing an\norganized, hostile, powerful force, would have been as chaff before\nthe wind.\n\n\nTHE SECOND REASON FOR CHURCH UNITY.\n\n \u201cEspecially,\u201d says Dr. Knox, \u201cought we to note how this fact\n of exterior organization has been recognized in the\n provision for the general _spiritual_ well-being. If you say\n the elements of that well-being are primarily interior and\n spiritual, such as love, faith, fellowship, yet as\n positively are they never dispersed from the exterior and\n physical\u2015\u2015that is, from the organism through which they\n obtain their manifestation. The church is that organism.\n Hence whenever, under apostolic preaching, there was in any\n community the beginning of Christian knowledge, faith,\n obedience, there was the immediate beginning of a Christian\n church.\u2026 In all their epistles and prayers it was the\n _visible_ as well as vital thing\u2015\u2015the church at Rome,\n Ephesus, Corinth\u2015\u2015which they have in their eye as an object\n of beauty and blessedness: \u2018Now ye are the body of Christ\n and members in particular, ye are all baptized into one\n body.\u2019\u2026 Their virtual unity must become visible; their\n essential unity, organic unity.\u201d\n\nIn this passage there is laid down a most important principle: \u201cThe\ninterior and spiritual are never dispersed from the interior and\nphysical.\u201d That is, an invisible church is an absurdity, and a simple\ninterior piety a dream. On this principle we would change the last\nsentence, and make it read thus: \u201cTheir virtual unity is always\nvisible; their essential unity, organic unity.\u201d\n\n\nTHE THIRD REASON FOR UNITY IS EXPRESSED AS FOLLOWS:\n\n\u201cJust in ratio that effort for a common end becomes earnest and\nefficient does it tend to a common organized method.\u201d Grant it, we\nsay, and it follows that just in ratio as the common end is important,\nso will the effort become earnest and efficient in producing a common\norganized method for its realization. But no greater or more important\nend than the one that Christ came upon earth to realize, which was the\nsalvation of the world, can be imagined. Hence Christ established his\nchurch as a common organized method for the realization of his divine\nmission; and it follows that, so far as his power extends, he would be\nwith it, watch over it, and protect it until it accomplished the\npurpose for which he had called it into existence. And those who would\nsubvert the church established by Christ, judged by this principle,\nreally attempt, whatever may be their profession, to overthrow\nChristianity.\n\n\nDR. KNOX\u2019S FOURTH REASON FOR THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH.\n\n \u201cOneness of organization is indispensable to oneness of\n manifestation. The union for which Christ prayed is apparent\n as well as actual\u2015\u2015\u2018perfect in one, that the world may know\n that thou hast sent me.\u2019 Now, it is certain that the\n numerous church organizations are in apparent conflict with\n unity. They are regarded by multitudes as diverse, and even\n adverse, corporations. Allow that this, to a great extent,\n is only in appearance; yet just to that extent it is an\n evil. The impression is not the one Christ seeks of an\n impressive unity. And ecclesiastical history reveals how\n often the evil appearance has been identical with the actual\n evil. The setting up of separate church establishments tends\n inevitably to jealousy, strife, ambition, alienation, as the\n universal experiment proves.\u201d\n\nEvery sentence almost of the above passage is a death-blow to the\nentire movement of Protestantism from its origin as a system of\nreligion. As its very name signifies, it began in denial, and its\nfertility is not in the direction of unity and oneness of\norganization, but in that of breeding strifes, sowing discords, and\nexciting enmities. New sects are ever on the increase in its bosom,\nnew church organizations are set up in the same sect against each\nother, and its main drift is plainly in the direction of mere\nindividualism, ending in entire negation. \u201cO Protestantism!\u201d exclaims\none of its adherents, \u201chas it, then, at last come to this with thee,\nthat thy disciples protest against all religion? Facts which are\nbefore the eyes of the whole world declare aloud that this\nsignification of thy name is no idle play upon words, though I know\nthat this confession will excite a flame of indignation against\nmyself.\u201d[155]\n\nThere is one point in the above extract on which we must differ from\nthe learned doctor, and that is where he maintains that \u201cthe conflict\nwith unity\u201d among Protestants is \u201capparent\u201d and not \u201cadverse\u201d; and\nhere are some of our grounds:\n\nThis apparent unity among Protestants has its centre and source\nelsewhere. For every one of the revealed truths of Christianity which\nthey maintain as fundamental, conceding for the moment that they are\neven agreed upon these, will be found in the last analysis to depend\nupon the authority of the Catholic Church. For example, the Bible is\nto Protestants the sole source of all revealed truth, and the only\nrule of faith. Now, that the Protestants received from the Catholic\nChurch the Bible is a simple historical fact. Again, how do they know\nthat the book called the Bible contains the whole of the inspired\nwritten word of God, and nothing else? Only from the unimpeachable\nwitness and guardian of the Bible\u2015\u2015the Catholic Church. Take from\nunder the truths of Christianity, which Protestants still retain, the\nlogical support of the Catholic Church, and Protestantism, as a system\nof religion, in ratio as men begin to feel the necessity of rendering\nto themselves a rational account of their religious convictions, will\nbe abandoned and fall into utter ruin. And whatever fruits of\nChristian virtue or flowers of piety grow on the tree of\nProtestantism, they are parasitic; for the sap which gives life to the\ntree is derived from its roots, which are nourished in the soil of the\ngarden, to their sight concealed, of the Catholic Church. In this\nvirtual relation to the Catholic Church lies the hope of the salvation\nof those Protestants who are really in good faith. The unity among\nProtestants, therefore, is only \u201capparent,\u201d while its conflicts with\nunity are real and \u201cadverse.\u201d\n\nFor the moment you enter on an examination of those doctrines in\ndetail, regarding which, to use the language of this author, \u201cthere is\nthroughout evangelical Christendom a substantial unity,\u201d that instant\ninnumerable and irreconcilable differences and contradictions arise.\nThere exists among what are called evangelical Protestants a vague and\naffective desire for unity, but it is only strong enough to bring them\ntogether occasionally to display before the public their complete lack\nof real unity. They may even be led by it to recite the Apostles\u2019\nCreed, as though they were of accord in their belief as to the meaning\nof its contents; but let no further strain be put upon their bond of\nunity, lest it should snap into a thousand pieces, revealing, in the\nwords of our author, \u201cdifferent organic bodies with features facing\nall ways, hands striking one against another, feet moving off in\nindependent directions, and lips uttering the whole alphabet of\nshibboleths.\u201d Grapes are not gathered of thorns.\n\n\nDR. KNOX\u2019S FIFTH REASON FOR UNITY.\n\n\u201cOrganic unity,\u201d he says, \u201cis a required element in the _moral power_\nthe church is yet to wield. The Romish Church has borrowed untold\nstrength from this source\u2015\u2015one in name and form the world over.\u201d\n\nDr. Knox\u2019s evidently reluctant compliment to the Catholic Church ought\nnot to be passed by without due recognition. It is a very high\ncompliment: the highest possible compliment, according to his own\nshowing. For he has laid down the principle that \u201cthe interior and\nspiritual are never dispersed from the exterior and physical.\u201d Now, as\nthe Catholic Church is \u201cthe world over one in name and form\u201d\u2015\u2015that is,\nin \u201cthe exterior and physical\u201d\u2015\u2015it follows she must be one in \u201cthe\ninterior and spiritual,\u201d as the former are never \u201cdispersed from\u201d the\nlatter. The Catholic Church, therefore, is truly the church of Christ,\nas she alone is \u201cperfect in one.\u201d She alone possesses the inward and\noutward notes of that unity which Dr. Knox and those who agree with\nhim are expecting to come as the ideal Christian Church. They have\nonly to work out their premise to its logical conclusion to be landed\nin the bosom of the Catholic Church, which is the realization upon\nearth, so far as human nature will allow, of the ideal Christian\nChurch.\n\n\u201cIf her [the Catholic Church\u2019s] actual unity,\u201d he proceeds to say,\n\u201chad answered to her organic, Protestantism must needs have been still\nheavier armed to make head against her.\u201d This is not a reasonable\nsupposition. Prior to the sixteenth century the actual unity of the\nCatholic Church did answer to her organic, and she was in a fair way\nto Christianize and civilize the whole world. But the religious\nsecession started by Luther and his followers stopped the church in\nher course, and set Christians against Christians, broke up the\nfraternity of Christian nations, and sowed everywhere the seeds of\ndispute, enmities, and wars in the bosom of Christendom. Millions of\nher children, backed up by political powers, turned against the\nchurch, and concentrated their attacks chiefly in the direction of the\noverthrow of the Roman See, and the destruction of the centre and\nguardian of the unity of her organization, the Roman Pontiff. If her\nvital energies and vast resources were turned towards where the\nattacks were the fiercest, in order to meet and repel their effects,\nthis was, in the nature of the situation, a necessity, and furnishes\nno ground for an accusation. But God in his providence turns the\nenemies of his church into instruments of her glory; for, as in\nrepelling the errors of Arius and his adherents, the church was\nnecessitated to define, and for ever establish beyond all dispute, her\nbelief in the divinity of Christ, so in like manner, in her defence\nagainst the errors of Luther and his followers, she was compelled to\nsettle beyond dispute all doubt of the authority, the rights, and\nprerogatives communicated by Christ to his Apostle Peter and to the\nsuccessors of his see, the Roman Pontiffs. The bark of Peter has had\nto battle through a threatening storm which has lasted three\ncenturies, but she has come out of the danger in perfect safety, with\nincreased strength and renewed splendor. For her \u201corganic unity,\u201d\nthanks to the action of Protestantism, being greatly perfected, her\n\u201cactual unity\u201d now can display itself with a correspondingly-increased\nvigor and vitality. Her interior, spiritual beauty will be brought out\nmore clearly to the sight of the world, attracting all souls; for\nwhatever may be said of the power and majesty of her \u201cname and form\nthe world over,\u201d the real beauty and glory of the church, like that of\nthe king\u2019s daughter, \u201cis all within.\u201d The glory of this new phase of\nthe church, of which it seems Dr. Knox has had a glimpse, though he\ndoes not appear to recognize her features, he expresses in the\nfollowing manner: \u201cBut when the day dawns that shall give us a visible\nspringing from an interior unity, that will be a spectacle like the\nsign of the Son of Man in the heavens.\u201d\n\nAfter the compliment which we have already noticed, it would be\nunusual if the holy Church did not receive some bitter words of abuse.\nHere they are in the concluding lines of the paragraph under notice:\n\n \u201cThough Satan, in the person of Rome and Rationalism,\n \u2018dilated stood,\u2019 as Milton describes him in his attitude\n towards Gabriel,\n\n \u201c\u2018Like Teneriffe or Atlas unremoved,\u2019\n\n \u201che would know that sign, as when Gabriel showed him the\n golden scales aloft, and he\n\n \u201c\u2018Fled\n Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night.\u2019\u201d\n\nThis language belongs to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when\nthe sectaries of that period universally held that the pope was\nAntichrist, and the Catholic Church his kingdom. It might be heard\nfrom the mouth of a ranter in Exeter Hall, or, in days gone by, in the\nBroadway Tabernacle, or come from the pen of the vaticinating Dr.\nCummings, and not excite surprise; but we submit that such language is\nunworthy of the cause which Dr. Knox so ably advocates, and is in\ndiscord with the whole tenor of his article, which, we gladly\nacknowledge, breathes throughout a more candid and a better spirit.\n\n\nTHE SIXTH REASON FOR UNITY.\n\n\u201cThis is found,\u201d he says, \u201cin that element of efficiency that lies in\neconomy.\u201d This is an important element, but we have already encroached\nbeyond our limits, and must hasten to our close. The article proceeds\nto show that there is a \u201crapidly-increasing unity of faith, affection,\nand aim\u201d among evangelical Christians, and details the grounds for the\nhope of a \u201cprospective unity of organization,\u201d explaining \u201cthe causes\nat work to produce it.\u201d\n\n\nACCORDING TO DR. KNOX, THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH ONCE EXISTED.\n\n \u201cFurthermore,\u201d he continues, \u201cthe church has once been in\n the perfect unity we are advocating. The members \u2018continued\n steadfast in the apostles\u2019 doctrine and fellowship, in\n breaking of bread, and in prayers\u2019 (Acts, ii. 42). The\n unity, according to this record, began in theological\n doctrine, but extended to outward organization (fellowship),\n to visible sacraments (breaking of bread), and forms of\n worship (prayers). This was what Christ had just before\n prayed for a making perfect in one; a unity, interior and\n exterior, spiritual and organic.\u201d\n\nIn another passage he describes the discordant elements of\nProtestantism, and draws, without knowing it, the portrait of the\nactual Catholic Church, and contrasts her perfect unity with the\ndivisions of the Protestant sects. Here it is:\n\n \u201cIn the primitive church, when Christ would have the body\n constituted with diversity\u2015\u2015not all head, or hands, or feet;\n not all hearing, seeing, or smelling, but a body with many\n members, and each member its own function\u2015\u2015he yet did not\n think it necessary this diversity should be sectarian in\n order to be Christian. He did not give some to be\n Episcopalians\u2015\u2015high, and low, and ritualistic; some to be\n Congregationalists\u2015\u2015associated, and consociated, and\n independent; some to be Methodists\u2015\u2015Protestant, Primitive,\n and Episcopal; some to be Baptists\u2015\u2015open and close; some to\n be Presbyterians\u2015\u2015old and new, Cumberland and Covenanter,\n Associate Reformed and Presbyterian Reformed, and others\n perhaps unreformed, to say nothing of Burgher and\n anti-Burgher, Secession, and Relief. Here was variety\u2015\u2015a\n very millennium of it, such as it was. It was a variety,\n however, that finds no place in the New Testament, and no\n mention in Christ\u2019s catalogue of particulars. This was his\n list of bestowments that Paul enumerates, when he \u2018gave some\n to be apostles, and some prophets, and some evangelists, and\n some pastors and teachers, for the perfecting of the saints,\n for the work of the ministry, for the edifying of the body\n of Christ.\u2019 Having these, the body was thought to be well\n furnished without the modern inventions above specified.\n Here was variety and here was efficiency. \u2018Many members, but\n one body.\u2019 \u2018Diversities of gifts, but one spirit.\u2019\n \u2018Differences of administration, but the same Lord.\u2019\n \u2018Diversities of operations, but the same God, which worketh\n all in all.\u2019 Read the whole twelfth chapter of 1st\n Corinthians, and the fourth of Ephesians, and see how amply\n diversified is the church of God: all the more beautiful and\n useful for the reason Paul here declares, that God has so\n constructed it that there should be \u2018no schism in the body.\u2019\n The variety and beauty lie in the varied members and their\n varied functions; not, as our sectarian conservatives would\n have it, in there being different organic bodies with\n features facing all ways, hands striking one against\n another, feet moving off in independent directions, and lips\n uttering the whole alphabet of shibboleths.\u201d\n\nThis description is not very complimentary to that movement which\nstarted with the profession of renewing the religion of the Gospel and\nof primitive Christianity. Judged by Dr. Knox\u2019s standard, it is clear\nthat Protestantism, whatever it may be, is not primitive Christianity.\n\n\nTHE UNITY OF THE CHURCH IS LOST.\n\nThe entire article under consideration is based on the supposition\nthat the visible organic unity of the church that once existed, no\nlonger exists, but is lost. \u201cIt is also,\u201d says Dr. Knox, \u201cuniversally\nadmitted and expected that this lost unity will at some time be\nregained\u201d (p. 666). Now, that scandals would come, and tares would\ngrow with the wheat, heresies, schisms, and sects would arise\u2015\u2015all\nthis we are told in the New Testament; but that the unity which Christ\ncommunicated to his church should be \u201clost,\u201d and, therefore, his\nchurch fail\u2015\u2015this we read nowhere in the pages of the inspired Word.\nOn the contrary, we read in the Gospels that Christ promised to \u201cbuild\nhis church,\u201d and that he predicted that \u201cthe gates of hell shall not\nprevail against it.\u201d And we also read: \u201cBehold I am with you all days,\neven to the consummation of the world.\u201d How one who believes in the\ndivinity of Christ, the inspiration of the Holy Scriptures, and that\nChrist built his church, and can admit, nay, assert, that she has\n\u201clost\u201d her unity, the very essence of her being\u2015\u2015that, consequently,\nthe church of Christ has failed\u2015\u2015we are at a loss to know, and look\nfor further explanation and instruction on this subject from Dr. Knox.\n\nBut it must be remembered also, and taken into account, that when\nChrist offered up his prayer for unity, he not only petitioned that\nhis disciples might be one, but he also said: \u201cAnd not for them only\ndo I pray, but for them also who through their word shall believe in\nme.\u201d This covers all time, and leaves no room for the supposition that\nthe unity which was the object of his prayer should ever be \u201clost.\u201d\n\nHow to meet this difficulty is the question of questions among those\nwho, under one pretext or another, have separated themselves from the\nunity of the Catholic Church. Their ingenuity has been exercised not a\nlittle on this point, and the world has listened to the Greek\npatriarchal theory, and to the Anglican branch theory, and the\ninvisible church theory of some of the so-called reformers, but all\nthese theories are like clouds without rain and broken cisterns that\ncan hold no water. For once admit that the unity of the church for\nwhich Christ prayed has ever existed, and concede that it has been\nlost, no matter what theory or hypothesis you may devise, at that\nmoment, the conclusion is inevitable, Christianity is a failure.\n\nThe unity of the church of Christ was divine, and the human cannot\ncreate or give birth to the divine. This truth has been recognized and\nacted upon even among Protestants. The Irvingites and Mormons teach on\nthis point their fellow-Protestants a lesson in sound logic. \u201cWe\nstart,\u201d they say, \u201cas all Protestants do, in admitting that the\nCatholic Church was in the beginning the church of Christ, and that at\nsome period of time afterwards she became corrupt and failed. This is\nour common premise. Now, to establish the church, which is a divine\ninstitution, requires a special divine mission and authority; hence\nour claim to this special divine inspiration and authority for the\nreinauguration of the church of Christ upon earth.\u201d This reasoning on\nthe part of the Irvingites and Mormons, as against other Protestants,\nis unanswerable and leaves them nowhere.\n\nIf the Christian Church ever existed, it exists now in all its\nvitality and force; for the divine creative act which called it into\nexistence was as real, continuous, and immutable as the creative act\nwhich called into existence the universe. The same Almighty who said,\n\u201c_Fiat Lux_,\u201d said, \u201c_Edificabo ecclesiam meam_\u201d; and, considering the\nplace she holds in the hierarchy of creation, there is less reason to\nsuppose that the church should fail than that the whole universe\nshould go to utter wreck and ruin.\n\nThe learned doctor has an inkling of this insurmountable difficulty,\nand hence he looks forward to one scarcely knows what kind of\nsupernatural action which is to \u201ccompose\u201d out of the existing\ndifferent evangelical sects a visible organic unity. The idea of\ncomposing the unity of the church is a contradiction in terms. If\nlost, only a new divine creative act can restore it. To expect this\nafter the Incarnation and the Day of Pentecost is a chimera. The only\nescape from this, and the only perfectly consistent one, is that this\nunity is still existing, clothed with \u201ca divinely-appointed organism\n_jure divino_,\u201d and open to all who really and sincerely believe in\nChrist. He does not deny that the church of Christ does still exist;\nhe admits its possibility, and says:\n\n \u201cWe do not base our argument for ultimate unity of\n organization on the assumption that there is a divinely\n appointed organism defined in the New Testament. We may\n believe the Scriptures contain nothing explicit on this\n point\u2015\u2015no _jure divino_ model of church polity. If, however,\n there is such an appointed form\u2015\u2015which is here neither\n affirmed nor denied\u2015\u2015we insist that it is the best form, and\n our point holds good\u2015\u2015viz., in the coming development of an\n earnest faith and fellowship, that form will ultimately be\n apprehended and accepted. In that mental condition into\n which the church is soon to come, it will be recognized that\n the end is the main thing, and the agency of no account\n except as it is adapted to the end. And as in the arts of\n ordinary life, as in politics and public education, it is at\n length discovered what the best way to the desired result\n is; and as the earnest effort for the valued result lays\n hold at last of the best method, which thus becomes the\n common one, so must it be in the great earnest religious\n movement of these latter days, looking to the millennial\n age. Mark well the process. The faith and love of the\n church, quickening into new life in these pre-millennial\n efforts, will emerge into a spiritual earnestness little\n short of a new experience; this earnestness will content\n itself with nothing short of the most effective method; the\n effective method will be accepted as the best, and the best\n method is the one method which shall complete the spiritual\n unity of God\u2019s people in an organic unity.\u201d\n\nAgreeing with Dr. Knox in \u201cthe nature of the unity of the church,\u201d and\nthat the principle of \u201clife is organic,\u201d and also that the church with\nthis unity and organic life has existed, the conclusion is evident:\neither he must yield up his premises, or enter into the fold of the\nCatholic Church as the only claimant to this unity and organization\nwhose title is unimpeachable. May that day \u201cof earnest faith and\nfellowship\u201d of which he speaks be hastened, when will be apprehended\nand accepted \u201cthat church polity\u201d \u201cdefined in the New Testament,\u201d[156]\nand which \u201ccompletes the spiritual unity of God\u2019s people in an organic\nunity!\u201d \u201cMay the generation now coming upon the stage \u2026 not pass away\nuntil these things are fulfilled!\u201d\n\n\n [153] \u201cThe Organic Unity of the Church. By Wm. E. Knox,\n D.D., Elmira, N. Y.\u201d _The Presbyterian Quarterly and\n Princeton Review_, Oct., 18;6.\n\n [154] St. John xvii.\n\n [155] Dr. Jenischuber, _Gottesverehrung und Kirche_, \u00a7 210.\n\n [156] To those of our readers who are desirous of seeing the\n argument drawn from the New Testament on this point, and at\n the same time the whole question as between the Catholic\n Church and the Presbyterians or evangelicals fully treated\n and placed in a clear light and in a masterly manner on the\n basis of the Holy Scriptures, we recommend the volume\n entitled _The King\u2019s Highway_, by the Rev. Augustine F.\n Hewit. The Catholic Publication House, New York.\n\n\n\n\nMONSIEUR GOMBARD\u2019S MISTAKE.\n\nCONCLUDED.\n\n\nAbout a month after this memorable expedition of M. Gombard\u2019s the town\nof Loisel was in a state of extraordinary commotion; the elections\nwere going on, which meant that all men had gone mad, that the seven\ndevils were let loose, and that no man could be sure of sleeping in\nhis own bed from one night to another. The decree had gone forth that\nGeneral Blagueur was the government candidate, which signified that\nevery man was to vote for him, and that every man who didn\u2019t was a\ndead man\u2015\u2015every man, that is, who had anything to lose or anything to\nhope for from the powers that were. No one knew who this General\nBlagueur was, or where he came from, or anything about him, except\nthat he was the right man whom it was their business to put into the\nright place. This was all it concerned them to know or to care as\ndutiful subjects of Napoleon III. But though there were many such at\nLoisel, there were many of another sort, who set their backs stiffly\nagainst the right man, and were perversely bent on having a wrong man\nof their own. It does not matter to our story whether this rebellious\noutburst was justifiable or successful. It may be mentioned, however,\nfor the comfort of the many who are born sympathizers with rebels in\nevery class and country, that the rebellion of Loisel did succeed, and\nthat General Blagueur was ignominiously beaten. But what a price\nLoisel paid for this wicked victory! A detachment of troops was at\nonce sent down to prey upon its vitals and hold a cocked pistol at its\nhead. The state subsidy promised to the local municipality for\nrebuilding the tumble-down hospital was refused; the concession for a\nrailway to connect it with the main line, after having been distinctly\npromised to an enterprising company, was withdrawn; the prefect was\n\u201cpromoted\u201d to a post in a dismal, out-of-the-way town in an eastern\ndepartment. It was said at one moment that the mayor was going to be\ndismissed, or in some way visited by the imperial displeasure. But\nthis was one of those unreasoning panics that are common to every\nperiod of social terror; men lose their heads, and see monstrous and\nimpossible events impending. The government, powerful as it was, never\ndreamed of laying a finger on M. Gombard.\n\nThe worthy mayor forbore, with his usual prudence, from taking any\nprominent part in the war that was raging at Loisel, and ostensibly\nleft the prefect all the honors and perils of leadership; but it was\nperfectly well known, as he admitted to friends in confidence, that if\nM. le Pr\u00e9fet reigned, M. le Maire governed; and M. le Maire\u2019s power\narose in great measure from the consummate tact with which he managed\nto hide this fact from everybody, above all from M. le Pr\u00e9fet. Now, it\nhappened that, just when the excitement of the contest was at its\ngreatest, when the wildest stories were afloat about the sinister\nmachinations of the government, the base and cruel means it employed\nto compass its ends\u2015\u2015setting brother against brother, and wife against\nhusband, carrying bribery and discord and all manner of corruption\ninto the very marrow of the bones of Loisel\u2015\u2015it happened that, when\nthings were in this state, a young man arrived at the principal inn of\nthe place. He did nothing to provoke the anger or suspicions of the\npopulation: he was silent, unobtrusive, speaking to no one at the\n_table-d\u2019h\u00f4te_ where he took his meals; but before he had been two\ndays at Loisel the entire town was infuriated against him. He had been\nseen standing before a dismantled old round tower that guarded the\nentrance to the town, and once had boasted of battlements and a\ncannon; this report had gone abroad the first day of his arrival, and\nthe next morning it was positively stated that he had been seen by an\napplewoman and a milkman walking _round_ the tower, and scrambling\nupon a broken wall close by to get a view _into_ it. It was at an\nearly hour, before anybody was likely to be abroad. Such facts,\nresting on such clear and forcible evidence, admitted only of one\ninterpretation\u2015\u2015the stranger was a paid miscreant sent down to examine\nthe tower with a view to fortifying it as of yore, and so terrifying\nthe refractory towns-people into surrendering their independence to\nthe government. A council was called by the outraged citizens, and in\nten minutes the fate of the engineer was decided. A rush was made on\nthe inn where he lodged; he was seized, dragged forth amidst the yells\nof the enraged mob, and would have rendered up his mercenary soul to\njudgment there and then, if the prefect had not chanced to ride up at\nthe moment to the scene of popular justice.\n\n\u201cWhat is this? Call out the soldiers! I will have every man of you\nshot, if you don\u2019t release your prisoner!\u201d he cried, charging boldly\ninto the fray.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s a spy, a traitor! We won\u2019t have him here! He wants to murder us;\nto butcher our wives and children,\u201d etc. Fifty people shouted out\nthese and similar cries together; but they had ceased maltreating the\nunfortunate stranger, and were now only clutching him and threatening\nhim with clenched fists.\n\n\u201cIf he is guilty of any misdemeanor or crime, or intent to commit\ncrime, he shall be made to answer for it; but it is the business of\nthe law to see justice done, not yours. Let go your prisoner!\u201d said\nthe prefect in a tone of high command.\n\nCourage and the prestige of lawful authority seldom fail to impress\nand subdue an excited mass of men. The mob fell back, and two\n_gendarmes_, at a sign from the prefect, stepped forward; the crowd\nmade way for them. \u201cThat man is under arrest. Conduct him to the\n_mairie_ and lock him up,\u201d said the prefect.\n\nThe _gendarmes_ marched off the rescued man, a crowd trooping on with\nthem, hooting and yelling with an energy that sounded far from\nreassuring, though it was so in reality, being a kind of safety-valve\nto the excited mob. It was a great relief, nevertheless, to the object\nof this manifestation to find himself locked up and safe out of its\nreach. He was not a coward, but the bravest may be permitted to shrink\nfrom such inglorious danger as this from which he had just escaped.\n\nHe had not been many hours in captivity when a sound of steps and\nvoices approaching the door announced that some one was about to\nappear\u2015\u2015probably the magistrate. The key turned in the lock, and M.\nGombard entered, accompanied by two other persons: one was a clerk who\nwas to take down in writing the interrogatory of the mayor and the\nprisoner\u2019s replies; the other was a witness who was to sign it. The\nmoment M. Gombard beheld the prisoner his countenance changed; he felt\nit did, though no one present noticed it. In the hatless, muddy,\nbattered-looking man who rose painfully to salute him the mayor\nrecognized the lover of Mlle. Bobert. Was he still only her lover? In\nall probability he was her husband by this time. When M. Gombard had\nmastered his surprise and recovered from the shock of the discovery,\nhe proceeded to examine the prisoner. The latter made no attempt at\nself-defence; he admitted, with a frankness which the reporter set\ndown as \u201ccynical,\u201d that he had visited the round tower on the two\noccasions alleged; that he would gladly do so again, if the citizens\nof Loisel gave him the opportunity. He had a natural love for old\nmonuments of every description, and was professionally interested in\nthem\u2015\u2015especially ancient fortifications and fortresses of every kind;\nthis old tower was a curious specimen of the fifteenth-century style,\nhe was anxious to take a sketch of it, and so on, with more in the\nsame tone. The clerk wrote on with great gusto, interlarding the\nprisoner\u2019s remarks with commentaries intended to complete them, and\nexplain more fully the depth of malice every word revealed: \u201cThe\naccused looked boldly at M. le Maire\u201d; \u201cthe accused here smiled with a\nfiendish expression\u201d; \u201cthe accused assumed here a tone of insolent\ndefiance\u201d; \u201cthe countenance of the accused wore an air of cool\ncontempt,\u201d and so on. Meantime, the mayor was wondering at the calm,\ndignified manner of the prisoner, and admiring his well-bred tone and\nperfect self-possession; he was evidently no common kind of person,\nthis lover, or husband, of Mlle. Bobert. At the close of the\ninterrogatory, when the clerk had wiped his pen and was folding up his\ndocument, the mayor, with a vaguely apologetical remark, inquired\nwhether the prisoner was a married man. The answer came with the same\nquiet distinctness as the preceding ones: \u201cNo, monsieur, I am not.\u201d He\nbowed to M. Gombard, and M. Gombard bowed to him. The interview was at\nan end. \u201cThe case looks bad,\u201d observed the reporting clerk, as the\ndoor closed behind them, M. Gombard himself locking it, and pocketing\nthe key unnoticed by the others, who hurried on, loudly discussing the\nmatter in hand.\n\n\u201cDo you not think it looks badly, M. le Maire?\u201d inquired the reporter.\n\n\u201cVery badly. We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole country, if\nthe prisoner is brought to trial; we shall pass for a community of\ncowardly idiots. We must do our utmost to prevent the affair getting\ninto the local paper, at any rate. You are a friend of the editor\u2019s;\nhave you influence enough with him, think you, to make him sacrifice\nhis interest for once from a patriotic motive? It would be a fine\nexample, and you will have done the town a service which I shall take\ncare they hear of in due time.\u201d\n\nThe reporter held his head high and looked important. \u201cI was thinking\nof this very thing, M. la Maire, while I was taking down the\nprisoner\u2019s answers,\u201d he said. \u201cI did my best to swell the silly\nbusiness into something like a charge, feeling, as you say, that we\nshould be disgraced if the case were trumpeted over the country as it\nreally stands; but the best way to hinder the mischief will be to keep\nit out of the paper. I think I can promise you that this shall be\ndone.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen my mind is at rest. The honor of Loisel will be saved!\u201d said M.\nGombard.\n\n\u201cIt shall, it shall, M. le Maire!\u201d said his companion. He was excited\nand big with a sense of patriotic responsibility.\n\nThe next day was the grand crisis in the electioneering fever\u2015\u2015the\nopening of the ballot-box. All Loisel was abroad and on tiptoe with\nexpectation; there was no buying or selling that day. No wonder the\nunlucky inmate of the lock-up was forgotten. M. Gombard, however, had\nnot forgotten him.\n\nLate on the previous night, when the town had gone to bed and the\nstreets were silent, nobody being abroad but the night watch and a few\nstragglers whose business and state of life made them avoid public\nnotice and daylight, M. Gombard might have been seen stealing out by\nthe back door to his own stable, and thence to the corner of a\nneighboring street, where he fastened his horse to a lamp-post, and\nstole back to the _mairie_ with the quick, furtive air of a thief. He\nstepped softly down the stone passage that led to the lock-up room,\nlaid his dark-lantern on the floor outside, and then turned the key\nslowly and with as little noise as possible. The dead silence that\nreigned in the place made the slight grating of the key sound like a\nshriek. When the mayor entered the room, the prisoner was walking up\nand down, trying to keep his blood in circulation; for the cold was\nintense, and he was famished with hunger. \u201cI have come to release\nyou,\u201d M. Gombard said. \u201cThere is no time to lose. I have left a horse\nready saddled at the corner of the street that leads straight to the\nruined tower; you will mount him and ride for your life.\u201d\n\nThe prisoner could hardly believe his ears.\n\n\u201cWhat does this mean?\u201d he said. \u201cYou are a perfect stranger to me, and\nwhoever you are, you must run a great risk in rendering me this\nservice. May I ask why you take this interest in me?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am glad to pay back a service that one whom \u2026 that was rendered to\nme not long since when passing through Cabicol. I will not say more;\nbut you will learn all from the person in question most likely some\nday. Meantime, have no hesitation in accepting this service at my\nhands. It is a debt of gratitude that I am happy to be able to pay.\nCome, every minute is precious.\u201d\n\nThe prisoner was not inclined to shut the door on his deliverer;\nwhatever his motive might be, mysterious or romantic, it was a\nmerciful chance for him. The two men left the house, stepping softly,\nstealthily like a couple of thieves. When they reached the entrance of\na street, M. Gombard stopped, and pointed silently to where the\ngaslight fell upon the horse, giving him the appearance of a phantom\nbeast amidst the surrounding gloom. The traveller held out his hand,\nand grasped the mayor\u2019s in a long, strong pressure. M. Gombard\nreturned it, and noticed now that his companion was bareheaded.\n\n\u201cYou forgot your hat!\u201d he said in a low voice.\n\n\u201cI lost it in the fray this morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen the town of Loisel owes you another. Take this; it will serve\nyou on the road as well as a new one.\u201d\n\nM. Gombard pulled off his hat and handed it to the fugitive, turned\nbrusquely from him, and hurried home.\n\nNo one remembered the stranger who had provoked the popular fury,\nuntil two days after his arrest, when the agitation of the\nelectioneering crisis had subsided, and the authorities had leisure to\nattend to ordinary business. Then it was discovered that the bird had\nflown, no one knew when, no one knew how. There was great\nconsternation amongst the subordinate officials at the _mairie_ whose\nduty it was to have looked after him; but each declared he was not\nresponsible, that the prisoner had not been given into his charge,\nthat the prisoner was only put there temporarily, and ought to have\nbeen conveyed at once to the jail, etc. This did not prevent them\nshaking in their shoes in mortal dread of being turned out of their\nplaces. The reporter was one of the first to hear of the escape. He\nflew at once with the intelligence to M. Gombard. M. Gombard looked\nhim straight in the face and burst out into an uncontrollable fit of\nlaughter; he shook, he held his sides, he laughed till he cried again.\nThe reporter did not at first know what to make of it; but at last the\ncontagion of M. le Maire\u2019s mirth was irresistible. He began to laugh\nalso, and then M. Gombard roared, and the two kept it up until they\nnearly died of it. At last M. Gombard, who was the first to recover\nhimself, took out his red cotton handkerchief and wiped his eyes, and\nblew his nose, and, after sundry gasps and subsiding chuckles, said:\n\u201cIt is the cleverest joke I ever saw performed in _my_ life, and you\nare the cleverest rogue I ever met with! It was bad enough to play it\noff unknown to me, to keep the fun of the thing to yourself; but then\nto walk in here with such cool impudence, and never move a muscle of\nyour face while you announced it as the latest intelligence! Ha! ha!\nha!\u201d And off he went again, falling back in his chair, and laughing\ntill the tears rolled down his cheeks.\n\nThe reporter was in a terrible state. He had not the faintest notion\nwhat the fun was about, and he had really joined in it till he could\nlaugh no more. One thing was clear: somebody had done something which\nM. le Maire thought extremely clever and was highly diverted at, and\nthat he\u2015\u2015the reporter\u2015\u2015had the credit of.\n\n\u201cTell me, how did you do it?\u201d said M. Gombard, again recovering\nhimself and mopping his face, that was now as red as the handkerchief.\n\n\u201cReally, M. le Maire, I\u2015\u2015I don\u2019t quite understand,\u201d said the reporter,\nsmiling and trying to look at once confused and knowing.\n\n\u201cCome, come, no more of this! Tell it out like a good fellow; let me\nhave the fag-end of the fun at any rate. How did you manage to give\nthem all the slip?\u201d\n\n\u201cPositively, monsieur, there is some mistake. I don\u2019t see\u2015\u2015I don\u2019t\nunderstand\u2015\u2015\u201d stammered out the reporter.\n\nM. Gombard gave a tremendous gasp, as if the laughter were still in\nhim and it required a huge effort to keep it down.\n\n\u201cWell, well,\u201d he said, \u201cI won\u2019t press you, but I think you _might_\nhave trusted me; we are old friends now. However, keep your secret and\naccept my best compliments. You missed your vocation, though; you\nought to have been a diplomatist. I see no reason after this\u2015\u2015after\nthis\u201d\u2015\u2015here he began to shake again and brought out the cotton\nhandkerchief\u2015\u2015\u201cwhy you should not be minister some day. _Vous irez\nloin, mon cher\u2015\u2015vous irez loin!_\u201d\n\nThere was a knock at the door. The two men stood up.\n\n\u201cM. le Maire, I am to understand that you are rather glad than\notherwise of this\u2015\u2015this mysterious disappearance?\u201d said the reporter,\nwith some hesitation.\n\n\u201cGlad! You deserve the Cross for it!\u201d exclaimed the mayor. \u201cIt is the\ngreatest service you could have rendered to the town. Some day or\nother they shall hear of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI really must disabuse you of a false impression,\u201d began the\nreporter. \u201cAnxious as I was to be of use, my share in this matter\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\n\u201cTut, tut!\u201d said M. Gombard, \u201cnone of this nonsense with me, my dear\nfellow. Keep your own counsel\u2015\u2015quite right; but don\u2019t be such an idiot\nas to deny your services to those who can reward them. Mark my words:\n_Vous irez loin!_\u201d He tugged gently at the reporter\u2019s ear, and,\nshaking hands with him, sent him away happy and elated, but utterly\nmystified.\n\nThe affair made some noise; a _proc\u00e8s verbal_ was drawn up, there was\nan interrogatory of the clerks, and before a week the escape of the\nspy was forgotten.\n\nJust before Easter\u2015\u2015that is, three months after this little\nelectioneering incident\u2015\u2015M. Gombard had occasion to go to Cabicol\nagain. This time, however, he was not alone; he was accompanied by M.\nle Pr\u00e9fet, the new one, who was making a _tourn\u00e9e_ in his kingdom, and\ntook the mayor with him by way of a moral support. He was a timid man;\nhe knew that his appointment was unpopular, and that M. Gombard\u2019s\ninfluence might help to reconcile people to it.\n\nThey alighted at the _Jacques Bonhomme_ to change horses and take some\nrefreshment before officially inspecting the town of Cabicol. M.\nGombard was anxious to get some news of Mlle. Bobert, when the\nmarriage had taken place, and how it was supposed to prosper so far;\nbut there was no opportunity of saying a word to the landlord, for the\nprefect was there, and M. Gombard had no plausible excuse for leaving\nhim. He could not help remarking the strange expression of the\nlandlord\u2019s countenance on first beholding him; the scared, incredulous\nglance he cast upon him, and the mysterious manner in which, on\nassisting him from the chaise, he pressed his arm and whispered: \u201cI\ncongratulate you, monsieur; I congratulate you.\u201d\n\nWhat could the fellow mean by this extraordinary behavior! But the\nmayor remembered how oddly he had behaved on the occasion of his\nformer visit, and set him down as an original, a harmless monomaniac\nof some sort.\n\nJust as they were starting, and the prefect was receiving the\ncompliments of M. le Cur\u00e9 at the door of the _Jacques Bonhomme_, M.\nGombard seized the opportunity of a word with the landlord. Pointing\nhis cane towards the old house opposite, he observed in a careless\nmanner:\n\n\u201cYour pretty heiress is married by this, of course? What is her name\nnow?\u201d\n\n\u201cMarried! Alas! no,\u201d replied the landlord mournfully. \u201cMonsieur has\nnot, then, heard?\u201d\n\n\u201cGood heavens! she is not dead?\u201d cried M. Gombard, dropping his\nfeigned indifference in an instant.\n\n\u201cShe is blind, monsieur\u2015\u2015stone blind! It was a terrible accident; she\nwas thrown from a carriage, and the shock and injuries she sustained\ndestroyed her sight. They say she may recover it after a while; but I\ndoubt it, monsieur, I doubt it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd her _fianc\u00e9_\u2015\u2015has he given up\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\nThe mayor was here cut short by the prefect, who called out from the\npost-chaise, where he had already seated himself.\n\n\u201cCome, M. Gombard, we had better be starting.\u201d\n\nM. Gombard left Cabicol with a sad heart. He looked wistfully up at\nthe latticed window under the grand old escutcheon where he had last\ncaught a glimpse of the beautiful young creature, now so heavily\nstricken. It made his heart ache to think of her in that lonely house,\nher bright eyes sightless, dwelling in perpetual night. Why had not\nhis rival insisted on marrying her in spite, nay, because, of this\ncatastrophe? He could fancy how her brave and generous nature would\nrefuse to accept what she considered a sacrifice; but what sort of a\nlove was his that could not overcome such reluctance? Poor child! How\ngladly _he_ would have devoted himself to soothing and cheering her\ndarkened life! But perhaps he was wronging his rival; it might be that\nshe had merely postponed their marriage, that they both believed in\nher ultimate recovery, and that she preferred waiting, until it had\ntaken place, until her brown eyes had been restored, until the spirit\nwhich once animated them should awake and vivify them as of old.\n\nM. Gombard did not return to Cabicol for many a long year after this.\nHe left Loisel, and went to live in Normandy, where an uncle had died\nand left him some property\u2015\u2015a rambling old house, surrounded by some\nwooded fields and a fruit-garden; the house was called the Ch\u00e2teau,\nand the fields were called \u201cthe Park.\u201d M. Gombard had not been long in\npossession of this ancestral estate before he was elected mayor of the\nvillage. He was the kind of man to be elected mayor wherever he\nresided. Some men, we hear said, are born actors, doctors,\nambassadors, etc.; M. Gombard was born a mayor.\n\nLife went smoothly with him amongst his fields and fruit-trees for\nnearly ten years. Then friends took it into their heads, and put it\ninto his, that he ought to become a deputy; the elections were at\nhand, and they put up his name as opposition candidate for the\ndepartment of X\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015, whose _chef-lieu_ was Loisel. The proposal took\nM. Gombard\u2019s fancy mightily. To go back to the place where he had left\nsuch a good name and exercised such undisputed influence; to go back\nas representative of the department\u2015\u2015this was a triumph that even in\nperspective made him purr like a stroked cat. He started off one\nmorning in high spirits for Loisel. His most direct road lay through\nCabicol. The railroad landed him within a mile of the quaint old town\nat eight o\u2019clock in the morning. He was in the mood for a walk, so he\nset out on foot. It was within a few days of Christmas; the weather\nwas intensely cold, but the sky was as blue as a field of sapphire,\nand the sun shone out as brightly as in spring. He remembered the\nfirst time he had been to Cabicol; it was about this season of the\nyear, but what miserable weather it was! Snow deep on the ground, and\nthen the heavy rains coming before it melted, and turning the roads\nand streets into canals of mud and slush. This bracing cold, with the\nsun cheering up the landscape, was delightful. M. Gombard walked on\nwith a brisk step, whistling snatches of one tune or another, till he\ncame within sight of the church. The first glimpse of the strong,\ngraceful spire, pricking the blue sky, so high, so high it rose,\nbrought a flood of soft and tender memories to the hard-headed, embryo\nlegislator; he smiled, and yet he heaved a little sigh as the\nrecollection of his first and his last visit to that fine old church\ncame back upon him. He wondered how life had gone with the fair\nenchantress who had spirited away his heart from him in the brown\ntwilight of the Gothic temple; whether she had ever cast a thought on\nhim from that day to the present. And her sight\u2015\u2015had she recovered it?\nM. Gombard had often thought of this, and breathed a hearty wish that\nit might be so. And was she married? In all probability, yes. The\nchances were that she was now the happy mother of a blooming little\nfamily, of which the man he had for a moment so vigorously detested\nwas the proud protector. If so, M. Gombard would call upon him and pay\nhis respects to madame. This was the proper thing for an opposition\ncandidate to do, and it would be an opportunity for Mlle. Bobert\u2019s\nhusband to show his gratitude for former services.\n\nHe entered the town, now a busy, thriving place, and, crossing the\nmarket-place, made straight for the _Jacques Bonhomme_. There it was,\nnot a whit changed, just as dingy-looking, with its stunted laurels\nbefore the door, that stood wide open as in the midst of summer.\nThere, too, was the picturesque old manor-house opposite, just as he\nhad first seen it, only that the roof was not covered with snow nor\nfringed with icicles. The ivy was thicker; it had grown quite over the\nfront wall, but had been roughly clipped away from a space over the\nbalcony, leaving the escutcheon visible\u2015\u2015a gray patch amidst the\nglistening green of the ruin-loving parasite. Two persons were coming\nout of the house as M. Gombard drew near. A group of poor people stood\nat the lodge, evidently awaiting them, with eager, questioning faces.\nOne of these persons was the doctor, the other was the _cur\u00e9_. The\ndoctor walked on in silence. The _cur\u00e9_ spoke: \u201cAlas! my friends, she\nis gone from us. We must be resigned; for the loss is all ours, the\ngain all hers.\u201d\n\nM. Gombard felt a great pang go through him. He stood near the group,\nand heard the tearful cries that answered the _cur\u00e9\u2019s_ words: \u201cAh, _la\nbonne demoiselle_! Yes, it is a happy deliverance for her; but what a\nloss for us, for the sick, for all Cabicol!\u201d And they dispersed,\nlamenting, and repeating through their tears: \u201c_Pauvre Mlle. Bobert!_\nOur good friend! She is gone! The funeral is to be to-morrow!\u201d\n\nSo she had died, as she had lived, \u201cMlle. Bobert.\u201d M. Gombard lingered\na moment, looking up at the deep, latticed window where the slight\nfigure would never be seen looking forth again. She was to be buried\nto-morrow, they had said. He resolved to wait and attend the funeral.\nHe remained gazing up at the picturesque old edifice, which had\narrested his curiosity and admiration for its own sake before he had\nbecome interested in its mistress. Whom would it go to now? he\nwondered.\n\nA step on the pathway outside made him turn and look in that\ndirection. He was startled, but not much astonished to see the\n_fianc\u00e9_ of Mlle. Bobert approaching. Poor man! He looked much older\nthan M. Gombard had expected to find him. Evidently he had suffered\nduring these eleven years; his life had been blighted as well as hers.\nThe manly heart of the mayor went out to him in sympathy. He was\npreparing to hold out his hand, when, to his consternation, the\ngentleman raised his hat with the old courtly bow that M. Gombard so\nwell remembered. How was this? The unhappy man was ignorant of his\nsorrow! He was saluting the dead, and he knew it not.\n\n\u201cMonsieur, pardon me,\u201d said M. Gombard, meeting him with an\noutstretched hand and a face full of genuine compassion. \u201cYou have\nevidently not heard the sad news?\u201d\n\n\u201cConcerning whom?\u201d inquired the gentleman, giving his hand, but\nlooking very blank.\n\n\u201cWho? Why \u2026 Mlle. Bobert!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat has happened to Mlle. Bobert, monsieur?\u201d asked the gentleman.\n\n\u201cWhat has happened? Good heavens! Can it be possible.\u2026 The worst has\nhappened: she is dead!\u201d\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d exclaimed the gentleman. Was this man some near relation of\nhers, or did he mistake _him_ for one?\n\n\u201cI tell you she is dead!\u201d repeated M. Gombard, his surprise rising\nrapidly to indignation. \u201cShe died only a few minutes ago, and she is\nto be buried to-morrow!\u201d\n\n\u201cNaturally; that is the law. A person who dies this morning _must_ be\nburied to-morrow, unless,\u201d the speaker continued, fancying he had here\na clue to M. Gombard\u2019s excitement\u2015\u2015\u201cunless good reason can be shown\nfor obtaining a delay, in which case, as a resident, I may be of some\nuse to you; you seem to be a stranger here.\u201d\n\nM. Gombard could not credit his senses. Was he dreaming, or was this\nman gone mad? He stared at him for a moment in dumb amazement. At last\nhe said:\n\n\u201cPerhaps I am under a mistake.\u2026 I may be taking you for a person who\nresembles you strongly. Who are you, monsieur?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am an arch\u00e6ologist by profession; my name is De Valbranchart.\u201d He\ndrew out his pocket-book and handed a card to M. Gombard.\n\n\u201c_Henri, Comte de Valbranchart_,\u201d repeated M. Gombard absently. He had\nheard the name before; but where? \u201cThe name is not unknown to me,\u201d he\nadded.\n\n\u201cIt can hardly be unknown to any one who has read history,\u201d replied\nthe count, with quiet _hauteur_. \u201cThe De Valbrancharts played a\nstirring part in the history of France as early as the twelfth\ncentury. But their day is over; they have no existence in the present.\nI am the last of the name.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere have I heard it before?\u201d said M. Gombard musingly.\n\n\u201cPerhaps at Cabicol,\u201d returned the count. \u201cThis old house was the home\nof my family for three hundred years. Those are our arms carved upon\nits front; for twenty years I have saluted them daily as I pass. It is\nfoolish, perhaps; but I feel as if the spirit of my ancestors haunted\nthe old roof-tree, and that they are not insensible to the filial\nhomage.\u201d\n\nAs he said this he looked up at the stone shield, where a lion\npassant, on gule, was still visible, surmounted by a fleur-de-lis\nargent, en chef. Raising his hat deferentially to the worn and\npartly-obliterated symbols of a glory that lived only in his faithful\nmemory, the Comte de Valbranchart bowed to M. Gombard and passed on.\n\n\u201cAnd so this was the lady-love he worshipped,\u201d said M. Gombard to\nhimself, as the tall, pensive man disappeared down the street. \u201cHe\nnever loved _her_, perhaps he never knew her; and if I had only known,\nI might have.\u2026 But it is no use regretting the irreparable. I should\nhave been a more miserable man at this hour, if I had won her and\nloved her all these years.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE HOME-LIFE OF SOME EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY POETS.\n\n\n\u201cThe happiest lives,\u201d says Southey, speaking of his own, \u201care those\nwhich have the least variety.\u201d There never was a truer saying. All the\nknowledge of the world involved in a stormy life, whether of vice,\nadventure, poverty, or political prominence, is not worth the half of\nthe quiet happiness of a home-life and of what people lightly and\nmistakenly call monotony. And not only in such a life does the soul\ngrow and the higher part of man gradually and calmly ripen, but his\nmind grows, his art grows, his genius widens and deepens. There are no\nshocks to arrest the creations of his mind; no periods of untrue,\nfeverish, excited joy, followed by a ghastly reaction and a sad blank,\nto disturb the rest that alone produces lasting works. Not all poets\nand artists understood this, because very few were perfect men; not\nall common men understand it, because if their inborn propensities do\nnot (and they do in only exceptional cases) lead them to this quiet\nhaven, it requires severe experiences and much repentance before they\ncan enter such a state. It is true that the works universally reckoned\nthe greatest have been accomplished by men whose lives were spent\namong storms; but since the men who wrote them could so heroically\novercome this inner obstacle, what magnificent things might they not\nhave done if their lives had been differently ordained! The _Divina\nCommedia_, _Paradise Lost_, _King Lear_ were the offspring of volcanic\nnatures and volcanic circumstances: Dante and Milton were both lone\nmen, soured and discontented, unfortunate in their domestic, and\nuneasy in their political, life; Shakspere was poor and despised, long\na wanderer and an adventurer, and not too well mated either. And this\nbrings us to the consideration of the more accessible and human side\nof their nature, one which is intensely interesting to us; for the\nmore we read, the more we think, the more do we see how alike mankind\nis at all stages of its career, how little difference there is in\nhuman relations between us and our forefathers\u2015\u2015nay, our remotest\nancestors, whether in other climes or in a totally different\ncivilization. Modes of thought have grown antiquated, systems of\nphilosophy have crumbled, faiths have disappeared, customs have\nchanged, but man and his passions remain the same as when he was first\nmade. And the men who are but names to us, whose record is in\nforgotten tablets and antique parchments, even those whose works and\nsayings are known to us in part, all lived the same common life to the\neye of their contemporaries, shared the same lowly necessities and the\nsame agitating feelings, and went through the same kind of outward,\nprescribed life as the rind of their inner and individual one, as our\nmodern poets, artists, _savants_, discoverers, and even our single\nselves. For ourselves, we almost invariably care more for the life of\na man than for his works; and as this century has developed a peculiar\nturn for biography, even that of ordinary and obscure persons\u2015\u2015which\nis often none the less interesting\u2015\u2015it has been a liking easy to\nsatisfy. If, however, readers of poets prefer to see their ideal with\ntheir own eyes and look upon him as a demigod, biography is not a\nthing likely to be pleasant to them. It is often disenchanting, and\nmany people shrink from the true if it be not likewise in accordance\nwith their preconceived notions. The English poets of the last century\nwere emphatically _men_, good specimens of their time and\nsurroundings, by no means souls stranded on a foreign world and\naccidentally fitted with clogging bodies whose necessities were a\nvexation to the spirit.\n\nThe earliest of the rising generation of that time who came\nprominently before the public, and has never since lost his place, is\nDean Swift. He was \u201cof the earth, earthy,\u201d yet not a type of very\ncommon humanity. His life was full of strange incidents and\nextraordinary contradictions. He was, like Milton, by inclination\nrather a politician than a writer, and yet his poems have outlived his\npamphlets. Sometimes he was coarse in language and brutal in manner\u2015\u2015a\nfashion of his age, itself a contrast to the other extreme affected by\nsociety, that of a finical and artificial delicacy. Yet he won the\nalmost unsolicited affection of pure-minded, sensitive, well-educated\nwomen. Now he was a miser, now a prodigal; now he entered a state\nwhich so many other poets conscientiously eschewed, himself worse\nfitted for it than they were; and now he showed a tenderness of\nfeeling and a nobleness of soul which seemed inconsistent with this\none life-act of defiant recklessness. For it was not hypocrisy; to\nthat lowest of depths he, at least, did not sink. His education was\ndesultory and his early circumstances narrow. His first situation was\na poor one, though in a refined home and with a great statesman\u2015\u2015Sir\nWilliam Temple, whose reader and secretary he was. He got only twenty\npounds a year, but had the chance of a troop of horse which King\nWilliam offered him when he came to visit the youth\u2019s patron at Moor\nPark. His mind was inflamed by the stirring scenes during which his\npoor mother had fled from Ireland\u2015\u2015the times following the Revolution\nand the Boyne\u2015\u2015and he vindicated and abused his native country by\nturns, like an indignant lover, always ready fiercely to defend her if\nattacked by others, yet conscious of the unhappy state into which\ncivilization and literature had fallen, consequent on the civil\ntroubles since Elizabeth\u2019s Reformation. At Richmond he owed an illness\nto his gluttony, as he boldly if exaggeratedly confesses: \u201cAbout two\nhours before you were born,\u201d he writes to a lady, \u201cI got my giddiness\nby eating a hundred golden pippins at a time; and when you were four\nyears and a quarter old, bating two days, having made a fine seat\nabout twenty miles further in Surrey, where I used to read, there I\ngot my deafness; and these two friends have visited me, one or other,\nevery year since, and, being old acquaintance, have now thought fit to\ncome together.\u201d Dryden did not recognize the young poet as a brother,\nand wrote him his opinion most bluntly, which Swift never forgave or\nforgot, and for which once or twice he revenged himself on other\nhapless and obscure poets who better deserved the same criticism. One\nof the good deeds of his youth was his giving up an appointment in the\nNational Church, worth \u00a3100 a year, in favor of a poor struggling\ncurate with less than half that income and eight children to support;\nbut some of his friends thought that the loss of congenial society\nwhich this small preferment involved somewhat moved him to this\nrenunciation. Going back to Moor Park, he made acquaintance with\n\u201cStella\u201d\u2015\u2015Esther Johnson\u2015\u2015a ward of his patron, a girl of fifteen, who\nloved him devotedly, and whose heart he broke. He became her tutor,\nand his genius, his appearance, and his manner captivated the\nchild-woman. Engaged at the time to a Miss Waryng, whom he fancifully\nstyled \u201cVarina,\u201d he broke his promise to her, and in the details of\ntheir quarrel showed himself as insolent as dishonorable. At this time\nof his life he was, if not a handsome, at least a very striking man.\nHe was tall and well made, with deep-blue eyes and black hair and\neyebrows, the last very bushy, and his expression stern and\nhaughty\u2015\u2015the very hero of a young girl\u2019s dreams. After Sir William\u2019s\ndeath he removed Stella to the neighborhood of his own parsonage,\nwhere she lived in a little cottage with an elderly companion, and\nnever saw Swift except in the presence of a third person. Sir Walter\nScott charitably attributes his avoidance of marriage with her to\nprudential reasons, and in this anomalous relation to the woman he\nloved he sees an attempt \u201cin the pride of talent and of wisdom \u2026 to\nframe a new path to happiness\u201d; and the consequences, he continues,\nwere such as to render him \u201ca warning, where the various virtues with\nwhich he was endowed ought to have made him a pattern.\u201d In one of his\nvisits to London he met \u201cVanessa\u201d\u2015\u2015Esther Vanhomrigh\u2015\u2015to whom he\noffered the same Platonic friendship, with nearly the same results.\nThe girl died of grief and \u201chope deferred.\u201d Another version of his\nluckless love-affairs asserts that he ultimately married Stella, but\nrefused to live with her, and visited her formally the same as before.\n\nSwift\u2019s fits of avarice were great sources of amusement to his\nvisitors. It is said that he occasionally allowed some guests of his,\nladies of high rank, a shilling each to provide for themselves when\nasked to dine with him. Another such droll tale, but rather\nillustrating the contrary disposition, is told of him by Pope: \u201cOne\nevening Gay and I went to see him. On our coming in, \u2018Heyday,\ngentlemen,\u2019 says the doctor, \u2018what\u2019s the meaning of this visit? How\ncame you to leave all the great lords you are so fond of, to come\nhither and see a poor dean?\u2019 \u2018Because we would rather see you than any\nof them!\u2019 \u2018Ay, any one that did not know so well might believe you.\nBut since you are come, I must get some supper for you, I suppose?\u2019\n\u2018No, doctor, we have supped already.\u2019 \u2018Supped already? That\u2019s\nimpossible! Why, it is not eight o\u2019clock yet. That\u2019s very strange; but\nif you had not supped, I must have got something for you. Let me see;\nwhat should I have had? A couple of lobsters; ay, that would have done\nvery well\u2015\u2015two shillings; tarts, a shilling. But you will drink a\nglass of wine with me, though you supped so much before your usual\ntime only to spare my pocket.\u2019 \u2018No; we had rather talk with you than\ndrink with you.\u2019 \u2018But if you had supped with me, as, in all reason,\nyou ought to have done, you must then have drunk with me. A bottle of\nwine, two shillings. Two and two is four, and one is five\u2015\u2015just two\nand sixpence apiece. There, Pope, there\u2019s half a crown for you, and\nthere\u2019s another for you sir; for I won\u2019t save by you, I am\ndetermined.\u2019 In spite of everything we could say to the contrary, he\nactually obliged us to take the money.\u201d\n\nAmong the literary practical jokes he sometimes played was a book of\nprophecies he published in ridicule of a yearly almanac of predictions\nby one Partridge. The chief event foretold was the astrologer\u2019s own\ndeath on the 29th of March, 1708. As soon as the date was past an\nelaborate account of Partridge\u2019s last moments and sayings came out in\n\u201ca letter to a person of honor.\u201d Partridge found it hard to persuade\npeople of his continued existence, and, having once complained to a\nDoctor Yalden, was repaid by the latter by an additional account of\nhis sufferings and end by his supposed attendant physician. The poor\nman was driven frantic; he says the undertaker and the sexton came to\nhim \u201con business\u201d; people taunted him in the streets with not having\npaid his funeral expenses; his wife was distracted by being\npersistently addressed as Widow Partridge, and was \u201ccited once a term\ninto court to take out letters of administration\u201d; while \u201cthe very\nreader of our parish, a good, sober, discreet person, has two or three\ntimes sent for me to come and be buried decently, or, if I have been\ninterred in any other parish, to produce my certificate, as the act\nrequires.\u201d Sir Walter Scott remarks, as an odd coincidence, that in\n1709 the Company of Stationers obtained an injunction against any\nalmanac published under the name of John Partridge, as if the poor man\nhad been dead in sad earnest.\n\nUnsatisfactory as was the homelife of Dean Swift, Alexander Pope\u2019s is\nscarcely more pleasant to look back upon. He was never married, and\nhis best associations with home were through his mother, whom he loved\ndearly. But his continual ill-health and misshapen body made him\nmiserable, and he himself calls his life \u201cone long disease.\u201d Fame he\nwon early, but it did not sweeten his spirit. His early life was spent\nnear Windsor Forest, at the village of Binfield, where his father, a\nprosperous tradesman, retired with his fortune of \u00a320,000 when the boy\nwas twelve years old. Instead of putting this money in the bank, he\nkept it in the house in a strong chest, and drew upon the sum for all\nhe wanted for many years, by which method it was considerably lessened\nbefore his son inherited it. Many of the despicable traits or foolish\nweaknesses of Pope\u2019s character were due to his sufferings. He was\ndeformed in person, and so feeble that he had to be dressed and tended\nlike a child. He was laced in stays to keep him erect, and was so\nsmall that at table it was necessary to place him in a high chair. Dr.\nJohnson says that \u201chis legs were so slender that he enlarged their\nbulk with three pair of stockings, which were drawn on and off by the\nmaid; for he was not able to dress or undress himself, and neither\nwent to bed nor rose without help.\u201d He wanted help even in the night,\nand would often call up a servant for coffee or for pen and paper; but\nhe was lavish of money to compensate for the trouble he gave, and a\nservant in Lord Oxford\u2019s house once declared that so long as it was\nher business to answer the poet\u2019s bell she would not ask for wages. In\nother respects, however, Pope was absurdly miserly, and one of his\nhabits\u2015\u2015that of writing his verses on the backs of letters and other\nloose leaves and scraps\u2015\u2015got him the nickname of \u201cpaper-sparing Pope.\u201d\nIt was his friend Swift who originated this saying. He was hardly\nthirty when his _Homer_ had gained him an independence, and he set up\nhis own house at Twickenham, though he still passed half his time at\nhis parents\u2019 home at Binfield. Twickenham had the charm of society,\nwhich to Pope was a great solace. Here he gathered a circle of\nadmiring friends; for the place was a kind of centre of literature and\nfashion. Lady Mary Montagu, with whom he fell in love and then\nquarrelled, was his neighbor; Bolingbroke lived at Dawley, and Lord\nBurlington at Chiswick. Fine court people and \u201celegant company,\u201d as he\nwrites, flocked to visit him, and, though he enjoyed it, he seems to\nhave been partly discontented with it. It was the weak protest of the\nhigher nature, dwarfed but not crushed by the lower. His filial piety\nshines out as a redeeming point in his selfish, narrow, loveless life,\nand it never wearied of its prolonged task; for his mother died at\nninety-three (in 1733), at his house, and he mourned her deeply and\ntenderly. Another good and innocent trait was his love of gardening,\nthough it was but the formal, lifeless gardening of his day, when the\ntaste prevailed for grottoes and masonry and clipped trees. He writes\nto Swift: \u201cThe gardens extend and flourish.\u2026 I have more fruit-trees\nand kitchen-garden than you have any thought of; nay, I have melons\nand pineapples of my own growth.\u201d To another friend he writes: \u201cI am\nnow as busy planting for myself as I was lately in planting for\nanother [his mother], and I thank God for every wet day and for every\nfog that gives me the headache, but prospers my works. They will,\nindeed, outlive me, but I am pleased to think my trees will afford\nfruit and shade to others when I shall want them no more.\u201d It is said\nthat Pope introduced the weeping willow into England. The story runs\nthat he discovered some twigs wrapped round an article sent from\nabroad, and planted one of them in his garden. A willow sprang up,\nfrom which numberless slips were taken, some to be planted in England,\nothers to be sent abroad. The old tree died in 1801. Its life seems to\nhave been but a short one. Pope\u2019s grotto still remains, but the rest\nof the garden has been sadly changed and disfigured by partition and\nbuilding. He also made a tunnel under the public road, on each side of\nwhich his property lay. This reminds us of a peculiar tunnel diving\nunder the Parade at Ramsgate, on the Channel, and leading to a grotte\nor series of catacomb-like passages in the chalk cliff overlooking the\nsea. This is on the Pugin property, and there are like galleries, we\nbelieve, a little further, leading from the gardens of Sir Moses\nMontefiore.\n\nRichmond, adjoining Twickenham, is as classic ground in its literary\nassociations. Here Thomson, the author of _The Seasons_, lived for the\ntwelve last years of his life, at a pretty cottage called Rosedale\nHouse, now much altered and enlarged. But the summer-house in the\ngarden remains the same as it was in the poet\u2019s time. \u201cIt is,\u201d says\nMr. Howitt, \u201ca simple wooden construction, with a plain back and two\noutward-sloping sides, a bench running round it within, a roof and\nboarded floor, so as to be readily removable all together. It is kept\nwell painted of a dark green, and in it stands an old, small walnut\ntable, with a drawer, which belonged to Thomson.\u201d A tablet let into\nthe front of the alcove above bears the following inaccurate\ninscription:\n\n HERE\n THOMSON SANG\n \u201cTHE SEASONS\u201d\n AND THEIR CHANGE.\n\nHis famous poem was composed several years before, and begun when he\nhad scarcely a roof over his head. The first part, \u201cWinter,\u201d was\nwritten in a lodging over a bookseller\u2019s shop, to whose master he sold\nthe poem for three guineas. It was neglected until a clergyman,\n\u201chappening to turn his eye upon it, was so delighted that he ran from\nplace to place celebrating its excellence.\u201d Would such simple means be\nenough now to herald a new author, although literature is supposed\nnowadays to be so much more respected and lucrative a calling than in\nthe last century? Before this stroke of luck Thomson had been drudging\nas a tutor, teaching his patron\u2019s little boy of five years old his\nalphabet, and wasting his Scotch university education in such dreary\npursuits. He had been brought up for the Presbyterian ministry, being\nhimself a Scotch minister\u2019s son; but he found himself unfit for that\ncalling, and set out from Edinburgh for London \u201cto seek his fortune,\u201d\nwith a little money and some letters of recommendation tied up in his\npocket-handkerchief. He had no sooner reached London than both were\nstolen, and this misfortune was soon followed by a worse\u2015\u2015the death of\nhis widowed mother. After the happy hit of his \u201cWinter,\u201d however, he\nhad no more trouble; the patrons of literature took him up, his poems\nsold fast, and he completed his _Seasons_, while also throwing off\nminor works, all equally admired by his contemporaries, though not\nequally deserving. His writings were always moral and just; he never\nflatters or plays with vice, and it has been said of him with truth\nthat he never wrote a line which, dying, he would wish to blot. We\nthink the same could be said of Wordsworth. But if private morality\ndid not suffer through him, public laxity in the sphere of politics\ndid; that is, he was innocently part and parcel of a corrupt system of\nplace-giving, irrespective of fitness for the office. It was the vice\nof the age, alike in church and state. He held at different times two\nsinecureships in the gift of government\u2015\u2015one the Secretaryship of\nBriefs in the Court of Chancery, the other the general surveyorship of\nthe Leeward Islands. In his private life he was fortunate; he\ntravelled abroad with Sir Charles Talbot\u2019s eldest son, he visited all\nthe people worth knowing, and was flatteringly received by all, his\nmeans were ample, yet he was not altogether happy. He was crossed in\nlove by a Miss Young, whom he addresses in his poems as Amanda, and\nwho cast him off for an admiral. His love, to judge by his letters,\nwas earnest and true; writing to her during their short engagement, he\nsays: \u201cIf I am so happy as to have your heart, I know you have spirit\nto maintain your choice; and it shall be the most earnest study and\npursuit of my life not only to justify but to do you credit by it.\u2026\nWithout you there is a blank in my happiness which nothing can fill\nup.\u201d His disappointment increased his melancholy, and, indeed, made\nhis faults come into worse relief; but he lived only five years after\nit. Like many whose struggles have not been very hard or lengthened,\nhe believed too much in luck and grew careless and indolent; his\nambition was to live in peace, in luxurious dreams, in easy, social\nfellowship. He was kind but apathetic, and as careless of himself as\nof others, so that, though he had money enough to live more than\ncomfortably, he was once arrested for a debt of seventy pounds. The\nactor Quin, as was often the case with friends of those detained in a\n\u201csponging-house\u201d in those rollicking days when such confinement was\nnot supposed to entail any disgrace, went to see him and ordered\nsupper from a tavern close by. When they had done, Quin said\nseriously: \u201cIt is time now, Jemmy Thomson, we should balance our\naccounts.\u201d The poet, with the instinct of a debtor, supposed that here\nwas some further demand he had forgotten; but Quin went on to say\n\u201cthat he owed Thomson at least \u00a3100\u2015\u2015the lowest estimate he could put\nupon the pleasure he had derived from reading his works; and that,\ninstead of leaving it to him in his will, he insisted on taking _this_\nopportunity of discharging his debt. Then, putting the money on the\ntable, he hastily left the room.\u201d\n\nA ludicrous anecdote is told of Thomson, which, if not true, is\ntypical of his undoubted indolence\u2015\u2015namely, that he would wander about\nhis garden with his hands in his pockets, biting off the sunny side of\nthe peaches that grew upon the wall. He was fond of walking, however.\nLaziness often brings dirt in its train, and Johnson, himself no\nRhadamanthus on this score, calls Thomson slovenly in his dress, while\nother biographers aver that he took care only of his wig. His barber\nat Richmond said he was very extravagant about it, and had as many as\na dozen wigs. One other fault is hinted at: his love of drink, so that\nthe moral poet was not so exemplary in his life as in his works; but\nhe was honest, truth-telling, a good friend and master, as well as a\nclever, imaginative, and cultivated writer.\n\nIt is curious to note how many poets have been bachelors. Gray, too,\nwas one. The son of a well-to-do London citizen, he was sent to Eton\nand Cambridge, and at the latter place spent many years of his later\nlife. He was emphatically a student, rather cold and fastidious in\nmanner, but a devoted son and a true friend. His mother \u201ccheerfully\nmaintained him [at college] on the scanty produce of her separate\nindustry.\u201d He travelled with Horace Walpole, and learned modern\nlanguages in his wanderings, and was one of the first English\nsight-seers at Herculaneum. On his return to England his father died,\nand he and his mother lived at West Stoke, near Windsor, where he\nwrote his famous _Elegy_. One of his early friends, Richard West, son\nof the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, a kindred spirit, learned, young,\nand poetical, but indolent, writes affectionately to Gray: \u201cNext to\nseeing you is the pleasure of seeing your handwriting; next to hearing\nyou is the pleasure of hearing from you.\u201d Soon after the premature\ndeath of his young friend Gray went to live at Cambridge, and ten\nyears later his happy, quiet life was disturbed by the death of his\nmother\u2015\u2015a blow he never recovered. Towards the close of his life,\nthirteen years later, he writes to a friend: \u201cI had written to you to\ninform you that I had discovered a thing very little known, which is\nthat in one\u2019s whole life one can never have more than a single mother.\nYou may think this obvious, and what you call a trite observation. You\nare a green gosling! I was, at the same age, very near as wise as you;\nand yet I never discovered this with full evidence and conviction\u2015\u2015I\nmean till it was too late. It is thirteen years ago, and seems but as\nyesterday, and every day I live it sinks deeper into my heart.\u201d\n\nHis favorite study at Cambridge\u2015\u2015first at Peter-house College, then at\nPembroke Hall, between which places he spent nearly forty years of his\nlife\u2015\u2015was Greek, taking, as he said, \u201cverse and prose together, like\nbread and cheese\u201d; but his only public office was the professorship of\nmodern history, the duties of which he was, through ill-health, unable\nto fulfil. The stiffness of his bearing and fastidiousness of his\ndress made him a favorite butt of the undergraduates, and his real\nattainments, intellectual as well as moral, were wholly powerless to\nrestrain within due bounds that spirit of mischief which the gravest\n\u201cdons\u201d themselves confess to in their own far-off youth and heyday.\nOne of these jokes was the reason of his leaving Peter-house in\nindignation and removing to Pembroke Hall. Gray had a nervous dread of\nfire, and always kept a rope-ladder by him in case of danger. One\nnight the \u201cboys\u201d \u201cplaced exactly under his bedroom window a large tub\nfull of water, and some who were in the plot raised a cry of \u2018fire\u2019 at\nhis door. Gray, terrified by the report of the calamity he most\ndreaded, rushed from his bed, threw himself hastily out of the window\nwith his rope-ladder, and descended exactly into the tub.\u201d The two\nbars to which he fastened his ladder are still to be seen at the\nwindow of the chambers he used. But in later years, when the fame of\nhis scholarship was greater, the men crowded to see him when he walked\nout. \u201cIntelligence ran from college to college, and the tables in the\ndifferent halls, if it happened to be the hour of dinner, were thinned\nby the desertion of young men thronging to behold him.\u201d He is said to\nhave been thoroughly versed in almost every branch of knowledge then\ncultivated. Besides the classics, European modern history and\nlanguages, painting, architecture, and gardening occupied his\nthoughts, and the more modern studies of criticism, political economy,\nand arch\u00e6ology were not forgotten. Metaphysics also were familiar to\nhim. His taste in natural scenery was of a noble kind; mountains and\nheaths were his favorites. When in the Scottish Highlands, he writes\nto a friend: \u201cA fig for your poets, painters, gardeners, and clergymen\nthat have not been among them; their imagination can be made up of\nnothing but bowling-greens, flowering shrubs, horse-ponds,\nFleet-ditches, shell grottoes, and Chinese rails.\u201d\n\nIn that age of artificiality this was a great step forward. Men\naffected to be appalled by the savageness of life away from the\ncapital; they magnified the fleeting, ignoble gossip of their taverns\nand coffee-houses into affairs of sublime importance. A country-house\nto them was a doll\u2019s house, a toy near London, tricked out with\nfantastic imitations of foreign curiosities; a full, healthy, natural\nlife was their horror. But Gray, though of this age, was not of this\nclique; he lived outside the world of fashion and coffee-houses; his\ntravels, and especially his studies, gave his mind a wider range. This\ncannot be said of poor, jovial, unlucky Goldsmith, the jest of\nFortune, the Micawber among poets. There is a wonderful disparity\nbetween his miserable, shiftless life and the fame of his works, both\nprose and poetry. He is one of the most popular of poets and\nnovelists, and his life was one of the most checkered, though\nuniformly unlucky, that ever were. Before he was twenty he wrote\nstreet ballads to earn bread, but was ready to share his pittance with\nany one poorer than himself. One winter night he gave the blankets off\nhis bed to a shivering creature, and \u201ccrept into the ticking to\nshelter himself from the cold.\u201d Never did avarice come near his heart;\nindeed, his indiscriminate charity often brought him into sore\nstraits. He was for two or three years a sizar at Dublin University\u2015\u2015a\nsad position since the old generous days when the church protected and\nencouraged poor students, and foundations that still remain were made\nfor their support. _They_ indeed remain, but the spirit of charity and\nChristian brotherhood that inspired them has gone, and poor scholars\nfind the universities as worldly a place as any other, and have to go\nthrough a fiery ordeal to gain knowledge. At last Goldsmith, goaded by\nthe contempt and insults he met with, even from his tutor, who once\nknocked him down, ran away to Cork with one shilling in his pocket. He\nonce told Sir Joshua Reynolds \u201cthat of all the exquisite meals he had\never tasted, the most delicious was a handful of gray peas given him\nby a girl, after twenty-four hours\u2019 fasting.\u201d Refusing to become a\nclergyman, for which career he felt unfitted, he studied medicine with\nsmall success, though he managed to get a degree after such a tour\nthrough Europe as reminds one of the medi\u00e6val students\u2019 doings. He\nstarted with a guinea in his pocket, one shirt to his back, and a\nflute in his hand. He led village dances on the green, and beguiled\nthe evening hours of the gossips at the village inn, a barn being\noften his sleeping-place. But he had also another resource\u2015\u2015the\nmedi\u00e6val one of supporting theses before the learned faculties of\nforeign universities. Having thus, as it was laughingly said by his\nfriends, \u201cdisputed\u201d his way through Europe, he came back to London,\nstill a beggar, and found a wretched home among beggars in Axe Lane.\nHow often must that tragedy of disenchantment have been played out\nbefore the eyes of those human moths who come to London and other\ngreat centres \u201cto seek their fortune\u201d! For one that swims a thousand\nsink, and each success is built upon the accumulated failures of\nothers perhaps no less intellectually endowed. The weary tramp after\nsituations, the timid offer of services that no one wants, the\ndespairing hint that the lowest wages will be more than welcome, the\ncold dissympathy that need and shabby clothes almost always involve,\nand all this repeated two, three, four times a year, is enough to\nbreak the spirit of any man not endowed with the eagle\u2019s courage.\nThere is hardly much to choose between the miserable avocations which\npoor Goldsmith was driven to take up to keep himself from starving.\nOnce he was a chemist\u2019s assistant in Monument Yard; then a poor doctor\non his own account, in the still poorer neighborhood of Southwark;\nthen, worse than all, an usher (or under-master) in a small school. \u201cI\nwas up early and late; I was browbeat by the master, hated for my ugly\nface by the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never permitted\nto stir out to meet civility abroad.\u201d Then he turned to that most\nuncertain yet fascinating pursuit\u2015\u2015letters, his old love. It barely\nkept him alive; he was dunned and worried; lived in a wretched attic,\nand wore clothes too shabby to go out in, except after nightfall. In\nthese days of brilliant gas-lit shops and streets even that comfort\nwould have been denied him. He was a bookseller\u2019s hack, and wrote to\norder, and was naturally delighted at the chance of an appointment as\nsurgeon on the coast of Coromandel; but this fell through, unluckily\nfor himself, though not for posterity. Goldsmith had a dog, to whom he\ntaught simple tricks, which were as great a vexation to the poor\nanimal as his own troubles were to the master (selfish human beings,\nhow little we follow the lesson. \u2018Put yourself in his place\u2019!), and\nthis faithful companion was a great solace to him.\n\nThe way in which the _Vicar of Wakefield_ was given to the world is\ntoo well known to be more than glanced at. Version and counterversion\nof the scene have been given by Johnson and others; it is pitiful to\nthink that such a book should have depended upon the chance of his\nbeing able to get out to offer it to a publisher. While Goldsmith sat\na prisoner in his own room (it is still shown at Islington, London)\nJohnson took the treasure and sold it for sixty pounds. It is to be\nhoped the author changed his landlady after her behavior to him in\narresting him for his rent; but perhaps she had some provocation, for\nwhen he _had_ money he did not always put it to the wisest purposes.\nOthers, too, must have been either foolishly trusting or deliberately\nkind; for he owed \u00a32,000 at his death, one of the bills being the\nfamous one at his tailor\u2019s for the plum-colored coat made in elaborate\nfashion. \u201cWas ever poet so trusted before?\u201d exclaimed his friend\nJohnson. Among the friends who mourned his premature death (he was\nonly forty-five) were some poor wretches whom out of his own poverty\nhe had helped and befriended.\n\nThe year Goldsmith died, 1774, Robert Southey was born, a man whose\nlife was in all respects different\u2015\u2015shielded, domestic, happy, and\nuneventful. \u201cI have lived in the sunshine,\u201d he says of himself. He\nworked hard and was thoroughly happy, singularly unambitious, but\nimaginative and enthusiastic. He was born at Bristol, and his early\nschool-life and holidays with an eccentric aunt were among his most\ncheerful reminiscences. This old lady, Miss Tyler, was one of those\nexcruciatingly neat housekeepers who make every one about them\nuncomfortable. \u201cI have seen her,\u201d writes her nephew, \u201corder the\nteakettle to be emptied and refilled because some one had passed\nacross the hearth while it was on the fire preparing for her\nbreakfast. She had a cup once buried for six weeks to purify it from\nthe lips of one she accounted unclean. All who were not her favorites\nwere included in that class. A chair in which an unclean person had\nsat was put out in the garden to be aired; and I never saw her more\nannoyed than on one occasion when a man who called on business seated\nhimself in her own chair; how the cushion was ever again to be\nrendered fit for her use she knew not.\u201d Dust was of course her pet\naversion, and she took more precautions against it \u201cthan would have\nbeen needful against the plague in an infected city.\u201d Southey was\nadoringly fond of his mother, from whom he inherited \u201cthat alertness\nof mind and quickness of apprehension without which it would have been\nimpossible for me to have undertaken half of what I have performed.\nGod never blessed a human creature with a more cheerful disposition, a\nmore generous spirit, a sweeter temper, or a tenderer heart.\u201d In all\nthis the happy poet was her counterpart. He went to Westminster\nSchool, then to Balliol College, Oxford, but distinguished himself\nrather by feats of physical prowess than by hard study. He learned to\nrow and swim, and lived a healthy out-door life, as he had done in his\nchildhood when he roamed the country round Bristol with Shad, his\naunt\u2019s servant-boy. Vice and dissipation had no attractions for him,\nthough there were but too many opportunities for self-indulgence at\nthe university. At nineteen he wrote his first epic poem, \u201cJoan of\nArc.\u201d He was an enthusiastic republican, and one of the most eager\nsupporters of the Pantisocracy scheme\u2015\u2015a social Utopia, to be realized\nby a handful of young emigrants, who were to choose some tract of\nvirgin soil in America, and support themselves by manual labor, while\ntheir wives would undertake all domestic duties. Their earnings were\nto go to a common fund, and their leisure hours be spent in\nintellectual exercises. Of course the pleasant dream faded away, and\nthe group of destined companions dispersed; but three of the\nenthusiasts married three sisters at Bath, and some bond of the old\ntime was kept up for many years by this connection. Southey\u2019s marriage\nwas not made public till the return of the bridegroom from Portugal,\nwhere he had promised to accompany his uncle, on the very day his\nmarriage took place. His bride kept her maiden name and wore her\nwedding-ring hung by a ribbon round her neck until her husband came\nback, when she went with him to London, where they bravely lived and\nstruggled on a narrow and uncertain income. He too, like many other\npoets, had refused, from conscientious motives, the prospect of a\ncomfortable provision in the National Church, and preferred to live by\nhis own exertions. The consequence was that he too often lived from\nhand to mouth; yet his home circumstances were so bright that he never\nseems to have been in the same gloomy \u201ccircle\u201d of the literary\n\u201cInferno\u201d as most of his brothers. When he was thirty he settled at\nGreta Hall, Keswick, in the Lake country, among the mountains, and\nthere, incessantly at work with his pen, he refused many a lucrative\noffer which would have drawn him from nature to the distractions of\nLondon life. He was as fond a father as he had been a son, romped and\nplayed with his children, wrote nonsense verses for them, like poor\nThackeray, and yet never neglected their more serious education.\n\u201cEvery house,\u201d he used to say, \u201cshould have in it a baby of six months\nand a kitten rising six weeks.\u201d Once, when invited to London by some\ngreat man, he writes: \u201cOh! dear, oh! dear, there\u2019s such a comfort in\none\u2019s old coat and old shoes, one\u2019s own chair and own fireside, one\u2019s\nown writing-desk and own library; with a little girl climbing up to my\nneck and saying, \u2018Don\u2019t go to London, papa; you must stay with Edith\u2019;\nand a little boy whom I have taught to speak the language of cats,\ndogs, cuckoos, jackasses, etc., before he can articulate a word of his\nown\u2015\u2015there is such a comfort in all these things that _transportation_\nto London seems a heavier punishment than any sins of mine deserve.\u201d\nDuring an absence in Edinburgh he writes to his wife: \u201cWhat I have now\nto say to you is that, having been eight days from home, with as\nlittle discomfort as a man can reasonably expect, I have yet felt so\nlittle comfortable, so great a sense of solitariness, and so many\nhomeward yearnings, that certainly I will not go to Lisbon without\nyou\u2015\u2015a resolution which, if your feelings be at all like mine, will\nnot displease you.\u201d His happy life was as regular as clock-work:\ndrudging, money-making work, reading, _siesta_, poetry, meals, long\nrambles, each had its appointed time, and his days were as full as\nthey were happy. The domestic propensities which worldly men called\nhis ruin and the marrers of his prospects of rank and wealth, were in\nreality what inspired his poetry, and thus made him immortal. His\npoetry belongs to our century, yet such a stride have we made\u2015\u2015we will\nnot say forward in the sense of greater excellence, but in that of\nutter difference\u2015\u2015since his time that we venture to include him in\nthis sketch, reckoning by his birth and early struggles, which after\nall made the _man_, and thus moulded the poet.\n\nMelancholy, unhappy, restless Cowper was, with all the love and care\nhe elicited from good and devoted women, a great contrast to Southey.\nHe was terribly sensitive, clinging, loving, but somewhat weak. The\npicture of the boy of six years old playing with his young mother\u2019s\ndress, pricking the pattern of her gown into paper with a pin, as he\ndescribes himself in the pathetic poem on the receipt of his mother\u2019s\npicture, is a touching and suggestive one; for his mother died when he\nwas a child, and he never forgot her for the fifty remaining years of\nhis lonely life. This portrait was sent to him by a cousin in his old\nage, and he writes thus in answer to the gift: \u201cEvery creature that\nbears any affinity to my mother is dear to me, and you, the daughter\nof her brother, are but one remove distant from her.\u2026 I kissed it [the\npicture] and hung it where it is the last object that I see at night,\nand of course the first on which I open my eyes in the morning.\u2026 I\nremember a multitude of the maternal tendernesses which I received\nfrom her, and which have endeared her memory to me beyond expression.\u201d\nCowper\u2019s house at Olney was not a cheerful one, and his frequent fits\nof madness, or monomania, lasted sometimes for months, and even years.\nThey took the shape of religious despondency about his soul; he was\n\u201conly in despair,\u201d he said, and often attempted to kill himself. His\nsecond mother, who devoted her life to him, the widow of a clergyman,\nMrs. Unwin, saved his life many times over; he could not bear any\nother companion, yet it was part of his delusion that she disliked\nhim. Every one has heard of his fondness for his hares, the first of\nwhich came to him as a chance gift, to save the creature from being\nkilled by a negligent little boy; so at one time he had a large \u201chappy\nfamily\u201d gathered around him, whose hutches, cages, and boxes he amused\nhimself by making. Some of these contrivances were novel and\ningenious. Three hares, five rabbits, two guinea-pigs, a magpie, a\nstarling, a jay, two gold-finches, two canaries, two dogs, a squirrel,\nand a number of pigeons gave him plenty to do, besides his garden, of\nwhich he was equally fond. When he had succeeded in himself making two\nglass frames for his pines, he playfully wrote: \u201cA Chinese of ten\ntimes my fortune would avail himself of such an opportunity without\nscruple; and why should not I, who want money as much as any mandarin\nin China?\u201d Cowper\u2019s friends all had something to do with his poetry.\nHis poem \u201cTo Mary,\u201d in which he notes the constant clicking of her\nknitting-needles, was a tribute to Mrs. Unwin, and many of his early\nverses were suggested by her; the \u201cTask\u201d and \u201cJohn Gilpin\u2019s Ride\u201d\n(written, he says, in the saddest mood, and as a forced antidote to\nthat sadness) were subjects given him by Lady Austen, a warm-hearted,\nimpulsive woman; and his cousin, Lady Hesketh, and her sister\nTheodora, his only love, from whom he was parted in his first youth,\nand who remained single for his sake, inspired some of his tenderest\nand most delicate verses.\n\nLady Hesketh, writing to Theodora from Olney, gives the following\nsketch of their friend\u2019s life in its more tranquil and happy aspect:\n\u201cOur friend delights in a large table and a large chair. There are two\nof the latter comforts in the parlor. I am sorry to say that he and I\nalways spread ourselves out on them, leaving poor Mrs. Unwin to find\nall the comfort she can in a small one, half as high again as ours and\nconsiderably harder than marble.\u2026 Her constant employment is knitting\nstockings, which she does with the finest needles I ever saw, and very\nnice they are\u2015\u2015the stockings, I mean. Our cousin has not for many\nyears worn any others than those of her manufacture. She knits silk,\ncotton, and worsted. She sits knitting on one side of the table, in\nher spectacles, and he on the other side reading to her (when he is\nnot employed in writing), in his. In winter his morning studies are\nalways carried on in a room by himself; but as his evenings are spent\nin winter in transcribing, he usually, I find, does it _vis-\u00e0-vis_\nMrs. Unwin. At this time of the year he always writes in the garden,\nin what he calls his _boudoir_. This is in the garden. It has a door\nand a window, just holds a small table with a desk and two chairs,\nbut, though there are two chairs, and two persons might be contained\ntherein, it would be with a degree of difficulty. For this cause, as I\nmake a point of not disturbing a poet in his retreat, I go not there.\u201d\n\nSo the dreamy, strange, yet often too realistic life of Cowper passed\naway toward the last decade of the eighteenth century, and, like most\npoets, he has left behind him the immortalized memory of the pure and\nnoble women who loved him with the love of a guardian angel. No man\never needed it more, and in this case indeed God tempered the wind to\nthe shorn lamb.\n\n\n\n\nLETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER\n\nFROM THE FRENCH.\n\n\nDECEMBER 12, 1868.\n\nWith the fall of the leaves of autumn the cemeteries become populous.\nThe year 1868, as formerly 183-, will have been fatal to great men.\nBerryer is dead! A great voice silenced. \u201cI shall not, then, see the\nhappiness of France!\u201d he said a little time before his death\u2015\u2015this\nholy death which has worthily crowned the good and noble life of a man\nexceptionally great both as regards the intellect and the heart. How\nall things pass and fade away! Oh! how sad is this world, in which so\nmany separations and farewells are the prelude to the last great\nseparation at death. Violeau, the sweet Breton poet, in writing to his\nfriend Pierre Javouhey, said:\n\n Adieu, toujours adieu! C\u2019est le cri de la terre.\n L\u2019homme n\u2019est que regrets en son c\u0153ur solitaire:\n Le b\u00e2ton voyageur, le voile et le linceul\n Dans l\u2019ennui de ses jours l\u2019ont bient\u00f4t laiss\u00e9 seul!\n\n Adieu, always adieu! It is the cry of earth.\n Man in his lonely heart is all regrets:\n The traveller\u2019s staff, the veil, and [last] the shroud,\n In the weariness of his days, have left him soon alone.\n\nAlone! It is one of the sadnesses of earth. On high is the great\nmeeting again, and the great and eternal happiness!\n\nIt is not only the death of the great orator lamented by France which\nmakes me write to you so sadly, dear; it is that Isa has taken the\nveil, and we are going away. I cannot be so selfish as to consent that\nmy mother should spend a second 1st of January far away from her\nBrittany, which she loves with the same fondness that I love Ireland,\nand I have myself fixed our departure for the 20th\u2015\u2015only a week hence!\nI should like to hold back the sun. We all go to-morrow to Gartan.\n\n_Isa_ is already in heaven; her mother reproaches herself for not\nhaving divined her daughter\u2019s longing, and resigns herself to this\nseparation better than I could have believed possible. It is true that\nLizzy is all that is delightful, and gives up to her the sweet little\nIsa almost entirely.\n\nSarah, the radiant Sarah, came to me yesterday in trouble; her sister\nwrites to her distressing letters. Neither the enchantment of Spain,\nthe brilliant position of her husband, nor the princely state in which\nshe lives are able to satisfy this poor heart, to whom the first\ncondition of human felicity\u2015\u2015_visible affection_\u2015\u2015is wanting. This was\nSarah\u2019s expression. \u201cI understood her at once,\u201d she said. Another\ndisappointed life, unless, indeed, the dear young wife should\ncourageously accept her trial. Will this ardent, simple, and perhaps\ntoo-confiding nature be altogether downcast at finding her hopes\ndeceived, or will she cast herself on God, and serve him in his poor?\nWe must help her to do this, must we not? The P\u00e8re Charles Perraud,\nthe Lent preacher of two years ago, is preaching the Advent at\nSainte-Croix. The _Annales_ quote the following words of P\u00e8re Gratry:\n\u201cIt was this same Charles Perraud, this being so entirely of the same\nnature, his equal in goodness, greatness, and intellect, who during\nthe whole of his short life was his brother and companion-in-arms.\u201d\n\nRead an article by Alfred Nettement on the three La Rochejacquelein.\nMore mourning! Mgr. Pie has presided over the last obsequies of the\nComte Auguste, and Mgr. Dupanloup over those of Berryer. The Comte de\nChambord thus sees those who have remained faithful to him disappear\none by one. This great family of the Bourbons appears to have been\npredestined for the deepest sorrows. Don Carlos is at Paris; he was to\nhave gone to hunt at Chambord, but the death of the Comte de la\nRochejacquelein has made him give up his intention. Spain has had her\n\u201993. The despoiled and exiled Jesuits are come into France. Queen\nIsabella is at Paris. How poor are the times we live in! It seems as\nif every noble enthusiasm were extinct, and the whole world eaten up\nwith the frightful leprosy of selfishness. _Sursum corda!_ Would that\nI could raise them all!\n\nShall I tell you of the immortal festival of the Immaculate\nConception, this glory of our age and of Pius IX.\u2015\u2015become to us an\n_unforgetable_ day since the sacrifice of Isa?\n\nWhat memories! The Mass, the hymns, the crowd that filled the chapel,\nthe betrothed of Christ so beautiful beneath her veil, the sermon, the\nlast kiss, the last embrace, the tears\u2015\u2015all these things cannot be\nnarrated.\n\nDear Kate, let us pray for Ireland.\n\n\nDECEMBER 18, 1868.\n\nI want to write to you once more from this room, where I have so loved\nyou, dear Kate.\n\n_Rorate c\u0153li desuper et nubes pluant Justum._\n\nThrew a rapid glance over an article in the _Union_\u2015\u2015a sort of\ncontrast between Berryer and Lamennais. From the first few lines I\nrecognized the lion\u2019s paw; it is only Alfred Nettement who can write\nthus. What a grievous difference between these two grand figures, and\nwhat an abyss of sadness in these lines: \u201cThe grave-digger asks, \u2018Is\nthere to be a cross?\u2019 M. Bocher answers, \u2018No; Lamennais said, \u2018Nothing\nshall be put over my tomb.\u2019\u201d In the Christian world nothing is talked\nof but an admirable letter of Mgr. Dupanloup upon the Council. I have\nread the letter of thanks of the Holy Father.\n\nKate dearest, I am going away full of serenity and hope, since this\ndeparture is the will of God. We have seen almost everybody; these two\nlast days are reserved for intimate friends. All our preparations are\nmade. Most of the drawing-rooms are already closed, and this gives me\nan impression of mourning. Jack\u2019s desire has been granted: he died\npeacefully yesterday evening while Ren\u00e9 was finishing the prayers for\nthe dying. Thus there is nothing more to keep us. I could not bear the\nidea of leaving this good old man.\n\nMargaret promises me to come from time to time to give a little life\nto this isolated spot and visit Edith, so sorrowful at our departure.\nNothing would be easier, my dear, than to take her to Brittany, or\neven to Orleans; but the doctor is utterly averse to this project, and\nonly undertakes to cure her on condition that she does not quit\nIreland.\n\nEdward at first manifested a sombre despair, but we have succeeded in\ncalming him. The two _Australiennes_, whom we have tamed with so much\ndifficulty, have their eyes full of tears when they look at us.\n\nAdieu dear Kate.\n\n\nDECEMBER 31, 1868.\n\nNo more of balmy Ireland! but still the family, kind hearts, pleasant\nsociety, walks and drives, concerts among ourselves, study, the poor,\nand that which is worth all else\u2015\u2015prayer. Ah! my God, on the threshold\nof this new year I render thee thanks for the so many and great\nbenefits with which thou hast overwhelmed me. How sweet, O Lord! is\nthy love. Bless the church, France, my country, my family. \u201cWhen will\neternity come, in which endless centuries will pass as one day?\u201d\n\nRen\u00e9 wrote to you the morning of our arrival, and told you of the\nChristian calm of our adieux, so full of hope. Is it not a delightful\nand wholly unmerited happiness to have had this long sojourn in\nIreland, when I had not expected to be able to remain there more than\na month at the most?\n\nThree happy things to-day. Kate, Margaret, and Isa are come to me in\nthree letters, which I have just read over again to enjoy their charm.\nMargaret announces a _resurrection_. Lady R\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015, the recluse, whom no\none remembered ever to have met _anywhere_, has been going out for a\nmonth past. I am rejoiced to hear it. I have so much desired it, and\nso often asked it of God. But side by side with this unexpected news\nis a shade\u2015\u2015death; but death smiling, heaven opened, and an angel\ntaking flight from earth to return to God, and to pray for those who\nremain in this vale of tears, where the love of God has spared her\nfrom a lengthened sojourn: our dear little Victoria G\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015, the\ninteresting orphan, is gone to heaven. What would she have done in\nthis world without guide or parents?\n\n Quand on est pur comme \u00e0 son \u00e2ge,\n Le dernier jour est le plus beau![157]\n\nEmmanuel grows, \u201cand is determined to live.\u201d Margaret is admirable in\nher goodness. It is this which I find so attractive in her; there is\nnothing in the world preferable to goodness. Lizzy has been in great\ndistress for some days, her little Isa being threatened with the\ncroup. Poor mothers!\u2015\u2015always anxious and tormented while on earth. O\nthe sorrows of mothers! Nothing touches me more; all my sympathy is\nfor them. They have here below the most immense joys and the most\nheartrending anguish. What happiness must it be to have a child of\none\u2019s own, to pray by his cradle, to consecrate him to God from the\ndawn of his existence, and to see one\u2019s self live again in him!\n\nKate, Kate, I do not tell you how greatly your pages touched me. What\nwishes shall I offer you this evening that I have not offered a\nhundred times before?\u2015\u2015wishes for holiness, happiness in God, and of a\nblessed union in eternity. May every one of your days add a flower to\nyour crown, my beloved!\n\n\nJANUARY 3, 1869.\n\nThe year is begun; shall we see it close? Marcella was most\nparticularly kind and sweet on the 1st of January. I sent to the\nnearest station an enormous package addressed to you, for your chapel\nand poor; have you received it? The _three graces_ put into it some\nbunches of violets. Our Brittany is charming, notwithstanding the\nwinter. Edith has written a long and kind letter; she is regaining her\nstrength. Mistress Annah, whom I asked to send me full details, tells\nme of the amiability of the two children, who are making real\nprogress, and are scarcely to be recognized since the _terrible_\nbrother is no longer there. Adrien takes him to-morrow to a friend who\nhas some business at Paris. You cannot imagine what this child is.\nRen\u00e9 assures me that there is in him the making of a saint. God grant\nit! He frightens me.\n\nPicciola grows and grows\u2015\u2015not only in height, but also in virtue.\nTh\u00e9r\u00e8se and Anna follow her; but, in any case, my darling advances\nwith wonderful rapidity. I have taken up Homer again, whom I am\ntranslating from the open book. How much I prefer reading Bossuet or\nJoseph de Maistre!\n\nLizzy sends me four pages of news\u2015\u2015many particulars respecting Isa the\nsaint and Isa the angel, about the mothers, friends, etc.; but the\nflower of the basket is that Mary Wells has entered a convent. Again\nanother who chooses the better part!\n\nTo-morrow the _Saint of the Seacoast_ is coming here; we shall try to\nkeep her. What an enjoyable life it is in this Brittany, the sister of\nIreland! We have installed with the keeper a blind old man, to whom\nRen\u00e9 reads every day, and who is a model of patience. If his eyes are\nclosed to earth, they are truly open to heaven, of which he speaks\nluminously.\n\nI speak to you but seldom of H\u00e9l\u00e8ne. She lives but for sacrifice, and\nhas entirely broken with the outer world since the day of which Ren\u00e9\ntold you. Every three months a sign of life to her mother. O Gertrude!\n_her_ life is a martyrdom!\n\nGod guard you, dear Kate!\n\n\nJANUARY 12, 1869.\n\nVisit to _M. le Cur\u00e9_ with Picciola. This poor presbytery, close to\nthe church and the resting-place of the dead, reminds me of Lamartine:\n\n \u201cL\u00e0 jamais ne s\u2019\u00e9l\u00e8ve\n Bruit qui fasse penser;\n Jusqu\u2019\u00e0 qu\u2019il s\u2019ach\u00e8ve\n On peut mener son r\u00eave\n Et le recommencer.\n Paix et M\u00e9lancolie\n Restent l\u00e0 pr\u00e8s des morts,\n Et l\u2019\u00e2me recueillie\n Des vagues de la vie\n Croit y toucher les bords.\u201d[158]\n\nWe are reading the Chronicles of Brittany for the instruction of the\nchildren. What quantities of warm knitted articles are made during our\nevenings! The good aunt of _M. le Cur\u00e9_ often comes to our\nmanufactory. She is a very amiable woman, most charitably indulgent,\nsomething of an artist, and enjoys an opportunity for conversation; my\nmother is always pleased to see her. The good _cur\u00e9_ is scarcely ever\nin his presbytery; he is a Breton: and what need I say more?\n\nRen\u00e9 is unwell. He has a superb indifference about his health, and\nthis makes me uneasy. Tell him to suffer himself to be taken care of,\nand to forget the outside world a little. He has a truly apostolic\nsoul\u2015\u2015always seeking out some good to do, and utilizing even his\nmoments of leisure. How far I am behind him!\n\nOur life is become an encampment; and, as Raoul says, we only want\nturbans and bournous to be Arabs altogether. Already there are sounds\nof departure, and yet it is so pleasant here! The _Saint of the\nSeashore_ remained with us two days. \u201cAdieu until eternity!\u201d These\nwords made me start: has she had any warning of death? I have made her\npromise to write to me on the slightest symptom of illness. Picciola\noffered her some violets. \u201cThanks, dear child; I shall guard them\ncarefully and lovingly. I am passionately fond of flowers, because I\nsee in them an emblem, and because all the hearts of men are the\nflowers of the garden of God.\u201d\n\nLetter from Margaret, who is sighing after our next meeting, and\ncomplains of my silence and, what is a more serious matter, of that\nalso of Kate. Marcella writes to you; she is perfection.\n\nDear Kate, here is Isa\u2019s photograph. Is it not herself, with her\ngentle look, full of deep melancholy, and her graceful and dignified\nattitude? Every one here says that she is made to look older than she\ndoes; but to my eyes she is always charming. Her little hands, the\nprettiest that an artist could dream of, can only be guessed at under\nthe well-represented folds of her wide sleeves. Lizzy has just lost\nher father-in-law\u2015\u2015dead from a sudden attack. Would that I could turn\naside all the sadness of a soul so worthy of happiness as hers! I have\nread to Picciola the _Evening Prayer on board Ship_, and feel a sort\nof envy at such emotions. To behold the ocean, and find one\u2019s self a\nsmall and feeble creature between sea and sky, a mere speck in\nimmensity; to see other skies, other shores; to contemplate the\nwonders of the New World, the virgin forests and unknown regions,\nnature in her primitive and magnificent beauty\u2015\u2015all this must enlarge\nthe soul. Distant voyages would indeed be enjoyable, were it not for\nthe departures and farewells.\n\nI salute your good angel, my very dear Kate.\n\n\nJANUARY 22, 1869.\n\nListen to what _my brother_ is reading to me: \u201cLearn to dwell in the\nWound of the Heart of Jesus. Would you develop your desires, and bring\nforth good works? It is the nest of the dove. Do you love meditation?\nIt is the retreat of the solitary sparrow. Do you love tears and\nsighs? It is there that the turtle-dove makes her moan. Are you\nhungry? You will there find the heavenly manna which fell in the\ndesert. Are you athirst? There you will find the fountain of living\nwater which flows out of Paradise, and sheds itself abundantly in the\nheart of the faithful.\u201d\n\nKate dearest, my heart is always with you. We shall be at Orleans on\nthe 1st of February. It is a great pity to leave the country, where\neverything is green and flourishing. My brothers wish to go to Paris,\nand I wished very much also to go thither with them; but Ren\u00e9 has\nasked me to employ the money that this journey would have cost in\nclothing a whole family from the South, just arrived here in a\npitiable condition. To refuse would have been to show myself unworthy\nof him or of you. Thus our meeting again is indefinitely postponed. A\nsaint once said: \u201cNot to do good enough is to do a great harm.\u201d\n\nAnna, the attractive Anna, is feverish again, and it is partly on her\naccount that my mother presses us to go to Orleans, where we shall\nconsult several physicians. May not our temperature disagree with this\nsouthern flower? What a poor thing is life, in which anxiety is always\nat the side of happiness!\n\nWould you like to have the following from Gertrude\u2019s journal? It was\nwritten at the time when she was beginning to divine H\u00e9l\u00e8ne\u2019s desire:\n\u201cGrant, O my God! that this sacrifice may be possible to us; place my\nchild at a distance from her cup of sorrow, take her in the morning of\nher life, all white, young, fair, loving, and beloved, my God\u2015\u2015so\nardently and piously beloved!\u201d\n\nRead _Alix_, a beautiful book by Mlle. Fleuriot. It is a book which\ngives one repose\u2015\u2015a story of our Brittany: Paula, Mme. de Guenharic,\ntwo strong-minded women, the Beatitudes, so attractive, the grave\nRaymond, the fiery Tugdual, interested me intensely. Then this\nbeautiful and poetic Alix, the lily of Goasgarello, too early plucked;\nthis sweet young girl who was too well loved to die\u2015\u2015how much her\nstory touched me! And this book is fact. Alix personifies the lily of\nSt. Brieuc, the beloved pupil of Mlle. Fleuriot, the chosen one of her\nheart. Ah! how death is everywhere snapping the purest affections.\n\nPicciola spends part of her recreation-time with _The Children of\nCaptain Grant_. She praised the book so much that it made me wish to\nread it, and truly I find it full of interest from beginning to end.\nWhat a talent for description and contrasts!\n\nDear Kate, pray for us and for Anna, that there may not be another\nviolent separation. My mother is writing to you. I have news of\nMargaret from Lord William, who is like another brother to us.\n\nI have made Marcella, who did not know any of Lady Georgiana\nFullerton\u2019s works, read _Ladybird_. This book has astonished our dear\nItalian, because she did not expect to find in it so much powerful\nemotion, but she considers it admirably written and only too painfully\nprobable. The beautiful Gertrude\u2015\u2015a noble intellect, but entirely\nwithout direction\u2015\u2015who through so many storms preserves her purity;\nthe father devoid of affection; the Spanish mother, consumed by\nsuffering, but whose mind would have exercised so powerful an\ninfluence over that of her daughter; M. d\u2019Arberg, a hero and martyr of\nChristian self-devotion; the angelic Mary, whose gentle character\nbeams throughout all the narrative like a reflection of heaven\u2015\u2015all\nthis is interesting, perhaps far too much so. Ren\u00e9, to whom I\nmentioned Marcella\u2019s impressions, said in answer: \u201cI do not like these\nexciting dramas, but rather such readings as give rest to the mind,\nand I can understand what St. Augustine meant by saying that he could\nnot enjoy any book in which there was not to be found the name of\nJesus. \u2018The name of Jesus is a name of delight,\u2019 says St. Bonaventure;\n\u2018because, meditated upon, it is nourishment; uttered, it is sweetness;\ninvoked, it is an unction; written, a reparation of our powers, and in\nall that we do it is a guide and support.\u2019 St. Philip Neri also says:\n\u2018The name of Jesus pronounced with reverence and love has a particular\npower of softening the heart.\u2019\u201d Dear and beloved sister, _pax vobis et\nnobis!_\n\n\nJANUARY 29, 1869.\n\nThe corridors encumbered with packages, the windows without\ncurtains\u2015\u2015everything shows that we are going away. Anna constantly has\nthis fever, and the poor mother a sword in her heart. The twins pray\nearnestly, our poor make novenas. How impatient I am to be at Orleans!\nThe good doctor from Hy\u00e8res, the devoted friend of Marcella, will be\nthere also on the 3d, to give his opinion respecting the dear child\u2019s\nstate. May God be with us!\n\nHave been out with Ren\u00e9. Marcella never leaves her daughter. My\nsisters are busy with their children. Gertrude helps my mother in her\ncorrespondence. Visits to our dear neighbors who do not move about.\nThe _Southerns_ are installed in a tolerably comfortable cottage, the\nfather has found some work, the young daughters will be employed as\nneedle-women by our kind neighbors and in the village; all is\nsatisfactory with regard to them. Edward writes heartrending letters\nto his good friend Ren\u00e9. He declares that he will run away, and other\nthings of the same sort. Pray for this little volcano, dear Kate.\n\nA letter from Karl, whose first steps in the priesthood are rewarded\nby joys truly celestial. Oh! what grandeur is in the sacerdotal life;\nbut also what sacrifices. I forgot at the time to tell you of a visit\nwe paid the old English _Homer_, whose daughter was the involuntary\ncause of Margaret\u2019s trouble. Oh! how beautiful she is. Tall, _very_\ntall, with black eyes full of mental vigor, luxuriant hair, remarkable\npurity of diction. Another flower for the cloister. Will not so many\nexcellent souls obtain the redemption of England?\n\nKate dearest, with you I ask of God: _Trahe me post te_; or rather I\nwould say. _Trahe nos._ A thousand kisses.\n\n\nFEBRUARY 10, 1869.\n\n\u201cMy son, let not thy soul give way beneath the labors which thou hast\nundertaken for me, neither suffer thyself to be discouraged by\naffliction, but at all times let my promise strengthen and comfort\nthee.\u201d Ren\u00e9 has just read me these words, by way of consolation for\nMarcella\u2019s departure. Alas! yes; she left us yesterday, very\ntearfully, with the doctor. She will again inhabit her ch\u00e2let. I would\nwillingly have offered her the one consecrated by the death of Ellen,\nbut this association! Anna is so pale and weak, apparently undermined\nby the fever which never quits her. The doctor shook his head in a\nmanner which did not augur hopefully. I questioned him apart. \u201cYou\nhave carried away this pretty little one from us too soon, madam,\u201d he\nsaid. \u201cShe needs the sun, the Mediterranean, the orange-trees, and the\nperfumes of the South. I do not conceal from you that I greatly dread\nfor her the isolation in which she will shortly find herself.\u201d I was\ndreading it also. Ren\u00e9 had an inspiration: \u201cIf Madeleine were to go as\nwell?\u201d \u201cThe graceful young girl who always looks at me with tears in\nher eyes?\u201d \u201cThe same.\u201d \u201cIf you will believe the testimony of my\nmedical experience, monsieur, this child is also threatened.\u201d I could\nnot restrain a cry of pain: \u201cO my God! my God!\u201d \u201cPardon me, madam,\u201d\nsaid the good doctor; \u201con no account whatever would I afflict the\nfamily of Mme. de Clissey, but if you love this pretty creature, do\nnot keep her here.\u201d\n\nI was obliged to make a strong effort over myself to conceal the\nterrible impression these words had made upon me. I obtained from the\ndoctor, who wanted to start immediately, a few days\u2019 delay. God aided\nme, dear Kate. Lucy, who is just now very much indisposed, suggested\nthat Edward should accompany Marcella, and, as Anna was inconsolable\nat leaving us, Berthe confided her daughter to the care of Lucy. The\n_four_ set out to-morrow; see how our home-party is lessened. You will\nperhaps wonder that we are not all going to Hy\u00e8res. My generous mother\nhad thought of it; but, besides the fatigue she feels, notwithstanding\nher green old age, from these frequent changes of place, her sons have\nimportant reasons for passing the winter here, and I cannot leave her,\neven for Marcella. Moreover, my purse is quite exhausted, and I shall\nfind it necessary to be rigorously economical in order to provide for\nthe needs of my poor. I have been considering what retrenchments I\ncould make in my own expenses. What do you advise me, dear Kate? I am\nafraid of mistaking superfluities for necessaries.\n\nYou can understand the grief of my heart. Marcella and I were as one\nsingle soul, and this morning, in my meditation, I was considering\nwhether I had not loved her too much, and sacrificed more useful\noccupations to the pleasure of being with her. I spoke about it to\nRen\u00e9, my other conscience. \u201cI do not think so,\u201d was his answer.\n\nLet us pray for the travellers, dear and excellent Kate.\n\n\nFEBRUARY 20, 1869.\n\n Comme un agneau cherchant le serpolet qu\u2019il broute\n Laisse un peu de sa laine aux buissons de la route,\n Sur le chemin des jours est-il un voyageur\n Qui ne laisse en passant un d\u00e9bris de son c\u0153ur?[159]\n\nMargaret writes to me, regretting Marcella for my sake, and promising\nto spend the summer with us. Marcella sends me beautifully long\nletters every day, so that I am, as it were, present with her in her\ndaily life. In order that Anna may not be fatigued, the party makes\nlengthened halts; the doctor is like a father to the poor little one.\nLucy is installed, charmed to have Picciola. You understand that the\ndear and devoted Lucy is in our secret, and is going to attend\ncarefully to this other beloved invalid. But Lucy is so lively; she\nhas no experience, none of that sorrowful experience which gives one\nthe habit of taking care of others, and therefore, in order to be\nquite at ease, I am sending Marianne, whom I have temporarily replaced\nby a young Bretonne. Will it not be better thus? And, then, I can\ncount upon the doctor. Pray and get prayers for us, dear Kate!\nPicciola has been growing too fast. Berthe has not the shadow of a\nsuspicion; she has seen in this an opportunity of doing good, and also\nof preparing the twins for the sacrifice which circumstances may\ndemand of them later on. Teresa occupies her thoughts by study; the\ngood _abb\u00e9_ is alarmed at her progress. Alix and Margu\u00e9rite are\ncharming; but where are the absent? I do not like empty places.\n\nThe _Annals_ publish some letters on the Catechism by Mgr. Dupanloup.\nThey are the most delicate and beautiful revelations, and show in all\nits excellence this apostolic soul. He depicts in his unique style his\nemotions as catechist at Saint-Sulpice, and we find here that love of\nsouls, and especially of the souls of children, which has produced his\nfinest pages upon education. There is an admirable passage upon Albert\nde la Ferronays, speaking of his fervor. And then the great bishop\nreturns to the subject of this child grown into a young man, and\nassisted by him in his last moments: \u201cHe had been always faithful.\nPossessing a mind full of vivacity, and the most tender of hearts, he\nkept them both in subordination, giving them only to God and to a\ncreature angelic as himself whom he met with on his way and married in\nItaly. She did not then belong to the Catholic Church, but, being led\nonward and persuaded by the virtues and example of her husband, and\nperhaps also by sorrow, she made her first communion by the death-bed\nof Albert, who thus had the ineffable and supreme consolation of\nmaking his last communion together with her whom he had loved best\nupon earth.\u201d He adds that \u201cthese two souls were like two angels, and\nan apparition in this world of the beauty of heaven.\u201d The P\u00e8re\nMeillier, Superior of the Lazarists of Angers, is preaching the\nstation at Sainte-Croix, and the P\u00e8re de Chazournes, author of the\nadmirable life of the P\u00e8re Barrelle, preaches at St. Paterne.\n\nBenoni is charmingly beautiful. I make him pray for our invalids, and\ngo myself daily to Notre Dame des Miracles. Oh! surely no more death,\ndear Kate.\n\n\nFEBRUARY 27, 1869.\n\nOur Italians have again found their beautiful sunshine, and for two\ndays past Anna has had no fever, and Picciola is less pale. Marianne\nhas been charged to send me every three days an exact bulletin of\nevery hour and every minute. The devoted attention of the doctor is\nunequalled; he regulates everything, meals, sleep, and the times of\ngoing out. Marcella says, \u201cThis man is to me, as it were, an\napparition of Providence.\u201d Think how she must suffer, especially when\nshe reflects that so long a sojourn in the North has been injurious to\nthe delicate chest of her child. Oh! I cannot believe it, when she has\nso much loving care. Alas! what can affection do. Just now I was told\nabout Madame de C\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015, left a widow a year ago, whose husband was\ninsane, and who has now lost her child, the only happiness of her\nlife. The angels who take flight are not those who are to be pitied.\n\n\nMARCH 5, 1869.\n\nTolerably good news of the _exiles_. But I have painful forebodings.\nRen\u00e9 gently scolds me for my sadness. Pray for our sick ones, dear\nKate.\n\nThe great poet Lamartine is just dead. Doubtless at his last hour his\nmother\u2019s God, the God of his earliest years, consoled and softened his\ndying moments. Oh! these great minds misled, these sublime dreamers\nwho wander out of the right way, what sorrowful pity they inspire. How\neverything passes away and dies! I was reading this evening that M.\nGuizot, writing to one of his friends, and telling him that he is\nteaching his little children to read, adds: \u201cI know of only three\nlives here below: family life, political life, and Christian life; I\nam leading the first, with the memories of the second, and the hopes\nof the third.\u201d\n\nRead _Anne S\u00e9verin_, by Mrs. Craven, author of the _R\u00e9cit d\u2019une S\u0153ur_.\nThe style is perfect. The angelic women who appear in it, the Catholic\nyouth of Guy, the fragrance of Christian sentiment which pervades the\nimpassioned descriptions of these pages, combine to make them present\na beautiful whole. Mme. Bourdon has reproached this work with having\nshown us three generations living by love alone; she recalls the\nanswer made by Alexandrine when reminded of the happy days she had\nspent with Albert: \u201cI no longer think of those days.\u201d Alexandrine was,\nas it were, transfigured by the love of God, and such sacrifices as\nhers are not required of every soul.\n\nDid I tell you of my happiness at again seeing Sainte-Croix? I prefer\nour cathedrals of stone to the most beautiful churches of Italy,\nalways excepting Saint Peter\u2019s at Rome. It is so calm, so solemn, so\nCatholic! I cannot resist the pleasure of transcribing for you a fine\npassage by the eloquent Abb\u00e9 Bougaud, in one of his discourses, I do\nnot now remember which: \u201cThere is in the grandeur of Christianity at\nOrleans, in the touching beauty of its influence, in its permanent\nunion with the destinies of the city, a monument which speaks more\nthan any words. Whether Orleans was reached, as formerly, by ascending\nthe Loire by steamboat, or whether, as now, by descending upon it on\nthe railway, the first objects which attract observation are the\nspires and towers of Sainte-Croix. They have changed in form and\naspect, and have been by turns ogival, romanesque, perhaps\nByzantine\u2015\u2015splendid always. In the full Middle Ages they were called\nby a historian \u2018the eighth wonder of the world,\u2019 and still, at the\npresent time, whoever has seen them once loves to see them again, and\nwhithersoever our studies, our reveries, or business take us, we never\nfail to return to them with pleasure or to salute them with emotion.\nPlace near to this grand basilica, like two satellites, St. Euverte on\nthe one side, with the tombs of its ancient bishops and its triple\ncemetery, Gallo-Roman and Christian, and on the other St. Aignan, with\nits precious relics, borne at times on the shoulders of kings, and its\ncrypt, visited by all Christendom, and you will have some idea of what\nChristianity has been at Orleans, or, if you like it better, what\nwould have been wanting to this city had not Christianity been there\nwith its mysterious beauty and its touching influence. Throughout the\nwhole of this edifice, constructed at a period when men no longer knew\nhow to build anything similar, in this cathedral, which must have cost\nefforts so prodigious, and which has been so justly called \u2018the last\nof the Gothic cathedrals,\u2019 appear engraven in indelible characters the\ntwo qualities which make the glory of Orleans, _Fidelity and\nCourage_.\u201d\n\nI do not talk to you about the sermons, not having been able to go and\nhear any at present. We have all had severe colds on the chest. My\nlife is quite changed since I no longer have Marcella and Picciola.\nPerhaps I have been wrong to give up my heart in this manner. Oh! but\nthen it is because the heart is so vast. Happy they who have asked God\nalone to fill it! This is what I say in my sadness, and it is wrong,\nsince God\u2019s goodness and mercy to me have indeed been marvellous. O\ndear Kate! if separation from a friend is so painful to me, what,\nthen, would it be if Heaven were to deprive me of the sweet and strong\nsupport which it has bestowed? How much I hold to this world! Scold\nme, dearest, but love me.\n\n\nMARCH 10, 1869.\n\nYou have _wound me up_ again, dear sister; a thousand thanks. Oh! how\ncowardly I was; I was afraid of suffering\u2015\u2015that friend of the\nChristian, that visitor from God, that messenger from eternity!\n\nFour letters: first, Marcella, who blesses Providence for the\nimprovement of her child\u2015\u2015the fever has disappeared; second, Picciola,\nmy delicious flower, who says to me the prettiest things in the world;\nthird, Margaret, who is counting the days by the side of Emmanuel\u2019s\ncradle; fourth, Edith, who feels herself stronger. By the way, the\nfiery Edward is becoming reasonable; his professors entertain the best\nhopes in his regard. Marianne wrote to me yesterday. She is not yet\nreassured respecting our sick child. You may imagine what precautions\nare taken to be careful about her without her knowledge. Dear, sweet\nlittle soul! she spends all that her purse contains for the benefit of\nthe indigent. The amiable colony writes to us _en masse_. Nothing can\nbe prettier than these _gazettes_. I had thought of sending them to\nyou, but my mother makes them her daily reading. Edouard herborizes,\ncomposes music, sings, occupies himself with history, _rocks the\nbabies_\u2015\u2015that is to say, he amuses and plays with the children.\nMarcella organizes parties of poor people, gives lessons to two young\ngirls without fortune who have been recommended to her by the doctor.\nLucy is at the head of the household affairs; arranges and regulates\neverything with her graceful vivacity, and heartily enjoys this\npleasant life. Anna and Picciola (according to the same chronicle)\nstudy a little and amuse themselves much. Gaston is becoming a man.\nThen we have details, incidents, stories about birds, flowers, lambs,\nchildren. Edouard, the _editor_, assures us that our presence alone is\nwanting to complete the charms of the South.\n\nGertrude has entered the Third Order of St. Francis. The days are not\nlong enough for the duties she has created for herself; there is not a\nsingle pious work with which she is not in some way connected; she\nwrites and receives innumerable letters, and spends, without\nreckoning, her gold, her time, and her heart. With all this, she is\nalways serene; never is there a shadow on her beautiful brow, never a\nsorrowful glance towards the past. Adrien is even more ardent than\nshe, if that could be possible; there is no kind of sacrifice which\nthey do not both make for the good of souls. A few days ago, on\nentering Gertrude\u2019s room, I observed that her time-piece, which is a\nvaluable work of art, had disappeared, and remarked upon it to her.\nShe blushed, and turned my attention to other things. I have since\nlearnt from Ren\u00e9 that this time-piece has been sold to a rich\nEnglishman, and its price sent to the missions. No more expensive\ntoilets, no more amusements, no more frivolous expenses. Gertrude does\nnot even see any more the things of which she once was fond. I suspect\nthat Adrien also has joined the Third Order.\n\nThe name of Johanna does not often occur in my letters, nor yet that\nof Paul. This is unjust, for both of them love my Kate. You will be so\ngood as to pray especially for this sister of your sister on the 15th\nand the 20th. Margu\u00e9rite, Alix, and Th\u00e9r\u00e8se, the tall and serious\nTh\u00e9r\u00e8se, scarcely ever leave me. And how pretty also is Jeanne when\nshe sends kisses to Madame Kate! O youth! how sweet a thing thou art,\nwith one\u2019s family and country.\n\nI wept with you for the Prince Royal of Belgium. The thought of\nPicciola makes me forgetful of many subjects when I write to you. \u201cBy\nas many languages as a person knows,\u201d said Charles V., \u201cso many times\nhe is a man.\u201d \u201cBy so many times as any one is a father,\u201d adds some one\nelse, \u201cso many times over does he live.\u201d In reading the account of\nthis death, I thought of all the hearts who are weeping or who have\nwept by a cradle from whence a life has fled.\n\nThe beatification of Madame Elizabeth is under consideration. The\nCathedral of Orleans possesses a treasure which may soon become a\nprecious relic, an alb in _guipure_ which was formerly a\n_robe-de-f\u00eate_ worn by the pious princess. At Notre Dame des Doms at\nAvignon is preserved a chasuble made out of the last dress worn at the\nConciergerie by Marie Antoinette. Paul and Johanna have seen this\nchasuble.\n\nCould you have fifty Masses asked for at Notre Dame des Victoires,\ndear Kate, on behalf of my mother? We are getting some said almost\neverywhere.\n\nMay the blessings of Jesus and Mary be with you!\n\n\nMARCH 15, 1869.\n\nRen\u00e9 is writing to you, and, quick! here I am, dearest. Good news from\neverywhere. My correspondence is inexhaustible. I attended yesterday\nupon a worthy man, somewhat peevish, who declared to me that I was\n_clumsy_. I begged his pardon for it. The fact is he suffers fearfully\nfrom a cancer in the leg. And he is poor, with a family! It was my\ngood angel who led me thither; no one visits them, and they are so\nembittered by misfortune that pity is, to them, insupportable. I took\nMargu\u00e9rite and Alix with me this morning, and they were so sweet and\namiable that I obtained permission from the peevish man to do whatever\nI like. And plenty there is to be done! The most indispensable things\nhave been sold. Pray for these unfortunates, dear Kate, and receive my\ntenderest affection.\n\n\nMARCH 19, 1869.\n\nCommunion at St. Paterne, where there was a multitude. Beautiful\nsinging. The organ, and a little exhortation by the P\u00e8re de Chazournes\nfor the closing of the Paschal retreat. On returning, great joy; a\nlittle child is born to us, and to us a son is given. Johanna is doing\nwell. Paul is in transports. The house is upside down.\n\nJeanne is asking to see the angel who brought her brother. At eleven\no\u2019clock, to do honor to Saint Joseph, I took the young ones to\nSainte-Croix, then to the Calvaire and Recouvrance. There was in the\ntwo latter churches exposition of the Blessed Sacrament. A profusion\nof flowers and lights, and an unwonted splendor, which delighted me, I\nhad so much to ask, so much to pray for. Pray with us, dear Kate, for\nthis pretty innocent who is just arrived, that he too may become a\nsaint!\n\nGertrude\u2019s forgetfulness of self is admirable. Berthe and Johanna\nwonder unceasingly at her disinterestedness and detachment from this\nworld. Little by little she despoils herself of all worldly\nsuperfluities; sells her jewels one after another, her collections\nalso, of which, some time ago, she was _fanatically_ fond. Kate, in\nher place I think I should be dead. I should never console myself, if\nI were a mother without children. And what a mother she is! If you\ncould only see her by the cradle of the little new-born babe, or when\nshe is teaching anything to the other children! What sweetness of\nlanguage! What tenderness of expression! Ah! poor broken heart which\nhas twice given up its universe. God is with her!\n\nMy cross man has consented to change his lodging; and now they are\ninstalled, eight in number, in a healthy and airy street, where I have\nfurnished three small rooms. The new abode is bright in its\ncleanliness; the mother wept for joy on entering it. The poor man, who\nstill shows some repugnance to my attentions, was carried thither. His\nwound is frightful. I have found work for the young daughters, and the\nlittle ones go to the Christian Brothers. The mother, worn down by\ngrief and privations, with her sight weakened by weeping, is incapable\nof any employment. Th\u00e9r\u00e8se helped me to install them, and we shall go\nand see them frequently. That which I am most anxious about is to draw\nthem nearer to God.\n\nPicciola is no better; Anna is very well. Let us continue to pray! All\nthat I do, thoughts, prayers, actions, go to one end\u2015\u2015these two cures.\nShall I be heard?\n\nFound in the _Annals_ a good article on \u201cEug\u00e9nie de Gu\u00e9rin.\u201d The\nflower of it is this: \u201cThere is an interior and private literature;\nthis is as superior to the other as the soul is to the body; it is\nthat of Eug\u00e9nie de Gu\u00e9rin. This literature of the heart has pages\nwhich no other can ever equal. It [the _Journal_] is an attractive\nbook, and one of the best which could be offered to the human soul. It\nbears a double character of mystery and of intimacy which centuples\nits value. What pleasure the reader finds in believing himself also\nregarded in the light of a confidant! To have this intimate secret is\nto live alone with the writer; it is to have a species of love which\nis charmed with what is whispered into the ear, and with what it\nconfidentially answers itself. The soul of Eug\u00e9nie de Gu\u00e9rin truly\nresembled the first created by God, a _living soul_, taking from and\ngiving to all things around her that life whose divine fire she\npossessed in the highest degree. It was a soul open to heaven, a\n_winged soul_, which rested a moment upon all things in succession,\nbut always to rise again towards heaven, singing like the lark, or\nelse moaning like the dove.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe faith which penetrated all the faculties of Eug\u00e9nie de Gu\u00e9rin,\u201d\nsays M. Nicolas, \u201chad in it nothing romantic, nothing dreamy, nor even\nideal; it was a clearly defined and positive faith, the faith of a\ngood woman in a nature of the highest distinction; it was the nature\nof a child and of a bird, springing and warbling, gathering all the\nhappiness it met with, and carrying it home to be enjoyed in its nest.\nThe sorrow in which she was plunged by the death of Maurice was\nextreme. This sorrow arose, as it were, from its bed and beat upon her\nfaith as the sea beats upon its shores. But her _Journal_ was\neminently secret; she there freely poured out, in the bosom of God\nalone, the grief which she restrained within herself before men. This\n_Journal_ was to her a Garden of Olives, where she went apart to\nfaint.\u201d\n\nKate dearest, I will no longer disturb your solitude but with a joyful\n_Alleluia_. All here love you dearly, beloved sister of my life.\n\n\nTO BE CONTINUED.\n\n\n [157] When one is pure as at her age\n The last day is the fairest.\n\n [158] \u201c_There_ never stirs a sound which inspires thought.\n One can carry on a reverie to its end, and over again.\n _There_, near the dead, Peace and Melancholy make their\n abode, and the meditative soul, amid the waves of life,\n believes itself close upon the shore.\u201d\n\n [159] \u201cEven as a lamb, seeking the wild-thyme on which he\n browses, leaves a little of his wool on the bushes along his\n way, so, on the pathway of life, is there a wayfarer who\n leaves not as he passes some fragment of his\n heart?\u201d\u2015\u2015Violeau.\n\n\n\n\nMODERN MELODISTS.\n\nSCHUBERT.\n\n\nIn the present day, when all musicians, from the purveyor of the\n_op\u00e9ra bouffe_ to the composer of sacred music, rival each other in\nattempting the style which has immortalized Schubert, the time appears\nopportune for studying the works of the principal melodists. In\ndefault of other merit, we may at least lay claim to that of\nnovelty\u2015\u2015if, indeed, novelty can have any value when every one is\nmaking it his boast. Even Scudo,[160] the only writer who has devoted\na few pages to Romance music, has contrived not to say a word about\nSchubert and the German masters, although, on the other hand, he has\nthought well to enumerate productions that have fallen into permanent\noblivion.\n\nEvery people has its popular songs, its religious hymns and canticles,\nits ballads and romances; but of all these, three principal streams\nare easily distinguishable\u2015\u2015three great melodic currents, from which\nflow all the rest. These are, firstly, the German _Lied_, to which\nbelong all the Scandinavian, Hungarian, and Sclavonic ballads; then\nthe Italian _canzona_, the primitive type of the music of Southern\nEurope, and which has apparently some affinity with the _seguidilla_,\nthe _bolero_, the _jota_, and _malague\u00f1a_ of Spain\u2015\u2015picturesque\nromances, on which is perceptible, in some indescribable manner, an\nArabic impress; and, lastly, as the centre of the intermediate\ncurrent, the French _chanson_, which, though less profound than the\nGerman _Lied_, is nevertheless more true and more emotional than the\nbrilliant vocalizations of Italy and Spain.\n\nHow different have the destinies of these three currents proved!\nWhilst the German stream has flowed on from age to age, enriched in\nits course by genius and learning, in Italy and France the melodic\ncurrent, being isolated, has been gradually dwindling to a mere\nthread, at last disappearing altogether. Not that the French _chanson_\nwas by any means without its characteristic merit; a charming\nsimplicity, a gentle melancholy, marked its earliest beginnings, and\nit preserved these characters from the old melodies of Thibaut de\nChampagne and the _no\u00ebls_ of the middle ages to the _chansons_ of\neighteenth century. But after this development of a too prolonged\ninfancy it found an inglorious end at the hands of the vulgar\nsongmakers of the nineteenth century. The simplicity of the past now\nbecame insipidity, and the _Am\u00e9d\u00e9e_ of Beauplan and the productions of\nLo\u00efsa Puget obtained a success at which future times will stand\namazed.\n\nThe destiny of the Italian _canzona_ was the same. Its palmy days were\nthose of its infancy, and the innumerable romances which are now to be\nheard, from the Gulf of Genoa to the Lido, and from the Alps to the\nBay of Naples, weary the ear of the wondering traveller. Fertile in\nits barcarolles of _Viva la Francia_, _Viva Garibaldi_, _Santa Lucia_,\nItaly has no need to envy France her Beauplan and Mlle. L. Puget.\n\nBut whilst the _romance_ and the _canzona_ were thus dwindling away,\nthe _Lied_ was mounting to a marvellous height. \u201cThe combined work of\nthe greatest poets\u2015\u2015of Klopstock, Schiller, and Goethe\u2015\u2015and of the\ngreatest musicians\u2015\u2015Haydn, Mozart, Gluck, Beethoven, Weber,\netc.\u201d[161]\u2015\u2015it followed, step by step, the progress of the art, and,\nassimilating to itself each fresh conquest of musical science, it\nacquired, as years went on, increasing richness of harmony and power\nof rhythm.\n\nIt is this style only which merits a careful study. Leaving,\ntherefore, to the learned the care of drawing from oblivion those rare\nFrench and Italian songs which are worthy to be rescued, we proceed at\nonce to the consideration of the German _Lied_, and, without seeking\ninto its beginnings or following its development, we will take it at\nits apogee\u2015\u2015namely, when it attained, with Schubert, that perfection\nof beauty which cannot be surpassed.\n\nSchubert is essentially a lyric genius. Great developments are foreign\nto his nature; with a few touches he traces the ideal which has\nappeared to him, but these few strokes suffice to produce a work of\nimperishable beauty.\n\nVenturing little into public, Schubert, whose timidity was equal to\nhis extreme sensibility, led a quiet and uneventful existence; but,\nlike the \u00c6olian harp, the soul of the lyric poet vibrates to the\nslightest breath. Needing no inspiration from outward events, it is\nmoved from within by every variety of feeling. It was in the heart of\nSchubert that the tempests raged which make us tremble; there breathed\nthe sighs of love, and thence arose the wailings of despair. There\nalso he found the sweet sunbeams, the fresh wind, and all the\nfragrance of the spring. Accustomed to live within himself, he took\npleasure in analyzing his own impressions, which he confided to a\njournal, the greater part of which is unfortunately lost, but the few\nfragments that remain abound in deep thoughts.\n\nWe will quote a few of these confidential lines, which will form the\nbest introduction to the immortal songs which he has left us, as well\nas the best commentary upon them:\n\n\u201cSorrow,\u201d he writes, \u201cquickens the understanding and strengthens the\nsoul; joy, on the contrary, renders it frivolous and selfish.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy works,\u201d he says elsewhere, \u201care the offspring of my intellect and\nmy grief. The world appears to prefer those which my grief alone has\ncreated.\u201d\n\nIf we would know what were his thoughts upon faith, we find him\nwriting as follows: \u201cMan comes into the world with faith. It precedes\nby a long distance either reason or knowledge. _To understand, we must\nfirst believe._ Faith is the ground into which we must drive our first\nstake\u2015\u2015the base for every other foundation.\u201d\n\nHe one day wrote to his father: \u201cMy \u2018Hymn to the Blessed Virgin\u2019 has\nmoved the hearts of all: every one seemed to think my piety something\nwonderful. This, I think, is because I never force my devotion, nor\never write hymns and prayers unless I feel a real inspiration to do\nso; for then only is it true devotion.\u201d\n\nOn another occasion he comes home greatly impressed by a magnificent\nquintette of Mozart\u2019s he had just been hearing, and on a stray piece\nof paper writes these words: \u201cThe enchanting notes of Mozart\u2019s music\nare still resounding in me. Thus do those beautiful productions, which\ntime cannot efface, remain engraven in the depth of our souls. They\nshow us, on beyond the darkness of this life, the certainty of a\nfuture full of glory and of love. O immortal Mozart! what imperishable\ninstincts of a better life dost thou implant within us.\u201d\n\nO immortal Schubert! we in our turn may ask, Who shall express the\nemotions evoked by thee in our hearts?\n\nThat which chiefly characterizes the melodies of Schubert, taken as a\nwhole, is their depth of feeling. He is never at a loss to find\naccents which go at once to our hearts. He makes us weep with\nRosemonde and love with Margu\u00e9rite; \u201cThe Erl King\u201d (_Le Roi des\nAulnes_) freezes us with terror, and hurries us on, in spite of\nourselves, towards the mysterious abyss of the legend; in \u201cThe Young\nNun\u201d (_La Jeune Religieuse_) we are made in turn to experience the\nsufferings of the struggle and the final transports of the soul\u2019s\nvictory over sense.\n\nTo know Schubert well, we must see how he has expressed the different\nsentiments of the human heart\u2015\u2015not love and terror simply, but\ninfinite varieties of intermediate and moderate feeling; and in these\nwe shall find, as his common characteristics, grace and brilliancy.\n\n \u201cHaud ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco.\u201d\n\nWho shall sing of love unless he knows its pains? Schubert has felt it\nall\u2015\u2015its timid tenderness, its ardent passion, and it may be its\ndespair. In his \u201cPens\u00e9es d\u2019Amour\u201d are not these six bars the\nunfolding, as it were, of a heart which is opening for the first time,\nlike a bud in the sunshine of a spring morning?\u2015\u2015when\n\n \u201cEden revives in the first kiss of love\u201d\n\n(thus sings yron). A happy dream; a tenderness as shy as it is\ndeep\u2015\u2015were these ever rendered with a more delicate charm?\n\nAfter this sweet and tranquil reverie follows impassioned devotion.\nThe \u201cSerenade\u201d is too well known to require that we should linger over\nit. Who does not recall the appeals of that supplicating voice, and\nthe plaintive answers of the accompaniment?\n\nHow immensely inferior for the most part are the serenades to which\npublic favor has given a celebrity! All the masters of the modern\nItalian school have sung under a balcony; and without going so far\nback as Stradella, whose lovely romance in D minor has nothing in\ncommon with the modern _Lied_, we will say a few words on the\nserenades of _Le Barbier_ and _Don Pasquale_, which appear to be the\nmost extensively known.\n\nThe one addressed by Almaviva to Rosina\u2015\u2015or, to speak more accurately,\nto the public\u2015\u2015seems to us unworthy of Rossini\u2019s reputation. A phrase,\nrather wanting in fulness, some passages for the voice, a few organ\ntouches\u2015\u2015this is all; the whole, however, very well written for giving\nrelief to the fine notes of a tenor. But this is not enough to\nconstitute a _chef d\u2019\u0153uvre_; and probably Rossini was thinking of this\nkind of music when he boasted before Bellini that he wrote from his\nmind rather than from his heart, at the same time assuring the young\nman\u2019s simplicity that this was \u201c_quite sufficient for the worthy\npublic_.\u201d\n\nThe serenade in _Don Pasquale_ is graceful and coquettish. If\nDonizetti intended this declaration of love to be taken merely as a\njest, he has perfectly succeeded.\n\nM. Gounod has written several serenades, without including his\n\u201cAubades.\u201d To speak of the former only, the serenade of Mephistopheles\n\u201cVous qui faites l\u2019endormie,\u201d[162] in _Faust_, is not wanting in\ncharm, though something more incisive would be better suited to an\ninfernal singer. The famous serenade, \u201c_Quand tu dors_,\u201d[163] has less\noriginality than the foregoing, although agreeably written for the\nvoice. It is an excellent vocalization, which, more than once,\nBordogni must have regarded with a jealous eye. It is not until the\n_andante amoroso_ that it expresses anything like passion. As to the\nserenade of the page in _Romeo and Juliet_, it is inferior again to\nits two elders.\n\nTo find a serenade comparable to those of Schubert, we must address\nourselves to Mozart. Who that has heard _Don Juan_ does not remember\nthe marvellous contrast, long since remarked by critics, between the\nmelodious phrase, full of character and tenderness, and the light\naccompaniment which falsifies every word uttered by Don Juan? Love is\non his lips, while mocking indifference is in his heart.\n\nIn the expression of suffering, desolation, and despair we shall find\nthat Schubert is greater still; and mention as examples \u201cRosemonde,\u201d\n\u201cMargu\u00e9rite,\u201d and \u201cLes Plaintes de la Jeune Fille.\u201d The artist,\nfollowing his inspiration, renders the same thought under very\ndifferent forms; he finds in his soul deep and varying shades which\nescape the vulgar and are the marks of true genius. In all these three\nworks Schubert has to express the grief of a forsaken maiden, but with\nwhat consummate art, and yet what truth, he has known how to vary his\naccents! In reading these melodies in the order already named the\nemotion goes on increasing up to the end.\n\nIn \u201cRosemonde\u201d we hear the complaint of a soul which knows the\nsufferings of abandonment, but not the pangs of despair. After an\nintroduction in F major full of sweetness and tenderness, the opening\nof the melody in F minor impresses us painfully; but about the middle\nof each of these strophes the young girl, recovering, with the A\nnatural, the original key, lets us plainly see that she still has\nhope.\n\nMargu\u00e9rite hopes no more. From the very opening we feel troubled by\nthe agitated movement of the accompaniment: it is like the sorrowful\nmurmur of the soul preceding sobs of anguish, and is prolonged still\nfor a moment after the unhappy girl has said for the last time, \u201c_C\u2019en\nest fait; il m\u2019oublie\u2015\u2015l\u2019ingrat que j\u2019aimais!_\u201d[164] What accents of\nabandonment have we here! On the words, _Mes jours sont fl\u00e9tris_,[165]\ngrief swells almost to madness. But Margu\u00e9rite, presently recovering\nherself, retraces the past, and seems to see again her lover. Again\nshe cries:\n\n \u201cPour moi tout va finir.\n Un seul moment reviens encore,\n Un seul moment te revoir et mourir!\u201d[166]\n\nHer suffering has become almost insupportable. She stops, and the\nagitation continues only in her heart. After a few bars she resumes in\na low voice: \u201c_C\u2019en est fait, il m\u2019oublie_,\u201d etc., and the melody ends\non the fifth, then a very new effect, though now frequently employed.\n\nIf, after a short pause, we read the \u201cPlaintes de la Jeune Fille,\u201d we\nare soon under the influence of an entirely different emotion. The\nagitation of the preceding melody is changed for a more self-contained\nbut even more poignant pain. The maiden, ripened by long suffering,\nconfides to the tossing waves the woe which consumes her. A solemn and\nlugubrious phrase escapes her; her words are slow, her sorrow\nfearfully calm. Ten years of tears and contemplation were needed to\nchange Margu\u00e9rite to this.\n\nTo find repose from violent emotions we need not have recourse to any\nother than Schubert, among whose eminent characteristics are those of\nsweetness, gracefulness, and contrasting brilliancy and splendor. From\namong a multitude of admirable melodies we will mention only \u201cLa\nTruite,\u201d \u201cLe Nautonnier,\u201d and \u201cLe D\u00e9part\u201d (\u201cThe Trout,\u201d \u201cThe Sailor,\u201d\nand \u201cThe Departure\u201d).\n\nIn \u201cLa Truite\u201d Schubert unexpectedly finds himself met by a great\ndifficulty. If it be true that people are soon tired of descriptive\npoetry, it is still more incontestable that the descriptive style is\nill suited to music.\n\nWe must make an exception for certain powerful physical effects, such\nas tempest under all its forms; and yet here again what we are most\nsensible of in the storms of Gluck, Beethoven, and Weber is the\ntroubled state of the human mind in presence of the disturbance of\nnature.\n\nOne day, when the genius of the great and good Haydn was taking a nap,\nit came into his head to attempt to express in his _Creation_ the\nroaring of lions and tigers, the swiftness of the stag, together with\nother equally unmusical ideas; he consequently fell into the\ngrotesque. Schubert had to describe the joyous sportings of the trout\n\u201cin its limped crystal.\u201d He had the good taste to trouble himself very\nlittle about it. To find a melodic phrase full of charm and feeling\nwas his first care; and need we say that he succeeded? The light and\ngraceful design of the accompaniment may perhaps remind us of the\ntrout\u2015\u2015\u201cHis graceful dartings and his rapid course\u201d (\u201c_Ses \u00e9lans\ngracieux, sa course volage_\u201d)\u2015\u2015but it is nothing more than a detail of\nthe description which comes merely as an addition to the dominant\nsentiment.\n\n\u201cLe Nautonnier\u201d is the triumphal song of the mariner who, after\nbraving the violence of the tempest, returns safely into port. Rapid\nas the wind which fills the sails of his bark, agitated as the waves\nwhich threaten to engulf him\u2015\u2015such is the rhythm of the two first\nphrases; but soon, with the major and the E flat of the treble, the\nsong of victory bursts forth: man has conquered the force of the\nelements. This is undeniably one of the most vigorous melodies ever\nwritten by Schubert.\n\n\u201cLe D\u00e9part\u201d is a no less powerful production. It is not a little\nsurprising to read, as the title of a song by the melancholy Schubert:\n\u201cLe D\u00e9part: Chant de Joie.\u201d It is, in fact, the song of one carried\naway by a love of change and a thirst for new pleasures\u2015\u2015one who can\nsay with Byron that\n\n \u201cI, who am of lighter mood,\n Will laugh to flee away.\u201d[167]\n\nThis song is remarkable for the proud loftiness of its melodious\nmarch, and for the ardor which impregnates its rhythm. It is a\nwonderful intermingling of carelessness and eagerness, the more\nobservable because it was so rarely that Schubert was called upon to\nexpress feelings too exterior and noisy for his timid and concentrated\nnature.\n\nBeethoven, who had made deep acquaintance with human suffering, and in\nwhose wondrous pages it is expressed with so much power, would\nnevertheless at times sing also his notes of gladness. He built the\nimmensely grand finale of the \u201cSymphony and Chorus\u201d upon Schiller\u2019s\n\u201cHymn of Joy.\u201d\n\nIt is a wondrous hymn! After a splendid opening by the orchestra alone\nfollows the phrase in D major, of antique nobleness and simplicity;\nbut, alas! this moment of interior calm is cruelly expiated. The grand\nphrase is made to undergo successive tortures; after changing into a\nplaint of sorrow, it becomes a cry of despair, almost of madness.\n\nElsewhere again, in the incomparable finale of the Symphony in A,\nBeethoven has sung of joy\u2015\u2015joy carried to its utmost limits of\nenthusiasm and ecstasy. To follow Beethoven in his impetuous course\nproduces an indescribable emotion, less akin to pleasure than to pain,\nsince violent feeling, from whatever cause it may arise, is invariably\nattended by suffering. Excess, whether of joy or love, is pain, very\npure but very penetrating; for it is one of the conditions of our\nhuman nature to be unable to rise on high without suffering here below.\n\n \u201cJamais enti\u00e8re all\u00e9gresse:\n L\u2019\u00e2me y souffre de ses plaisirs,\n Les cris de joie ont leur tristesse,\n Et les volupt\u00e9s leurs soupirs.\u201d[168]\n\nBesides, after the mysterious nuptial march of the Symphony in A can\nwe be surprised that the joy of Beethoven is only a delusion of the\nheart, and beneath this feverish ardor must not some great moral\nsuffering be hidden?\n\nBut we must return from the digression into which we have been led by\nthe consideration of the \u201cChant de Joie,\u201d whose great author, however,\nwould not reproach us for it, being himself a profound admirer of\nBeethoven. We have now to see how Schubert has rendered the sentiment\nof terror.\n\nOnly to name \u201cThe Erl King\u201d and \u201cThe Young Nun\u201d is a sufficient\nreminder of the greatness of this composer in the expression of\ndramatic feeling. These two _Lieder_ are known all over the world;\n\u201cThe Erl King,\u201d more especially, popularized by Mme. Viardot, is one\nof those few melodies of Schubert which have crossed the Alps and\nbecome favorites in Italy.\n\nCriticism has for so long past awarded its admiration to the strangely\nfascinating song of the black spectre and the terrified cries of the\nchild that it would be superfluous to do more than allude to them; but\nit will be well to devote a few lines to the consideration of \u201cThe\nYoung Nun,\u201d which has been very little studied.\n\nIn the first part what an intermingling there is of terror and wild\nlove! Listen to this fragment of two bars, thrice interrupted, more by\nthe storm within the heart than the outward fury of the elements, and\nthrice resumed with a chromatic scale.[169] After the triple\nreiteration of ascendants, three new fragments descend, also\nchromatically, with a bass accompaniment of a lugubrious character,\nand a harmonic sequence expressive of acute distress:\n\n \u201cPartout l\u2019ombre,\n Et la nuit sombre;\n \u2015\u2015Deuil et terreur.\u201d[170]\n\nFrom the depths of this abyss, with the words _souvenir de douleur_\n(remembered pain), which evoke a whole past, there springs up a new\nthought of exquisite tenderness; and here we have a glimpse of the key\nof F major, but only for a moment, the melody falling back into F\nminor.\n\n\u201c_L\u2019orage grondait ainsi en mon c\u0153ur_\u201d (Thus rolled the storm within\nmy heart). Here, for the moment, passion carries the day; the three\ncries of terror, interrupted at the opening, are uttered again, more\nhurriedly, at the remembrance of this distracting love \u201cwhich agitated\nher by day and night,\u201d then a fresh burst of despair recurs in the\nchromatic descent which takes us back to F minor.\n\n \u201cAinsi fl\u00e9trie, ma triste vie se consumait.\u201d[171]\n\nIn this line we hear once more, but for the last time and very softly,\nthe gloomy burden of the bass, immediately after which reappears the A\nnatural, which victoriously restores the key of F major. Light has\nbanished darkness, and life has vanquished death.\n\n\u201c_La paix est rentr\u00e9e \u00e0 jamais dans mon c\u0153ur_\u201d (Peace has returned to\ndwell for ever in my heart), sings the young nun in an inspired voice.\nThis time the triumph is complete. At the words, \u201cDescend, my Saviour,\nfrom the eternal home,\u201d the musical phrase mounts like a thanksgiving\nhymn. The effect is marvellous, and what is not less so is the fact\nthat Schubert has recourse only to the most natural means to produce\nit. A simple change of key, the passage in the major\u2015\u2015a form so\nfrequently insipid\u2015\u2015is, in his hands, invested with a surprising\npower.\n\nAmong the other _Lieder_ of the sombre kind is one deserving especial\nattention\u2015\u2015namely, \u201cThe Young Girl and Death\u201d (_La Jeune Fille et la\nMort_). In this we are attracted not so much by the beauty of the\nmelody as by the musical problem which it may help us to solve. How\nought music to speak of supernatural beings? How is it to be made\nsuitable to the utterances of the Divinity, of demons, or of Death? We\nhave here a serious difficulty. Is it fitting that the musician should\nput a melody into the mouths of abstract beings? Whatever may be the\nbeauty of the phrase that is _sung_, the effect does not meet the\nrequirements of the case or answer our expectations. Is it, then,\nneedful to have recourse to recitative? But recitative has not the\ndepth demanded by the subject. What, then, must be done? Let us refer\nto Gluck; this great master has more than one secret to reveal to\nthose who thoroughly study him.\n\nGluck was the first to discover the most suitable form in which to\nrepresent spiritual voices, and so well has he succeeded that no one\nhas been able to ignore his influence. At the risk of being otherwise\neither cold or ridiculous, it has been necessary for all to adopt, in\nthis particular, his manner.\n\n\u201c_Tremble, ton supplice s\u2019appr\u00eate_\u201d (Thy doom is even now prepared),\nsays a mysterious voice to Thoas (_Iphigenia in Tauris_). The phrase,\ngiven slowly and softly by voices and trombones in unison, on _re_\npenetrates us with a mysterious fear.\n\nIn _Alcestis_, listen to the lugubrious effect of the voice of the\noracle, saying on a sustained note: \u201cThe king to-day must die, if in\nhis stead none other offers up his life.\u201d[172] It is full of a sombre\nbeauty, and the terrible persistency of the rhythm is very expressive\nof the antique fatalism.\n\nMust it be added that Gluck has proved by his own example the\ninevitable absurdity of a melodic phrase in the mouth of a divinity\nwho is made to intervene in human events?\n\nDiana appears in order to save Iphigenia and her brother; the goddess\nsings her _aria_, and we see with pain one of the most admirable\n_chefs-d\u2019\u0153uvre_ of dramatic music finish as miserably as the utterly\nforgotten _Iphigenia_ of Piccini.\n\nAgain, Mozart wishes to evoke the shade of the Commander; the statue\nbecomes animated and speaks:\n\n \u201cBefore the dawning thou wilt cease to smile.\u201d[173]\n\nThis phrase, by its harmonies and rhythm, reminds us of the voice of\nthe oracle:\n\n \u201cLe roi doit mourir aujourd\u2019hui.\u201d\n\nHere an objection will probably be made that the statue lays aside\nthis uniform tone, and that Mozart ventures to entrust it with a more\nmelodic phrase. The answer is simple: the form created by Gluck is\nnecessary when the supernatural being preserves its mysterious\ncharacter, and issues not from the cloud that conceals it from our\neyes. But if the statue descends from its pedestal and again becomes\nthe Commander, if the oracle or the god takes a body, if you allow him\nhuman feelings, there can be no reason against his expressing them. It\nis no longer the hidden divinity who dictates an inevitable decree,\nbut one who, having taken the form of a man, speaks in man\u2019s language.\n\nIn the same way Wagner, when making gods and genii the personages of\nhis dramas, gives them the accents of the human voice. Mingling among\nmen, they too may well love and suffer, weep and sing.\n\nAfter Gluck and Mozart,[174] Schubert also makes Death speak; he also\naccepts as necessary the form given by Gluck. To the young girl\u2019s\nsupplication Death answers by a phrase the rhythm and harmonies of\nwhich perhaps too much recall the voice of the oracle in _Alcestis_.\n\nIf we may venture to say so, Schubert seems to have found himself in\none of those exceptional cases in which the Gluckist form was not\nsuitable. Why this sombre coloring, when Death was doing his utmost to\n_charm_ the young girl?\n\n \u201cGive me thy hand, nor tremble thus,\n Enfolded in my arms, thou\u2019lt sink\n Into a sleep more sweet than life.\u201d[175]\n\nHere a more melodic phrase would appear to us more suitable.\n\nHaving no intention of giving a catalogue of the works of\nSchubert,[176] we will not group together his _Lieder_, but merely\nobserve that all his melodies belong to one of three divisions, which\nexpress either love, or splendor, joy, and triumph, or, lastly,\nterror. Many combine two of these divisions. In \u201cMargu\u00e9rite\u201d the\nprincipal idea is that of love, and the secondary one the drama; on\nthe contrary, in \u201cLa Jeune Religieuse\u201d the drama occupies the first\nplace, and the earthly love is subordinate.\n\nOur notice would be too incomplete without at least a rapid survey of\nthe other works of Schubert besides the _Lied_, in which he is\nunequalled, but he has also tried symphonies, operas, and oratorios.\nOf his operas, which are numerous, two only have obtained some\nreputation\u2015\u2015namely, _Alfonso and Estrella_, chiefly famous for its\nreverses, and _La Guerre Domestique_ (The Domestic War), known in\nFrance by the name of _La Croisade des Dames_. This charming opera in\none act was played with success a few years ago at the Th\u00e9\u00e2tre des\nFantaisies in Paris, and in every page could be recognized with\npleasure the author of the _Lieder_. Its distinguishing qualities are\nthe touching tenderness of the melody, the brilliancy and delicacy of\nthe organ accompaniment, and the perfection in the manner of writing\nfor the voices.\n\nSchubert undertook also some more extensive works, many of which,\nunfortunately, were never completed, while the rest are lost in\nconsequence of that absence of care and order which has probably cost\nus the loss of more than one valuable composition. Ought we to regret\nthat Schubert has not left one great opera in which he might have\ndisplayed all his faculties? We think so, although we do not say that\nhe would have proved himself to be a musician like Mozart, a master of\ntragedy like Gluck or gifted with Weber\u2019s power of fantastic coloring,\ncapable of the sustained passion of Meyerbeer or the powerful\ndevelopments of Wagner. But tenderness and sweetness would have flowed\nin streams from his heart, and the work would have been so full of\npoetry and so rich in characteristic beauties that his place would\nstill have been a glorious one. Who can deny that M. Gounod is a great\ncomposer? And yet it would be difficult to name a really powerful\npage, unless it be the church scene in _Faust_, and the finale in\n_Sappho_. Posterity will say of him that he was deficient in force,\nbut that Margu\u00e9rite is very enchanting, _Romeo and Juliet_ full of\ntenderness, and _Mireille_ of poetry; and doubtless as much as this\nwould have been said of Schubert.\n\nIn his symphonies and drawing-room music Schubert, no longer carried\non by feeling, frequently fails. The subscribers to the popular\nconcerts of the _Cirque d\u2019hiver_ in Paris have not forgotten the\nfragments of his symphonies which were at various times executed under\nthe able direction of M. Pasdeloup. These selections were taken from\nthe best, and there was certainly here and there a page which breathed\ninspiration. But praise like this is no small blame, and it is a\nsevere criticism on a symphony to detach merely an isolated portion\nfrom it, and condemn the remainder to oblivion.\n\nWhat was the reason of this inferiority in Schubert\u2019s symphonic music?\nOne of the most serious appears to be the fact that he had not made a\nvery deep or advanced study of music. He was preparing to study the\nfugue when carried off by death. Now, it is precisely symphonic\ncomposition that demands the most extensive and thorough knowledge of\nthe science of music. Gr\u00e9try and Montigny, who were but ordinary\ncontrapuntists, have written admirable operas, but we might seek in\nvain for a great symphonist who had not at the same time a deep\nknowledge of music as a science.\n\nBesides, Schubert, whose inspirations, as we have already remarked,\nwere essentially lyric, was not in the habit of working out his\nthoughts, and lacked the capacity for giving them the powerful\ndevelopments required by the symphony. Spoiled also by his\nextraordinary facility, he wrote too fast. In a lyric composition like\nthe _Lied_ the facility of the hand is no hindrance to the\ninspiration, which should be ardent and rapid, but the formation and\nunfolding, as it were, of a symphony require a powerful inspiration\njoined to the patient reflection and incessant labor which twenty\ntimes over modifies its work before giving its definitive form.\n\nThe symphonic music of Schubert will pass away, but he will find a\nplace in the hearts of posterity as the inspired singer of the\n_Lieder_, the beautiful completeness of which, as a whole, is the\nresult of his having known how to enshrine in these short poems rapid\nand living dramas, full by turns of joy and sorrow, love and triumph,\nor despair He was one of those men whose greatness is rather of the\nheart than the intellect; and if to others great conceptions are due,\nfew like him have given expression to the deepest feelings of the\nheart, and the most refined and elevated accents of the soul.\n\n\n\n [160] _Critique et Litt\u00e9rature Musicales_, vol. i. p. 322.\n\n [161] _Franz Schubert: sa Vie et les \u0152uvres._ Par Mme.\n Audley. Paris: Didier.\n\n [162] Thou who seemest to be sleeping.\n\n [163] When thou sleepest.\n\n [164] All is over; he forgets me\u2015\u2015the ungrateful one whom I\n have loved.\n\n [165] My days are withered.\n\n [166] \u201cAll soon will end for me. Return again, return one\n moment more, that I once more may see thy face and die.\u201d In\n the _Faust_ of M. Gounod we have Margu\u00e9rite at the wheel.\n The French composer has treated this scene in a very\n touching and striking manner, especially on the words, \u201c_Il\n ne revient pas_.\u201d It is a beautiful page, but not so deep as\n Schubert.\n\n [167] _Childe Harold._\n\n [168] REBOUL. Not here is perfect joy:\n Suffering attends the soul\u2019s delights,\n Our notes of gladness have their sadness,\n And every pleasure has its sighs.\n\n [169] M. Gounod, in the duo of the first act of _Romeo and\n Juliet_, has found a chromatic ascendant which has some\n analogy with that of Schubert, but which, in the hands of\n the French composer, takes quite a different coloring.\n Sombre in _La Jeune Religieuse_, it is in _Rom\u00e9o et\n Juliette_ sparkling with light. In the line \u201c_Vois ces\n rayons jaloux dont l\u2019orient se dore_\u201d (\u201cBehold these envious\n beams which gild the east\u201d) the brilliant ground-work added\n by M. Gounod contributes not a little to render the effect\n of light.\n\n [170] Gloom over all\n And the dark night;\n \u2015\u2015Terror and woe.\n\n [171] Thus withered, my sad life consumed away.\n\n [172] Le roi doit mourir aujourd\u2019hui,\n Si quelqu\u2019autre au tr\u00e9pas ne se livre pour lui.\n\n [173] _Tu cesseras de rire avant l\u2019aurore._\n\n [174] Not having space to multiply examples, we say nothing\n of the Oracle of Spontini, which, moreover, has the form of\n Gluck.\n\n [175] \u201c_Donne ta main. Ne tremble pas.\n Tu vas dormir entre mes bras.\n D\u2019un sommeil plus doux que la vie._\u201d\n\n [176] Schubert is known to have composed more than five\n hundred melodies, most of which are admirable. Those we\n mention are merely taken as examples from among numerous\n others of equal beauty.\n\n\n\n\nNEW PUBLICATIONS\n\n\n THEOLOGIA MORALIS NOVISSIMI ECCLESI\u00e6 DOCTORIS S. ALPHONSI. Auctore\n A. Konings, C.S.S.R. Editio Altera, Aucta et Emendata. Benziger\n Fratres, 1876.\n\nWe have already noticed the first edition of this work, which is\ncertainly a valuable and excellent one in many respects. It has\nreceived the approbation of his Eminence the Cardinal, and of many\nothers of the prelates of this country, has apparently been well\nreceived by the clergy in general, and it will not be at all\nsurprising if it becomes the standard text-book of moral theology in\nthe seminaries of the United States. This success it goes far to\ndeserve. It supplies a great want in the treatises previously used, by\nbringing in many points relating to the laws and customs existing\namong us; and this alone might seem a sufficient reason for its\nadoption. It has also many other advantages, partly due to the ability\nof the author, partly to the works which he has taken (as all writers\non this subject must at the present day) for his basis. Among these he\nhas principally followed Gury, adhering more, perhaps, to his language\nthan to that of St. Alphonsus.\n\nBut, in spite of the many advantages and excellences of the book, we\nmust enter a protest against its use, at least as the sole authority\non which the minds of theological students are to be formed. And this\nprotest is on account of the system of equi-probabilism taught in it,\nwhich we should be very sorry to have prevail, both on the ground of\nits unreasonableness, and on that of its bad practical effects.\n\nWe should have no space in a notice of this kind to discuss fully this\nvery important and much vexed question. But the point of our criticism\ncan be sufficiently made by simply referring to the author\u2019s\ndefinitions of the grades of probability in opinions (p. 27).\n\nThe obvious objection to these definitions, which are made the basis\nof his system, and which must, indeed, be made the basis of any system\nof equi-probabilism, is that, according to them, an opinion cannot be\nnotably or decidedly more probable than its contradictory without\nmaking that contradictory \u201cnot solidly probable,\u201d to use the author\u2019s\nwords, which are the usual technical ones.\n\nNow, we venture to think that such a statement as this with regard to\nprobability would hardly be made in treating of any other subject than\nthat at present in hand. Suppose, for instance, the question to be one\nof physical science,\u2015\u2015that, for example, of the solar parallax. Now,\nwe think we are not wrong in saying that it is decidedly more probable\nthat this parallax is greater than 8-8/10 seconds of arc than that it\nis less than this amount. Be that as it may, it is certain that there\nis some value, perfectly ascertainable by methods of computation on\nwhich astronomers would agree, for which, in the present state of\nscience, we could say that the probability of the parallax exceeding\nthis value is once and a half times as great as that of its falling\nshort of it. Certainly in this case it would be decidedly more\nprobable that it does exceed this value than that it does not. Yet who\nwould say that the probability of its not exceeding that value was\ndestitute of any solidity?\n\nWe may take a case in which probability is susceptible of exact\nnumerical computation. Suppose two balls, one white and one black, to\nbe together in a box, and that we draw twice from this box, putting\nback the ball drawn the first time. The probability that we shall not\ndraw the white ball twice is three times as great as that we shall;\nyet would any one say that there was no solid probability of so\ndrawing it? If it was a question of drawing it five times, then the\nprobability of this, being only 1/31 of that of the contradictory,\nmight, indeed, not be \u201csolid.\u201d\n\nThe whole case can, as it would seem, be put in the following form: It\nis agreed, by equi-probabilists, as well as by probabilists, that a\nsolidly probable opinion against the law can be followed. If the\nformer choose to call an opinion only slightly less probable than its\ncontradictory, till its probability becomes so small that it really,\nin the common judgment of men, ceases to be solid, they depart from\nthe common use of language, but the controversy between them and the\nlatter is merely one of the use of words.\n\nBut if the equi-probabilists refuse to call an opinion solidly\nprobable as soon as its probability becomes what men would generally\ncall decidedly less than that of its contradictory (two-thirds of it,\nfor instance), they depart, as seems evident from the above cases,\nagain from the common use of words, and the statement\u2015\u2015the complement\nof the former one, and on which also both parties agree\u2015\u2015that an\nopinion against the law not solidly probable cannot be followed, has,\nin their mouths, a new meaning, which the judgment of mankind will, it\nseems to us, hardly accept, and which will lead to perpetual and most\nembarrassing changes of doctrine and practice. The author undoubtedly\nbelieves that he is following St. Alphonsus in his system; it seems to\nus that he has, with other equi-probabilists, not rightly apprehended\nthe meaning of certain passages in the works of that illustrious\nDoctor, which seem certainly at first sight to have such a sense. But\nto discuss this matter would lead us too far.\n\n\n THE FAITH OF OUR FATHERS: Being a Plain Exposition and Vindication\n of the Church founded by Our Lord Jesus Christ. By Rt. Rev. James\n Gibbons, D.D., Bishop of Richmond and Administrator-Apostolic of\n North Carolina. Baltimore: Murphy & Co.; London: Washbourne. 1877.\n\nWe have rarely met with a book which pleased us so thoroughly as this\nlittle volume of the Bishop of Richmond. It is popular, and is\ntherefore not addressed to the few who are interested in the\nphilosophical and scientific controversies of the age, but to the\npeople, to the multitude, as were the words of Christ. It is a\nthoroughly honest book, written by a man who loves the church and his\ncountry and who is deeply interested in whatever concerns the welfare\nof mankind. From the start we are convinced of his perfect sincerity.\nNot to make a book has he written; but he believes, and therefore\nspeaks. It is this that gives value to literature\u2015\u2015the human life, the\nhuman experience, which it contains. Bishop Gibbons has labored for\nseveral years with great zeal in North Carolina and Virginia, where\nthere are few Catholics, where the opportunities of dispelling\nProtestant prejudice are rare, but where the people are generally not\nunwilling to be enlightened. Learned arguments are less needed than\nclear and accurate statements of the doctrines, practices, and aims of\nthe church. Catholic truth is its own best evidence: is more\npersuasive than any logic with which the human mind is able to\nreinforce it.\n\nTo the right mind and pure heart it appeals with irresistible force;\nand therefore the great work of those who labor for God is to put away\nthe mental and moral obstructions which shut out the view of the truth\nas it is in Christ. In setting forth in clear and simple style \u201cthe\nfaith of our fathers\u201d Bishop Gibbons is careful to meet all the\nobjections which are likely to be made to the church. He is thoroughly\nacquainted with the American people; is himself an American; and his\nbook is another proof that the purest devotion to the church is\ncompatible with the deepest love for the freest and most democratic of\ngovernments. Sympathy gives him insight, reveals the matter and the\nmanner that suit his purpose best. The skill with which he has\ncompressed into a small volume such a variety of topics, giving to\neach satisfactory treatment, is truly admirable. He seems to have\nforgotten nothing, and has consequently produced a complete popular\nexplanation and vindication of Catholic doctrine. We cannot praise too\nhighly the tone and temper of this book.\n\nThe author is not aggressive; is never bitter, never sneers nor deals\nin sarcasm or ridicule; does not treat his reader as a foe to be\nbeaten, but as a brother to be persuaded. His sense of religion is too\ndeep to allow him to make light of any honest faith. We perceive on\nevery page the reverend and Christian bishop who knows that charity\nand not hate is the divine power of the church; the fire that sets the\nworld ablaze. It is not necessary that we should say more in\ncommendation of this treatise. It will most certainly have a wide\ncirculation, and its merits will be advertised by every reader. Bishop\nGibbons has written chiefly for Protestants, but we hope his book will\nfind entrance into every Catholic family in the land.\n\n\n DEIRDRE. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1876.\n\nThe poet who ventures on an epic in these days deserves well of\nliterature. To turn from the puling, weak, or nauseous themes which\nform the subjects of most of the contemporary English poetry is in\nitself a sign of a strong and healthy temperament. Nevertheless, the\nventure is a bold one. Pretty and graceful lyric verse may pass easily\nenough and win a transient popularity without challenging any strong\ncomparison, lost as it is in the crowd of its fellows. But when an\nepic is mentioned, Homer towers up with Virgil in his train; Dante\nsweeps along; the shade of Milton oppresses us; we are in the company\nof giants and breathe reverently. The men who grasp epochs of history\nand human life, and string them into numbers that resound through all\nthe ages, are few indeed. So we say he is a bold man who would follow\nin their track; but, at least, his ambition is great, whatever be its\nexecution.\n\nThe author of _Deirdr\u00e8_ is not a Homer or a Virgil; he is not even\nequal to those fine English echoes of the great masters\u2015\u2015Dryden and\nPope; and although we do not know him, and are not sure as to who he\nis, we have little doubt that no man would be readier to concede what\nwe here state than the author of _Deirdr\u00e8_ himself. At least, he will\nconsider it no dishonor that his song should wake the memory of those\ngreat singers in our mind.\n\n_Deirdr\u00e8_ is an Irish story of pre-Christian times. Like the _Iliad_,\nit has its Helen, who gives her name to the poem, and around her the\nstory centres. The beauty of Deirdr\u00e8, like that of Helen, is her\ncurse. Wherever she goes she is a brand of discord. Heroes fight for\nher, wars are waged for possession of her, great deeds are done in her\nname, and the end is disaster for all. She is unlike her Greek\nprototype only in her Irish chastity, pagan though she was. There have\nbeen Irish Helens, and the disaster of her race is to be traced to one\nof them; but they are only remembered to be cursed. Still, the author\nwas at liberty, if he chose, to follow the prevailing taste of the\nday, and add a spurious interest to his poem by making its heroine\nunfaithful to her spouse. He has done the contrary. It is the very\nfidelity of Deirdr\u00e8 that adds its chief interest to the poem. From the\nday when first the squirrel cried to her from the tree in the garden\nwhere she had been enclosed by the king:\n\n \u201cCome up! come up! Come up, and see the world!\u201d\n\nand she obeyed the promptings of her nature and went up, and for the\nfirst time looked over the garden wall and saw \u201cthe great world spread\nout,\u201d she lost her heart, for here is what she saw:\n\n \u201cThree youthful knights in all their martial pride,\n With red cloaks fluttering in the summer breeze,\n And gay gems flashing on their harnesses,\n And on the helm that guarded each proud head,\n And on each shield where shone the Branch of Red.\n And, as they passed, the eldest of the three,\n With great black, wistful eyes looked up at me;\n For he did mark this yellow head of mine\n Amid the green tree\u2019s branches glint and shine.\n And oh! the look\u2015\u2015the fond, bright look\u2015\u2015he gave!\u2026\u201d\n\nThese were the three heroic sons of Usna, and the eldest of the three\nis Naisi, who finds his way into the charmed forest where Deirdr\u00e8 is\nkept by the king until she should grow to an age ripe enough to fit\nher to be made his queen. The young lady objects\u2015\u2015as young ladies will\ndo sometimes\u2015\u2015to be disposed of in this manner, and Naisi, having\nfirst stolen her heart, completes his theft by stealing herself. They\nfly from Eman, and Clan Usna accompanies them. The rest of the poem is\nmade up of their wanderings and final luring back to Eman, when the\nking wreaks his vengeance upon them. With the fate of the sons of Usna\nand Deirdr\u00e8 the poem closes.\n\nThere is much that is admirable in the whole work. The scenes are\nwonderfully well localized. One never strays into to-day. The author\nhas completely mastered the difficult geographical terminology, and\nmakes it sweet and pleasant to the ear. The men are cast in heroic\nmould, and a tinge of chivalry added to them that beautifies and\nennobles them. Deirdr\u00e8 is a sweet, pure, and loving woman; her early\nyouth in the garden of the king is in itself an idyllic gem. The\nbattle scenes are strong and vigorous, and not too long drawn out; a\nsea-fight in particular is wonderfully well described. The glimpses of\nnatural scenery given here and there are varied and picturesque.\nIndeed, there is everything that is good in the poem, but nothing that\ncan be called _great_; and greatness is the standard and measure of an\nepic.\n\nWe think the author, too, has been careless in the construction of his\nverse. It is unequal. Half-rhymes abound: \u201cbird\u201d and \u201cstirred,\u201d\n\u201chouse\u201d and \u201ccarouse,\u201d \u201crestored\u201d and \u201cboard,\u201d \u201chum\u201d and \u201croom,\u201d\n\u201cjollity\u201d and \u201ccompany,\u201d \u201cheath\u201d and \u201cbreath,\u201d cannot be considered\ngood rhymes, yet they are all found within the first three pages. They\nare to too great an extent characteristic of the whole. Then there is\nan abundance of weak and commonplace couplets, such as the following:\n\n \u201cThe earth\u2019s dark places, felt himself full sad,\n He knew not why, and sent, to make him glad.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cFrom the bright palace straightway to his house,\n That they might hold therein a gay carouse.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cYet higher rose the joy and jollity\n Of the Great King and all that company.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cTill morn\u2019s gay star rose o\u2019er the golden sea,\n And sent to slumber all that company.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nNow, such lines should never have passed the censorship of one who can\ngive such other lines as these:\n\n \u201cWhose fierce eye o\u2019er the margin of his shield\n Had gazed from war\u2019s first ridge on many a field.\u201d\n\n\u201cMany a field\u201d is weak, but the picture is very good. Strange to say,\nthe two lines immediately following are these:\n\n \u201cUnblinking at the foe that on him glared,\n And might be ten to one for all he cared.\u201d\n\nThe epic spirit contained in the last line needs no comment.\n\nAgain, here is a strong picture:\n\n \u201cSince Mananan, the Sea-God, first upthrew\n _The wild isle\u2019s stony ribs unto the blue_.\u201d\n\nAnd here a sweet one:\n\n \u201c\u2026 Then from her forehead fair\n She brushed a silken ripple of bright hair\n That from the flood of her rich tresses stole,\n _And looked with wordless love into his soul_.\u201d\n\nSometimes we fall upon lines that we fancy we have heard before\u2015\u2015as\nthese, for instance, which anybody might claim and not be proud of:\n\n \u201cThe merry village with its sheltering trees,\n The peaceful cattle browsing o\u2019er the leas,\n The hardy shepherd whistling on the plain\n With his white flock, by fields of ripened grain,\u201d etc., etc.\n\nAnd here are lines which we fancy Mr. Tennyson might with justice\nclaim:\n\n \u201c\u2026 And velvet catkins on the willow shone\n By lowland streams, _and on the hills the larch\n Scented with odorous buds the winds of March_.\u201d\n\nOne more objection we must make, and that is to the tiresomely\nfrequent use of the word \u201cfull.\u201d It occurs everywhere, sometimes twice\nor thrice in one page. Feilimid feels himself \u201cfull sad\u201d (p. 1). In p.\n46 Caffa shakes his head \u201cfull dolefully.\u201d In p. 49 \u201cThe east and\nnorth a strong Wind blew _full keen_.\u201d In p. 55 Deirdr\u00e8 grows \u201cfull\npale\u201d; in p. 58 she goes \u201cto and fro\u201d \u201cfull secretly\u201d; in p. 59 she\nhas thoughts \u201cfull sad\u201d; while Naisi (p. 62) laughs to himself \u201cfull\nlow,\u201d his heart with love\u2019s ardor grows \u201cfull warm\u201d (p. 65). Maini\nwatches Naisi \u201cfull treacherously\u201d (p. 69), and three lines lower on\nthe same page he is still watching him \u201cfull warily.\u201d The loyal wife\ngrasps her babe \u201cfull firm\u201d (p. 164)\u2015\u2015an expression that, allowing\neven for poetic license, is very doubtful grammar; \u201cfull soon\u201d adorns\np. 165; \u201cfull stern\u201d shall be the fight (p. 166); \u201cfull many\u201d a mile\n(p. 166); \u201cfull many\u201d a festal fire (p. 167); even the very babe crows\n\u201cfull lustily\u201d (p. 131).\n\nOf course repetition is allowable and, if rightly used, a beauty. In\nHomer Juno is always \u201cwhite-armed,\u201d Venus \u201cox-eyed,\u201d Apollo\n\u201cfar-darting,\u201d Agamemnon a \u201cking of men,\u201d Achilles \u201cswift-footed,\u201d the\ndawn \u201crosy-fingered,\u201d the sea \u201choarse-resounding,\u201d and so on. But we\nneed not dwell on the point that this is a very different kind of\nrepetition from that in _Deirdr\u00e8_, which is faulty and tiresome in the\nextreme.\n\nThe defects we have pointed out are such as might have been easily\navoided by care in the supervision. As it is, they seriously mar a\nwork of real power, much promise, and undeniable beauty.\n\n\n RELIGION AND EDUCATION. By the very Rev. Thomas S. Preston, V.G. New\n York: Robert Coddington. 1876.\n\nThere is much matter for thought and reflection in this pamphlet of\nforty-six pages. It treats of what is now an old subject, yet a\nsubject about which new issues are constantly being raised, not only\nin this country but all the world over. And as the subject is far from\nbeing settled, and is likely so to remain for some time to come, one\ncannot but welcome the observations and pronounced expression of such\na mind as that of the distinguished author regarding a vital question\nof this and all countries and of all time. The question of education\nhas been treated time and again in these pages. Indeed, many of the\narticles which have appeared in THE CATHOLIC WORLD have been collected\nand published in book-form (_Catholics and Education_), and combined\nmake an excellent treatise in defence of Catholic education as opposed\nto the popular objections of non-Catholics. Father Preston necessarily\ntravels over old ground here, but with a freshness, vigor, and\nclearness of statement and exposition that will amply repay the\nreader. His lecture\u2015\u2015for such it was\u2015\u2015bears all the marks of a strong\nand trained mind, fully alive to the difficulties that beset the vexed\nquestion of which he treats, yet of one who knows exactly where\nstrength ends and extravagance begins. There is, perhaps, no question\nto-day more open to extravagant demands and declamation on both sides\nthan this of education. The tendency of the times regarding it is in a\nradically wrong direction. Hot words will not mend matters, but calm\nreason, such as this pamphlet affords, will in the long run tell. To\nsincere and rightly-instructed Catholics there is no question at all\nin the matter. Education is as much a subject of religious discipline\nas is the guiding of a man\u2019s life, and to banish God from the school\nis no more justifiable than to banish him from the church or the home.\nNo Catholic dare say to God: We will admit you here, but not there. At\nthe same time we must take into serious account the opinions of men\nwho, having practically lost faith, cannot be expected to look upon\neverything in the same light as ourselves. More especially is this the\ncase in a country like our own, where all things are still more or\nless in a state of formation. It is very certain that the Fathers of\nthis Republic, to whom in our emergencies we often vaguely appeal,\nnever dreamed that the whole machinery of a republic which, in its\npresent vastness, power, and future import, could scarcely have\nflashed even on their happiest dreams, would be perfectly adjusted in\na century. We must make the best of things as they exist, work\nearnestly, untiringly, and hopefully to make them still better, but\nnot slap the whole world in the face for the poor satisfaction of the\nslap. Father Preston is an excellent guide in this matter. There is\nnot a waste word in all that he says. He has a reason, and gives it,\nfor every statement, and he strengthens his position by the testimony\nof honored men among those opposed to him. It is strange that this\ncountry should be behind every other civilized nation in the fair\nadjustment of the educational question. They do the best they can for\nall denominations; we seem to have one predominating idea\u2015\u2015to wit,\nthat Catholic children, so far as the States can prevent it without\nabsolute force, shall not have the right of Catholic education.\nEducation is not and never can be a purely abstract affair as regards\nreligion. It must have some informing moral principle, which will be\nright or wrong according to circumstances. Catholics refuse, on their\nconscience, to have any doubt about the matter. Others may do as they\nthink fit under a government which professes to respect absolute\nfreedom of conscience. _Their_ freedom of conscience recognizes and\nclaims education for their children in the spirit of their faith. To\ndeny this is coercion. To make them contribute to a system of\neducation based on its denial is coercion and extortion. To see how\nfully enlightened Protestants and enlightened governments uphold this\nview, we can recommend nothing better in a brief form than the pages\nof this admirable pamphlet.\n\n\n WIT, HUMOR, AND SHAKSPEARE. Twelve Essays. By John Weiss. Boston:\n Roberts Brothers. 1876.\n\nThere could be no better proof of the large tolerance of literary\ncharlatanism by the American public than that a shrewd Boston firm\nshould in such times as the present consent to publish a book like\nthis. Mr. Weiss evidently has nothing to say which can be of interest\nto a sensible man, and his style is as bad as his thought. His chief\naim, it would appear, is to be odd, unnatural, and barbarous. Like the\nclown in the circus, he hopes to amuse us by his antics, if not by his\nwit. But fantastic and affected phraseology cannot hide poverty or\nbarrenness of thought. If a man has nothing to say, grimaces only make\nhim ridiculous in the eyes of the judicious. It would seem, too, that\nthe author is under the delusion that he may succeed in making us\nbelieve that he means something by striving to render it as difficult\nas possible to find out what he means. Here are specimens of his\nstyle: \u201cThe life-breaths of joy and grief tend primitively to the\nlungs, and they voice the mother-tongue of all emotions.\u201d \u201cWhat a wide\nrange of nature\u2019s curious _freakery_ a forest has!\u201d \u201cOnly those who\nare capable of annihilating capricious distinctions by feelings of\ncommon humanness are capable of enjoying the union of heterogeneous\nideas.\u201d\n\nIt is Mr. Weiss\u2019 great misfortune to believe that he is witty; and the\nattempts which reveal this deep conviction might indeed make us laugh,\nif they did not make us grieve.\n\n\u201cWhat mutual impression do a dog and a duck make? He runs around with\nfrolic transpiring in his tail, and barks to announce a wish to\nfraternize; or perhaps it is a short and nervous bark, and indicates\nunsettled views about ducks. Meantime, the duck waddles off with an\ninane quack, so remote from a bark that it must convince any\nwell-informed dog of the hopelessness of proposing either business or\npleasure to such a doting and toothless pate.\u201d \u201cBut as yet no cosey\ncouples of clever apes have been discovered in paroxysms of laughter\nover the last sylvan equivoque; nor have elephants been seen silently\nshaking at a joke too ponderous for their trunks to carry.\u201d \u201cWe cannot\nimagine that a turtle\u2019s head gets tired lying around decapitated for a\nweek or more.\u201d\n\nWe cannot pardon Mr. Emerson for having made such men as Mr. Weiss\npossible. He is a morbid product\u2015\u2015one of the sick multitude whose\ndisease he has himself diagnosed. \u201cMultitudes of our American brains\nare badly drained in consequence of a settling of the wastage of\nhouse-grubbing and street-work into moral morasses which generate many\na chimera.\u201d This is on the twelfth page, and to this point we followed\nthe author with a kind of interest; for it was still possible to hope\nthat he might not be an American. The English critics, however, may\nfind his humor capital, since they think Walt Whitman our greatest\npoet; and Mr. Weiss finds examples of wit and humor in this country\ntruly Shaksperean:\n\n\u201cThere was a man who stood on his head under a pile-driver to have a\npair of tight boots driven on. He found himself shortly after in\nChina, perfectly naked and without a cent in his pocket.\u201d \u201cThere is a\nman in the West so bow-legged that his pantaloons have to be cut out\nwith a circular saw.\u201d \u201cSome of the Texan cows have been lately\ndescribed as so thin that it takes two men to see one of them. The men\nstand back to back, so that one says, \u2018Here she comes!\u2019 and the other\ncries, \u2018There she goes!\u2019 Thus between them both the cow is seen.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll these American instances\u201d\u2015\u2015we quote the thoughtful and profound\nobservation of Mr. Weiss\u2015\u2015\u201care conceived in the pure Shakesperean\nblending of the understanding and the imagination.\u201d But one more of\nthem, perhaps the most artistically perfect of all, must suffice. \u201cA\ncoachman, driving up some mountains in Vermont, was asked by an\noutside passenger if they were as steep on the other side also.\n\u2018Steep! Chain lightnin\u2019 couldn\u2019t go down \u2019em witheout the breechin\u2019\non!\u2019\u201d\n\nNothing could be finer than the epigrammatic style in which Mr. Weiss\nthrows some of Shakspere\u2019s characters into a crisp Emersonian\nsentence: \u201cPistol is the raw article of poltroonery done in fustian\ninstead of a gayly-slashed doublet. Bardolph is the capaciousness for\nsherry, without the capacity to make it apprehensive and forgetive; it\ngoes to his head, but, finding no brain there, is provoked to the\nnose, where it lights a cautionary signal. Nym is the brag stripped of\nresource, shivering on prosiness.\u201d We are quite prepared, after all\nthis, to find that Mr. Weiss belongs to the class of enlightened men\nwho, in the name of science, sneer at religion. It is hardly worth\nwhile to attempt his conversion.\n\n\n POEMS: DEVOTIONAL AND OCCASIONAL. By Benjamin Dionysius Hill, C.S.P.\n New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1877.\n\nIn his last sermon on \u201cSubjects of the Day\u201d (\u201cThe Parting of\nFriends\u201d), Dr. Newman exclaims: \u201cO my mother, whence is this unto\nthee, that thou hast good things poured upon thee and canst not keep\nthem, and bearest children, yet darest not own them? Why hast thou not\nthe skill to use their services, nor the heart to rejoice in their\nlove? How is it that whatever is generous in purpose, and tender or\ndeep in devotion, thy flower and thy promise, falls from thy bosom and\nfinds no home within thine arms?\u201d The author of these poems gives to\nhis Mother the whole\u2015\u2015not a part\u2015\u2015of a delicate poetic talent that\nwould have found a warm welcome in the world which knows her not. The\nart in the poems is unaffected and genuine; there is no pretence of\nartistic ambition, nor any provoking involution of the thought in\norder to display the tricks and pretty devices of metre which would\nhave come easily to one whose sense of poetic tune is so true. The\nverse, although by no means monotonous, is uniformly simple; the\nrhymes are never weak and are always sweet\u2015\u2015qualities rarely\ncombined\u2015\u2015and the infallible poetic instinct fills the lines with\nmelody, which, at first so subtle and fine that it almost eludes, is\nsoon discovered to be exquisitely and permanently sweet.\n\nThe dominant thought is religious rapture. Father Hill was not always\nunder the benign influence which has brought this guerdon to his\ngifts. He was outside the only church which offers man\u2019s heart an\nideal of absolute perfection.\n\n \u201cA barren creed had starved me.\u201d\n\nGod called him\n\n \u201cto fill the place of some\n Ingrate who had thrown his childhood\u2019s faith away,\u201d\n\nand within the consecrated precincts of the priesthood he discovered a\ngracious light upon his imagination\u2015\u2015the light of Our Lady. So he has\nproved her poet; and the tributes that he lays at her feet are rich\nand warm with the full beating ardor of manhood\u2019s love. The pure\nsensuousness which gives strikingly what the painters would call \u201cfine\nflesh-tint\u201d to the poems will prove a strong attraction to the fervent\nhearts of thousands who, like Father Hill, love the Mother of our Lord\nwith an uncontrollable intensity of human affection, but who, unlike\nhim, are unable fittingly to express that affection to her, or even to\ndefine it to themselves or to others. Father Hill is literally the\nknight of Mary, and he does more than the obligations of knighthood\nrequired; for, in addition to loving, fighting for, and seeking his\nreward from her, he sings her praise. He gives her at once his sword\nand his lyre. The beauty of this chivalry of the soul is not easily to\nbe understood by the shallow or the thoughtless; yet even the\nirreverent will acknowledge its holiness, and the commonest mind will\nbe unable to resist its singular charms. Who can be insensible to such\nloyalty to the religious ideal as this?\n\n\n \u201cTO BE FORGIVEN.\n\n \u201cI call thee \u2018Love\u2019\u2015\u2015\u2018my sweet, my dearest Love\u2019\n Nor feel it bold, nor fear it a deceit.\n Yet I forget not that, in realms above,\n The thrones of Seraphs are beneath thy feet.\n\n \u201cIf Queen of angels thou, of hearts no less:\n And so of mine\u2015\u2015a poet\u2019s, which must needs\n Adore to all melodious excess\n What cannot sate the rapture that it feeds.\n\n \u201cAnd then thou art my Mother\u2015\u2015God\u2019s, yet mine!\n Of mothers, as of virgins, first and best:\n And I as tenderly, intimately thine\n As He, my Brother, carried at the breast.\n\n \u201cMy Mother! \u2019tis enough. If mine the right\n To call thee this, much more to muse and sigh\n All other honeyed names. A slave I might\u2015\u2015\n A son, I must. And both of these am I.\u201d\n\nThis exquisite piety is entitled \u201cLove\u2019s Prisoner\u201d:\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cBut is He lonely? Bend not here\n Adoring angels as on high?\n Ah yes: but yet, when we appear,\n A softer glory floods His eye.\n \u2019Tis earth\u2019s frail child He longs to see;\n And thus He is alone\u2015\u2015for me!\n\n * * * * *\n\n \u201cThen, best of lovers, I\u2019ll draw near\n Each day to minister relief.\n For tho\u2019 the thought of year on year\n Of sin should make me die of grief,\n Yet day by day my God I see\n \u2018Sick and in prison\u2019\u2015\u2015all for me!\u201d\n\nThose whose imagination is without devotion, or whose devotion lacks\nimagination, will look upon the author of these poems as one indeed\n\u201cset apart.\u201d Yet even Dr. Newman, the giant intellect of modern\nthought, looked upon Keble, as he tells us himself, with awe, simply\nbecause Keble was a true religious poet; and these two came to love\neach other with a tenderness that did not expire, but was rather\nincreased, when the one passed within the gates of Mother Rome, and\nthe other, faltering in tears, sadly loitered, then suffered himself\nto be led away. So many a lesser Newman will learn to love this lesser\nand more melodious poet within the sanctuary, and his glowing soul\nwill distribute some of its own warmth into the hospitable recesses in\nwhich this little book will find nooks the hosts never thought of.\n\n\n LIFE OF MOTHER MARIA TERESA, FOUNDRESS OF THE CONGREGATION OF THE\n ADORATION OF REPARATION. By the Abb\u00e9 Hulst. Translated by Lady\n Herbert. London: Burns & Oates. (For sale by The Catholic\n Publication Society.)\n\nTo many people there is no reading so pleasant as a biography; but\nwhen, as in the life of a great servant of God, solid instruction and\nsweet devotion are found united in the details of personal history,\nthe work becomes a hand-book in a Christian\u2019s library. Of this kind is\nthe present work, which, although only a small volume, contains a\ngreat deal of matter, and is written with all that ease and _na\u00efvet\u00e9_\nwhich are so often found in French biographies. It is translated into\nEnglish by Lady Herbert, who is thoroughly competent for the task.\n\nTheodolind Dubouch\u00e9 was born at Montauban, in France, on the 2d of\nMay, 1809; but her mother was of Italian origin, and it is a little\nsingular that the daughter\u2019s portrait prefixed to this _Life_ bears a\nremarkable resemblance to that of Dante. Neither of her parents was\nmore than a nominal Catholic, and Theodolind grew up in a cold and\nformal atmosphere of morality which would have chilled for ever the\nheart of one less naturally generous, pure-minded, and energetic, and\nover whom God had not extended a particular protection. Her path to\nperfection was long and beset with many dangers\u2015\u2015although not at any\ntime of the grosser sort\u2015\u2015but the Lord was her shepherd, and she was\nled on, step by step, to the crowning-point of her career, which was\nthe establishment of an Order for women whose special object should be\nthe perpetual adoration of Jesus in the Holy Eucharist, and the\ncontinual reparation to his divine Majesty. Theodolind assumed the\nname in religion of Maria Teresa, and her congregation, which was\noriginally engrafted on the vigorous and venerable stem of Carmel, was\nbegun at Paris on the 6th of August, 1848. In the year 1853 it\nreceived a _Laudatine Brief_ from the Holy See. This was the first\nstep towards the full official approbation of the Sovereign Pontiff,\nwhich was given only three years after the death of the foundress. Her\ndeath occurred at Paris on Sunday, 30th of August, 1863. The\ncongregation or Institute of \u201cL\u2019Adoration R\u00e9paratrice\u201d has already\nfour houses in France, in each of which adorers in large numbers,\nconsecrated by religious profession, succeed one another day and night\nbefore the Blessed Sacrament exposed, and in a spirit of deep\nrecollection make the adoration of reparation the principle of a\nspecial vocation and the occupation of a whole life.\n\nThe Order will certainly continue to spread, and we hope to see it\nintroduced into this country, where devotion to the Blessed Sacrament\nis comparatively cold and scattered. We recommend the present work to\nall the holy spouses of Christ and true lovers of Jesus in the Holy\nEucharist.\n\n\n GITHA OF THE FOREST; OR, THE BURNING OF CROYLAND. A Romance of early\n English History. By the author of _Lord Dacre of Gilsland_,\n _Royalists and Roundheads_, etc., etc. London: D. Stewart, 1876.\n (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)\n\nThis is just one of those books that are in every way to be commended.\nIt illustrates an early and most interesting period of English and\nCatholic history with remarkable power and vividness. It is a constant\nwonder to us that Catholics who have a taste for the writing of\nfiction do not more frequently take up such epochs as this, which are\nfull of heroic deeds and romantic episodes, instead of vainly\nattempting to weave a romantic interest about the commonplace subjects\nand persons of the day. The history of the world for the last eighteen\ncenturies is theirs to choose from, all its interest centres around\nChristianity; and we are not quite so much in love with to-day that we\ncannot thoroughly enjoy a trip back into the past when led by so\nskilful and true a hand as that of the author of _Githa_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATHOLIC WORLD.\n\nVOL. XXIV., No. 144.\u2015\u2015MARCH, 1877.\n\nCopyright: Rev. I. T. HECKER. 1877.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RUSSIAN CHANCELLOR.[177]\n\n\nThe attention of the world is at present fixed upon Russia and upon\nthe aged yet still active statesman who has directed her foreign\npolicy for twenty years with an ability certainly very considerable,\nthough it yet remains to be seen how far it will prove itself\nconsummate and successful. It will help to an understanding of the\ncareer of this eminent Russian Minister of State, and of the present\nattitude of Russia, if we premise a condensed sketch of certain of the\nmost prominent events in the civil and ecclesiastical history of this\ngreat and singular empire. It is difficult to find out the certain\ntruth in regard to some of these important facts, and we therefore\nprofess to claim for such statements as we may make, unless they\nrelate to matters of known and undisputed history, only that\nprobability which they receive from the authority of some one or more\nof the writers whose names we have mentioned in the foot-note annexed\nto the title of this article. This remark applies especially to facts\nrelating to the schism of the Russian Church. We have never yet met\nwith any professedly complete and minute ecclesiastical history of\nRussia. Mouravieff\u2019s work is a professed history of the Russian\nChurch, but it is compendious, and too partial to deserve entire\nconfidence. It is much to be desired that some ecclesiastic of\nprofound erudition in Russian literature, such as Father Gagarin or\nFather Tondini, would furnish us with a thorough and trustworthy\nnarrative of all the facts which can be known in this obscure and\ninteresting department of ecclesiastical history. In fact, we suspect\nthat very much which passes current in the civil history of Russia as\nwritten by foreigners needs a critical sifting, and that a perfectly\nimpartial and trustworthy history of that empire is yet to be written.\n\nThe Russian Empire embraces one-seventh of the land-surface of the\nearth, or more than double the area of Europe, and European Russia is\nthirty times larger than England. The aggregate population is at least\n75,000,000, including a hundred distinct tribes, among which more than\nforty languages are spoken. The ancestors of the dominant race were\nScythians and Sarmatians, among whom the beginnings of civilization\nwere to be found during the earliest part of the Christian epoch. It\nis a curious fact that a republic existed at Novgorod before the\narrival of Rurik. The Russian dominant race is Sclavonian\u2015\u2015that is, as\nethnologists suppose, of Sarmatian origin. The present name of the\ncountry and people is not, however, indigenous. The Russian tribe was\na branch of the Varangians, who were Scandinavians, and migrated into\nthe country to which they have given their name in the ninth century.\nThe name Russian is derived by some from Rurik, and by others from\nsome one of various Scandinavian words signifying foreigner, wanderer,\nor scattered, in which case it would denote the migration of the\nVarangian horde from its former seat and its settlement in a foreign\ncountry.[178]\n\nRurik was the principal chief of these Varangians, the founder of a\nprincipality which was the germ of the future empire, and the father\nof the first line of the tsars. Other chiefs of the same tribe founded\nminor principalities, which formed together a sort of confederation,\nthe successor of Rurik being recognized as Grand Prince. The city of\nMoscow was founded in the twelfth century. It was not until after\ncenturies had passed that one united kingdom was formed and increased\nby degrees to the vast magnitude of its modern proportions. The\nabsolute, autocratic authority of the tsar was likewise a later\ndevelopment of the primitive form of government.\n\nThe reign of Rurik continued from A.D. 861 to 879, and that of his\ndirect line of successors until 1598, when it became extinct by the\ndeath of Feodor I., who left no issue, and is said to have had no\nnear, surviving relatives. After fifteen years of disputed successions\nand bloody civil conflicts, caused by the usurpation of Boris\nGodounoff, which began with the accession of the imbecile Feodor, the\nRomanoff family was placed on the throne, which it has kept in\npossession to the present day.\n\nThe first Romanoff tsar was a son of Feodor Romanoff, a nobleman who\nhad retired into a monastery and become metropolitan of Rostoff, which\ndignity he afterwards exchanged for the higher office of patriarch of\nMoscow. He was first cousin to the Tsar Feodor through an\nintermarriage of the Romanoffs with the reigning family. The son of\nFeodor who was elected tsar was a youth named Michael Feodorovitch. To\nhim succeeded his son Alexis, then Feodor II., then Peter the Great.\nTo Peter succeeded his widow, Catharine I., who was by birth a\npeasant, followed by Peter II., the grandson of Peter the Great, who\ndied in his childhood, and was succeeded by Anne, Duchess of Courland,\na niece of Peter I. After Anne, her grandnephew, Ivan VII., an infant,\nwas proclaimed, but soon displaced by Elizabeth, a daughter of Peter\nI. and Catharine. Peter III., son of Anne\u2015\u2015who was a daughter of Peter\nand Catharine\u2015\u2015and of the Duke of Holstein-Gottorp, succeeded\nElizabeth, but was dethroned by his own wife, Catharine II. Her son,\nPaul I., was assassinated by his nobles, and to him succeeded his son,\nthe justly-celebrated Alexander I., who reigned from 1801 to 1825. The\nEmperor Nicholas, whose reign terminated in 1856, was the brother of\nAlexander,[179] and his son, Alexander II., is the present reigning\nemperor.\n\nFor more than two centuries, dating from A.D. 1238, the Russians were\nsubject or tributary to the Mongolians, who had overrun and conquered\nthe country. Ivan the Great shook off their yoke during the latter\nhalf of the fifteenth century. Poland was a frequent and often\nvictorious antagonist in war of Russia until internal dissensions\nbroke her power and left her a prey to the enemy who had once regarded\nher with dread. Turkey, Hungary, Persia, Sweden, and other minor\npowers were also frequently engaged with her in conflicts of varying\nsuccess before the period in which she took part in the great European\nstruggles. Having slowly and gradually grown to a gigantic stature and\nattained to solidity and strength by the long operation of various\ninternal and external causes, this empire of the North founded by\nRurik suddenly, under the powerful direction of Peter the Great, took\nits place among the great nations of Western Christendom. What it is\nyet to become we may know better than we can now vaticinate in the\nyear 1900, when, to use Prince Bismarck\u2019s strong figure, some more of\n\u201cthe iron dice of destiny falling from the hands of God\u201d shall have\nmade the eternal decrees manifest which are now hidden in the\nobscurity of the future.\n\nIt is probable that Christianity was first preached in Russia by St.\nAndrew the Apostle, and had some partial success during the period\nintervening between the apostolic age and the second mission sent from\nConstantinople in the ninth and tenth centuries. At this epoch some\nChristian communities were founded, and the way was opened for greater\nsuccesses at a later period. The Princess Olga was baptized at\nConstantinople in 955, and in 988 her grandson, Vladimir the Great,\nwho married the Greek emperor\u2019s sister, became a Christian, with all\nhis subjects. It is true that the conversion of the mass of the people\nwas very superficial, and that it was a long time before they ceased\nto hanker after their ancient superstitions. Yet the foundations were\nlaid for a future superstructure, and there is evidence that even\nbefore the Mongolian invasion sacred science flourished at Kieff. At\nthis period, which lay between the schism of Photius and that of\nMichael Cerularius\u2015\u2015whose revolt occurred in the middle of the\neleventh century\u2015\u2015Constantinople and the other Eastern patriarchates\nwere in the communion of the Roman Church. The Russian Church was\ntherefore Catholic at its original foundation. The higher clergy were\nall Byzantines, especially in Muscovy, and were under the influence of\nthe prevailing ideas of the clergy of the Greek Empire. The\nimperfectly-instructed clergy and people of Russia were therefore\nnaturally left to drift into a condition of alienation from the Roman\nChurch and Western Christendom, when their immediate patriarch\nrevolted from his allegiance to the Sovereign Pontiff. The irruption\nof the Mongols buried them in a sea of ignorance, misery, and\nbarbarism for ages. Nevertheless, their faith and their liturgical\nbooks were always Catholic. Every now and then we meet with signs of\nsome intercommunion with the Roman Church, especially on the part of\nthose who were immediately subject to the see of Kieff. We can\nscarcely, therefore, consider that an act of overt rebellion and\ncomplete schism of the national church was committed until the\nrejection of the Act of Union of Florence, and the erection of the\nindependent patriarchate of Moscow at the close of the fifteenth\ncentury.\n\nAt the opening of the Council of Florence, in 1439, Vasili III. sent\nIsidore, Metropolitan of Kieff and Primate of Russia, a learned Greek,\nas the representative of the national church, to effect a complete\nreconciliation with Rome. Isidore fulfilled this commission, and\nreturned with the dignity of cardinal and legatine powers. He was well\nreceived by the tsar, who nevertheless dared not publicly ratify and\nproclaim his action without the consent of the Muscovite clergy and\nboyars. This was violently and obstinately refused. Cardinal Isidore\nreturned to Kieff, and within the provinces immediately subject to his\njurisdiction as metropolitan the Act of Union was accepted. He was\nafterwards banished from Russia, and after the storming of\nConstantinople, which he witnessed, he, like the more celebrated\nCardinal Bessarion, went to reside at Rome. Vasili\u2019s motives for\nseeking to place his bishops under the supremacy of the Roman pontiff\nwere chiefly political. He wished to free himself from the\necclesiastical and political interference of Constantinople. Thwarted\nin his first plan, he tried another. On the pretext that the patriarch\nof Constantinople had separated himself from the communion of the\nother Eastern patriarchs, he persuaded the Muscovite clergy to abjure\nhis authority. On the same pretext he deprived the see of Kieff of its\npre-eminence, and made the metropolitan of Moscow the primate of all\nRussia. Thus, by flattering the ambition of the Muscovite clergy, he\nplaced them in a position more favorable for the exercise and increase\nof his own authority over the church. His successor, Ivan the Great,\nthe same who freed his dominions from the Mongolian supremacy,\ncompleted and more fully carried out these plans, and made himself the\nreal governing head of the schismatical Russian Church. After the fall\nof the Greek Empire the tsars ceased to have any reason to fear the\noppressed church of Constantinople, and became friendly to it in an\naltered relation as its protectors and as claimants of the rights of\nthe Greek emperors. Ivan married Sophia, a Greek princess, adopted the\ndouble-headed eagle as his escutcheon, assumed the state and splendor\nof an emperor, and arrogated to himself the prerogatives of the\nsecular head of the so-called Orthodox Church. Under Feodor I. the\nerection of a new patriarchate at Moscow was effected by Boris\nGoudonoff, who ruled, in fact, during the life-time of the last of the\nRurik dynasty, and gained the throne, left vacant at his death, by his\ncunning intrigues. Under Alexis, the second Romanoff, the great\npatriarch Nicon, whose name is highly venerated in Russia, came into a\ncollision with the tsars which resulted in his own downfall and in\nthat of all spiritual independence of the Russian hierarchy. At last\nPeter the Great suppressed the patriarchal office, substituting for it\nthe Holy Synod, and reducing the Russian Church to the condition of\nenslavement in which it has ever since languished. Notwithstanding the\nrigorous ecclesiastical despotism exercised by the Russian emperors, a\nlarge Catholic communion has continued to exist in the empire, a\nseparate Episcopal Church, including several millions of adherents,\nhas steadily maintained its independence of the state church, and\ngreat numbers of irregular dissenters are also scattered through the\ntsar\u2019s dominions.\n\nWithin the state church opposite tendencies towards Rome on the one\nside, and Protestant or rationalistic liberalism on the other, have\nbeen continually manifesting the want of a real, internal unity in\nwhat is misnamed the orthodox religion. Ivan the Terrible appealed to\nthe pope\u2019s mediation in his political troubles, and received the\ncelebrated Jesuit Possevin as the envoy of the Holy See. During the\nreign of Feodor II., and the regency of the Princess Sophia while\nPeter I. was kept under her tutelage as a minor, several prelates and\nnobles of the court manifested strong Roman proclivities. On the\naccession of Peter all these adherents of the Princess Sophia shared\nin her disgrace and punishment. Yet even Peter himself at one time\nshowed a disposition toward reconciliation with the Pope. Under Peter\nII. the same movement was renewed, but followed by a violent reaction\nand persecution of the orthodox party, under Anne and her favorite,\nBiren. The metropolitan of Kieff was degraded, the bishop of Voron\u00e9ge\ndegraded and publicly knouted, the archbishop of Rostoff and the\nbishop of Kolomna were expelled from the Holy Synod, the archbishop of\nKazan was degraded, the bishop of Tchernigoff was confined in a\nmonastery, and the archbishop of Tver, after being beaten with rods,\ntortured, and kept three years in solitary confinement, was stripped\nof his episcopal dignity and monastic habit, and imprisoned in a\nfortress, where he languished until the reign of Elizabeth. Prince\nVasili Dolgoroucky was executed, with several members of his family.\nCatharine II. and Alexander I. both gave a temporary shelter and\nprotection to the Jesuits. This last prince, although he dallied for a\ntime with evangelical Protestantism, sent his submission to the pope,\nasking for a prelate to visit, instruct, and reconcile him to the Holy\nSee, and died a Catholic in faith and intention, although the sudden\ntermination of his mortal career took place before there was time for\nthe arrival of the prelate to whom the Holy Father had confided this\nmission. The numerous conversions of illustrious Russians to the\nCatholic Church are well-known facts. That heresy and infidelity are\nrife among many nominal members of the Russian Church is also equally\nindisputable and notorious.\n\nThe whole history of the empire of Rurik has a close association with\nConstantinople. While the Russians were still pagans the project of\nsubduing the Greek Empire seems to have been constantly in view. Oleg,\nRurik\u2019s immediate successor; Igor, Rurik\u2019s son, who succeeded Oleg,\nand was the husband of Olga; and their son Sviatoslaf, the father of\nVladimir the Great, made invasions into the Greek Empire at the head\nof armies ranging from eighty to four hundred thousand in number. They\nwere either bought off from conquest by vast ransoms or defeated by\nGreek craft and their own disorderly conduct. After the conversion of\nVladimir, Constantinople was to Russia what Rome has always been to\nOccidental Christendom; and when the Greek Empire fell, the Turk\nbecame in their eyes what the Moslem was to the Catholic Spaniards.\nThe queen city of the Euxine and Mediterranean Seas, the New Rome of\nConstantine, with the rich provinces of Turkey in Europe depending\nupon it, has ever been present to the view of the emperors and the\npeople of Russia as the objective point of perpetual crusades, as a\nprize to be won by their warlike valor, as the natural and destined\ncapital whose possession is necessary to bring their empire to its\nacme of power and glory.[180] Always mysteriously baffled and thrown\nback, the colossal power of the northern empire has been incessantly\npressing against this resistance, even since the power of combined\nEurope has backed the weakening Ottoman Empire. The Emperor Nicholas\nwas more completely possessed by this hereditary idea than any of his\npredecessors since Peter the Great; he undertook and sacrificed more\nfor it than any one of them, and seems really to have caused Russia to\nmake a great stride towards the ulterior object. By the war of 1828\nand \u201929 Turkey was extremely humiliated and weakened, and immense\nadvantages were gained by Russia. Her arms were completely and\nbrilliantly successful from beginning to end of the campaign, and\nsurprise has often been expressed that the Russian army did not march\ndirectly on Constantinople after Adrianople had been captured. It may\nbe that the military strength of the empire was exhausted by its\ncostly victories, and that Nicholas was afraid of exciting a league of\nthe great powers against him. Whatever his reasons may have been, he\nconcluded a peace at Adrianople, and postponed further action to a\nfuture time.\n\nWhen the treaty of Adrianople was concluded (1829), the present\nchancellor of Russia was thirty-one years of age and employed in a\nsubordinate position under the ministry. Prince Alexander\nMikh\u00e4ilovitch Gortchakoff was born in 1798, and claims descent from\nRurik. He first gained the favor of the Emperor Nicholas by\nnegotiating the marriage of his daughter, the Princess Olga, with the\ncrown-prince of W\u00fcrtemberg. He had already passed four years at the\nlittle court of Stuttgart as resident minister, and he earned the\ngratitude of the imperial family by remaining willingly eight years\nlonger, in order to aid the Princess Olga as her guide and counsellor.\nHis residence at Stuttgart fell between the years 1842 and 1854, and\nhe was therefore fifty-six years of age before attaining anything\nabove a minor position in the diplomatic service. After the\nre-establishment of the Diet at Frankfort, in 1850, he was appointed\nto represent Russia at its sessions, and henceforth divided his time\nbetween Stuttgart and Frankfort, and employed his abundant leisure in\nstudying the politics of Europe. It was at this time that he first met\nwith M. Bismarck, then a lieutenant in the Prussian Landwehr, a novice\nin diplomacy and his colleague at the Diet. Here also he became\nintimate with two remarkable and singular characters whose history and\nideas illustrate the peculiar national spirit by which the genuine\nRussian people, which remains true to its ancient traditions without\nany foreign mixture, is animated.\n\nThe first of these singular personages was Vassili Joukofski, who had\nbeen in early life a poet of considerable renown, not remarkably\noriginal, but possessed of a great talent for facile versification and\ningenious translation, and sufficiently cultivated as a scholar to\nhave been selected as the private tutor of the Grand Dukes Alexander\nand Constantine, the present emperor and his brother. Although he had\nvoluntarily selected a German lady as his wife and a German town as\nhis permanent abode, he remained, nevertheless, confirmed in his\nbelief of the hopeless corruption of Western Europe, and the destiny\nreserved for Russia to complete the work of the Crusades, drive \u201cthe\nimpure beast\u201d from Byzantium, liberate the Holy Land, and regenerate\nthe world by \u201ca new eruption of Christianity.\u201d The other individual of\nthis remarkable pair was Nicholas Gogol, a man of original and\npowerful genius, full of a sombre and extravagant religious\nenthusiasm, who haunted the drawing-rooms of Joukofski, and startled\nthe elegant, cultivated guests of his more worldly friend like a\nfantastic apparition from the spiritual world. Gogol was a terrible\nsatirist of the vices of Russian society, a prophet of wrath and\njudgment, in despair of civilization and of his own salvation,\nwandering the earth in a restless search after some relief for his\ndisturbed soul, and reappearing at intervals among his friends at\nFrankfort to deliver impassioned exhortations to prayer and penance.\nThe only remedy for modern evils, in his view, was a return to the\nprimitive state of barbarian Muscovy, and a crusade of despotism\njoined with the undefiled faith of old Russia against \u201cthe heathens of\nthe Occident.\u201d It is an old saying in Russia that \u201cheaven can only be\nreduced by famine.\u201d Gogol acted on this maxim to such an extent by his\nlong fasts and prayers that he was one day found dead of inanition in\nan attitude of prayer, prostrate before his holy images.\n\nPrince Gortchakoff is a cultivated sceptic, intent on the\naggrandizement of Russia from motives which are earthly and confined\nwithin the sphere of that materialistic philosophy which dominates in\ndiplomatic circles. Nevertheless, mystic enthusiasm, the most\nenlightened and noble aspirations of religion and patriotism, great\ndesigns for a lofty end, and the lower qualities of cleverness in\nworldly wisdom, talent for managing the affairs of administration, and\nambition to fulfil a great personal career by serving as an instrument\nof some grand social or political power, are often found combined\ntogether to pursue the same object from different motives. The\nEmperor Nicholas was undoubtedly thoroughly sincere in his adherence\nto the religious and political doctrines which he professed, really\ninfluenced by the mystical ideas of the \u201ccrusaders,\u201d and convinced of\nthe justice of his cause. His chief minister, Nesselrode, certainly\ndid not share these ideas, yet he served his master with all the\nresources and ability which he possessed. So also did Gortchakoff,\nalthough personally he is of the same stamp with his predecessor. The\nemperor, as the whole world knows, and a great part of it well\nremembers, reopened the Turkish question and engaged in the memorable,\nfor the time being to Russia unsuccessful, even disastrous, war of the\nCrimea. In 1855 Prince Gortchakoff was sent as resident ambassador to\nVienna; there he labored strenuously, both before and after the death\nof Nicholas, first to detach Austria from the cause of the allies and\nwin her cooperation with Russia, and then to gain terms which would\npermit his government to conclude an honorable peace on the least\ndisadvantageous terms. Russia has been profoundly irritated against\nAustria ever since the latter power refused to take her part against\nthe protectors of the Ottoman Porte; accusing her of ingratitude for\nthe great service which Nicholas rendered to Francis Joseph in\nsuppressing by military force and gratuitously the Hungarian\nrebellion. Prince Gortchakoff shared this feeling; it has always\naffected his diplomatic policy, and it may have yet most important\nresults, if hostilities are renewed on a large scale. At the Congress\nof Paris, which settled the conditions of peace, Prince Gortchakoff\nwas the Russian plenipotentiary. Immediately afterwards Count\nNesselrode retired from the position of Minister of Foreign Affairs,\nand in April, 1856, the successor upon whom the eyes of the court and\nthe empire had been long turned with favor and hope was elevated to\nthe office, which he has filled for twenty years, and which has become\nessentially more important in his person than it ever was during\npreceding administrations. Prince Gortchakoff is the first who has\nfilled at the Russian court the office of Minister of Foreign Affairs\nin the Western acceptation of the powers and responsibilities of that\nposition. Heretofore the emperor had personally directed the state\npolicy, using his minister as a mere counsellor and chief secretary.\nAlexander II. has devolved the actual direction upon his chief\nminister. The most marked feature of his administration has been the\nclose personal and official amity and concord which has subsisted\nsince their first meeting at Frankfort between himself and Bismarck.\nThe delineation of the common policy of the two chancellors would\nrequire that we should take up M. Klaczko\u2019s exposition of the career\nof the Prussian chancellor\u2015\u2015a task which we cannot fulfil at present.\nOf course each one has had in view the aggrandizement of his own\nstate, and given his concurrence to the designs of the other in the\nexpectation of forwarding thereby his own plans. Bismarck cares\nnothing for Russia, and, after his residence at St. Petersburg as\nPrussian ambassador, he expressed his opinion of her by the motto\nwhich he pasted inside his watch-case: \u201cRussia is nothingness.\u201d[181]\nGortchakoff undoubtedly cares as little for Prussia and the German\nEmpire. Each one looks out for his own ship; for those men whose ideas\nare catholic are of a different class from mere clever diplomatists,\nand, unhappily, are rarely to be found among either kings or ministers\nof state.\n\nBismarck has always made his special accomplices in ruining the\nantagonist of the moment the next victims of his undermining schemes.\nWhat he has in prospect for Russia is as yet undisclosed. Nor is it\ncertain that he will succeed in playing out his game, making\nGortchakoff a mere card in his hand. The Russian is doubtless too\nastute and farseeing to rely on the disinterested friendship of the\nPrussian, or on his fidelity to any secret engagements, except so far\nas self-interest or fear may hold him to his word. Thus far, however,\nthe contract of _facio ut facias_ has been well kept between the two,\nto their mutual advantage. Prussia has gained a great deal by it, and\nRussia something, although the decisive crisis is just now coming on,\nand still undecided, which will solve the problem how much she has\ngained or will gain. Nicholas died, baffled and disappointed.\nAlexander came to the throne sad and disheartened. Russia was crippled\nand exhausted by the terrible disasters of the Crimean war, her\nprestige and influence in Europe were diminished, and she was placed\nunder humiliating and hampering restrictions by the treaty of Paris.\nUnder Prince Gortchakoff\u2019s administration she has recuperated and\nincreased her strength by the mere force of her immense vitality. By\nskilful management she has regained a place in European politics\nalmost equal to that of Germany. She has thrown off the trammels of\nthe treaty of Paris. France, England, and Turkey have lost all they\nhad gained by their costly victories. The allies of Turkey have been\novercome by superior diplomacy together with adverse fortune, and made\nto play into the hands of their old antagonist; and Turkey has been\ndriven into worse straits than any which have beset her in the most\ndangerous epochs of her former history. The initiative in the\nextraordinary political movements of this epoch has been taken by\nBismarck, whom Gortchakoff has merely connived at or seconded. This\nsecondary and mostly negative support has been, nevertheless, most\nimportant, probably even necessary, to the success of Bismarck\u2019s\nschemes. It has involved, moreover, great changes in Russia\u2019s\ntraditional policy and considerable sacrifices. This is especially the\ncase in regard to the minor states of Germany and Denmark, so closely\nallied by intermarriages with Russia, formerly so decidedly supported\nand aided by her influence, yet of late abandoned without remonstrance\nto Prussian spoliation. Russia has been avenged on France, on Austria,\nand to a certain extent on England, and she has had the opportunity of\nreviving the question of the East with a view toward ulterior results.\nThus far Bismarck has seemed to act toward Gortchakoff in the same way\nthat the latter acted towards him in reference to the war on the\nFrench Empire. Certainly, much more must be expected from him, and it\ndoes not yet appear that he can dupe and outwit his copartner in\npolitics as he did the weak, dreamy Louis Napoleon, or make use of him\nas a mere subservient agent, to be discarded when his services become\nunnecessary. Prince Gortchakoff appears to have managed matters thus\nfar for the advantage of Russia with consummate adroitness. Moreover,\nwhatever may have been the influences at work within the imperial\nfamily compelling the chancellor to yield his personal opinions or\nwishes, it is evident that in point of fact Russian policy has not\nbeen of late subservient to Bismarck\u2019s designs, but, on the contrary,\nhas forced him to modify them considerably in respect to France.\n\nIn the event of war between Russia and Turkey alone it is plain that\nRussia will not find it an easy task to effect the conquest of Turkey\nand to expel the Turks from Europe. It seems probable, however, that\nthe Ottoman power must succumb after one desperate struggle, if left\nunaided by all the European powers. It does not seem likely, however,\nthat Europe will stand idly aloof; on the contrary, there is reason to\napprehend that when the conflict threatens to become decisive of the\nfate of Turkey, all the great powers will become involved in a general\nwar, which will make an epoch in history and determine the destinies\nof the world for the next ensuing age. We may conjecture, on grounds\nwhich are at least plausible, that if Russia is actively supported by\nany other powers, it will be Germany and Italy which will ally\nthemselves with her, against Austria, England, and France. We can\nscarcely expect that a war of this kind would terminate in complete\nsuccess to either of the belligerent parties. In the end all the great\nnations must come to some mutual agreement in a congress which shall\nsettle the balance of power on a new basis, guarding against an\nabsolute and dangerous preponderance of any one of the chief powers.\nWhat is to become of Constantinople we will not venture to predict.\nBut let us suppose that Russia obtains this object of her long,\npatient, and persevering efforts and ardent aspirations. Must we\nsuppose that this will necessarily be an event disastrous to the\ninterests of the Catholic Church and civilization and to the\nreligious, political, and social welfare of Europe and the world? The\nlanguage of many most intelligent and religious men, particularly of\nEnglishmen, and of many others, not particularly religious, who look\nat the matter purely in view of the temporal interests of nations,\nproves that a very strong and general conviction exists in the sense\nof the affirmative answer to this question. We think, however, that\nthere is something to be said on the other side. As the Catholic\naspect of the question is the one most important in itself, and really\ninvolving all the others, we consider this aspect alone. It is the\nschismatical position of the Russian Church, and its complete\nsubjection to the autocratic power of the ruler of the state, which\nfurnishes the only reason for regarding the Turkish dominion in the\nLevant as a lesser and more tolerable evil than the transfer of the\ncapital of Russia from St. Petersburg to Constantinople. All reasons,\ntherefore, which encourage the hope and expectation of the\nreconciliation of Russia with the Holy See diminish, in proportion to\ntheir weight, the dread which the prospect of such an event may\nawaken.\n\nWe will here quote a remarkable passage from Dr. Mivart\u2019s late essay\non _Contemporary Evolution_ having a bearing on this subject. Those\nwho have read this work, or the review of it in our number of last\nDecember, will understand the value of the quotation we are about to\nmake, as coming from a man who anticipates such a very different\ncourse of events from that whose possibility he here sets forth. It\nproves his cautious, scientific method of reasoning. He does not\nadvance his own theory with absolute assertion as certain, and his\nacuteness, combined with candor, causes him to discern and bring into\nnotice a contingency in the direction of Russia which, if it should\nturn out to be a future actuality, would alter most essentially the\n\u201cevolution\u201d whose probable course causes so much curious and anxious\nquestioning of the signs of the times.\n\n \u201cNevertheless, there are many who believe that a reversal\n will at length ensue, and some modification of the old\n theocracy be again generally established. At present the\n only power which seems to contain enough of the old material\n is Russia. It _may_ be that, instead of politically\n assimilating itself to Western Europe (like the manners of\n its highest class), it may come to exercise a powerfully\n reactionary tendency. It does not seem impossible that,\n availing itself of the mutually enfeebling wars and\n revolutionary disintegration of Western powers, it may\n hereafter come to play that part in Europe which was played\n of old by Macedon in Greece. Such a Western expansion might\n be greatly aided if, carrying out the idea of a former\n sovereign, it united itself to the Roman Church, and made\n itself the agent of the most powerful religious feelings and\n of all the theocratic reactionary tendencies latent in\n Western Europe. It does not even seem impossible that a\n Roman pontiff effectively restored to his civil princedom by\n such Russian agency might inaugurate, by a papal\n consecration in the Eternal City, yet a fresh dynasty of\n \u2018Holy Roman emperors,\u2019 a Sclavonic series succeeding to the\n suppressed German line, as the Germans succeeded in the\n person of Charlemagne to the first line of C\u00e6sars.\u201d[182]\n\nWhat seems to the distinguished writer just quoted barely possible\nappears to us quite probable. It does not follow, however, that his\nhypothesis, proposed as possible, expresses precisely the necessary\nalternative to the opposite term of a complete revolution in Russia by\npagan liberalism. The medium between Nicholas Gogol\u2019s fanatical ideas\nof a reformation by Muscovite barbarism and despotism and their\nabsolute contrary\u2015\u2015the uttermost development and sway through the\nwhole extent of the civilized world of Western heathenism\u2015\u2015need not be\nplaced exactly at the point marked out by Dr. Mivart. We can suppose\nthat the Russian Empire may reach its ultimatum by attaining a degree\nof power and grandeur beyond that which it now possesses, without\nacquiring domination over the rest of Europe. We can suppose that its\ninfluence may be exerted successfully to arrest and turn back the tide\nof pagan revolution, in co-operation with the other powers acting on a\nmore Christian policy, without being absolutely reactionary. Russia\nmay receive as well as impart influence, undergo in herself\nmodification as well as cause modification to be undergone by Western\nEurope, through mutual contact at Constantinople. It would seem that\nsuch must be the result of her coming down to the Mediterranean and\nemerging from her old ice-bound and land-locked isolation. She will\ncome in contact with America as well as Europe; and, in fact, the\nvisits of her naval squadrons and of three of her grand dukes to our\nshores show that the imperial court of St. Petersburg does not fear\ncommunication with the great republic of the West.\n\nThe method of administering government in Russia has actually been\nundergoing a great modification, in the sense of substituting regular\nprocedures of law and definite codes for personal and arbitrary\nauthority under the initiative and direction of the emperors\nthemselves and their immediate ministers. The local communal\ngovernment, by the system of free assemblies and elections of the\npeople in districts and villages, exists throughout Russia. The\nEmperor Nicholas prosecuted actively the work of ameliorating and\nimproving the condition of the common people, which Alexander has\ncarried still further by the abolition of serfdom. The mitigation and\nattempering to the demands of an improved civilization of the\nautocratic principle in the empire seems to be an inevitable and\ncertain process which must go on, and which finds its greatest\nimpediment in the nefarious plots and insurrections of secret\nsocieties and revolutionists. It is to be hoped that when a stable\nequilibrium is once restored in Europe, when a solid peace succeeds to\nthe impending storm of war, and Russia is in harmony with other\nChristian nations, her power, combined with theirs, will be seriously\nand successfully applied to the suppression of these secret societies,\nthus giving the hydra-head of revolution a stunning, disabling blow;\nthough we cannot expect that any human power will be able to kill and\nbury the monster.\n\nRussia cannot fulfil the mission her religious and patriotic children\nascribe to her, cannot take a principal part in the redintegration of\nChristendom, or even attain her complete political growth and strength\neither in Europe or Asia, without abandoning her schismatical\nposition, reuniting herself to the Pope, and liberating the church\nfrom its constricting thraldom to obsolete Byzantine prejudices and\nsecular tyranny. The question of the conversion of Russia has already\nbeen treated of in our pages by the learned and zealous Father\nTondini, and a number of works bearing on the whole subject are\naccessible to English readers. We have not space to go into this\nmatter as it deserves. We are merely indicating what a Catholic\nRussian Empire, in possession of Constantinople, might accomplish for\nthe triumph of Christianity. The long catalogue of crimes, cruelties,\npersecutions, internal abuses, disorders, heresies, fanatical\nextravagances, ravages of infidel and revolutionary opinions\u2015\u2015in which\ntoo much that is true, we are induced by the argument from analogy, as\nwell as in part by counter-statements worthy of credit, to believe, is\nmixed with some falsehood and much exaggeration\u2015\u2015on which a wholesale\ndenunciation of Russia is founded, proves nothing at all or too much.\nAll great nations of Christendom can be subjected to the same\noriminating process. What can an advocate say in the cause of England,\nFrance, Germany, or medi\u00e6val Europe? The same can be applied to\nRussia. If it is a legitimate plea, the facts cited in the indictment\non sufficient evidence are true, but irrelevant. To attempt a\nwhite-washing process is in all cases foolish as well as immoral. The\ncrimes recorded in the pages of Russian history, whether personal or\npolitical, are not to be denied or excused. Existing evils in church\nand state are not to be disguised. All mankind are born in original\nsin, and the great majority have committed actual sins. What then? Has\nChrist not redeemed the world? will he not triumph over sin and death,\nand crowd the kingdom of heaven with his elect? In none of the\nkingdoms of this world, in no age of human history, can we find the\nideal kingdom of God and Christ, of justice, peace, and happiness,\notherwise than imperfectly brought into actual existence. Does not the\nheavenly kingdom gradually form itself out of this confused mass of\nmaterial, growing up through the ages of time to that perfection which\nit will attain in eternity? Let us look at Russia in a general view,\nas we look on the past ages of Christendom, neglecting those small\nparticular objects which disappear or become insignificant in an\nextended and philosophical survey. Let us drop our petty national\nprejudices, and clear our minds of everything inconsistent with\nimpartial justice to all mankind and Catholic charity. We shall find\nmuch that is admirable and hopeful in the great Russian Empire and her\npeople, and be convinced that Russians, even after they have become\nCatholics and suffered expatriation, are justified in their ardent\nlove for, and pride in, their unique and wonderful country.\n\nThe Russian people resembles a belated army, like that of Bl\u00fccher at\nWaterloo, coming on the field to decide a doubtful battle. They are of\nthe past, and have but just emerged from their childhood. The old\npatriarchal spirit lives in them; they are simple, hardy, traditional,\nloyal, full of reverence for parental, sacerdotal, and imperial\nauthority, industrious and easily contented. The Russian peasantry are\nwarmly clothed and housed; they have enough of the simple food which\nsuffices for their wants; and pauperism scarcely exists. They are a\nmost religious people, and religion is recognized as the basis and\nfoundation of the entire political and social fabric of the nation, as\nwell by the government as by the mass of the people. They only need to\nbe vivified by the current of life from the heart, and energized by\nthe vital force from the head, of Catholic unity, to become what the\nWestern nations were in the times of their pristine Christian vigor.\nThe schism in which they are involved is an unhappy legacy inherited\nfrom the corrupt Lower Empire of Byzantium and its ambitious,\nperfidious clergy. Christianity lacked the full amount of power\nnecessary to accomplish a perfect work in Russia, because the source\nwhence it was derived could not give it. The Russian Church has never\nhad its golden age. There are many reasons why it seems fitting and\nprobable that the gifts and graces of the Holy Spirit should be\nimparted to it at this late day in much greater fulness than they were\nin the beginning, making it flourish suddenly and beautifully, like\nits own artificial gardens, out of the long, bleak winter. The body of\nthe Russian nation cannot be regarded as apostate, or compared with\nthose who followed Photius, Luther, Jansenius, or D\u00f6llinger into\nwilful rebellion and secession. The authors of the schism were the\nprelates and higher clergy from Constantinople, and the boyars of\nMoscow, who were completely under their influence. Most of these,\neven, were probably, to a great extent, misled by ignorance and\nprejudice. We have already shown how the schism has become intertwined\nwith state policy, so as to transform the great, severed limb of the\nCatholic Church into a national institution with an outward form of\nhierarchical organization, yet really only a department of the\nimperial autocracy. Nevertheless, this national Russian Church is in a\ncondition essentially different from that of the Anglican\nestablishment or any other Protestant communion. It retains all that\nis necessary to the constitution of a catholic church, and needs only\nto submit to the supremacy of the Pope in order to be redintegrated in\nunity. The body of the priests and people of Russia are undoubtedly\nnot in formal, but merely in material, schism. They are therefore\ntruly in their own persons members of the Catholic Church. They have\nthe faith and the sacraments, and there is no obstacle to the grace of\nGod in the inculpable state of external separation from the Holy See\nin which they have been unfortunately placed by their ecclesiastical\nand civil rulers. The misfortune of such a vast number of the true and\npious children of the Holy Mother Church must cry to God for\ndeliverance and restoration to the true fold. Their numerous oblations\nof the unbloody Sacrifice, their communions, their perpetual prayers\nto the Blessed Virgin and the saints, some of whom belonged in this\nworld to their nation, the sacrifices and prayers of the noble\nconverts from the Russian schism to Catholicity, the mercy of God,\nwhich is extended over all men, especially the baptized, must surely\neffect their reconciliation to their Catholic brethren and the Holy\nFather of all Christendom. The sufferings and the blood of the victims\nof Russian persecution will conduce more powerfully to this result\nthan any other human cause. The pagan Russians slaughtered the priests\nand faithful of the Byzantine Empire but a short time before they fell\ndown before the cross and submitted to the spiritual authority of the\nChristian patriarch. Vladimir dragged ignominiously to the river the\nidol he had formerly worshipped. It cannot, therefore, be impossible\nthat God should bring his successor to the feet of the Pope in humble\nsubmission, to place himself and his empire under the gentle sway of\nthe Vicar of Christ. Russia once reconciled with Catholic Christendom,\nthe conversion of all the Sclavonians would undoubtedly follow. The\nEastern schism would become extinct or reduced to insignificance; and\nto Russia would naturally fall the great work of Christianizing Asia,\nwhen the paralysis of schism was removed. Who can tell if the kingdom\nof Poland may not be restored to its autonomy, renovated by the severe\nchastisements which it has not only suffered but deserved, and\npurified from the foul mixture of infidel revolutionism which has been\nmore fatal to it than any of its external disasters? The designs of\nGod defy all human scrutiny, and the changes awaiting Europe, whose\ncomplicated, mysterious evolutions have always baffled the most\nsagacious foresight or previous planning of rulers or statesmen, are\nas much beyond philosophical calculation as the movements of three\nbodies are beyond the computation of mathematics. Some indications,\nhowever, precede the full disclosures of events. An eminent Catholic\nof Germany has recently said: \u201cI see the finger of God, which pushes\nthe Russians forwards and Romewards.\u201d[183] We do not think there can\nbe any object more worthy of the united prayers of all Catholics, next\nafter the deliverance and triumph of the Holy See, than the\nreconciliation of Russia to the Catholic Church.\n\n\n\n [177] _Two Chancellors: Prince Gortchakoff and Prince\n Bismarck._ By Julian Klaczko. Translated from the _Revue des\n Deux Mondes_ by Frank P. Ward. New York: Hurd & Houghton.\n 1876.\n\n Various works on Russia by Palmer, Gagarin, Tondini, De\n Custine, De Maistre, Pitzipios, Tyrrell, Gurowski, Romanoff,\n Rabbe and Duncan, etc. The histories of Mouravieff, Leo,\n Rohrbacher, Darras, and Alzog.\n\n [178] Still another derivation is from Roxolani, the name of\n a Scythian tribe.\n\n [179] The older brother, Constantine, resigned his right of\n succession.\n\n [180] Alexander I. said to Caulaincourt: \u201cI must have the\n key which opens the gate of my house.\u201d\n\n [181] La Russie c\u2019est le rien.\n\n [182] _Contemporary Evolution_, by St. George Mivart, pp.\n 66, 67.\n\n [183] Reinhold Baumstarck in the _Hist. Polit. Bl\u00e4tter_ for\n Dec. 1, 1876.\n\n\n\n\nUP THE NILE.\n\nII.\n\n\nLike giant walls the Libyan and Arabian mountains bound the valley on\neither side, at one point close to the river bank, at another receding\ninland five or six miles. From Cairo to Wady Halfa, eight hundred\nmiles, they stretch in an unbroken line. Beautiful groves of palm-trees\nline the banks, among which we wander for hours as the boat is tracked\nup the stream. This mode of progression is slow indeed, and is used\nwhen the wind fails us. A stout rope is made fast to the bow, and\neight or ten men, taking hold of the other end, walk along the bank,\ndragging the boat after them, scarcely ever making more than five or\nsix miles a day. We go ashore at this time. There are numbers of fine\nbirds to shoot\u2015\u2015over two hundred and fifty different kinds: vultures,\nrosy pelicans, golden orioles, pink flamingos, many geese and ducks,\nand innumerable flocks of aboulgerdans, the _ardetta russata_, or\nbuff-back heron, the constant friend and companion of the buffalo. For\nhours we wander through palm-groves, cotton and sugar fields, and\noccasionally pass through a small village, to the intense amusement of\nthe elders and the terror of the juveniles. Near midnight of the 24th\nof December we reached Ekhmeem, a small town on the east bank. We had\nbeen anxious to spend Christmas morning here; for there is a reunited\nCoptic church, and we all wished to attend Mass. The church was not\nvery handsome nor elaborately finished. The floor was composed of\nbricks, with a few straw mats scattered here and there. The roof was\nmade of rough, unfinished boards, two openings in which served to\nadmit light and air, thus dispensing with the necessity for windows.\nThere were a few pews. On the walls were painted pictures of saints\nand holy men and women. They were executed by native artists, and to\nthe untutored eye of these simple natives seemed beautiful no doubt.\nThey reminded us of those pictures we were wont to draw on our slates\nwhen schoolboys. After they were finished, painful doubts would arise\nas to whether any one would be able to tell for what they were\nintended; so to remove all apprehension we wrote underneath: \u201cThis is\na man,\u201d \u201cThis is a cow.\u201d If many Western Christians are to visit this\nchurch, it would be well for them to do the same, so that we may not\nmistake a picture of the Blessed Virgin for a shadoof, or St. Joseph\nfor a portion of an obelisk. There were about forty Arabs, men and\nboys, in the body of the church, and some women behind the\nlattice-work screens at the rear which separated them from the men.\nThis separation of sex is carried on even in the Christian churches of\nEgypt. Father H\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 officiated, and we had the honor to be the first\nLatins who had ever heard Mass in the Coptic church of Ekhmeem.\nAfterwards we were hospitably entertained by the Coptic priest. He\ninvited us to his reception-room on the second story; the congregation\ncrowded in, and each one in turn shook hands with us, and then kissed\ntheir own hands in token of respect. Innumerable cups of coffee and\ncigarettes were forced upon us. I like coffee, and am particularly\nfond of a cigarette, but both in moderation. One soon tires, however,\nof converting himself into a movable coffee-pot and perambulating\nsmoke-stack to afford these natives a means of showing that they are\npleased with his visit. I have never seen smoking carried on to such\nan extent as in this country. While dressing in the morning and\nundressing at night they puff their cigarettes. During the day the\nsmoke is constantly issuing from their lips.\n\nPococke speaks of some convents near here, one of which is called \u201cOf\nthe Martyrs,\u201d and is mentioned by the Arab historian Macrizi, and\nanother about two miles further in a wild valley, which is composed of\ngrottoes in the rock and a brick chapel covered with Coptic\ninscriptions. Near this is a rude beaten path leading to what appears\nto have been the abode of a hermit. Ekhmeem, down to the advent of the\nMoslems, was considered the oldest city of all Egypt. It was supposed\nto have been founded by Ekhmeem, the great-grandson of Ham. This was\nafter the Deluge; and if the generally-received date of that event be\ncorrect, then the supposition was false. Modern Egyptologists, unless\nwrong in their chronology, show that many cities existed at least\nthree thousand years before Christ.\n\nA few hours\u2019 sail brought us to Girgeh, a small town on the left bank.\nHere is the oldest Roman Catholic establishment in Egypt. Girgis, or\nGeorge, is the patron saint of all the Egyptian Christians, and after\nhim the town was named. Leo Africanus says that Girgeh was formerly\nthe largest and most opulent monastery of Christians in Egypt, called\nafter St. George, and inhabited by upwards of two hundred monks, who\npossessed much land in the neighborhood. They supplied food to all\ntravellers, and sent annually a large sum to the patriarch at Cairo to\nbe distributed among the Christian poor. About one hundred years ago a\ndreadful plague afflicted Egypt and carried off all the monks of the\nconvent. There is a small congregation now of some four hundred\nreunited Copts, with a few Coptic priests, presided over by a\nFranciscan missionary. We called on him and paid a very pleasant\nvisit. He accepted our invitation to dinner. As it was Christmas day,\nand this our first dinner-party, Ahmud spared no trouble to have\neverything as nice as possible. The table was laid with very pretty\npink and white china. Ibrahim appeared in a full suit of the purest\nwhite. The principal dish was a turkey; and such turkeys as they have\nin this upper country are to be found nowhere else in the world.\nUnfortunately, the priest could only speak Arabic and Italian; and as\nour knowledge of those languages was very limited, the conversation\nwas not animated. One of our party spoke Spanish fluently; with this\nassistance, and what remained of the Latin of our college days, we\nmade some progress, and were able to exchange a little information and\na few ideas. The Father was an Italian of good family, and had been at\nGirgeh for eight years. His congregation were very much attached to\nhim, but, being very poor, he found it difficult to get along. The\nonly outside aid he received was from the missionary society of Lyons,\nwho send to each mission along the Nile one napoleon (about four\ndollars) per month.\n\nFurther up, at Negadeh, we paid a very interesting visit to an old\npriest, P\u00e8re Samuel, who had been thirty-seven years in Egypt,\nthirty-four of which he had spent at Negadeh. At first he did not seem\nto understand the purport of our visit. We were probably the first\nCatholics who had ever called on him. In the course of thirty-four\nyears he had made but twenty converts from Moslemism. This is owing to\nthe severe penalties prescribed by the Koran for apostasy, which but\nfew dare brave. There are about four thousand schismatical Copts and\ntwo hundred reunited ones, mostly his own converts. It is an edifying\nsight to see these small but devoted bands of Christians practising\ntheir religion in the midst of fanatical enemies who ridicule and\nannoy them in every possible way.\n\nOn we sail, and soon the white minarets of Girgeh fade away in the\ndistance. On the tops of the houses in almost every town pigeon-towers\nhave been built for the shelter and accommodation of the myriads of\nsemi-domesticated pigeons that abound here. I am informed that this\ncare is taken of them for the sake of obtaining their manure. One\nwould think that the owners would resist any attempts to destroy them.\nOn the contrary, they would call to us from a distance, and, after we\nhad trodden down their standing grain to reach them, they would point\nout a flock of pigeons, tell us to shoot them, and then, seemingly in\ngreat glee, run, pick them up, and bring them to us. On the 27th of\nDecember the wind was so strong that we furled the sails and were\nblown up-stream under bare poles at the rate of three miles an hour.\nThe raised cabin, presenting such a broad surface to the wind, acted\nas a sail and enabled them to steer the boat. As we were seated at\ndinner that evening, Ahmud entered, appearing very nervous, and told\nus the sailors were about to stop to make their peace-offering to\nSheik Selim. \u201cAnd pray who is Sheik Selim?\u201d we asked. \u201cHe is a very\nholy man,\u201d said Ahmud\u2015\u2015\u201cthe guardian spirit of the Nile. He is one\nhundred and twenty years of age, and for the last eighteen years he\nhas not changed his position, but, seated on the bank, he rules the\nelements. If we passed without making an offering to him, he would\nsend adverse winds; may be he would set fire to the boat or cause\nother dire calamities to befall us.\u201d \u201cDoes he not tire of sitting\nthere so long?\u201d I venture to inquire. \u201cOh! no; when no one is with him\nhe calls to the crocodiles, and they come out of the water and play\nwith him. At the approach of any human being he orders them to retire,\nand is instantly obeyed.\u201d \u201cAnd do the sailors really believe this?\u201d\n\u201cYes, and I do also,\u201d replied Ahmud indignantly. \u201cI tell you again\nthat any one who passes without making an offering to this holy man is\nsure to meet with some misfortune. Some years ago, Said Pasha, the\nthen Viceroy of Egypt, was passing here in his steamer. The sailors\nasked permission to stop, but the Viceroy would not permit it, and\nsneered at their credulity. Immediately the wheels revolved without\nmoving the steamer, and it was not until peace-offerings had been\ngiven and accepted that the saint would allow the boat to proceed.\u201d\n\nAfter such conclusive proof of this holy man\u2019s power we did not dare\nto interfere, but some suggested that we would call upon the saintly\nMoslem with the delegation appointed by the crew. Ali was very nervous\nand seemed almost afraid to go; but his childlike curiosity got the\nbetter of him, and he accompanied us. We walked up the bank in solemn\nprocession, not a word being spoken. We found the saint seated on the\ntop, in the centre of a circle made of the stalks of the sugar-cane. A\nlow fire was burning before him. He must always be approached on his\nright hand. Reis Mohammed was the first of our party, and, saluting\nhim most respectfully, laid at his feet a small basket filled with\nbread, oranges, tobacco, and money. Sheik Selim was a very old man,\nentirely nude, and seated on his haunches, long, matted hair flowing\nto his shoulders. Around him a group of his retainers watched us with\neager curiosity. Our sailors, with awe-stricken countenances, gazed\nupon the holy monk with expressions betokening those feelings which\nwould fill our breasts at looking upon some phantom from the\nspirit-world. Above us the moon was riding high in the clear blue of\nan Egyptian sky, lighting up the scene with an almost weird effect. It\nwas a picture never to be forgotten. The fruitful soil of this land\ngives back to the industrious farmer three and four crops a year. Had\nSheik Selim\u2019s body, as it then was, been properly planted and cared\nfor, no less than six crops could easily be realized. If cleanliness\nbe next to godliness, infinite distance must have separated him from\nthe Deity. Each one in turn shook hands with him. He thanked them for\nthe presents and asked for some meat. \u201cI will bring you some from the\nhowadji\u2019s table,\u201d said Ahmud. \u201cNo, I will touch nothing which has been\nhandled by the Christian dogs. Reis Mohammed, in return for your\noffering you will find a pigeon on the boat when you return. I have\nordered it to go there and wait until you come to take it; I present\nit to you.\u201d \u201cHe must get a number of good things from the many\ndifferent boats passing,\u201d I remarked in a side tone to Ahmud. \u201cYes,\nbut he never eats anything at all; he gives all he receives to his\nretainers. He is not like other men: he has not eaten anything for\neighteen years past.\u201d \u201cHe must be on very bad terms with his stomach,\u201d\nthought I; but, being somewhat incredulous, I concealed myself for a\nfew moments behind a palm-tree. As soon as the party had retired he\nseized an orange, and, from the avidity with which he devoured it, I\nconcluded that perhaps Ahmud\u2019s story was partly true. When we returned\nto the boat, Ali told us that Reis Mohammed found a live pigeon on the\ndeck, which suffered itself to be captured, being the one presented by\nthe saint. Not only Ali but all the crew insisted upon the truth of\nthis fact. Something must have displeased the old gentleman, possibly\nour incredulity, for immediately afterwards we ran aground and\nremained so for some hours.\n\nOn the 29th of December we reached Keneh, on the east bank, and the\nnext morning crossed the river, mounted our little donkeys, and rode\nto the great temple of Dendera. This temple was dedicated to the\ngoddess Athor, or Aphrodite, the name Dendera or Tentyra being taken\nfrom Tei-n-Athor, the abode of Athor. To my mind none of the temples\nof Egypt can be called beautiful, or even graceful. Compared with the\narchitectural gems of Greece, or the more recent fairy-like structures\nof the Moguls, they are heavy, coarse, and ungainly. But their\ninterest is derived from their solidity, their antiquity, and the\nrecords of events sculptured on them, making each temple wall a page\nof that immortal book which tells of the manners and customs of the\nmighty people who ruled the known world six thousand years ago. On the\nceiling of this temple was the Zodiac, so long the subject of such\nearnest controversy, by some assigned to an antediluvian age, but more\nprobably belonging to the Ptolemaic or Roman epochs. The most\ninteresting sculpture on the walls of Dendera is the contemporary\nrepresentation of the great Cleopatra. It is generally believed to\nresemble her somewhat, allowance being made for the conventional mode\nof drawing then in vogue. It is not what would now be thought a very\nhandsome face\u2015\u2015full, thick lips, a nose somewhat Roman in shape, large\neyes, and rather a sharp profile. But many think that Cleopatra was\nnot so very beautiful, her charm lying more in her abilities and her\npower to please. She spoke to ambassadors from six or seven different\nnations, each in his own tongue. She sang charmingly, and was said to\nbe the only sovereign of Egypt who understood the language of all her\nsubjects\u2015\u2015Greek, Ethiopic, Egyptian, Troglodytic, Hebrew, Arabic, and\nSyriac.\n\nWe shot a trochilus, or spur-winged plover. We had been very anxious\nto obtain a specimen of this bird, called by the Arabs tic-tac, but so\nfar had been unsuccessful. True that almost every bird we brought on\nboard was determined to be a tic-tac by some of the sailors, but, on\ncomparing each with the description given in Smith\u2019s admirable work on\nthe Nile voyage, we found it was not the veritable trochilus. Why were\nwe so anxious to obtain this bird? Because Herodotus tells about its\nstrange doings, its acting as a self-propelling tooth-pick for the\ncrocodile. Says that ancient traveller: When the crocodile gets out of\nthe water on land, and then opens its jaws, which it most commonly\ndoes towards the west, the trochilus enters its mouth and swallows the\nleeches. The crocodile is so well pleased with this service that it\nnever hurts the trochilus. It is called spur-winged plover on account\nof the large spur which it has on the carpal joint of each wing,\nrendering it a formidable adversary to the crow, three times its size.\nThese Tentyrites were professed enemies of the crocodile. They hunted\nthem with great energy and feasted off them when captured. This\npersecution of a being considered god-like by the Kom-Ombites people,\nliving further up the river, was resented by them with all the\nfanatical rage and hatred of the most bitter sectarian feud. \u201cThose\nwho considered the crocodiles as sacred trained them up and taught\nthem to be quite tame. They put crystal and gold earrings into their\nears, and bracelets on their forepaws, and they gave them appointed\nand sacred food, and treated them as well as possible while alive, and\nwhen dead they embalmed them and buried them in sacred vaults\u201d\n(Herodotus, _Euterpe_). The latter part of this strange narrative I\ncan vouch for, as I have now in my possession three young mummied\ncrocodiles taken from the crocodile mummy-pits of Moabdeh, near the\nsouthern extremity of the rocks of Gebel Aboo Faydah. One afternoon,\nwhile reclining on our luxurious divan, not a cloud obscuring the sky,\nas the light winds bore us slowly onward, I dreamed in pleasant\nreveries of the lands we were about to visit. Suddenly loud cries of\n\u201cFolk! folk!\u201d are heard, and Ali rushes up on deck. \u201cWarrene! warrene!\nShoot him! kill him!\u201d My gun hung above me, loaded with light\nbird-shot. In a moment I was on the forecastle, gun in hand, but\nwithout the faintest idea as to what or where a warrene was. Still,\nall the sailors cried \u201cFolk! folk!\u201d and, running along the bank, I saw\nwhat appeared to be a crocodile, about four feet long. The frightened\nreptile ran rapidly along, at times about to plunge into the water,\nbut immediately the cry of \u201cFolk!\u201d was raised, and it ran up on the\nbank again. The whole charge of bird-shot entering its head cut short\nits career, and it was soon a captive on the deck. \u201cWhy did you cry\nfolk?\u201d we asked the sailors. \u201cWhy, it means \u2018Go up,\u2019 and it prevents\nthe warrene from entering the water.\u201d \u201cSo, then, it understands what\nyou say, and obeys?\u201d \u201cYes; and besides, if you call out \u2018Folk!\u2019 to a\ncrocodile, it will raise its forepaw, and thus expose the only part\nthrough which a bullet can penetrate its body.\u201d No more said, but\nconsiderable doubt raised in the minds of the howadjii, and\nresolutions formed to experiment upon the first crocodile met with.\nThe warrene is a species of crocodile, brought forth, according to the\nsailors\u2019 story, in this way: The crocodile lays a number of eggs on\nland. When these are hatched, from some come forth crocodiles, from\nothers warrenes; but what law of nature operates to produce this\nchange they do not understand.\n\nHere is how we pass our time on board: We rise between six and seven,\nand each one, as soon as ready, takes what the Hindoos call the\n_Chotee Hazree_, or little breakfast\u2015\u2015coffee, eggs, bread, and butter:\ncanned butter brought from England, very sweet; bread baked on board\nwhich would do credit to the best _caf\u00e9_ in Europe; coffee far better\nthan all Paris could make; and eggs of a correspondingly excellent\nquality. After this Mr. S\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 and I generally go ashore and shoot. If\nthe wind be not strong, and the men track or pole, we can easily walk\nahead of the boat. Madam reads, sews, and sometimes walks with us.\nFather H\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015 spends several hours writing in his room, and about ten\no\u2019clock shows his bright, cheerful face on deck, ready for a walk,\ntalk, or almost anything else. At noon we breakfast together, and the\nafternoons are generally spent in practising taxidermy. Many\ntravellers complain that the long Nile voyage is somewhat tiresome.\nAssuredly it is to one who has no other resources than looking upon\nthe scenes around. The scenery is monotonous, the general features of\nriver, plain, and mountain being almost precisely alike from Cairo to\nWady Haifa. To us time was short; day glided into day, week into\nweek\u2015\u2015no marked transition, no jarring, scarce anything to note the\nchange, to show that to-day is not yesterday. Nor, in sooth, do we\ncare what day, what week, what month it is. We have left the world and\nits regulations of time behind us, and we will have naught of the\nworld until we return to civilization. Pleasant occupation of the mind\nis one of the highest worldly happinesses one can hope to attain. We\nwere constantly employed in pleasing occupations. Add to this the\ncloudless sky, the sweet, delicious atmosphere, the soft calm\nand stillness, unknown in our own harsher clime, and one seems\nlifted above the dull realities of this hard world, and to live\nin the brightest dream-land. Truly, this is the very acme of\npleasure-travelling.\n\nWe learned in an empiric manner the art of taxidermy. At first we knew\nnothing about it\u2015\u2015had no books upon the subject. The first birds we\nprepared were sorry specimens. Each day we made new discoveries, and\nfinally we preserved over one hundred birds in perfect order and\ncondition. In this interesting occupation the afternoon hours glided\nswiftly by. At six we dined. Then one would read aloud for an hour or\nmore. After that we played dominos or engaged in conversation until\nten o\u2019clock, when we retired.\n\nAt half-past six of the afternoon of December 30, amid the waving of\nflags and the firing of pistol-shots, we cast anchor off the town of\nLuxor. Ali Murad, our worthy consul, appeared on his house-top, and\nsaluted us with a battery in the shape of a pair of antiquated\nhorse-pistols, the firing of which seemed to afford him much\namusement. Ali is a fine fellow, it is said. He called and spent half\nan hour with us. He did not talk\u2015\u2015in fact, he could not talk much\nintelligibly; in short, he could not talk at all so that we could\nunderstand him. He represents the majesty and power of the great\nrepublic of the western ocean, and is not able to speak the first word\nof English. But he can shake hands, and tell us through Ahmud that he\nis glad to see us; so we stop his mouth with a nargileh, and supply\nhim with coffee, and he squats on the divan and is happy.\n\nThat night we visited majestic Karnak. The soft light of the moon\nplaying here and there among its ruined halls and fallen obelisks made\nthe picture so rich and beautiful that we lingered on till late in the\nnight. Luxor, Karnak, and the temples on the western shore mark the\nsite of hundred-gated Thebes. The western division of the city was, in\nages long since passed away, under the particular protection of Athor.\nFor, taught the learned priests, beneath yon western mountain our holy\ngoddess receives each evening the setting sun in her outstretched\narms. We sailed on the next day, dipping our flag as we passed the\n_Nubia_ and _Clara_, occupied by a very pleasant party from Boston,\nwhom we were destined to meet again at the extremity of our voyage.\nPassing Erment on the west bank, where there is a sugar-factory, we\nsaw a long line of camels carrying sugar-cane. There must have been at\nleast five hundred of these patient animals; but the load that each\none carried could not have weighed fifty pounds. Soon we reach Esne.\nWe are to stop here seventy-four hours, according to contract, for the\nmen to bake their bread. They paid three pounds for the doora, or\ngrain, from which the bread is made; this included the grinding.\nHaving kneaded and prepared the dough, it was baked in a public oven\nat the cost of seventeen shillings. This bread is the staple food of\nthe crew. The quantity baked on January 3 lasted the men until we\nreturned to Sioot, the 21st of March following. The bread was then\nbrought aboard, and for two days the little old cook was busy cutting\nit up into small pieces, which were strewn over the deck and exposed\nto the sun for a few days, until they became hard as stones. The\npreparation of their meals is very simple. A number of these slices of\nbread are put into a pot filled with water; to this is added some salt\nand lentils, and the whole is then boiled and stirred over a fire.\nThis meal they have twice a day. Many a time have I joined them in\ntheir humble repast; and it was palatable indeed, this time-honored\nmess of red porridge for which the hungry Esau sold his birthright to\nhis ambitious brother. These fellows, strong and hardy as they were,\neat meat but four times in as many months, on which occasions we\npresented them with a sheep. The animal served them for two meals. It\nwas butchered and skinned by the captain, and the only parts not used\nwere the entrails. The body was divided into fifteen equal parts, one\nfor each man. These parts were weighed to ensure a fair distribution,\nand the hoofs and head were boiled with the porridge to impart flavor\nto it.\n\nSome years ago the authorities at Cairo became suddenly imbued with\nhigh ideas of morality. In a fit of virtuous indignation they banished\nthence the ghaw\u00e1zee, or dancing girls of not very reputable character.\nNumbers of them ascended the Nile to Esne and settled there. Many\nEastern travellers, filled with those romantic feelings touching\neverything Oriental, have raved in wild rhapsodies about the beauty\nand grace of these ghaw\u00e1zee. Those that I saw were coarse, corpulent,\nand homely. They were attired in bright robes and tawdry finery, their\nactions were disgusting, and their movements in dancing a little more\ngraceful than the frantic struggles of a half-boiled lobster.\n\nWhat numbers of shadoofs we now see on either bank! Before the voice\nof God called his servant Abraham to enter the kingdom of the mighty\nPharaos, these shadoofs\u2015\u2015or more properly in the plural,\nshawad\u00e9ef\u2015\u2015were the common means employed to supply artificial\nirrigation to the parched but fruitful soil. As the Nile recedes it\nleaves a rich and heavy alluvial deposit; in this the first crop is\nsown and brought forth, but it soon becomes dry, parched, and cracked,\nas rain scarcely ever falls in Upper Egypt. The shadoof is then used.\nFrom the top of an upright frame placed on the river bank is swung a\nlong pole. To one end a rope is attached, from which swings a bucket\nmade of skin. On the other end of the pole is fastened sufficient\nclay, hardened as a rock by the sun, to keep the pole in a horizontal\nposition when the bucket is filled with water. The operator pulls\ndownward on the rope until the bucket is immersed and filled. By a\nvery slight effort it is then raised to the top of the bank, sometimes\neight or ten feet high, and emptied into a trough, from which the\nwater is conducted through numberless little canals to a distance\noften of five or six miles. These canals run in every direction, and\nby breaking the banks any part of the soil may be covered with water.\n\nJanuary 5, at six in the evening, we reached Assouan, and moored\nalongside the island of Elephantine. Here we are at Syene; for Assouan\nis but the Coptic Souan or Syene with the Arabic initial Alef added,\ntogether Assouan\u2015\u2015to the Romans the frontier of the world, as all\nbeyond was savage barbarism and unproductive soil. Domitian could\nthink of no more horrible place to which he might banish the great\nsatirist, and while here Juvenal amused himself by satirizing equally\nthe Roman and Egyptian soldiers. Under the Ptolemies Syene was thought\nto lie immediately beneath the tropic of Cancer; but, as is now well\nknown, this was a mistake, as it is situated in latitude 24\u00b0 5\u00b4 25\u00b4\u00b4,\nseven hundred and thirty miles from the Mediterranean. In the early\nages of Christianity Syene was the seat of a bishopric, and at one\ntime more than twenty thousand of the inhabitants were destroyed by a\nfearful pest. The present town is large and well built. Merchandise\nfrom the Soodan and Central Africa is here taken from the camel\u2019s back\nand shipped by water to Cairo. Here for the first time we see those\ndifferent specimens of the African race\u2015\u2015Nubians, Ababdeh, Bisharee,\nBedoween, and many others from the still far-off interior. We are\npestered and besieged by itinerant venders with every description of\nwares to be sold. They squat on the bank, waiting for some of the\nhowadjii to come out. As soon as any of us appear we are surrounded by\nthis motley crew, spears brandished in our faces\u2015\u2015spears that have\nseen actual usage in the barbarous wars of the natives of the\ninterior\u2015\u2015ostrich eggs are poked under our noses, and the beautiful\nostrich feathers waved above our heads. Strings of beads, elephants\u2019\ntusks are offered to us. I wish to buy a chibouk. I select one\u2015\u2015a fine\nbowl of red clay beautifully polished, and a stem six feet long and\nstraight as an arrow. \u201cWell, you miserable, sordid, grovelling,\nlucre-loving, half-naked wretch\u201d (this in English), \u201cHow much?\u201d (this\nin Arabic).\n\nA shrug of the shoulders, and eyes cast upon the ground.\n\n\u201cWell, how much?\u201d\n\nIn a low, moaning voice: \u201cTen piastres\u201d\u2015\u2015only five times the proper\nvalue.\n\n\u201cI will give you one piastre.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no, by no means.\u201d This is not spoken with the mouth, but by a\nmore expressive movement of the head and shoulders. In the course of\ntime the bargain is concluded for two piastres. I give him a piece of\nten and hold out the hand for change. A bag is produced, filled with\ncopper coins, of which it takes an indefinite quantity to equal a\nsilver piece of any given value. Slowly and deliberately he counts\ninto my hand a score or two of them, stops, and looks up into my face.\nMore! Again they are reluctantly doled out one by one. Another\nstoppage, another demand for more; and so it goes, until one party\ncries enough, or the other knows that he has given the proper change.\nThis is carried so far that on one occasion, where silver change was\nto be given for a napoleon, I observed the seller count out from his\nmoney-bag the proper amount of change, conceal it in his hand, and\nthen go through the operation above described. But the regular\nshop-keeper does not bother you to buy\u2015\u2015only the outside board, as it\nwere. The merchant is a most dignified man; if it pleases Allah for\nyou to buy, you will do it, otherwise not\u2015\u2015Oriental predestination\u2015\u2015so\nhe is perfectly indifferent.\n\nWe wanted to go shopping, and looked around for the rich merchant of\nthe town, who had fine ostrich eggs and feathers, elephants\u2019 tusks,\nand spears. We found him seated on the ground reading a letter,\nbrought out, no doubt, to impress us with his importance. I half think\nthe letter was upside down, and doubt very much whether he could read\nat all; but it gave him the air of a man engaged in extensive foreign\ncorrespondence. Ali made known what we wanted. Without raising his\nhead, he sent a boy to open his store, and told Ali he would follow\nwhen he finished his letter. Shortly after he came up, sat down on a\ndivan, and got at the letter again. When we complained of the price,\nhe did not deign a reply, and finally, when we rose to leave, he did\nnot even lift his eyes, but seemed to be still trying to decipher his\ncorrespondence. I am sure it was partly done for effect, for he could\nhave read a dozen letters while we were in his shop. But then he\nwanted to show his indifference.\n\n\n\n\n LONGINGS.\n\n FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.\n\n\n I said: O heart! what is thy goal\u2015\u2015thy end?\n As the lambs follow where the mothers lead,\n Shall I so tread their footprints who precede,\n And life\u2019s brief, death-doomed hour in folly spend?\n\n One chases wealth across the restless wave\u2015\u2015\n Whelmed in the deep, his bark, his hopes go down;\n Another loves the acclaim of vain renown,\n And finds in glory\u2019s bosom but a grave.\n\n One makes men\u2019s passions serve as steps to rise,\n And mounts a throne\u2015\u2015anon behold him fall;\n Another dallies where soft accents call,\n And reads his destiny in woman\u2019s eyes.\n\n In hunger\u2019s arms I see the idler faint,\n The laborer drive his ploughshare through the soil,\n The wise man\u2019s books, the warrior\u2019s deadly toil,\n The beggar by the wayside making plaint.\n\n All pass; but whither? Whither flits the leaf\n Chased by the rough blast, torn by winter rime?\n So fade they from their various ways as time\n Harvests and sows the generations brief.\n\n They strove \u2019gainst time\u2015\u2015time conquers all at last.\n As the light sand-bank wastes down in the stream,\n I see them vanish. Was their life a dream?\n So quickly are they come, so quickly passed!\n\n For me, I sing the Lord whom I adore,\n In crowded cities or in deserts dun,\n At rise of day or at the set of sun,\n Tossed on the sea or couching on the shore.\n\n Earth cries out: Who is God? That soul divine\n Whose presence fills the illimitable place;\n Who with one step doth span the realms of space;\n Who lends his splendor in the sun to shine;\n\n Who bade from nothing rise creation\u2019s morn;\n Who made on nothingness the world to stand;\n Who held the sea in check ere yet was land;\n Who gazed, and light ineffable was born;\n\n For whom no morrow and no yesterday;\n Who through eternity doth self sustain;\n To whom revealed the future lieth plain;\n Who can recall the past and bid it stay\u2015\u2015\n\n God! Let his hundred names of glory wake\n For ever in my song! Oh! be my tongue\n A golden harp before his altar hung,\n Until his hand shall touch me and I break.\n\n\n\n\nSIMILARITIES OF PHYSICAL AND RELIGIOUS KNOWLEDGE.[184]\n\n\nWhen Macaulay remarked that the Catholic Church owed its success in a\ngreat measure to the far-reaching policy of its organization, he\nuttered a truth of vast pregnancy; for the evidences of this\nfar-sightedness abound on every side, and we find its latest\nattestation in the attitude the church holds to the questions which\nagitate the scientific world to-day. Had she, at any period of her\nexistence, so far departed from a well-defined and consistent policy\nas to formulate theories touching the nature and course of physical\nphenomena, she might stand to-day condemned and branded in the light\nof recent scientific discoveries; but apart from the opinions of\nindividual writers, lay and ecclesiastical, to whom she accorded full\nlicense to hold what they pleased in such matters, provided they did\nnot contradict revealed truth, and who accordingly often touched on\nthe border-land of the ridiculous and extravagant, not one\nauthoritative expression of hers can be found at variance with a\nsingle scientific truth even of yesterday\u2019s discovery. Of course she\ncondemns materialism, because it runs counter to the belief in the\nimmortality of the soul, which is a truth as readily demonstrable as\nthe most undoubted fact in science; and she disbelieves in the\neternity of matter, because such a monstrosity involves a violation of\nreason; but neither materialism nor the belief that matter is eternal\nis science, nor do any but the blatant fuglemen of scientism hold to\nthem. What we insist upon is that no expression recorded in any\ncouncil or authoritatively uttered by the Holy See can be adduced\nwhich is in conflict with any truth of physical science now\nestablished. This may sound strange to those whose prejudices against\nthe church have been fanned and fostered by the terrible things told\nconcerning Copernicus, Galileo, and Giordano Bruno; but it is as true\nas it stands printed, and it is a disgrace to the intelligence of the\nday that writers are tolerated who still retail trash in opposition to\noverwhelming historical evidence.\n\nAs in the past, the church to-day benignantly encourages all who\ndevote themselves to the prosecution of the natural sciences, and\nwelcomes their discoveries with delight. She wishes merely that\nscientific investigators confine themselves to their legitimate\nlabors, and do not wildly rush to impious conclusions from\ninsufficient data. She is ever willing to accept whatever conclusions\npremises really justify, and no more. Surely this attitude of the\nchurch towards science is eminently rational, and no right-thinking\nman can condemn it. Yet it is not alone such men as Spencer, Huxley,\nTyndall, St. Hilaire, and Figuier who charge the church with being\nsteadily reactionary and actively antagonistic to science, but the\nwhole sectarian world has taken up the cry. We are sorry to number\namong these the author of the volume which affords subject-matter for\nthis article, and which contains much that is novel, ingenious, and\ntrue, as we hope to be able to show when considering the chapter on\nthe \u201cFaiths of Science.\u201d\n\nBut we will first learn from Mr. Bixby what manner of religion it is\nto which science is not opposed, so that we may ascertain the scope\nand purpose of his work. \u201cIn its most general significance,\u201d he says,\n\u201cit is _the expression of man\u2019s spiritual nature awakening to\nspiritual things_\u201d (italics by the author). After developing this\ndefinition at some length, he considers it more restrictedly as\nembracing the following elements:\n\n \u201c1. Belief in a soul within man.\n \u201c2. Belief in a sovereign soul without.\n \u201c3. Belief in actual or possible relations between them.\u201d\n\nThis, then, is religion according to Mr. Bixby, and it is to the\nrather easy task of reconciling a few modern scientific theories to\nthis attenuated abstraction of religious sentiment, this evanescent\naroma of an emotion, that he addresses himself. The statement of those\nthree fully sufficient conditions of religion clearly involves\npantheism; and not one of the wildest scientific conjectures of the\nday is there which may not be made to harmonize with pantheism. The\ntask, therefore, of reducing science and religion to a harmonious\nplane is quite supererogatory, since on a bare statement of religion\nit is reconcilable with anything. Pantheism, as taught by its most\neminent exponents in Germany\u2015\u2015Hegel, Schelling, and Fichte\u2015\u2015consists\nin a sovereign soul without the \u03c4\u1f78 non \u1f10\u03b3\u03ce, from which the soul of\nman, the \u03c4\u1f78 \u1f10\u03b3\u03ce, is an emanation\u2015\u2015_i.e._, a fragmentary expression of\nits consciousness. Beyond this these distinguished philosophers admit\nand recognize nothing. Do we not clearly find the same thing in the\nreligion of Mr. Bixby?\u2015\u2015viz., 1, soul within man; 2, sovereign soul\nwithout man; 3, actual or possible relations between the two. Now,\ntaking the term soul as univocal in the first and second statements,\nis it not evident that the latter contains the former, and are we not\nlanded high and dry on the absolute pantheism of Schelling? Or rather,\ngoing back to the parent source of pantheism, does not Mr. Bixby\u2019s\ndefinition of religion strongly recall these words of the Vedas: \u201cThus\nthe man who in his own soul recognizes the soul supreme present\nthroughout all creation obtains the happiest lot of all\u2015\u2015to be\nabsorbed into Brahma\u201d?\n\nIf this be Mr. Bixby\u2019s meaning\u2015\u2015or rather, whether meant or not, if\nthis be the legitimate resultant of his views on religion\u2015\u2015we see no\nway of escaping from the conclusion that matter is eternal, since his\nreligion by no means includes the dogma of creation\u2015\u2015indeed, it is his\ncustom to scout dogmas\u2015\u2015but is strictly limited to the recognition of\nan inner and an outer soul. It is true Mr. Bixby admits no such\nconsequence, but he cannot help himself; he speaks most devoutly of\nGod, condemns a \u201cbald materialism that would make matter the sum and\nsubstance of all things, self-existent, and alone immortal, etc.,\u201d all\nwhich is true enough, but by no means bound up in Mr. Bixby\u2019s concept\nof religion. Our author consequently deprecates a conflict with a\nshadow, points out to scientific men the possibility of a complete\nreconciliation between their theories and a Bixbian fugitive tenuity,\nand devoutly implores them not to use language which might delay \u201cthe\nawakening of our spiritual nature.\u201d Mr. Bixby says that metaphysics\nmust not obtrude themselves on the realm of physical science; that the\nmissions of both constantly diverge. We would, however, remind him\nthat without metaphysics\u2015\u2015and we mean the metaphysics he so much\nabhors, viz., those of the scholastics\u2015\u2015we could find no argument as\nsupplied by reason against the eternity of matter. It is wonderful\nthat a man of Mr. Bixby\u2019s respectable attainments should not perceive\ninto what a complete _petitio principii_ he has fallen when he\npostulates the non-eternity of matter. He does not admit the\ncorrectness of the Mosaic cosmic genesis, and as he employs no\nreasoning to substantiate his postulate, we must regard it as a\n_petitio principii_ and nothing more.\n\nHow differently do the theologians and philosophers of the Catholic\nChurch comport themselves in presence of this old philosophical\nheresy, revived to-day in full force by Draper, Tyndall, and Huxley,\nand which may be regarded as the arch sin of modern scientific\ntheories! They do not beg the question as Mr. Bixby does, but,\ngrappling it with an iron logic, dispose of it as effectually as when\nSt. Thomas overthrew the crude systems of Leucippus and Averro\u00ebs by\nthe aid of a few well-established metaphysical principles. Mr. Bixby\nsays: \u201cMedi\u00e6val scholasticism especially grievously sinned in these\nrespects. It delighted in hair-splitting disputations over frivolous\npuzzles, and in endless speculations about things not only\ntranscending the possibility of human knowledge, but destitute of any\npractical moment. Its only criterion was the deliverances of the\nchurch on the almost equally venerated Aristotle.\u201d Alas! we fear that\nthe _Summa_ of St. Thomas is a sealed book for Mr. Bixby, that he has\nnot tempted the page of Suarez with well-trimmed lamp, and that his\nstock of medi\u00e6val lore is borrowed from Hallam or the latest edition\nof the encyclop\u00e6dia. To prove how immeasurably superior the\n\u201chair-splitters\u201d are to beggars of the question we will show in what\nway the former hold their own against the modern eternists. Prof.\nDraper says that as there will be an unending succession in the\nfuture, so there has been an unbeginning series in the past; species\nsucceed species, and genera succeed genera, in a never-beginning and a\nnever-to-end chain; Tyndall repeats the words of Draper, whom he so\nmuch admires; and Mr. Bixby says, \u201cGentlemen, it may not be so\u201d; while\nthe scholastic clearly proves that it cannot be so. At the outset a\nlittle \u201chair-splitting\u201d is necessary. We distinguish what is called an\nactual series, each link of which has had an actual existence, from a\npotential series, in which the links have not as yet been projected\ninto existence, but will be. Now, an actual series has an end\u2015\u2015viz.,\nthe link marking the point of transition from the actual to the\npotential\u2015\u2015and is susceptible of increase, since, indeed, it\nconstantly receives fresh accessions from the potential. If, however,\nit can thus acquire increase, that increase is representable by\nnumbers, so many fresh links added to the series. But a number cannot\nbe added except to another number; consequently, the series to which\nfresh increase is added must be numerical\u2015\u2015_i.e._, representable by\nfigures. Now, whatever can be represented by figures must have had a\nbeginning; for there can be no number without a first unit, which is\nthe first element of number. Moreover, the supposition that there\nstretches back into eternity a non-beginning succession of events\ncontradicts the principle of causality; for it would give us one more\neffect than cause. Viewed in its descending aspect, every link in the\nchain is cause of the event which follows, till the last link is\nreached, the which is not cause, since it has as yet preceded no other\nevent. But it is effect, since it depends on the previous event.\nViewed now in its ascending aspect, the chain consists of a series of\nlinks which are all effects\u2015\u2015effects more numerous than the causes by\nthe addition of the latest link, which is effect but not cause. We\nmust have, then, one effect without a cause, which is absurd. The same\nmaybe said about consequent and antecedent terms in such a series; for\nthe last term in the series being merely consequent, the chain or\nseries which, by hypothesis, has no beginning contains more consequent\nthan antecedent terms, which is equally absurd. We have here given but\nan outline of the argument. The scholastics have summed it up more\nfully, though far more tersely and concisely, in these words: There\ncan be no infinite series _a parte ante_, but there can be _a parte\npost_. This reasoning not only conclusively disproves, but renders\nridiculous, the arguments of Draper, Tyndall, and the rest. Yet from\nthis philosophical armory Mr. Bixby would disdain to draw a single\nweapon in defence of his thesis, but prefers rather that the church be\nconsidered essentially inimical to the progress of true science, and\nconstantly jealous of its encroachments.\n\n \u201cMutato nomine de te\n Fabula narratur.\u201d\n\nMr. Bixby entertains a special dislike to theology as being apt to\ninterfere with his pet scheme of reconciling science with\u2015\u2015shall we\ncall it Bixbyism? Certainly we cannot consistently call it religion.\nHe says:\n\n \u201cAgain, theological dogmas and science have been, and still\n are, opposed. Theologians have formulated their dim guesses\n about God\u2019s character and ways into creeds, and imagined\n them finalities. They have speculated upon matters of purely\n physical knowledge\u2015\u2015such as the antiquity of the earth and\n the age of man, the condition of the primitive globe and its\n inhabitants, the manner and method of their appearing\u2015\u2015and\n have made these speculations into dogmas held as essential\n to religion.\u201d\n\nHere we must take sharp issue with Mr. Bixby. In the first place, have\nnot the theologians as good right to speculate on such matters as\nMessrs. Spencer, Huxley, and Tyndall? And if they have fallen into\nerror, it is no more than the latter gentlemen have frequently done.\nSurely Mr. Bixby must allow the fact that St. George Mivart is no less\na sound _savant_ because he is read in theology; or would he maintain\nthat Father Secchi is liable to additional chromatic aberration\nbecause he believes in the decrees of the Vatican Council? In the next\nplace, no theologian deserving the name deems himself competent to\nerect into a religious dogma demanding the reverence and belief of his\nfellows his individual scientific opinions. The absurdity of such an\nidea is apparent to any one who has read a Catholic theological\ntreatise, which breathes a spirit of submissiveness in every line\nwhere the author\u2019s own views are expounded\u2015\u2015a spirit strikingly in\ncontrast with the arrogant dogmatism of our scientific philosophers.\nMoreover, the church, the only competent authority to promulgate\ndogmas of faith, has never yet attempted to impose on the minds of her\nchildren a purely scientific truth as an article of belief. From this\nit is evident that Mr. Bixby occasionally palters, and merely wishes\nto pave the way for an easier adaptation of his religious views to the\nso-called advanced scientific tendencies of the day.\n\nHe says that all theologies stand in the way of science, but that two\ndogmas especially exhibit this perversity\u2015\u2015viz., 1, the assumed\ninfallibility of the Bible; 2, the assumed intervention of God. \u201cIn\nconsequence of the first of these dogmas,\u201d he says, \u201cthere has been a\nstruggle by theologians to limit modern science to the contracted\ncircle of the ancient Hebrew knowledge of the universe, and any\nvariation of statement from the letter of Moses or Job, David or Paul,\nis regarded as a dangerous loosening of another screw in the bonds of\nrighteousness and the evidences of immortality.\u201d Mr. Bixby is not\nhimself a believer in the divine inspiration of the Scriptures, and\nevidently thinks that whoever does not agree with him stands on the\nextreme opposite line and believes the very shaping of the letters to\nhave been divinely commanded. This is wrong. The Scriptures were never\nintended as a manual of science. They merely state the great facts of\nhuman and cosmic genesis in a general way, so far as those two\nmomentous facts affect the interests of the race. It has been proved\ntime and again that the Mosaic books, fairly interpreted, contain\nnothing adverse to scientific truth. Why, then, will writers be ever\nharping on this well-worn theme? It is not honest to advance a\nstatement without proof, and try to clinch it with a sneer.\n\n \u201cIn consequence of the second dogma,\u201d he writes,\n \u201ctheologians have been jealous of any attempt at a natural\n explanation of the mysteries of the world, and have looked\n upon every extension of the realm of unbroken order and\n second causes as an invasion by science of the religious\n kingdom. They imagine that one must lose what the other\n gains; that, step by step, as the arcana of the Kosmos are\n penetrated, and the same laws and substances are found\n ruling and constituting these as rule and constitute the\n more familiar parts and operations of nature, the action and\n presence of the Deity must be denied, and the human mind\n landed more and more in the slough of materialism.\u201d\n\nThese words bear their refutation with them. The accusation is\nserious, and yet not a word of proof to substantiate it. Too often is\nMr. Bixby guilty of this illogical procedure of substituting\nstatements for proven facts and captious deliverances for argument.\nWhen Dr. Draper denies the possibility of miracles, he does so at\nleast logically; for he believes in the eternity, immutability, and\nnecessity of law. With him there is no lawgiver, but with Mr. Bixby it\nis different. He speaks of God \u201cpouring his will through the channels\nof unvaried law.\u201d Now, it is an axiom in law that the framers thereof\nmay derogate from it from time to time, if so it should seem good to\nthem. Why not, therefore, God? Mr. Bixby cannot, then, deny the utter\nimpossibility of a miracle, and yet he argues against it just as\nstrenuously and in the same spirit as Mr. Draper or Mr. Tyndall.\nShould he charge that such exceptional deviations from apparently\nestablished laws would argue caprice or shortsightedness on the part\nof God, we beg to reply that they occur in consequence of a higher\nlaw, representing the divine will, by which those secondary laws were\nestablished, and which, with far-reaching and clear-eyed gaze, made\nprovision for those exceptional occurrences, so that they may be said\nvirtually to come within the scope of the law itself. Should, then,\nthe testimony in support of a miracle be of an unimpeachable nature,\nwe see no reason why the possibility of a miraculous event is to be\ndenied. When Voltaire said he would more readily believe that a whole\ncitiful of people, separated by prejudices, social position, tastes,\nhabits of life, and mutual distrust, might conspire to deceive him\nthan he would that a dead man had arisen from the grave, he confounded\nphysical with metaphysical impossibility; and this is precisely what\nevery unbeliever since his time has done. To this charge Mr. Bixby is\nmore grievously amenable, since he admits the reason for the validity\nof the distinction between the two impossibilities mentioned, by\nadmitting God to be the author of law, and yet he virtually ignores it\nby the position he assumes.\n\nBut this chapter on the \u201cCauses of Actual Antagonism\u201d is so replete\nwith reckless assertion and inconsequent reasoning that we have only\nto take up a passage at hazard to be confronted by an error. On page\n41 he says:\n\n \u201cNeither is religion based on, nor bound up with, any one\n book. Had Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob no religion, because\n Moses had not yet written? Was there no Christianity in the\n lifetime of Jesus, or the first forty years of the apostolic\n generation before Matthew put his pen on to parchment? As\n well say that chemical affinity is based on Lavoisier\u2019s or\n Dalton\u2019s treatises, or that gravitation is ruined if\n Newton\u2019s _Principia_ is shown false in a single theorem.\u201d\n\nWe assure our readers that we have selected this passage at random,\nlest we may be suspected of malice in having singled it out because of\nits surpassing fatuity. Who ever dreamt of saying that religion is\nbound up in a book? As well say that an author\u2019s thoughts are nowhere\nto be found but between the covers of the book which bears his name.\nBut mark the transparent fallacy of the underlying thought. Mr. Bixby\nevidently supposes that because religion had an existence prior to the\nbooks mentioned, we might therefore dispense with these, and still\npossess religion just as our predecessors had it before those books\nwere yet written. But suppose those books happen to contain the\nprevious body of religious doctrine, together with developments or\ndisclosures inseparably connected with it; might we then carelessly\nreject them, as Mr. Bixby implies we might? Or does it follow that,\nbecause a \u201cspiritual awakening\u201d is defined to be of a special sort in\none instance, it can never be so in another? Yet such is the\nirresistible inference to be drawn from the introductory portion of\nthe passage just quoted. The same may be said of the reference to the\npriority of Christianity over the Gospel of St. Matthew. No one\ncontends that Christianity did not exist in the lifetime of Jesus, or\nthat it would not now exist had not St. Matthew written his Gospel;\nbut it by no means follows that we are free to reject that\nevangelist\u2019s history, since it is a compendium of Christian doctrine\nsuch as our Lord had preached it in his lifetime, and in rejecting it\nwe would thereby reject the latter. The allusion to Lavoisier and\nDalton is just as unhappy; for though it is true the science of\nchemistry might exist without them, still we cannot reject their\ntreatises, since these contain the essential principles of that\nscience.\n\nMr. Bixby is sometimes quite happy in stating the objections which\nscientists urge against religion, but we regret that he also sometimes\nfails to make good his refutation of their views. Thus, on page 149,\nhe presents the argument of science in these words: \u201cTheologians may\ntalk glibly of soul and over-soul, Creator and creation, absolute and\nInfinite; they may fancy that they understand them; but they are\ndeceiving themselves, mistaking a familiarity with words for a genuine\nunderstanding of things. Their high-sounding terms are but covers to\ntheir real ignorance.\u201d Indeed, this is a common objection made by\nthose whose habits of mind have been formed in the laboratory, and who\nhave never troubled themselves much about metaphysics. Still, the\nobjection should be met in a patient and painstaking mood, and answer\ngiven according to our lights. Mr. Bixby makes his rejoinder a\n_retorqueo argumentum_ by showing that science, too, bristles with\ndifficulties and is beset with mysteries; that it borrows from\nconjecture more even than religion does; and that it can never hope to\nlevel all the hills and fill up all the valleys which lie along its\ncourse. This is very true and very apposite, but it may be asked: Does\nit contain an answer to the objection as stated? We rather think not.\nCannot it be proved that we do really possess some knowledge of the\nInfinite and the Absolute, and that the apparent unintelligibility of\nthese terms is to be sought for and found rather in the ignorance of\nthose who object to them? The Infinite differs for us subjectively\nfrom no other object of thought on the score of adequacy, since we can\nhave an adequate idea of nothing. Not even of the simplest material\nobjects that surround us can we have at the best more than an inchoate\nand imperfect knowledge. How, then, can we be expected to conceive the\nInfinite, except in a very shadowy way, \u201cas in a glass darkly\u201d? Still,\nthe fact that we speak of the Infinite and assert its attributes, that\nwe distinguish Infinite Being from finite, and that our hearts fly\ntowards it in unappeasable longing, is open guarantee that we have\nsome knowledge of it, which is all that the most exacting can demand.\nTherefore those who confound infinite knowledge of the Infinite, which\nappertains to the Infinite Being alone, with that subjectively finite\nknowledge of it which we all possess, display an unpardonable\nignorance. This is our answer to those who object that Infinite, as\none term, is unintelligible, and we see no necessity for classifying\nit with the impenetrable secrets with which science is confronted at\nevery step. The same may be said of the term absolute; and though we\ndo not agree with the views of the absolute taken by Mansel, Hamilton,\nKant, and Spencer, we know at least that the term has a meaning, that\nit implies total independence, and is based on that divine attribute\nwhich the scholastics denominate Aseity. Mr. Bixby is too timorous in\nhis utterances. He seems to write under a Damocles\u2019 sword, fearing to\noffend those great men who tread in the stately van of science. But if\nhe hesitates to be dogmatic in one direction, he does not hesitate to\nbe aggressive in another; and when his mood inclines that way, he sets\nup as the target of his shafts the doctrines and definitions of the\nCatholic Church.\n\nIn order to prove that Bixbyism is the only religion which is at all\nreconcilable with science, and to brush aside any pretensions\nCatholicity might entertain in the same direction, he quotes the\nfollowing:\n\n\u201cLet him be anathema\u2015\u2015\n\n\u201cWho shall say that human sciences ought to be pursued in such a\nspirit of freedom that one may be allowed to hold as true their\nassertions even when opposed to revealed doctrines.\u201d\n\nThis proposition does not meet the approbation of Mr. Bixby. If it\ndoes not, then its contradictory must be true, which implies that a\nscientific utterance _may_ be true in the face of an opposing revealed\ntruth. It is to be borne in mind that the revealed doctrines in\nquestion are supposed to be revealed, and revealed by God, and the\nwhole statement is resolvable into this: Notwithstanding that God (in\nwhom Mr. Bixby is a believer) has positively affirmed that a given\nstatement is true, Mr. Tyndall or Prof. Huxley may affirm the contrary\nwith impunity\u2015\u2015nay, rather with a better title to our acceptance of\ntheir views\u2015\u2015\n\n \u201cAt nos virtutes ipsas invertimus.\u201d\n\nor, as Caramuel says, \u201cWe thus sweeten poison with sugar, and color\nguilt with the appearance of virtue.\u201d\n\nBut in order to place himself still more _en rapport_ with his\nadversaries, Mr. Bixby, seemingly forgetful that he either surrenders\nthe gage or else resolves the conflict into a tilt with a windmill,\nexpresses himself to the following effect: \u201cReligion has no exclusive\nsource of information, but such sources only as are common to all\nbranches of human knowledge.\u201d If this be true, there is no necessity\nof even the shadow of an attempt to reconcile any differences which,\nby a stretch of fancy, might be conceived to exist between two\nsciences that travel along the same plane. All along, since this\ncontroversy was begun, it has been understood that the sole possible\ncause of conflict between science and religion arose out of the fact\nthat they claimed each for itself more solid ground on which to stand.\nReason and revelation were always supposed to be the party words of\nboth, and every collision between them so far has resulted from the\napparent irreconcilableness of these two. Mr. Bixby, in endeavoring to\nshift the ground of argument, should have confined himself to just\nthat effort, and omitted those portions of his work tending to\ndisprove all antagonism between science and religion, since, in the\nestimation of most men, a religion which asserts no claim to the\nsupernatural is no religion at all. His attempted abatement of the\nclaims of science, though well presented and sustained, works not an\niota for Mr. Bixby\u2019s point; for in all he says he is arguing for\nsupernatural religion, which he virtually rejects, against the\nuntenable assumptions of science.\n\nAs if in more strenuous advocacy of this idea, he elsewhere adds: \u201cIt\n[religion] is not all falsehood and masquerade; nevertheless, there is\nmuch popularly set down as religion which is no more religion than it\nis science. Now it has been bound up with one system, now with\nanother. When Christianity first raised its head, it was told that\npolytheism alone was religion.\u201d Continuing in this strain, he condemns\nevery system of religion which stands opposed to another, and infers\nfrom the fact of such opposition the necessary falsity of them all. He\neven goes to the extent of affirming that the doctrines of the\nCatholic Church changed age by age, according to the tone of the\nprevailing philosophy. He says:\n\n \u201cIn Augustine\u2019s day Christianity was made inseparable from\n the doctrines of predestination and fatalism. In Abelard\u2019s\n time it was bound up with the metaphysics of realism; in\n Roger Bacon\u2019s time, with the philosophy of Aristotle; in the\n days of Vesalius, with the medical treatises of Galen; in\n the lifetime of Galileo, with the astronomy of Ptolemy.\n To-day it is the orthodoxy of the Council of Trent or the\n Westminster Catechism that is cemented to religion, and any\n attack on the one is assumed to be undermining the very\n foundations of faith and morals.\u201d\n\nThis passage is recklessly false. Any one acquainted with church\nhistory, with the rise and progress of Pelagianism and semi-Pelagianism,\nunderstands perfectly that in St. Augustine\u2019s time no more stringent\nor rigorous views concerning original sin and predestination were held\nthan tradition and the Scriptures sanctioned and ratified. And the\npatient reader of the history of philosophy will also condemn the\nassertion that the church proper had anything to do with the\nlong-drawn disputes between the Nominalists and the Realists. The\nchurch left those wordy disputants severely alone, though the\ncontroversy was revived by the school of the Neo-Platonists for the\nvery purpose of embroiling the church in the quarrel. We say the\ncontroversy was revived; for in reality the dispute is as old as Plato\nand Aristotle.\n\nStill more absurd is what Mr. Bixby says with reference to Vesalius\nand Galen. Not a single authoritative passage from father, council, or\nhistorian can be adduced to prove that the church ever committed\nherself to the adoption of any views concerning the structure,\nfunctions, and disorders of the human body. Indeed, Vesalius, who led\nthe way in the great revolution which medical science underwent from\nthe errors of Galen, was a pious Catholic, and the popular painting of\nthe first dissection of modern times represents him with eyes piously\nupturned to the crucifix before entering on one of the most important\nsteps of modern scientific inquiry in the teeth of wide-spread and\nviolent prejudice\u2015\u2015viz., the first dissection of the human cadaver\nthat has led to any valuable results.\n\nBut in order to be thoroughly careful that he should allow no element\nof what is entitled positive religion to enter into the conception of\nhis emotional nonentity, he discards all the known and accepted\ngrounds of religious evidence. He says there can be no infallible\nauthority in religious matters, since the only one which fostered the\npretence has been repeatedly detected in error. His words are:\n\n \u201cIn its unflattering mirror the oracle of Rome is exhibited\n as convicted of error in scientific matters again and again;\n compelled to retreat from position to position; forced to\n correct and recorrect its interpretations. It is shown\n vacillating to and fro in regard to the most important\n ecclesiastical questions, possessed of no clear or\n well-defined principles concerning many essential\n theological issues, etc., etc.\u201d\n\nAll this rodomontade is in the nature of a negative assertion,\ninasmuch as it would require a full review of the history of the\nchurch to refute it. It is the author\u2019s favorite style of logic,\nhowever, and may go for what it is worth. He next rejects the\nauthority of the Bible on the most frivolous grounds, and coming to\nthe value of our divine Saviour\u2019s evidence in favor of revelation, he\nuses the following extraordinary language:\n\n \u201cI desire not to deny the existence of a divine element in\n Jesus. I gladly recognize him as the loftiest spiritual seer\n and teacher the world has seen; the best historic embodiment\n of spiritual perfection that we have. But we must own, if we\n are clear-sighted and frank, that in Christ himself we do\n not obtain an oracle exempt from the limitations of humanity\n and the conditions of earthly knowledge.\u201d\n\nThis is a clear negation of the divinity of Christ, and an implied\navowal that Mr. Bixby ranges himself with Renan and Strauss. As before\nstated, Mr. Bixby\u2019s chief aim in the first chapters of his book is to\nsimplify the conditions of the problem which he has set before him,\nand we see that he has striven to do this by stripping religion of all\nits positive attributes, and putting in its stead a bloodless and\nemasculated spectre. \u201cIt is a force,\u201d he says, \u201canterior to all\nchurches and hierarchies, the grand spiritual stream flowing from\nabove through the souls of men, of which ecclesiastical organizations\nare but the earthly banks, the clayey reservoirs and wooden dams, by\nwhich men have thought they could better utilize the heavenly forces.\u201d\nThis is fine and figurative, we confess, but more marked by sound than\nsense. Mr. Bixby here brands all churches as purely human\ninstitutions, and yet allows that they possess religion, that they are\nits conduits and distributors to men, and that dogmas and codes and\nethical enactments are mere accretions, the work of human minds. These\nmust consequently be false, and, being such, should retard rather and\noperate against the influences of religion pure and undefiled, the\nembodiment of truth. How, then, can they be said to be utilizers of\nheavenly force and reservoirs of religion, they being false, and it\ntrue?\n\n \u201cPergis pugnantia secum\n Frontibus adversis componere?\u201d\n\nThe definition of religion which has passed current for centuries,\nmaking it to consist of a determinate and specified allegiance of man\nto his Maker, is contradicted by the views advanced in Mr. Bixby\u2019s\nbook, and therefore the few only, whose opinions are equally\nunsettled, can accept his conclusions. There is something so unreal\nand shadowy in his estimate of religion that one is at a loss to see\nthoroughly into what he means by it, and consequently incapable of\nappreciating all that his conclusions are intended to embody.\n\u201cReligious truth,\u201d he says, \u201c(theologians and preachers defending the\nold beliefs have maintained) belongs to another realm from ordinary\nkinds of truth. It is not to be tried by the understanding. It is not\nto be brought to the bar of common sense, but it is to be discerned by\nthe inner soul, and its evidence found in the soul\u2019s satisfaction in\nit.\u201d If this be Mr. Bixby\u2019s estimate of the value of the evidence on\nwhich religious truth reposes, he must have had in view, as the ideal\nof all dogmatic religion, the utterances of some strong-lunged\npreacher at a camp-meeting. No theologian of the Catholic nor of the\napproximating sects ever thought for a moment that religion is not to\nbe tried by the understanding nor brought to the bar of common sense.\nThe evidences of revealed religion are based upon reason, which,\nclosely scrutinizing these, is compelled to admit the claims of the\nScriptures and the church, just as it is obliged to admit the truths\nof geometry. It is true that individual dogmas are not the\nsubject-matter of purely rational investigation, but they appeal to\nour reason just as strongly through the evident infallibility of the\nauthority which submits them to our belief. Mr. Bixby, we fear, either\nmisapprehends plain things or is given to misrepresenting.\nObjectively, all truths resemble each other in that they are\ntrue\u2015\u2015_i.e._, eternal, immutable, and necessary; subjectively, for us,\nthose truths which we can discern with the eye of reason pertain to\nthe natural order, and to the supernatural order those whose guarantee\ndepends on the revealed word of God. It is evident that in the logical\norder, the natural precedes and underlies the supernatural, and that,\nwith respect to the evidence on which both repose, it must be tried by\nthe understanding, and that searchingly, and cannot escape the bar of\ncommon sense. \u201cTruth,\u201d says the author of _An Essay on a Philosophy of\nLiterature_, \u201cis independent of man. The power is his to discover,\ndevelop, and apply it; but he cannot create it. That belongs to the\nInfinite Intelligence alone. He it is who creates it and who creates\nthe light of our reason by which to perceive it.\u201d Truth, therefore,\nmust be consistent with itself; and it is the province of every\nindividual truth to borrow lustre from, and shed radiance on, each\nsister truth, and not to detract from and obstruct it. This is the\nlogic of the schools\u2015\u2015nay, it is the logic of Hamilton, Mansel, Baden\nPowell, and Faraday, whom Bixby charges with dividing the field of\ntruth into two separate portions: one the province of knowledge, where\nscience holds sway; the other the province of belief, where religion\nhas her throne. Then truth may be divided against itself, and to this\neffect must we interpret the writings of the distinguished\nphilosophers mentioned. We doubt not that, for logic\u2019s sake, these\nscholars would all indignantly repudiate this charge which places them\nin an absurd and uncourted position. Pity \u2019tis Mr. Bixby did not\nattempt by a citation to substantiate his charge. He does not fail,\nhowever, to draw his accustomed inference. \u201cNow,\u201d he says, \u201cby taking\nthis mode of defending itself against the incursions of modern\nscience, the church has aided much in spreading suspicion of the\ncertainty of its cherished doctrines.\u201d Then modern science does make\nincursions against the church, which is perfectly right, but the\nchurch is debarred the right of repelling them. A burglar may break\ninto our house, and we are not at liberty to resist his ingress by\nmeans of the nearest weapon at hand, but we should preach him a homily\non the impropriety of his conduct.\n\nBut he is brave enough in this: that not an inkling or a wrinkle of\nhis too transparent sophistry disturbs him. Immediately after he says\n(p. 72): \u201cBishops like he [_sic_] of London may exhort the modern\ninquirer as eloquently as they please to throw away doubt as they\nwould a bombshell; but it serves only to make the investigator more\nsuspicious of the validity of religion.\u201d Then is it not proper, Mr.\nBixby, to throw away doubt? If not so, it must by all means be better\nto entertain doubt, so that a state of doubt ought to be our normal\nintellectual condition. Just in proportion as we entertain doubt may\nwe be less suspicious of the validity of religion; but the moment we\nthink of discarding it suspicions grow up in our minds! Verily, this\nkind of logic is perplexing. We admire the devout spirit which Mr.\nBixby everywhere exhibits, but when it is paraded at the expense of\ntrue religion, and in a spirit calculated to lead astray the unwary,\nwe must enter our protest against it. On page 222 he says:\n\n \u201cAnd religion needs not only to accept the corrections and\n recognize the coadjutorship of science in disclosing the\n ways of God, but it should engraft into itself, I believe,\n more of the scientific spirit. Instead of aiming to defend\n systems already established [!], and to bolster up foregone\n conclusions, it should go simply with inquiring mind to the\n eternal facts.\u201d\n\nAnd this passes current for reasoning! We write without bitterness of\nheart, but in the spirit which prompted Juvenal to say:\n\n \u201cSi natura negat, facit indignatio versum.\u201d\n\nReligion must borrow all from science, accept her criterion from\nscience, see that she admit nothing but what the scientific plummet is\ncapable of sounding, and reject all that does not conform to the\nsquare and compass of this arbitrary mistress. \u201cEstablished systems\u201d\nand \u201cforegone conclusions\u201d must be sacrificed at the beck of a\nscientific clique, and meek religion must sit awaiting crumbs from\ntheir table. Surely, had the great author of the apology for the\nChristian religion anticipated that an apology with such intent would\nbe subsequently offered, he would have bestowed a different title on\nhis famous work. But Mr. Bixby goes farther when he actually breaks\ndown the barriers which have ever been supposed to divide science from\nreligion. On page 223 he says:\n\n \u201cThus religion is capable of being made a genuine science,\n and it will never, I believe, maintain the purity, attain\n the stability and accuracy, reach unto the depth and breadth\n of truth which is within the demands of its grand mission\n unto mankind, until it thus weds science to itself.\u201d\n\nThis might not give offence if viewed as from the pen of a sophomore;\nbut from a teacher\u2015\u2015a philosopher! The passage jumbles science and\nreligion inextricably together; it virtually identifies them, and yet\npretends to hold them apart. The idea that religion is capable of\nbeing made a genuine science must sound oddly in the ears of those who\nhave been taught to regard religion as the science of sciences, their\nqueen, mistress, and guide. But, according to Mr. Bixby, religion is\nin the lowly position still of being a handmaiden to her proud\nsisters, with the possible prospect at some time of being elevated to\ntheir queenly plane.\n\nIn his chapters on the \u201cFaiths of Science\u201d and \u201cThe Claim of Science\u201d\nMr. Bixby very adroitly brings into contrast the arrogant\naggressiveness of scientism with its own haltings, weaknesses, and\nvacillations, and we deem these two chapters to be really valuable\ncontributions to the fast-swelling literature concerning the dispute\nbetween religion and scientism. They are inoperative of effect, so far\nas Mr. Bixby\u2019s notion of religion is concerned, but they clearly prove\nthat science is fully amenable to the charge of taking much for\ngranted, of postulating much, of believing in the mysterious and\ninexplicable\u2015\u2015the very charges it flippantly prefers against\nChristianity. Experience and observation have been the watchwords of\nscience since the days of Locke, and the whole system of Scotch\nphilosophy as taught by Reid, Stewart, Brown, and Hamilton in the\npast, and Bain to-day, rests on the results of those two procedures.\nThe supersensible finds no room in this system, and is relegated to\nthe domain of the unknowable, the unthinkable. Says B\u00fcchner: \u201cThose\nwho talk of a creative power which is said to have produced the world\nout of nothing are ignorant of the first and most simple principle\nfounded upon experience and the contemplation of nature. How could a\npower have existed not manifested in material substance, but governing\nit arbitrarily according to individual views?\u201d Herbert Spencer calls\nsupersensible conceptions \u201cpseudo-ideas,\u201d \u201csymbolic conceptions of the\nillegitimate order.\u201d Virchow says he \u201cknows only bodies and their\nqualities; what is beyond he terms transcendental, and he considers\ntranscendentalism an aberration of the human mind.\u201d And so with the\nmajority of the modern school of scientism. They deem nothing\ndemonstrable but what responds to their tests of truth, to chemical or\nphysico-chemical modes of investigation. For this reason physiologists\nreject the notion of soul as a distinct substance in man, for it\ncannot be investigated according to the methods known to physiology;\nand yet, with glaring inconsistency, these men admit as the very basis\nof experience and observation what outlies the range and limit of the\nsenses.\n\nThe advocates of the germ theory of disease have neither felt, seen,\nnor heard one of those minute spores. \u201cWe have,\u201d says Prof. Tyndall,\n\u201cparticles that defy both the microscope and the balance, which do not\ndarken the air, and which, nevertheless, exist in multitudes sufficient\nto reduce to insignificance the Israelitish hyperbole, the sands upon\nthe sea-shore.\u201d So, also, Mr. Lewes, in his _Philosophy of Aristotle_,\nwrites: \u201cThe fundamental ideas of modern science are as transcendental\nas any of the axioms in ancient philosophy.\u201d With such admissions from\nthe leading men of the modern school, how can scientists contend that\nthey limit their acceptance of truth to those facts which experience\nproves, and that, using a strict induction, they build their laws and\nsystems on these alone? It is evident that they make freer use of\nhypotheses than did the scholastics. Nor does it avail them to attempt\nthe distinction suggested by Mr. Lewes between metaphysical and\nmetempirical knowledge. The aim of this distinction is to relieve\nscientism from the charges brought against metaphysical doctrines on\nthe ground that, as they transcend the senses, they necessarily elude\nthe grasp of the human mind. Now, the metempirical knowledge of Mr.\nLewes is just as elusive of our grasp, since it does not come within\nthe scope of the senses; and all the objections, however unfounded,\nwhich these scholars have alleged against metaphysics and the science\nof the immaterial, hold good against any knowledge which is not the\ndirect outcome of the senses. Surely the new doctrine of the\ncorrelation and conservation of force pertains to the supersensible\norder fully as much as the doctrine of a spiritual soul. Nay, it deals\nin the obscure and transcendental more, a great deal, than the\nscholastic doctrine of first matter and substantial form. The\nadvocates of this theory have adopted a nomenclature which repeats the\nvery errors on account of which modern scholastics have rejected the\nperipatetic doctrine of matter and form. They identify all things\nunder the title of force, and deem motion, light, heat, and\nelectricity as so many modes of force constantly interchanging. They\nthus confound identity with distinction, and ignore the nature of\nchange. Every change supposes a term from which, a term into which,\nand the subject of both; now, those who identify all force deny the\nsubject of change, for that from which becomes into which in all its\nessentials, so that heat becomes light, and yet does not, according to\nthe neo-terminologists, lose its identity. We have therefore the\nanomaly of a thing remaining the same and becoming something else at\nthe same time. All this confusion arises from the ignorance of\nmetaphysics in which modern men of science glory. They declare light\nto be a force, and no two of them are agreed as to the meaning of the\nword. They declare that all forces are correlated, and nowhere do we\nfind given by them the meaning of the term relation. Now, the\nscholastics give no fewer than six different modes of relation, and\nthe modern school has not given us even a definition of one. And yet\nthese are the contemners of metaphysics and scholasticism, the men who\naspire to be leaders of thought. They raise their structure on a basis\nof supposition, and declaim against the credulity of those who admit\naught but facts of the sensible order. Their science is confused\nbecause of the vagueness of their speech and its great lack of fixity.\nHerbert Spencer discourses with more learning than lucidity concerning\nthose great problems which the church solved centuries ago, and which\nshe has so formulated by the aid of a fixed and coherent vocabulary\nthat mere children can see her meaning. Mr. Spencer defines evolution\nto be \u201ca change from an indefinite incoherent homogeneity to a\ndefinite coherent heterogeneity through continuous differentiations\nand integrations.\u201d This certainly pertains to the supersensible order,\nand in more senses than one. No wonder that such utterances are made\nthe butt of witticisms. Thus, the Rev. Mr. Kirkman, in his _Philosophy\nwithout Assumption_, amusingly parodies the above definition\nof Herbert Spencer: \u201cEvolution is a change from a nohowish untalkaboutable\nall-alikeness to a somehowish and in-general-talkaboutable\nnot-all-alikeness by continuous somethingelseifications and\nsticktogetherations.\u201d\n\nAnd as for mistakes, commend us to science. Every new edition of\nDarwin contains corrections of previous errors, and Huxley has quite\nrecently modified his views on evolution. But this is freedom of\nthought, just as a consistent and abiding belief which precludes the\npossibility of change or error is denominated by these same neoterists\nsuperstition and reaction. Mr. Bixby has well exhibited the\nfluctuations and errors of modern science\u2015\u2015which is about all he has\nsatisfactorily accomplished\u2015\u2015in his _Similarities of Physical and\nReligious Knowledge_.\n\n\n [184] _Similarities of Physical and Religious Knowledge._ By\n James Thompson Bixby. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1876.\n\n\n\n\nLETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER.\n\nFROM THE FRENCH.\n\n\nMARCH 21, 1869.\n\nWhat a day, dearest! At High Mass the Passion was sung as in the\nSistine Chapel. What memories it awoke within me! It was wonderfully\nbeautiful, and every word found an echo in my heart. O flowery Easter!\nthe children\u2019s festival, how I loved formerly to see its return. It\nwas spring, bright days, verdure and flowers; but this year we have a\nsort of recommencement of winter instead of spring; for some days we\nhave had snow and stormy gales, which have made it sometimes\nimpossible to go out.\n\nRen\u00e9 has been reading us a beautiful fragment of the _Monks of the\nWest_ on religious vocations; Gertrude had suggested this reading. My\nmother wept, and I envied the heavenly calm of the happy Gertrude.\n\nThe beautiful new-born has quite the air of a seraph; he is so fair,\nrosy, and silent. Adrien will be his godfather, and the honor of\ngodmother, dear Kate, will devolve upon your Georgina. \u201cThis little\nlast one,\u201d Johanna said to me, \u201cshall be quite your own, dear sister!\u201d\nHow good they all are! Brothers and sisters so united and happy\ntogether! The baptism is deferred, that it may take place in Brittany,\nand we shall have Margaret. How I love this beautiful little soul over\nwhich I shall have sacred rights!\n\nBerthe regrets her Mad, whom Th\u00e9r\u00e8se misses sadly.\n\n22d.\u2015\u2015The P\u00e8re Meillier preaches the retreat\u2015\u2015two sermons a day. This\nmorning upon the retreat itself: \u201cI will lead her into the wilderness,\nand there will I speak to her heart. Perfection, according to St.\nBernard, is an ardent zeal always to be advancing. During this retreat\nGod desires to _soften_, _detach_, and _fix_ our heart. We must be\nconverted. Conversion is turning again to God. The means of conversion\nare time, grace, and will. The time God gives us; he himself says\nthis: \u2018Behold, now is the acceptable time, now is the day of\nsalvation.\u2019 Grace\u2015\u2015this is given to us in superabundance. The will\nmust come from ourselves; St. Bernard says that this will must be\nconstant, courageous, and sometimes heroic.\u201d He ended by exhorting us\n\u201cnot to resist God, who is standing at the door of our heart, who\nknocks and waits\u201d; and faithfully to follow this retreat. \u201cI know\nneither the day nor the hour, but there will be a moment in which God\nwill speak to you; and beware, Christian souls, lest Jesus pass by and\nreturn no more!\u201d At three o\u2019clock on tepidity, its causes and its\nremedy, the whole very practical and very holy.\n\nThe same agreement as last year between Ren\u00e9 and me. Little Alix\naccompanied me on a visit to the worthy _Mr. Crossman_, as the\nchildren call him. Finding him more calm than usual while I was\ndressing his leg, I was inwardly congratulating myself, when an\nenergetic oath, and a sudden movement more energetic still, repulsed\nand overthrew me: and a scene of anger followed, which made Alix\ntremble like a rose-leaf in a storm, and I tried in vain to appease\nthe sick man. What is to be done to-morrow? God will help me.\n\n23d.\u2015\u2015Letters. Marianne is anxious. Picciola eats nothing and scarcely\nsleeps. \u201cIt is my belief that she is home-sick.\u201d Anna is constantly\nimproving in health, and the doctor forbids them to go away. Oh! how I\nfear the future. Marcella is radiant: \u201cDear Georgina, how grateful I\nam to this warm sun, and the vivifying breeze which Anna breathes in\nwith delight! No more fever, no more pallor; not that her cheeks are\nrosy\u2015\u2015my darling would need rouge for that\u2015\u2015but her whiteness is\n_living_, and I like her thus. But what should we have done here\nwithout Lucy and Picciola and this kind Edouard? What gratitude my\nheart cherishes towards yours for this arrangement!\u201d\n\nMistress Annah says that Edith will be completely cured when we see\nher again. Mary and Ellen are much beloved in the village.\n\nMargaret shudders at the slightest indisposition of her baby. O these\ncradles, these dear cradles!\n\nThis evening at the piano I thought of Picciola, whom my love has made\nmine, and was singing this plaintive entreaty, which Edouard last year\nrepeated with so much feeling:\n\n \u201cReploie, enfant, tes ailes de colombe,\n Sous ma caresse, ange, ouvre tes beaux yeux;\n Si tu savais comme est froide la tombe!\n Va, le bonheur n\u2019habite pas qu\u2019aux Cieux!\n Pourquoi sit\u00f4t vouloir quitter la terre?\n Dans le Ciel m\u00eame est-il rien d\u2019aussi doux\n Qu\u00e9 les baisers dont te couvre ta m\u00e8re\n En te ber\u00e7ant, le soir, sur ses genoux?\u201d[185]\n\nAdrien joined me, and, in a voice more thrilling, harmonious, and\ntouching than ever, he sang the succeeding strophes. I accompanied\nwithout seeing; strange lights passed before my eyes, and when he sang:\n\n \u201cMais Dieu fut sourd: la fleur \u00e9tait \u00e9close.\n \u2026 Un ange aux rayons d\u2019or\n Un soir, dit on, cueillit la fr\u00eale rose,\n Puis avec elle au Ciel reprit l\u2019essor!\u201d[186]\n\nI burst into tears with such an explosion of despair that Adrien was\nalarmed. Kate, could it be possible that God would not leave us this\nchild, almost worshipped as she is? \u201cHow susceptible you are, dear\nlittle sister!\u201d \u201cOh! it is nothing\u201d; and I went to my room. I opened a\nbook, just at these words of M. Landriot: \u201cYou suffer; the hand of\nChrist alone is sufficiently light and yet powerful to heal the wounds\nof your soul.\u201d\n\nInstruction this morning on the besetting sin, which must be\nextirpated, and against which we must fight with a firm and determined\nwill; at three o\u2019clock, first on susceptibility, and then on piety.\n\u201cChristian piety is a religious sentiment and a devoted zeal for\neverything which regards the glory of God, our own interests, and the\ngood of our brethren.\u201d\n\nI had prayed so much to ask for some relief to my sick man that my\nvisit passed off very well. I was alone, for fear of any misadventure.\n_Mr. Crossman_ consented to some reading, and his daughters answered\nto the recitation of the Rosary. This man is an enigma to me. I have\nsent him the doctor.\n\n24th.\u2015\u2015Instruction on discouragement, for which the remedies are\nmistrust of self and confidence in God. \u201cDo you fear a creature?\u201d said\na saint. \u201cFlee from him. Do you fear God? Throw yourself into his\narms.\u201d This evening, on the Sacrament of Penance\u2015\u2015the dispositions\nthat one ought to bring to it; the conduct requisite with regard to\nit: first, a great faith, a sincere humility, a spirit of reparation;\nsecondly, to know how to pray and reflect, to speak, to listen, to be\nsilent, to thank, and to remember. These sermons are essentially\npractical and such as one is glad to hear at least once in one\u2019s life.\nThe P\u00e8re Meillier is truly a discerner of souls; he speaks of them\nwith wonderful insight.\n\n\u201cYour sick man is half mad, madame!\u201d At this agreeable announcement I\nhurried away to the poor man, who appeared to be touched by the\nconstancy of my visits. I have been so happy as to get him to make his\nconfession whilst he is still in possession of some gleams of\nintelligence. The mother is no longer able to leave her bed. The\neldest child is sixteen years old; everything depends on her, and the\ndear soul loves God. My Kate will follow with pleasure the account of\nmy week; besides, I talk confidentially to none but her. My mother\nnever leaves Johanna, Gertrude is given to silence, Berthe is gone\nout; no news to-day of the exiles.\n\n25th.\u2015\u2015Th\u00e9r\u00e8se, Marguerite, and Alix have given themselves up to me\nfor the day. We have seen fifteen chapels; at dawn we accompanied the\nBlessed Sacrament to the poor family, where the two sick people\nreceived the Bread of the valiant and strong, the Bread of angels, the\nBread of wayfarers, the Bread of the children of God. At three\no\u2019clock, sermon on the visit to the Blessed Sacrament. \u201cTo make this\nvisit is a proof of faith, of understanding, and of affection.\u201d This\nevening heard the magnificent singing of the _Stabat Mater_ and a\nsermon on the holy sacrifice of the Mass.\n\nLetters from Brittany\u2015\u2015the _Saint of the coast_: \u201cI believe that my\ndeparture is near, and that you must not delay, dear friends, if you\nwould give me the consolation of hearing those whom I love pray by my\nbedside!\u201d My mother is much impressed. What is to be done? Ren\u00e9 says\nit is for Adrien to decide. \u201cI think it is especially Georgina whom\nour saint asks for.\u201d \u201cIt is so,\u201d replied my mother. \u201cRen\u00e9 and Georgina\nshall go on Monday.\u201d As every one approves of this, it will be so, I\nsuppose. Death again!\n\nMarcella writes\u2015\u2015kind and pleasing details. And Picciola? O my God!\nthou who on this day didst give to us the greatest pledge of love,\nthou who hast loved us even to the end, hear my prayer! What a night\nis this, and fraught with what memories! At this hour was that\ndiscourse uttered at the Last Supper, and the Eucharistic Passover\ninstituted, which will be our strength and consolation even to our\nlast day!\n\n26th.\u2015\u2015\u201cVery strange are often the destinies of men and the decrees of\nGod. With some the thread of life snaps, even though it be woven of\npure gold and shining silk; with others suffering and sorrow cannot\nsucceed in breaking the dark thread which they pass through their\ncruel hands.\u201d I read this after having heard the unfortunate wife of\nmy sick man complain that she had been \u201cforgotten by death.\u201d\n\nTwice made the Way of the Cross, was present at the Offices, heard\nthree sermons: this morning on our Lord\u2019s sufferings; at three o\u2019clock\non the Seven Words of Jesus on the Cross; this evening the Passion,\nour Saviour\u2019s sufferings in his mind, his heart, and his body.\n\n27th.\u2015\u2015Meditation on contrition and satisfaction; conference on the\nlove of God. O love! This is the subject above all others which\ndilates the soul, illuminates and fills it. Who will grant that I may\nlove perfectly?\n\nMarianne mentions a slight improvement in the general state of\nPicciola, who does not complain, allows herself to be taken care of,\nand is as much as ever like an angel. I am alone in the preparation of\n_surprises_, or, at least, in their purchase. Berthe and Gertrude have\nworked with me. I am impatient for Monday. Supposing _the saint_\nshould fly away without waiting for us!\n\n28th.\u2015\u2015_Alleluia_, dear sister! Oh! what a delicious awaking. The\nsinging of the _Alleluia_ by Ren\u00e9 long before the dawn, then all the\ngreetings after the Mass of Communion, and the joy of the little\ngirls, and the delight of the good _abb\u00e9_, upon whom were showered\n_surprises_, and Johanna\u2019s joy at seeing me do honor to the first\n_Alleluia_ of my godson! O the beautiful, beautiful day! And our poor,\nand Benoni, and High Mass followed by the Papal Benediction, Vespers,\nsermon: \u201cHe is risen!\u201d \u201cWe find proofs of our Saviour\u2019s resurrection\nin our faith and in our works.\u201d Benediction ended about six o\u2019clock.\n\nLong and charming _gazette_ from Edouard. The doctor has fixed the\nreturn for the 3d of May. Thus they will be on their way home in a\nmonth. May God bring them back to us! Dearest, I am sending to the\npost; pray, pray, pray! Send us your good angel, and have a Mass said\nat Notre Dame des Victoires for our saint. It seems to me that I am\ngoing to be present at the death of a sister. How I should like you to\nhave known her. Ren\u00e9 joins me in every line I am writing; my mother\nsends you her blessing. All, together and individually, send you their\ngreetings. Christ is risen. _Alleluia!_\n\n\nAPRIL 3, 1869.\n\nDear Kate, she is here still, living, smiling, always amiable, always\nholy, notwithstanding her weakness. \u201cI think that at your prayer God\nhas renewed the miracle wrought by Elias for the widow of Sarepta; for\nthe oil of my lamp must have been exhausted long ago.\u201d We speak of God\nand of the poor, her two last affections. She has not left to the last\nmoment the disposal of her goods. Her old castle goes to a distant\nrelation who bears her name, her whole fortune goes to relieve the\ndistressed, and she leaves to us her works of art\u2015\u2015a curious and\nremarkable collection made by her father, and which it was not her\nwish should pass into the hands of the indifferent. O Kate! souls like\nhers should live always upon earth for its edification.\n\nRen\u00e9 is writing to you; I enclose also a letter from Marcella.\n\nGod guard you, dearest sister!\n\n\nAPRIL 5, 1869.\n\nIt was true, the oil of the lamp was exhausted. What a good life and\nwhat a holy death! \u201cOpen the windows, if you please. Oh! what\nharmonies. What a beautiful procession! What a splendid crown! Adieu,\nand thank you! Jesus! Heaven!\u201d And this was all. It was yesterday.\n\nThe day before I entreated our saint to ask of God that he would leave\nus Picciola. \u201cWill he do so? There was heaven in the look of that\nchild on the day of her First Communion! Dear Georgina, love above all\nthe good pleasure of God!\u201d I write to you from the side of this bed\nconverted into a chapel. The earthly covering is there. I have shed no\ntears; my soul is in a state of joy such as I never before\nexperienced. The _saint_ had said to me: \u201cIf I am happy, I will cause\nyou to feel it!\u201d We have written to the relative and to the other\nfriends. I shall not send this letter until the day after to-morrow.\n\n_April 7._\u2015\u2015All is over. The burial vault has received the coffin, the\nfriends are gone away again, the relation, an eccentric personage, is\npreparing to do the same, and so also must we. I could have almost\nwished to remain again to meditate, in this chapel where our saint has\nso often prayed, on the latest teachings which escaped her dying lips.\nThe relative authorizes us to take away the \u201cgallery\u201d whenever we like\nto do so; even adding, with a certain politeness, that we might look\nupon this dwelling as our own.\n\nThey are waiting for us at home, and I am wishing for news from\nHyeres. Quick! we are going to retraverse our Brittany and return to\nour Penates.\n\nAdieu for a little time, dear sister!\n\n\nAPRIL 12, 1869.\n\nWhat haste we have had to make in order to be here at Orleans in time\nfor the golden wedding of Pius IX.! Magnificent Mass at St. Pierre du\nMartroi. The interior of the ancient church disappeared beneath\nhangings of velvet; above the altar shone the triple-crowned tiara.\nThe Abb\u00e9 La Grange said the Mass and made a beautiful address:\n\u201cBelieve in the church, in her divine constitution, in her divine\nmission, in her splendid and incontestable immortality.\u201d Admirable and\nelevating singing\u2015\u2015the _Tu es Petrus_ and some fine strophes for the\noccasion; then High Mass at the cathedral, also richly adorned and\nresplendent, with a multitude of people. There again was heavenly\nsinging\u2015\u2015a remarkable _Sanctus_, and, after the Mass, the _Te Deum_,\nthat immortal hymn of thanksgiving. Sermon, procession, benediction.\nAt six o\u2019clock we came out of Sainte-Croix. What a day! How I love\nthese splendors of the divine worship, this harmony of souls, these\nhymns, the fragrant incense, all this grand and admirable _ensemble_\nwhich Christianity alone can offer!\n\nYou may imagine the reception we met with on reaching home, and with\nwhat interest our account was listened to. The news is encouraging\nfrom all directions, I hope, I hope! When I think of the sadnesses of\nthis world and all the bitternesses of life, I say with St. Stanislaus\nKostka: \u201cI am not born for present things, but future.\u201d How much there\nis that is consoling in this thought!\n\nMy poor old _Crossman_ is suffering greatly, and his wife is at the\npoint of death. Tell me, dear Kate, how is it that I see so many dead?\nLet us rather speak of life and its expansion; let us speak of Karl,\nwhose kind and fraternal pages reached me this morning. How he longs\nfor the priesthood! What a thirst he has for souls! Already in desire\nhe springs on unknown shores, and even goes so far as to dream of\nmartyrdom. O holy ecstasies of love! What joy it must be to conquer\nthe infidel, and to receive these disinherited ones to the table of\nthe Lord! \u201cThe love of one alone sheds itself upon all the beings who\ndwell by his side, ennobles them, and gives them understanding and\nstrength\u2015\u2015unrivalled and precious gifts which no other power in the\nworld would have been able to bestow.\u201d\n\nThe Abb\u00e9 Baunard has written the _Life of the Apostle St. John_. A\nlarge heart, a lively faith, and great talents are needed in order to\nwrite the life of a saint; and as the author of whom I speak has all\nthese, his work must be admirable. The introduction appeared in the\n_Annals_: \u201cIt is a book of piety. I address it to Christians and to\npriests\u2015\u2015the priesthood has no higher personification than this\napostle; to virgins\u2015\u2015John was a virgin; to mothers\u2015\u2015he merited to be\ngiven as a son to the Mother of God; to the young\u2015\u2015he was the youngest\nof the disciples; to the aged\u2015\u2015this is the appellation he gives\nhimself in his Epistles; to contemplative souls\u2015\u2015he was on Thabor; to\nthose in affliction\u2015\u2015he was on Calvary; to all who desire to love\ntheir brethren in God\u2015\u2015charity can have no fairer ideal than the\nfriend of Jesus.\u201d\n\nGood-night, dearest; my eyes are closing.\n\n\nAPRIL 18, 1869.\n\nDear Kate, a _requiem_! I have just been to pray by those two\ndeath-beds\u2015\u2015for both are dead, piously and tranquilly; he asking my\npardon for his fits of anger, and she praying for her children. I have\npromised to take charge of the latter; so behold me the mother of six\nchildren! Ren\u00e9 always approves. But we cannot abandon these dear young\ncreatures to take their chance in this great town, and my mother\nadvises that they should be sent into Brittany, where the Sisters will\nfind them useful employment. I want your opinion, dear Kate; they\nbelong in some measure to you also, since it is to your pious lessons\nthat I owe my love for the blessing of the poor.\n\nGertrude yesterday showed me a letter from a friend asking prayers:\n\u201cMy Uncle Am\u00e9d\u00e9e is dead from an attack of apoplexy. It is fearful to\nsay and to think of. Was his soul ready? O these unforeseen strokes of\ndeath! how terrible they are. Extreme Unction was all that could be\ngiven him. My aunt was in a pitiable state, throwing herself upon the\ncorpse, speaking to it, \u2026 finding it impossible to realize that death\nhad come between her and her happiness, and that he whom she so loved\nwill answer her no more! I have a feeling of trust that at the last\nmoment a ray of mercy and love may have illuminated his soul. No, it\nis not possible that our God, always good, always a Father, will not\nopen his heaven to these poor fathers of earth who have given up to\nhim the best part of themselves, the soul of their soul\u2015\u2015the child who\nshould close their eyes!\u201d\n\nThis departed father gave to God his only daughter\u2015\u2015entered, like\nH\u00e9l\u00e8ne, into Carmel. How necessary is faith under trials such as\nthese! The young wife who wrote these lines is the intimate friend of\nH\u00e9l\u00e8ne, and it was her marriage that I mentioned to you two years ago.\nCan it be? Two years ago already!\n\nLong drive with Ren\u00e9 into the country.\n\nDear sister, let us love God!\n\n\nAPRIL 26, 1869.\n\nAdrien has lent me Rusbrock the admirable. Thanks for pointing it out\nto me, dear Kate. How beautiful is this loftiness! It is like a Sinai.\nI read a few lines, and then close my eyes and let my mind ruminate\nupon this teaching. Oh! how favored is France to possess writers so\ngreat. Alas! that so many of these should be on the side of evil, and\nthat the readers should be so numerous of the myriads of impious works\nwhich fear not to display themselves in the light of day!\n\nWhat do you say of the enthusiasm of Catholics for the Jubilee of the\nincomparable Pius IX.? Is it not of good augury for the Council? I am\nthirsting for Rome, but we shall not pass the winter there, as you\nhoped we should; my mother could not return thither without\nindescribable suffering. It was in the Catholic fatherland that Ren\u00e9\u2019s\nfather felt the first approach of the illness which was prematurely to\ncarry him off, and he died at Pisa. The violence of my mother\u2019s grief\nwas such as to make her friends despair of consoling her, or even of\npreserving her life. God calmed the anguish of this broken heart, but\nit would be imprudent to expose her to fresh emotion. She loves Italy,\nand listens when I speak of it, but she never speaks of it herself.\nThis dear mother, so affectionate and so loved, yesterday made me a\npresent of a delightful volume: _La Maison_ (\u201cThe House\u201d), by M. de\nS\u00e9gur. It is poetry\u2015\u2015charming, Christian poetry\u2015\u2015which makes the tears\ncome into one\u2019s eyes. _The House_\u2015\u2015a title full of promise!\n\n \u201cQuel ciel valut jamais le ciel qui nous vit na\u00eetre?\n Ce toit, ce nid ch\u00e9ri, ce paternel foyer,\n Qu\u2019on aima, tout petit, avant de rien conna\u00eetre,\n Et que jamais, au loin, rien ne fait oublier?\u201d[187]\n\nThere are pages in this book which you would not be able to read\nwithout a certain emotion. It is the history of _Sabine_, a Nun of the\nVisitation. Adrien read us this exquisite little poem; my mother and I\nwept, Gertrude looked at the crucifix, and Ren\u00e9 at the portrait of\nH\u00e9l\u00e8ne. A poignant sorrow seemed to sigh in the voice of Adrien.\n\nMy godson is charming. The choice of his name is left to me. As he was\nborn on the 19th of March, he has a right to the name of Joseph. I\nshould very much like to call him Guy\u2015\u2015a pretty Breton name. Say,\nKate, if this would not be nice: Marie-Joseph-Anne-Adrien-Yves-Guy?\n\nAdieu, beloved sister!\n\n\nAPRIL 30, 1869.\n\nThe exiles return to-morrow, dear Kate. What overpowering joy, and yet\nwhat dread! If this winter\u2019s absence should not have cured our\ninvalids! O my God! I give up my will to thee. I am just come in from\nNotre Dame des Miracles: I shall melt away in prayers. Th\u00e9r\u00e8se smiles\nlike the angels. Alix and Margu\u00e9rite have bought flowers for their\nfriends. A hundred times a day I enter Marcella\u2019s room to see that\nnothing is wanting there. How worldly I am with my agitations!\n\nSince you approve, my godson will be _Guy_. How beautiful the little\nangel is, and how I shall enjoy showing him to-morrow! My mother\ncontinues to spoil me. I have just discovered a mysterious parcel on\nmy dressing-table; it contains the history of St. John and the life of\nMadame Elizabeth, by M. de Beauchesne. What a pleasant surprise!\n\nDo you know Mgr. Dupanloup will make the panegyric? He is going to\nDomr\u00e9my, there to inspire himself with the memories of Joan of Arc.\nSeveral bishops will be present at the festival of the 8th of May.\nNothing is said at present about our departure, but I am burning to\nsee you, dear Kate.\n\nMy _six children_ will go with us into Brittany. I make them long and\nfrequent visits.\n\nEdouard\u2019s latest _gazette_ quoted the following fragment from Alphonse\nKarr, which is easily to be explained by the frivolity of the times:\n\u201cIf a very beautiful dress were invented\u2015\u2015a dress of fairy-like\nsplendor, but which might only be worn in going to execution\u2015\u2015there\nare women to be found who would quarrel with each other to wear this\ndress.\u201d Do you believe this, dearest? Raoul declares it to be certain.\nAdrien and Ren\u00e9 have a better opinion of us.\n\nMargaret wishes she were _farsighted_ enough to see as far as\nhere\u2015\u2015the dear, inquisitive one! She has been spending three days with\nEdith, and speaks to me warmly of my home\u2015\u2015\u201cGeorgina\u2019s house.\u201d Ah!\nyes, home, home\u2015\u2015the terrestrial Paradise, and, as a poet has said,\n\u201cThe urn into which the heart pours itself.\u201d\n\n_May 1._\u2015\u2015It cost me something to end my letter before the arrival:\nthey are here, dear Kate, all cured, as far as I can perceive. O the\npleasure of expecting them! Then the cries of joy; the questions,\ncrossing each other; the petulant Lucy bounding up the stairs to\nembrace my mother first of all; the emotion of Marcella on showing me\nher child well and, the doctor says, \u201cout of danger,\u201d and my tears on\nthe brow of Picciola! How we had missed them!\n\nThe day has passed away like a dream. I hasten to send this to the\npost, that you may thank God with us. _Laus Deo_ always and for ever!\n\nLove from all to my Kate.\n\n\nMAY 4, 1869.\n\nHave returned to my former pleasant way of life with Marcella, my true\nsister; but the shadow is still there. The doctor said to Marianne:\n\u201cBe very careful of this beautiful child; I do not answer for her\nchest!\u201d It is as if I had heard a funeral knell. She is so smiling and\npretty, this \u201clittle saint of the good God,\u201d as she was called in the\nsouth. Yesterday, as I watched her playing with Guy, Berthe said\nto me: \u201cDon\u2019t you perceive something extraordinary about\nMadeleine\u2015\u2015something that is not of this world?\u201d I turned pale; had\nshe also a presentiment? Picciola advanced towards us, and we said no\nmore; but this morning the dear innocent said: \u201cWould you believe,\nmamma, that I have still gone on growing?\u201d \u201cIn wisdom, I will answer\nfor it,\u201d declared Adrien. \u201cO uncle! you are jesting. I mean in\nheight.\u201d \u201cYou are growing too much, darling,\u201d answered Berthe; \u201cyou\nmust let yourself be taken care of, and kiss me.\u201d The poor mother, I\nfear, is aware.\u2026 Oh! pray with me, Kate. Just listen to this\nrevelation made to me by Marianne: \u201cFor certain, madame, there is\nsomething extraordinary in this; never a complaint, and yet she must\nsuffer, the dear darling, the doctor assured me. When I questioned her\none day when she was paler than usual, she answered: \u2018O Marianne! on\nthe contrary, it is well, very well!\u2019 and she looked up to heaven.\u201d\n\nWhat do you think about it, dear Kate? The words of the _Saint of the\nsea-shore_ are always sounding in my ears. Oh! that God may spare her\nto us, this flower of innocence and purity. She has resumed her\nstudies. Her memory is marvellous; she is first in every branch of\ninstruction. I love her more dearly than ever; it is settled that her\nhour of manual occupation shall be passed in my room. I have not yet\nconfided my fears to Marcella; I leave her to her happiness.\n\n \u201cUn malheur partag\u00e9 ne peut nous secourir.\n Car on souffre surtout dans ceux qu\u2019on voit souffrir.\u201d\n\nH\u00e9l\u00e8ne has written to her mother. One might be reading St. Teresa.\nGertrude is worthy of such a daughter. I have spoken to you of the way\nin which she despoils herself; this self-spoliation is now as complete\nas it can be. Her room has the aspect of a cell. I must appear very\nworldly to her, with my fondness for beautiful things. I have felt\ntempted to ask her this, but have resisted the temptation. Would you\nbelieve that she has made a _vow_ not to see again either her sons or\nher daughter? \u201cThere is too much for nature in these meetings!\u201d What\nenergy, and this with a so great tenderness of heart!\n\nLet us love each other, dear Kate!\n\n\nMAY 10, 1869.\n\nWhat rejoicings, dearest! On the 7th the magnificent torchlight\nprocession, the illumination with Bengal lights, which never succeeded\nso well; the interior of the city resplendent with lights; the\nassembled bishops blessing the multitudes\u2015\u2015what a fine spectacle! Mgr.\nde Bonnechose, Mgr. de la Tour-d\u2019Auvergne, Mgr. Guibert, Mgr. Meignan,\nMgr. Gignoux, Mgr. Foulon, Mgr. de Las Cases, Mgr. La Carri\u00e8re, Mgr.\nPie, etc., etc.\u2015\u2015it was splendid! On the 8th, the panegyric, which I\nsend you, in order that you may judge of it better than from my\naccount. For two hours, Monseigneur held his auditory under the charm\nof his words; he showed us the saint in the young girl, in the\nwarrior-maiden, and in the victim. Then the procession. On the 9th,\ngrand festival at Sainte-Croix\u2015\u2015anniversary of the dedication of this\ncathedral. On that memorable day, when the bishop raised his hand to\ngive the blessing, a mysterious hand appeared, blessing also, since\nwhich time the arms of the chapter have been a cross surmounted by a\nhand surrounded by rays. This celestial hand is also painted on the\nvaulted roof above the altar, and I had often wondered what it meant.\nI am no longer surprised at the attraction I feel towards\nSainte-Croix. God loves to be worshipped there. Mgr. de Bourges\nofficiated at High Mass, and also at Vespers. He is singularly\nmajestic. People were crushing each other to see him. The ceremonies\nwere too magnificent ever to be forgotten; it is impossible to imagine\nanything like them. Oh! what joy to be there, all together, mingled in\nthis assembly of brethren.\n\nWhat month can be more pleasing to our hearts than this month of May,\ngathering into itself, as it does, the most delightful festivals? It\nseems to me that with the passing breeze a thousand memories revive\nwithin my soul: my childhood, which devotion to the Blessed Virgin\nclothed in so much poetry; this beloved month, when my mother used to\nassemble us every evening, with the village girls, to pray and sing;\nthe flowers which we had valiantly _conquered_ or _begged_, and whose\nfragrance filled the oratory; the symbolic tapers; we ourselves quiet\nand recollected, but so light-hearted that an unknown word in what we\nwere singing would make us laugh to ourselves; the sun shedding floods\nof gold on this charming scene, playing over the white Madonna, on the\nlilacs and roses, on the golden locks and the brown, on the rosaries\nand blue ribbons. How far off is that time!\n\nRead with the children the journeys of Captain Hatteras. Truly, there\nis something to be gleaned everywhere, if only one knows how to see\nit. Only imagine! in the midst of these adventurous men there is a\nworthy doctor, Clawbonny, always doing the things which are most\ndisagreeable to himself. Why was he not a Catholic? Nothing would then\nhave been wanting to him; while this book is cold\u2015\u2015cold as the North\nPole.\n\nPicciola is always pale. I proposed to Berthe to take her to Paris.\n\u201cDo you think there may be danger?\u201d and her voice trembled. What was I\nto answer? I have a conviction that she is mortally affected, and\nnothing can do away with this conviction. My answer was, \u201cI think it\nwould be as well to consult some one there.\u201d I am to take her with me,\ntherefore, and you will see this angel before she departs to heaven.\nAll about her is heavenly. She is a sunbeam, a luminous flower, a\nliving soul; and this blessing has been lent us for a day!\n\nMargaret will be in Brittany about the 24th of June. My mother speaks\nof leaving towards the end of the month. I want to give you a\nfortnight; I need a large provision of courage. Anna is charming,\nwonderfully stronger: it is like a miracle.\n\nLet us pray, dear Kate\u2015\u2015I do so long for her to live!\n\n\nMAY 19, 1869.\n\nOne word only, after nine days, my dear! Get for me fifty Masses said\nat Notre Dame des Victoires. The poor have been occupying me during\nall this time. Ren\u00e9 has asked me to be his secretary, in order that\nsome important business may be the more promptly despatched; and it is\nso great a happiness to me to oblige him.\n\nWe go to Cl\u00e9ry to-morrow, weather permitting.\n\nTell me still to hope, dear Kate!\n\n\nMAY 26, 1869.\n\nMistress Annah is truly the most devoted soul I know. Mary and Ellen\nhave had the measles, and she alone has nursed them. Edith has an\nattack on the chest\u2015\u2015not very serious, happily\u2015\u2015caught in the exercise\nof charity; and it is again our dear old friend who is at her bedside.\nLizzy writes me word of all this. Little Isa is pretty and good; the\n_saint_ Isa is always singing her _Te Deum_.\n\nRen\u00e9 gave me a new book yesterday: _Elizabeth Seton, and the\nBeginnings of the Catholic Church in the United States_, by Mme. de\nBarberey. I have glanced through it, and find it admirable. I shall\nspeak of it to you again.\n\nWe shall be in Paris on the 1st of June\u2015\u2015Ren\u00e9, Marcella, Picciola,\nAnna, and I. Rejoice, dear Kate! Moreover, there is some thought of\nour staying in Paris for the winter, and it is possibly an almost\neternal adieu that we are about to bid Orleans. Johanna wishes to be\nnearer Arthur. You may well suppose that I make every effort to\nincline the balance in this direction; but my mother says sadly:\n\u201cSufficient to the day is the evil thereof: it is useless to plan so\nmuch beforehand.\u201d It is an affection of youth\u2015\u2015projects reaching out\nof sight, illusions, dreams, as if life were to last for ever!\n\nPicciola is always calm. I often surprise her looking up to heaven,\nand lately I heard her say: \u201cHow happy it must be on high!\u201d Oh! the\n_Saint of the sea-coast_ was right: there is something of heaven in\nthis child! Hope\u2015\u2015hope ever!\n\nRaoul, Berthe, and Th\u00e9r\u00e8se start to-morrow with arms and baggage.\nJohanna and her household will follow shortly after. Long live\nBrittany! Mme. Swetchine used to say: \u201cWhat evil can happen to him who\nknows that God does everything, and who loves beforehand all that God\ndoes?\u201d When, Kate, shall I attain to this? That noble woman said\nagain: \u201cOur tears are the beverage which, with the bread of the Word,\nsuffices to our daily necessities: our tears shed into the bosom of\nGod. What should we be without them? It is, at the same time, the\nbaptismal water of sorrow and the regenerating stream. Happy they who\nweep; happy when the Lord looks upon them through their streaming\neyes; happy when his hand dries their tears!\u201d\n\nKate dearest, my soul unites itself to yours, seeking strength to\nsupport this trial, if it is to be imposed upon me. And I shall not be\nthe only one who suffers. I read yesterday these words, which seem\nmade for me: \u201cDo not loosen too much the reins from this strong and\nyet impassioned little heart; affections are sweet, but you know what\nPascal says: \u2018We shall die alone.\u2019\u201d When men fail us, as sooner or\nlater they surely will, what matter? God remains to us. There is truly\nwithin us a source of mysterious sadness which makes us realize,\nperhaps better than any other reason, our condition as exiles. When\nlife is sad and oppressive, repose uncertain\u2015\u2015when happiness appears\nimpossible\u2015\u2015we weep, were it even over the happiness of others, and\nlove to prostrate ourselves before the cross with this admirable\nprayer of Mme. Swetchine on our lips: \u201cMy God, I throw myself, body\nand soul, blindly at thy feet!\u201d\n\nDear Kate, may God and the holy angels guide us to you! My mother\nwould like to see you, but she grows weaker in health; walking\nfatigues her. How I love you, my beloved sister! When, then, will\nheaven come for us all? How sweet it would be to go thither together!\nDeath would lose its horror, if there were in it no more separation.\n\nGood-by for the present, soon to embrace you, my Kate!\n\n\nJUNE 18, 1869.\n\nI am, dear Kate, in all the joy of expectation; only two days, and\nMargaret will arrive. O human life, full of separations and of\nmeetings again! Dearest, I feel you present with me, and you know\nwhether I have not need of this. The sight of Picciola tortures me.\nThese words of the medical celebrity are ever resounding in my ears:\n\u201cAn inexplicable malady, strange, nameless, without remedy!\u201d Oh! let\nus supplicate Heaven\u2015\u2015so young, so fair, so beloved!\n\nHer increasing weakness has become evident to all, and everybody\nattributes it to a too rapid growth. No more study, no more any\nexciting occupation. She lets it be so, always smiling, giving herself\nto all, but reserving for her mother and for me the depth of her\nheart\u2015\u2015a treasure which we are never weary of contemplating. Kate, I\nhave the conviction that in asking the health of this child I am\nasking a miracle; but will not the love of Mary grant it me?\n\nThe baptism is for the 24th. Unite yourself with us, dearest.\n\n\nJUNE 21, 1869.\n\nMargaret sends you a most affectionate greeting. What a delight to\npossess her! The baby is of dazzling freshness; Lord William is crazy\nabout him. What a happy household! We shall keep them, I hope, all the\nsummer. Marcella makes the delight, the joy, and the union of our\ninterior. \u201cAre you not afraid that she may leave you?\u201d This question\nof Margaret\u2019s greatly surprised me. \u201cBut why?\u201d I asked. \u201cWell, I do\nnot know; she might marry, for instance.\u201d What an idea! What do you\nsay to it, dear Kate? Is this another dark speck on my horizon?\n\nWe shall make a pilgrimage to the tomb of the _Saint of the\nsea-coast_. Margaret almost worships Brittany. Why does she not settle\nhere entirely? Our poor received her with rejoicings. Her generous\nhand is always open. She has given me fresh news of the _ch\u00e2let_.\nEdith is well; Mistress Annah is in her element, lavish of her time\nand strength. Lizzy is expecting a second treasure. The saintly Isa\noverflows with happiness, and her pretty little namesake has truly\nbeen given by God as the angel of consolation.\n\nBossuet has called friendship \u201cA covenant of two souls who unite\ntogether to love God.\u201d What a name, dear Kate, to give to this\nsentiment, which binds together all our souls here, and yours with\nthem, in one and the same affection? Nothing, alas! is more rare than\nterrestrial happiness, and thus at each stroke of death I bow my head;\nit is an expiation! Nothing could be more pure and sweet and full of\nenchantment than our existence, were it not that the mourning of the\nheart too frequently came to obscure it.\n\nPicciola is weaving a garland of corn-flowers near my writing-table.\nHer waxen whiteness renders her almost transparent. How often I ask\nher, \u201cDo you suffer at all?\u201d and her answer is, \u201cOh! so little, so\nlittle!\u201d We must not speak of it, for fear of alarming my mother. She\ndoes not cough, she has no fever. What has she? Gertrude shares my\nfears, and agrees with me that there is some mystery in this. What?\nWho will tell it us? Raoul and Berthe take every care of her, caress\nher.\n\nAdieu, dear Kate!\n\n\nJUNE 25, 1869.\n\nA brilliant baptism\u2015\u2015something quite fairy-like, and which our Bretons\nwill long remember. The old _cur\u00e9_ shed tears when he poured the holy\nwater on the brow of the new Christian. Ah! my God, may he be thine\nfor ever.\n\nMargaret was beaming with pleasure at our all being together again.\nHer beauty exceeds all description, and eclipses that of all other\nwomen. Happily, our Bretonnes do not know what it is to be jealous.\nThere was a ball, dearest\u2015\u2015a grand ball\u2015\u2015and the pretty feet of\nTh\u00e9r\u00e8se and Anna still dance at the remembrance of it. Picciola was\nalso there, whiter than her dress, with her loving gaze upon her\nmother. Oh! I do not deceive myself, Kate\u2015\u2015death advances! I felt it\nyesterday. It was after the dinner; the guests were talking, and Mad\nquietly disappeared. I hastened to her room and found her kneeling on\nher _prie-Dieu_. \u201cWhat ails you, dearest?\u201d \u201cNothing, aunt; the noise\nwearies me; I want God.\u201d These words moved the very depths of my soul.\nWhy, at this tender age, such aspirations towards the infinite, so\nmany tears at the holy altar, such love of suffering? Blind and\ncowardly creature that I am, I do not wish this child to be an angel!\nPray, dear Kate, ask strength for me! I have finished reading\n_Elizabeth Seton_. She is the Saint Chantal of America. This work is\nat the same time, in my opinion, very superior to that of the Abb\u00e9\nBougaud because of the incomparable charm of the heroine. With that,\nit is another Alexandrine de la Ferronays. It seems as if I had had a\nvision: so much youth, innocence, love, and misfortune; Providence\nwonderfully directing this holy soul; these astonishing conversions\nand vocations taking place in America; the apostolic and eminent men;\nthe events, so varied, from the Lazaretto of Leghorn to the valley of\nEmmittsburg. Oh! how wonderful is God in his elect. Fancy, dear Kate:\na Protestant lady goes to Leghorn with her husband, who is in a\ndecline. They are detained for a long time at the Lazaretto. Oh! you\nshould read these pages. Elizabeth saw her William die in sight of\nthat land which he had trusted would cure him! And she blessed God for\nall! A widow with five children, she quitted Italy after having had a\nperception of the _truth_; arrived at New York, she became a Catholic.\nHer family abandoned her. She opened a school, and, after many trials\nheroically borne, she founded a convent of Daughters of Charity.\nBecome a religious, two of her children died in her arms. O these\ndeaths!\u2015\u2015the sweet little Rebecca saying: \u201cIn heaven I shall offend\nGod no more! I shall sin no more, mamma\u2015\u2015I shall sin no more!\u201d It is\nbeautiful, all of it\u2015\u2015beautiful! Thus will Picciola die, alas!\n\n\nJULY 2, 1869.\n\nAnniversary of the First Communion of the _Three Graces_. We have\nobserved it as a solemn festival: general Communion, Benediction,\n_largesses_ to the poor.\n\nWrite to me often thus, dear Kate. Your letter set me afloat again. I\nwas nearly stranded. Oh! yes, God is good, a thousand times good, even\nin those things which we unjustly call his severities. Well, and what\nmatters life? I say this, but an hour hence what shall I say? Human\nmisery! It is the weight of the body which holds us back; we are too\nmaterial, we live too much by the senses. _Sursum corda!_ Would, Kate,\nthat my life were a _sursum corda_ continually!\n\nBesides, can our angelic invalid make us think of anything but heaven?\nHer state is really inexplicable. The doctor at Hy\u00e8res thought that\nthe chest was affected, but we are assured that this is not the case.\nTo all her mother\u2019s questions Mad invariably answers: \u201cI am not quite\nwell\u2015\u2015that is all; don\u2019t be uneasy, dearest mother.\u201d But day after day\nshe grows more transparent, more delicate; and in watching her the\nsame idea struck Gertrude and myself: she resembles the _Angel\nspreading his Wings_ painted by Marcella. To console myself, I read\nthe most beautiful of books,\u2015\u2015the Gospel and the admirable\n_Imitation_. Dear Kate, tell me again to look up to heaven!\n\nMadame Bourdon has written some noble pages upon Lamartine. Would you\nlike to have the flower of them? \u201cNever, perhaps, did any name of man\nor any human destiny, pass through more varied phases than the name of\nLamartine, or than the destiny of this poet, who lived long only to\nsee the better how inconstant is earthly glory, and how quickly fade\nthe palms awarded by men. Forty years ago the name of Lamartine\nexpressed an ideal of poetry, purity, and sublime aspirations;\neighteen years later the name of Lamartine personified the\nRevolution\u2015\u2015moderate, perhaps noble, but always alarming to thoughtful\nminds and believing hearts. From the date of this epoch a shadow fell\non the brightness of this name; poverty with its humiliations, old age\nwith its feebleness, isolation engendered by political enmities,\noverwhelmed the poet and the tribune. He drank long draughts from the\ncup of bitterness. Now the cloud rises, and over the tomb of\nSaint-Point burst forth praises and applause, the regrets so long\ndenied to the unfortunate man, the genius broken down beneath the\ntroubles of life. But before man had returned God was there. He had\npurified, pardoned, comforted, and lulled to sleep on his divine bosom\nthat poet\u2019s brow which never should have known affronts.\u201d \u201cFrom the\npast of him who was a traveller, tribune, and statesman, the poet will\nremain after all the rest; and when our time shall have become\nhistory, Alphonse de Lamartine will take his place among sad and noble\nfigures, beneath Homer and Dante, side by side with Tasso and\nCamo\u00ebns.\u201d\n\nDo you remember the beautiful verses by Elise Moreau on the death of\nJulia?\n\n \u201cMoi, je sais la douleur, inconsolable p\u00e8re,\n Je suis jeune, et pourtant j\u2019ai d\u00e9j\u00e0 bien pleur\u00e9.\u201d[188]\n\nHow we shall miss this exquisite creature, too perfect for this world!\nO Kate! how I love her. She goes to God with so much candor,\nsimplicity, and boldness\u2015\u2015with the _effrontery of love_, as Father\nFaber expresses it. O powerlessness of affection! O weakness of that\nwhich ought to be most strong! O nothingness of all that is\nourselves\u2015\u2015to be able to do nothing, nothing, but offer barren desires\nand longings for those we love!\n\nHow right you are to remind me of the old proverb: _Lock the door of\nyour heart_. I ought to open it to God alone; but this is perfection,\nand I am far from that.\n\nLove me, dear Kate!\n\n\nJULY 12, 1869.\n\nThe Prince de Valori has just published the _Letters of a Believer_\n(_Lettres d\u2019un Croyant_). It is admirable. The last is on St. Peter\u2019s\nat Rome: \u201cThis is the sole temple worthy of the Eternal; this is the\nmarvel of all the marvels of art; this the monumental miracle of the\nfaith, the miracle of Christian genius, the apotheosis of the\ntransformation of stone into a _chef-d\u2019\u0153uvre_, into grandeur,\nelevation, and harmony, at the breathing of Bramante, of Raphael, of\nMichael Angelo, of Carlo Maderno, and of the Bernini. This, this is\nSt. Peter\u2019s of Rome, Paradise in miniature, the concentration of all\nthat one can dream of grand and sublime; the incomparable mosaic in\nwhich is found all that is worthy of admiration in the temples and\nmuseums of the universe; the New Jerusalem, made of lapis-lazuli,\njasper, porphyry, gold, silver, and precious stones; a city of altars\nand sanctuaries, of domes and canopies; a blessed city, whose streets\nare of precious marbles, where streams of holy water flow, where the\nair one breathes is myrrh and incense, where is the King enthroned on\nthe altars, and for his footstool the tomb of the apostles.\n\n\u201cSt. Peter\u2019s at Rome!\u2015\u2015the greatest work of human architecture, before\nwhich Solomon\u2019s Temple, Saint Sophia, Versailles, the Alhambra,\nWestminster, are mere nothings; monument of glory and immensity, in\nwhich there is neither fault nor defect; where Providence has willed\nthat each of the great artists who wrought there should correct his\npredecessor, down to Carlo Maderno, who had the signal honor of\nrectifying Michael Angelo.\u201d\n\nPicciola is fading away, gently, gently, without one complaint. Who\nwould have imagined that this healthy blossom would have faded away so\nsoon? Her voice is feeble\u2015\u2015feeble as a distant harp; but what\neloquence there is in her look! Yesterday I had left her alone for a\nfew moments with my beautiful godson; on coming back I stopped at the\npartly-open door. She was rocking the little darling on her knees, and\nsaying: \u201cLook at me well, little Cousin Guy, because soon I shall go\naway to the land from which you came. Before the leaves fall Madeleine\nwill go away, but you at least, my little Guy\u2015\u2015you will not weep for\nmy departure. And I shall be the happiest!\u201d\n\nThis morning I wanted to curl her beautiful hair. \u201cYou love me too\nmuch, dear aunt; but I also love you very much. When I am no longer\nhere, you will love Alix instead, who is so pretty and sweet when she\nraises herself on tiptoe to try and kiss you.\u201d She said this simply\nand seriously, and, as a tear fell from my eyes, she added: \u201cThen you\ndo not wish me to speak to you of my death, that I may console you for\nmy going away? But remember that the good God will let me see you from\nParadise, and that I shall pray to him for you and for my kind Uncle\nRen\u00e9!\u201d\n\nOh! how weak I am, dear Kate. Pray for me!\n\n\nJULY 18, 1869.\n\nAdrien read to us yesterday an appreciation of the works of Rossini by\na poet\u2015\u2015M\u00e9ry. Picciola had laid her head on my knee and seemed to\nsleep. I have mentioned to you Adrien\u2019s talent as a reader. He was\nreading the following passage: \u201cIn this _Stabat_ Rossini has sung the\ngraces of the Redemption, the joys of hope, the beams from the gate of\nheaven, opened by the Blood shed on Golgotha; he has scattered over\nthis page of desolation all the flowers of the celestial garden, all\nthe garlands of Sharon, all the vistas of the Promised Land; he has\nbeen mindful of that great Christian expression of St. Augustine,\n\u2018Death is life\u2019; he has written his divine elegy in the _Campo Santo_\nof Pisa, where the tombs are bathed in azure, crowned with lilies, and\nsmiling in the sun. And now, after so many works accomplished,\nposterity will not ask whether Rossini could have done more; it will\nregard that which he has done as the most marvellous work of human\ngenius.\u201d Here the sweet little Mad raised herself up, her eyes beaming\nwith a deep joy. Since then she has been frequently repeating, \u201cDeath\nis life!\u201d Kate, F\u00e9nelon was right when he said that \u201cnothing is more\nsweet than God, when we are worthy to feel it.\u201d\n\nMargaret is charming in amiability. But what a difference between last\nsummer and this! We still make parties to go on expeditions, but\nalways with some pious end\u2015\u2015pilgrimages, when we pray for our beloved\nsick one. Gertrude comforts me in the same way that you do, dear Kate.\nI _see_, I _know_, I understand that God wills it thus. But the time\npasses away. Mme. Swetchine wrote: \u201cTime is the riches of the\nChristian; time is his misery, time is earth; time is heaven, since it\ncan gain heaven. Time is the fleeting moment; time is eternity, since\nit can merit eternity; and it is time which endangers eternity. At\nonce an obstacle and a means, it is in an especial manner a two-edged\nsword, powerless in itself, and yet the most powerful of auxiliaries,\nnothing is done either by it or without it.\u201d\n\nPicciola is like the Angel of Charity among us, it is to her that the\ngood _cur\u00e9_ addresses his requests. And how well she knows how to ask!\nOh! what are not children\u2015\u2015the treasure of the house! Our casket was\nso rich, so resplendent, so precious, and now the fairest pearl, the\npurest diamond, is about to be taken from us!\n\nI am writing in haste, my riding-habit over my arm; the horses are\nsnorting in the court. It is at Mad\u2019s entreaty that we are all going\nto a miraculous fountain near a chapel of the Blessed Virgin, at some\nlittle distance off. This child must have extraordinary courage to\nstruggle as she does against her suffering, and to try to make us\nbelieve that it is nothing. Dear Kate, I repeat with you the _Fiat_ of\nGethsemani, and lovingly embrace you.\n\n\nJULY 23, 1869.\n\nMargaret appears to have been a prophetess, Kate. I have learnt from\nEdouard that the doctor of Hy\u00e8res was not entirely disinterested in\nhis devoted attention: he would fain become Anna\u2019s father. Although\nthe thought of a separation had never occurred to me, I now perceive\nfrom this information the possibility of another future for Marcella.\nIt seems that she has refused him; but the doctor does not consider\nhimself beaten, and he has just installed himself in a little manor in\nruins in our neighborhood. He has himself announced this to Edouard,\nwho finds him very intelligent and likes him much. Marcella turned\npale when Lucy communicated this piece of news to us all this morning:\nAnna appeared overjoyed. I do not know what to think.\n\nOur excursion of the 18th led to an unexpected result: we found near\nthe chapel two little girls in rags, their feet bare and bleeding.\nTheir story is touching. Being left orphans, they set out on foot from\nthe furthest part of Cantal to seek hospitality in Brittany from an\nuncle, whom on arriving they found was also dead. They have thus been\nwandering among the fields of broom, sleeping under trees, and have\nnot ventured to ask for alms. Picciola embraced them as if they were\nsisters, placed them with a farmer\u2019s wife, and has obtained leave from\n_grandmother_ to bring them to the _ch\u00e2teau_. Adrien wrote the same\nevening to the priest of their parish. The answer is most\nsatisfactory: the orphans belong to a great family now decayed, and\nare worthy of interest; their pastor was at Rome when the poor\nchildren lost their father and, with the inconsiderateness of youth,\nundertook so long a journey. The elder is thirteen, a graceful little\nfairy, with piercing eyes; the younger nine, as tall as her sister,\nwhich however, is not saying much. \u201cGod sends you them to replace me,\u201d\nsaid Picciola to her mother. Sweet angel! The nest is large enough to\nshelter two more doves; stay with us too! Berthe has had the poor\nlittle girls clothed, and has also adopted them. Th\u00e9r\u00e8se and Picciola\nundertake to _acclimatize_ them. \u201cThis is truly the house of the good\nGod,\u201d said Marianne.\n\nMargaret loves France. With her, _ennui_ is impossible. And how\nquickly she has become attached to Marcella! How well these two\nnatures suit each other in spite of their contrasts! Dear Kate, this\nmeeting again is a real blessing; I would fain live always thus. It is\nsingular that our days are so full of charm, notwithstanding the\nuneasiness we are in on Picciola\u2019s account. She also\u2015\u2015_she is too dear\nto die_! Why cannot we accompany her all together, and pass without\ntransition from meetings on earth to the meeting again in heaven?\n\nMargaret receives intensely interesting letters from Rome; I should\nlike to copy them for you. Have I told you how much Gertrude\u2019s\nsaintliness excites the admiration of our fair lady? Gertrude is\nbecome the guide and adviser of all; even my mother likes to be\ndirected by her judgment. Her magnificent wardrobe is no longer hers;\nrobes of silk and velvet\u2015\u2015all are made into church vestments:\nimpossible to imagine a more complete spoliation. She is uniformly\ndressed in black woollen; what a contrast to our worldly vanities! Her\nrooms, formerly so tasteful and rich, have undergone a radical\ntransformation. She belongs to a princely family. Her tastes and\nhabits were in accordance with her rank; her room was hung with\ncrimson velvet, which is now replaced by a dark-colored paper, whilst\nthe elegant furniture and superfluities have been banished to make way\nfor the plainest articles she has been able to find. Adrien has sold\nhis equipages to found a hospital. \u201cDo you know, nothing would be\neasier than to transform this _ch\u00e2teau_ into a monastery,\u201d Margaret\nsaid to me. \u201cYes, in proceeding as Gertrude has done.\u201d\n\nAdieu, dear Kate!\n\n\nTO BE CONTINUED.\n\n\n\n [185] \u201cFold, fold again, my child, thy dove-like wings,\n Open thy fair eyes, sweet, \u2019neath my caress.\n Ah! knewest thou the coldness of the tomb!\n Nay, happiness dwells only in the skies!\n Yet why so soon from earth wouldst thou depart?\n Can there, in heav\u2019n itself, be aught more sweet\n Than kisses lavished by thy mother\u2019s lips\n While rocking thee at eve upon her knees?\u201d\n\n [186] \u201cBut God a deaf ear turned; the flower unclosed.\n \u2026 An angel, clad in golden rays,\n One eve, they say, gathered the fragile rose,\n And with her took his upward flight to heaven.\u201d\n\n [187] \u201cWhat sky was ever worth the sky of our\n birthplace?\u2015\u2015the roof, the cherished nest, the home, dear to\n us when quite little, before we knew anything, and which\n nothing afar off can ever make us forget?\u201d\n\n [188] I myself am accquainted with sorrow, inconsolable\n father. I am young, and yet I have already wept much.\n\n\n\n\nDE VERE\u2019S \u201cMARY TUDOR.\u201d[189]\n\n\nThere is nothing more unjust than the neglect sometimes shown to\nliterary performances of the highest merit. But it is not always\ndifficult to account for this. We have before us a case in point. Here\nis a drama on a subject of peculiar interest\u2015\u2015a model of classic\nelegance, and exhibiting at once a dramatic power and a dignity of\nlanguage which have not been surpassed, if equalled, since Shakspere.\nYet this work has been suffered to sink into obscurity. Why? For the\nexcellent reason, surely, that the Protestant author presents Catholic\nclaims and personages with a very unusual fairness\u2015\u2015a fairness,\nmoreover, which was specially unacceptable at the date of the book\u2019s\npublication, when the excitement over what is called the Oxford\nmovement was at its height.\n\nAfter the lapse of nearly thirty years, Sir Aubrey De Vere\u2019s drama has\na new field opened to it, and will not, we trust, be again ignored,\nbut receive from critics and literary circles its full meed of praise.\nThe occasion of its fresh appeal to public attention is Tennyson\u2019s\neffort on the same subject. We read _Queen Mary_ with our wonted\nrelish of the melodious English and faultless diction for which\nTennyson stands alone, and with full appreciation of the peculiar\noriginality, which some call affectation, but to which, as we\nconsider, he has more than proved his right; but were conscious\nthroughout of a very undramatic vagueness, and painfully sensible that\na great poet had prostituted his genius to a most unworthy cause. When\nwe came to _Mary Tudor_, how different our experience! We seemed to be\nreading the product of some erudite pen of the Elizabethan era, and\neven to be witnessing the play\u2019s performance\u2015\u2015the _person\u00e6_ speaking\nin the manner of their time, and standing before us as if actually on\nthe stage. We found, too, the author\u2019s intent very clear\u2015\u2015namely, to\ndraw the characters, both Catholic and Protestant, with perfect\nimpartiality and in accordance with his information; and this not\nmerely with a view to show that the right was not all on one side and\nthe wrong all on the other (which, of course, is perfectly true), but\nrather, as it seems to us, to represent both parties as very much the\nsport of circumstances, and struggling for what each thought the\ntruth. There is a mistake here, but an amiable mistake; and whatever\nprejudices lie at the bottom of it, they are the prejudices of the\nauthor\u2019s informants, not his own.\n\nHe wisely divides his drama into two distinct plays of five acts each;\nand we purpose to make each \u201cPart\u201d the subject of a separate article.\nIndeed, we feel that, to do the work full justice, we ought to take a\nsingle Act at a time; for every scene will bear minute analysis. As it\nis, we must resist the temptation of quoting largely\u2015\u2015a necessity the\nmore to be regretted because the merit of dramatic poetry speaks for\nitself far better than the critic can speak for it.\n\nPart I. opens with the death of Edward VI., and ends with the\nexecution of Jane Grey. The plot is simple\u2015\u2015as historical plots have\nto be.\n\nIn the first Act John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, contrives, with\nthe help of Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, to work upon the\nconscience of the schoolboy king, till he signs away the throne to the\nLady Jane Grey, wife of Guilford Dudley, Northumberland\u2019s son. Jane\nhas been nursing Edward, who has come to regard her as a sister. The\nPrincess Mary, the rightful heir, has been kept from her dying\nbrother\u2019s side by a device of Dudley\u2019s, who sends for her, indeed, at\nthe last, but so that she arrives too late to prevent the signing.\nEdward attributes her absence, as also Elizabeth\u2019s, to indifference.\nJane Grey protests against the succession being forced upon herself,\nbut yields sufficient consent to be implicated in the treason.\nNorthumberland defies Mary\u2019s claim, and the princess has to fly with\nher three faithful adherents, Sir Henry Bedingfield, Sir Henry\nJerningham, and Fakenham, her confessor\u2015\u2015a character depicted\nthroughout as not only inoffensive but saintly; indeed, as Mary\u2019s good\ngenius, though, unhappily, too seldom successful in his influence.\n\nDudley goes, in the third scene, to visit Courtenaye, Marquis of\nExeter, who is a prisoner in the Tower. The visit is solely for the\npurpose of making this man his friend and tool, to what end will\nappear later.\n\nACT II.\u2015\u2015Queen Mary, after reaching Framlingham by a perilous\nnocturnal ride, receives Elizabeth with truest affection, and then,\ntogether with her, goes to meet Sir Thomas Wyatt, Captain Brett, and\ntheir insurrectionary followers. A parley ensues, in which Brett and\nWyatt declare that their party has decided for Mary, but insist on her\nrespecting their consciences about Church matters\u2015\u2015although (of\ncourse) they refuse to respect her conscience. However, she shows so\nmuch spirit and majesty that half Brett\u2019s men march with her to\nLondon, while Brett himself and Wyatt close the scene with a dialogue,\nin which they not only render homage to the royal lady, but\nacknowledge to each other the conviction that she \u201cgoes forth to\nconquer.\u201d Meanwhile, Northumberland causes Jane Grey to be proclaimed\nqueen in the Tower Chapel, where lies in state the deceased king\u2019s\ncoffin. To the omens which attend this proclamation, and end in\nbreaking it up suddenly, is added the entrance of three couriers, one\nafter another, to inform Dudley of disasters which necessitate his\ntaking the field.\n\nACT III.\u2015\u2015We have Northumberland giving up the game and resolving to\nkneel for pardon: but all in a spirit of hypocrisy. Accordingly, he\ncomes with his men to the queen on Wanstead Heath, and throws up his\ncap, crying: \u201cGod save Queen Mary!\u201d But the queen is not deceived, and\norders him under arrest. Jane and Guilford are next seen in the Tower,\nwhere Jane\u2019s nobleness of soul shines out more attractively than ever.\nMary, on the contrary, yields to a vindictive spirit in refusing the\npardon her cousin so meekly implores. Fakenham\u2019s benevolent attempt is\nfruitless. Jane is committed to the custody of her parents (who\nthemselves have been pardoned), but separated from her husband and\nconfined within the Tower. Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester\u2015\u2015one of the\nprisoners released by Mary\u2019s triumph\u2015\u2015begins his fatal influence on\nthe queen. His character is drawn from the usual Protestant\nstand-point. He is Mary\u2019s evil genius as much as Fakenham is her good\none.\n\nWith the fourth Act comes the trial of Northumberland, Jane, and\nGuilford. Gardiner, as chancellor, conducts the prosecution. After\nsplendid speeches on either side the prisoners are found guilty, and\nMary passes sentence of death. But the queen, as she breaks up the\ncourt, betraying her fondness for Exeter, Northumberland, who has long\nbeen aware of the attachment, craves a private conversation with that\nfavorite, and puts him up to making love to Mary and then obtaining\nhis (Dudley\u2019s) pardon. Accordingly, in the next scene Courtenaye\nproffers his suit, wins the royal hand and, with it, the traitor\u2019s\nreprieve. But when, presently, Gardiner brings the death-warrant for\nMary\u2019s signature, and she bids him prepare a pardon instead, he tells\nher of Courtenaye\u2019s private talk with Dudley after the trial, and how\n\u201ca quick ear caught words\u201d to the effect that it was the Princess\nElizabeth he loved. So that the last scene of the Act is a very strong\none: Mary coming unobserved upon Exeter as he woos the disdainful\nElizabeth, and hearing him declare that he loathes her whom he needs\nmust wed. The queen\u2019s despair at finding how she has been deceived\ngives way to a burst of fury, in which she tears up Dudley\u2019s pardon\nand signs his death-warrant, with the order that it be executed before\nsunset. The false Courtenaye, and Elizabeth with him, is sent at once\nto the Tower.\n\nACT V.\u2015\u2015The curtain rises on a prison chamber in the Tower, where\nNorthumberland, jubilant over his certain liberation, calls upon Jane\nand Guilford to rejoice at their renascent fortunes. The pure-souled\nJane refuses the crown once for all, and endeavors to lead her husband\nand his father to proper gratitude for the reprieve. But in the midst\nof Dudley\u2019s \u201cmerry mood\u201d Fakenham enters with a warrant\u2015\u2015and not the\ndocument so confidently looked for. It is now Northumberland\u2019s turn to\ndespair; and the struggles of his soul, at the prospect of speedy\ndeath, are depicted with great force. Hitherto, during his\nimprisonment, he has been pretending to let Fakenham convert him. Now\nhe sees the necessity of conversion indeed, yet clings to the hope of\nrespite as the gain of professing the true Faith.\n\nAt the scaffold Pembroke meanly stings him into rage; but this\nobnoxious person being removed, the arch-rebel seems to turn his\nattention in earnest to the salvation of his soul, and after a prayer,\nwhich sounds perfectly sincere, kneels to Fakenham for absolution,\nthen hurriedly ascends the scaffold. The scene closes, and a cannon is\nheard\u2015\u2015the appointed signal that the head has fallen.\n\nThe fate of Lady Jane Grey is next determined. Mary is strongly\ninclined to spare her. Gardiner is to blame for the adverse decision.\nFakenham, however, obtains a promise that she shall be spared if she\nabjure her heresy. But Mary, in the fifth scene, shows a sudden\ntenderness for her doomed cousin, and, after a fit of raving\nmelancholy, sends Fakenham in all haste to bring her. It is too late.\nGuilford has just been executed, and his widow is being led forth even\nwhile the queen demands her presence. The sixth scene gives us the\nparting of Jane and her mother, and closes as the victim of another\u2019s\nambition heroically ascends the scaffold. In the last scene Mary\nreaches Jane\u2019s prison to find her gone, and rushes to the window in\nthe hope of signalling the executioner, but only in time to see him\nhold up the severed head.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWe shall now introduce our readers to some of the best passages from\nthis play. Our only difficulty will be to restrict their number within\nnecessary limits, for there is not a page but invites quotation. Here\nis a fine bit of description to begin with. It is from the opening\nscene. Sir Thomas Wyatt is amazed to learn that the king is \u201csick to\ndeath.\u201d\n\n \u201cWYATT. How can it be? But one short month it seems\n Since I beheld him on his jennet\u2019s back,\n With hawk on wrist, his bounding hounds beside,\n Charge up the hillside through the golden gorse,\n Swallowing the west wind, till his cheeks glowed out\n Like ripened pears. The whirring pheasant sprang\n From the hedged bank; and, with a shout, in air\n The bright boy tossed his falcon; then, with spur\n Pressed to his jennet\u2019s flank, and head thrown back,\n And all the spirit of life within his eye\n And voice, he drew not rein, till the spent quarry\n Lay cowering \u2019neath the hawk\u2019s expanded wings.\u201d\n\nTo us, this dash into description, at the very beginning of the play,\nshows how thoroughly our author feels himself at home. Had he not been\na conscious master of his art, he would scarcely have made such a\nventure, for fear of exciting the suspicion that his talent lay in the\ndirection of descriptive rather than of dramatic poetry. As it is,\nWyatt\u2019s burst of eloquence lends much to the easy strength of this\nfirst scene.\n\nWe are little prepared, however, for the daring feat of two heroines:\neach heroine enough to have the play to herself, yet neither\novershadowing the other. So lovely is the character of Lady Jane Grey,\nand so keenly are our sympathies enlisted on her side, that we are\nastonished to find any room left in our hearts for Mary Tudor;\nwhereas, in fact, so royal the latter\u2019s bearing, so truly is she\n\u201cevery inch a\u201d queen, so indisputable are her rights, so outrageous\nher wrongs, that we end by seeing only her noble qualities, and even\nforgive her Jane Grey\u2019s death.\n\nThe poet introduces Lady Jane at that post where woman is always \u201ca\nministering angel\u201d\u2015\u2015by the death-bed of her cousin, King Edward. She\nhas been reading him to sleep, and he has just awaked.\n\n \u201cJANE. How fares your Highness now?\n\n EDWARD. Thy sweet voice, Jane,\n Soothes every pain. A film grew o\u2019er mine eyes:\n A murmur, as of breezes on the shore,\n Or waters lapping in some gelid cave,\n Coiled round my temples, and I slept.\u201d\n\nThis gives our author an opportunity of bringing out Jane\u2019s modesty\nand humility\u2015\u2015the very un-Protestant virtues with which he has chosen\nto adorn his favorite heroine conspicuously.\n\n \u201cJANE. Ah, cousin!\n Not in my voice the charm. Within this volume\n A sanatory virtue lives enshrined,\n As in Bethesda\u2019s pool.\n\n EDWARD. By an angel stirred.\u201d\n\nAn answer no less just than felicitous.\n\nAgain, in the same scene, the guilelessness of her soul shines out in\nher protest against being made heir to the crown. The pretext put\nforth by Northumberland and Cranmer for persuading Edward to sign away\nthe throne from his sisters is the safety of the Protestant\ncause\u2015\u2015what Anglicans impudently call \u201cthe true church.\u201d Jane, though\nan earnest adherent of the new religion, will have nothing to do with\nevil measures in its behalf.\n\n \u201cJANE. O no! not me! This remediless wrong\n I have no part in. Edward, you have sisters.\n Great Harry\u2019s daughters, England\u2019s manifest heirs.\n Leave right its way, and God will guard his own.\u201d\n\nBut now it is Mary\u2019s turn to win our admiration. She comes upon the\nscene the moment after the weak Edward has signed away the kingdom to\nJane. Unaware of the injury that has been done her, she greets her\n\u201cdear lost brother\u201d with true sisterly affection, but, in another\nminute, shows the Tudor in her veins by the courage with which she\nconfronts Dudley and tells the traitor she knows him at his worth.\nThen, discovering the plot against her, she rises\u2015\u2015suddenly but with\ncalmest dignity\u2015\u2015to the attitude of queen, as though the crown had\njust been placed upon her head instead of stolen for another\u2019s.\n\n \u201cEDWARD. It is now too late\u2015\u2015too late!\n I have done what it were well had ne\u2019er been done.\n\n JANE. O would to God that act might be recalled!\n\n MARY. What act?\n\n JANE. That makes me queen.\n\n MARY. Thou queen! O never\n Shall regal crown clasp that unwrinkled brow!\n Thou queen? Go, girl\u2015\u2015betake thee to thy mappets!\n Call Ascham back\u2015\u2015philosophize\u2015\u2015but never\n Presume to parley with gray counsellors,\n Nor ride forth in the front of harnessed knights!\n _Leave that to me, the daughter of a king._\u201d\n\nEqually worthy is her reply to the insolent Dudley when he dares to\noffer her the crown on condition of her \u201crenouncing her errors\u201d:\n\n \u201cMARY. Sir, have you done? Simply I thus reply.\n Not to drag England from this slough of treason\u2015\u2015\n Nor save this lady\u2019s head\u2015\u2015nor yours, archbishop\u2015\u2015\n Not even my brother\u2019s life\u2015\u2015would I abjure\n My faith, and forfeit heaven!\u201d\n\nBut sublimer even than this avowal of her faith is the act of charity\nshe presently makes after her brother\u2019s spirit has departed; and in\nnothing has the poet done her so much justice:\n\n \u201cMARY. And thou art gone! hast left me unforgiven!\n O brother! was this righteous? Gloomier now\n This dreary world frowns on me, and its cares\n Womanly dreams, farewell! Stern truths of life\n Stamp on my heart all that becomes a queen.\n Dudley, you have dared much: yet, standing here\n By my poor brother\u2019s clay, _I can forgive_.\n Will you kneel, Dudley?\u201d\n\nAfter this, let the poet depict Jane in the most attractive colors he\ncan find, he has shown his Catholic heroine the greater woman. But, in\nfact, we are convinced this is his aim. For although, as a Protestant,\nhe makes Jane become a saint (according to his idea of saintship), her\n\u201cpath a shining light that goeth forward and increaseth to perfect\nday\u201d\u2015\u2015while Mary\u2019s way is over-clouded to the end, and cruel wrongs\ngoad her into rage which rouses all the Tudor and all the Spaniard in\nher nature, and deepens her melancholy into madness\u2015\u2015still, even in\nher most painful moments, the daughter of Catherine is _great_. Her\nenemies do homage to her greatness. Northumberland himself is forced\nto say of her, in the scene we have quoted from above:\n\n \u201cThe eighth Harry\u2019s soul lives in her voice and eye.\u201d\n\nBut the spell of her majestic bearing is best portrayed in the scene\nwhere she meets the rebel leaders Wyatt and Brett with their\nfollowers. Sir Thomas Wyatt, true to his character as indicated in the\nfirst scene, indulges again in fine rhetoric, declaring that he and\nhis men have decided to stand for Mary, but putting in the condition\nthat \u201call things which touch the Church\u201d shall \u201crest as King Edward\nleft them.\u201d The queen answers this appeal by another to the\nconsciences of \u201cEnglish gentlemen,\u201d demanding for her own the liberty\nshe willingly extends to theirs; but when, presently, Wyatt insults\nher by raving, like a modern fanatic, about \u201cthe dogs of persecution,\ninsatiate brood of Rome,\u201d and Brett sullenly refuses to march with her\nto London, she passes on, leaving the two insurrectionists to pay her\ntribute each in his own fashion.\n\n \u201cBRETT. Now, by all saints and martyrs calendared!\n I could half worship such a tameless woman,\n All shrewish though she be. With what a spirit,\n Like thunder-riven cloud, her wrath poured forth,\n And keen words flared! Ugly and old?\u2015\u2015to that\n I shall say nay hereafter. Autumn moons\n Portend good harvests. Yet, that glance at parting\n Flashed fierce as sunset through a blasted tree!\n But hey! look yonder, Wyatt: half your men\n Are scampering after her.\n\n WYATT. I marked, and blame not.\n I mar no fortune, and coerce no conscience.\n _There is a fascination\u2015\u2015all have felt it\u2015\u2015\n When Royalty and Woman join in one:\n Austere allegiance softening into love;\n And new-born fealty clinging to the heart,\n Like a young babe that front its mother\u2019s bosom\n Looks up and smiles._\u201d\n\n(Here let us ask, if these lines we have italicized were quoted\nanonymously, who would not take them for Shakspere\u2019s?)\n\n \u201cBRETT. Trust me, I am much minded\n To join her even yet.\n\n WYATT. It cannot be.\n I feel as you do: but I look beyond\n The tempting present. _She goes forth to conquer:\n So strong a heart must conquer._\u201d\n\nMary\u2019s affection for her sister Elizabeth is sincere and tender; while\nElizabeth\u2019s for her, on the other hand, has a dubious quality. It is\nstrange that Sir Aubrey shows no enthusiasm over Elizabeth. He appears\nto have learnt too much truth about her. Mary\u2019s first inquiry, after\nreaching Framlingham in her flight from Dudley\u2019s machinations, is for\nher sister:\n\n \u201cWhy is Elizabeth not here to greet me?\n Command her to the presence.\u201d\n\nAnd when the princess enters, and, kneeling, says, \u201cQueen, sister!\u201d\nMary\u2019s joy at seeing her is very touching.\n\n \u201cTo my arms! Pardie, sweet Bess,\n You daily grow more stately. _Your great brows\n Like our cathedral porches, double-arched,\n Seem made for passage of high thought._\u201d\n\nA part of this scene is particularly fine.\n\n \u201cMARY. Never was kind counsel needed more\n By aching heart. Little you know my trials.\n The fleetness of my horse scarce saved my life;\n And I am queen in nothing but the name!\n O sister, canst thou love me? Thou her child\u2015\u2015\n Beautiful Boleyn\u2019s daughter\u2015\u2015who destroyed\n My mother\u2015\u2015hapless queen, dishonored wife!\n Thou too, my brother\u2015\u2015spurned from thy throne, thy death-bed!\n O no! I shall go down into my earth\n Desolate, unbeloved!\u2015\u2015I wound thee, sister!\n Pardon! I rave\u2015\u2015I rave\u2015\u2015\n\n ELIZABETH. Abate this passion!\n In very truth I love you\u2015\u2015fondly pity\u2015\u2015\n\n MARY. Pity! not pity\u2015\u2015give me love or nothing.\n _I hope not happiness: I kneel for peace._\n But no: this crown traitors would rive from me\u2015\u2015\n Which our great father Harry hath bequeathed\n Undimmed to us\u2015\u2015a righteous heritage\u2015\u2015\n This crown which we, my sister, must maintain\n Or die: this crown, true safeguard of our people,\n Their charter\u2019s seal\u2015\u2015crushes our peace for ever.\n _All crowns, since Christ wore His, are lined with thorns._\u201d\n\nAnd again, as the melancholy gains upon her:\n\n \u201cMARY. Am I mad?\n Think you I\u2019m mad? I have been used to scorn,\n Neglect, oppression, self-abasement, aye\u2015\u2015\n _My mother\u2019s scorching heritage of woe!_\n Ha! as I speak, behold, she visits me,\n With that fair choir of angels trooping round her,\n And cherub faces, with expanded wings\n Upbearing her! O blessed Saint, depart not!\n _Breathe on my cold lips those still cherished kisses\n Which thine in death impressed! Sigh in mine ear\n Those half-articulate blessings, unforgotten,\n Which made my childhood less than martyrdom!_\n I\u2019ll clasp thee\u2015\u2015mother!\n [_Totters forward and falls._]\u201d\n\nSurely this, too, is worthy of Shakspere. And so is Northumberland\u2019s\nsoliloquy with which the third Act opens; so much so, indeed, that we\ncan with difficulty persuade ourselves we are not reading Shakspere.\n\n \u201cI have plunged too deep. The current of the times\n Hath been ill-sounded. _Frosty discontent\n Breathes chilly in the face of our attempt_:\n And, like the dry leaves in November winds,\n _These summer-suited friends fly my nipped branches_.\n What\u2019s to be done? Time like a ruthless hunter,\n Tramples my flying footsteps! Banned and baited\n By my own pack, dogs fed from mine own hand\n Gnash fangs and snarl on me.\u201d\n\nWhat is peculiarly Shaksperian here is the profusion of metaphors. It\nis a sign of a great poet to deal freely with metaphors. We know how\nByron heaps them up in _Childe Harold_, and Tennyson in _In Memoriam_.\n\nAnother proof of high genius\u2015\u2015especially dramatic\u2015\u2015is the ready use of\nwit and sarcasm. We have a passage of arms between Dudley and\nCourtenaye which is very masterly.\n\nDudley, having lost his way in the Tower, gets the headsman to show\nhim to Courtenaye\u2019s cell.\n\n \u201cEXETER. Ha! I should know that face; and lackeyed thus\n By yon grim doomster, guess my coming fate.\n\n NORTHUMBERLAND. I greet you well, Marquis of Exeter,\n Noble Plantagenet!\n\n EXETER. Hey, what means this?\n The half-forgotten name, and fatal heritage!\n Sir John of Dudley\u2015\u2015bear and ragged staff\u2015\u2015\n Or memory fails me.\n\n NORTHUMBERLAND. Now Northumberland.\n\n EXETER. Indeed? Excuse me. _Prisoners limp behind\n The vaulting world._ You are welcome.\n\n NORTHUMBERLAND. I would greet you\n With tidings of content.\n\n EXETER. Long strangers here.\n\n NORTHUMBERLAND. I take your hand: nor coldly, thus, hereafter\n Will you, perchance, vouchsafe it. I have power\n (In Edward\u2019s time I only had the will)\n To serve you.\n\n EXETER. Ha! how well I guessed the truth!\n One king the more is dead. Who now rules England?\n _Chaste Boleyn\u2019s babe, or the Arragonian whelp?_\n No beauty, I\u2019ll be sworn, unless time makes one.\n\n NORTHUMBERLAND. The house of Grey is of the royal lineage.\n To that King Edward\u2019s will bequeathes the crown.\n\n EXETER. My lady duchess queen? Now, God forbid!\n\n NORTHUMBERLAND. All cry amen to that. Her Grace of Suffolk\n Yields to her wiser daughter\u2015\u2015Lady Jane\u2015\u2015\n My son, Lord Guilford\u2019s wife: now Queen of England.\n\n EXETER. _O, now I do begin to read the stars,\n And note what constellation climbs._ My lord,\n Excuse the stiffness of imprisoned knees.\n The obsolete posterity of kings\n Lowly should bend to kings\u2019 progenitors.\n Sir Headsman, art thou married?\n\n HEADSMAN. Nay, my lord.\n\n EXETER. Get thee a wife, then, in good haste: get sons!\n _Full-bosomed honor, like a plant in the sun,\n Plays harlot to the hour. Lo, thistles burgeon\n Even through the Red Rose\u2019 cradle!_\n\n NORTHUMBERLAND. My good lord,\n _Unseasonable wit hath a warped edge,\n Whereby the unskilful take unlooked for scars._\n Good-night. May fancy tickle you in dreams\n In which nor Boleyn\u2019s babe (I quote your phrase)\n Nor whelp of Arragon\u2015\u2015kind heaven forefend!\u2015\u2015\n Nor our grim friend here, with uncivil axe,\n Dare mingle. Good-night, Courtenaye.\u201d\n\nTo pass to the trial scene, in the fourth Act, a speech is put\ninto the mouth of Gardiner\u2015\u2015who, as chancellor conducts the\nprosecution\u2015\u2015which reminds us of the unanswered arguments from Pole\nand other Catholic characters in _Queen Mary_:\n\n \u201cGARDINER. My lords, religion was the plea for this.\n Religion, a wide cloak for godless knaves.\n What! knew they not the Apostolic rule\n That men are bound to obey even sinful princes?\n Who dares insinuate that our queen\u2019s right rule\n Shall be a snare for conscience? Hypocrites!\n _Why claim ye toleration, yet refuse it?\n Faith your perpetual cry, yet would ye stifle\n That faith which is the trust of other hearts._\n Your Bible is your idol: _all must bow\n Before your exposition of its sense_,\n Or forfeit all\u2015\u2015the very throne!\u201d\n\nHad our author been a Catholic, he could not have stated the case\nbetter.\n\nJane Grey pleads guilty so nobly, and prays so generously that her own\nlife may be taken and her husband\u2019s spared, that Fakenham truly says\nof her:\n\n \u201cShe rises from the sea of her great trouble\n Like a pure infant glowing from the bath.\u201d\n\nHere are some of her words:\n\n \u201c_I wake from the vain dream of a blind sleep_:\n Nothing to hide, nothing extenuate.\n My lords, reverse to me this good hath brought;\n That I who dimly saw now plainly see,\n And seeing loathe my fault, and loathing leave it.\n _The bolts of heaven have split the aspiring tower\n Of my false grandeur; and through every rent\n The light of heaven streams in._\n\n * * * * *\n\n In time to come it shall be known, ambition\n Was not my nature, though it makes my crime.\u201d\n\nDudley\u2019s defence would be manly and admirable were it not for his\nhypocrisy. But the hour comes when hypocrisy can serve him no longer.\nIt is a powerful scene\u2015\u2015the first of the fifth Act\u2015\u2015where his\nconfident hopes are dashed to the ground for ever. And then he finds\nFakenham\u2015\u2015whom he has called \u201cworm\u201d and \u201cdog\u201d before, and for whom his\nhatred never could contain itself\u2015\u2015his best friend and only succor. He\nseems, indeed (so well is his character sustained throughout), to\ncling to the hope of saving his bodily life by accepting the Catholic\nfaith, till he stands on the very scaffold; but there he drops\nsimulation.\n\n \u201cThe terrible \u2018to be\u2019 is come! Time\u2019s past!\n Yet all\u2019s to do\u2015\u2015_an age crammed to a span!\n Time, never garnered till thy last sands ebb,\n How shall my sharp need eke thy wasted glass,\n Or wit reverse it?_\u201d\n\nLady Jane meets death like a martyr. Her resignation is shown as early\nas the third scene of the third Act, while she is in the Tower with\nher husband awaiting further tidings after learning that their cause\nis lost.\n\n \u201cJANE. Midnoon, yet silent as midnight! My heart\n Flutters and stops\u2015\u2015flutters and stops again\u2015\u2015\n As in the pauses of a thunder-storm,\n Or a bird cowering during an eclipse.\n Alone through these deserted halls we wander,\n Bereft of friends and hope. Speak to me, Guilford.\n\n GUILFORD. Thy heart-strings, Jane, strengthened by discipline,\n Endure the strain.\n\n JANE. Say rather, my religion\n Has taught this good. _Nor lacks our female nature\n Courage to meet inevitable woe\n With a beloved one shared._\u201d\n\nAnd again her generosity comes out:\n\n \u201cWe have obscured a dawn. If spared, God grant\n We may make bright the queen\u2019s triumphant way\n Like clouds that glorify the wake of noon.\u201d\n\nShe, too, sees the \u201ctrue minister of Christ\u201d in Fakenham:\n\n \u201cFearless of danger in discharge of duty,\n And to the mourner prodigally kind.\u201d\n\nSuch Protestants as she are never formal heretics: they have too much\nhumility. When Fakenham is pleading her cause with the Tudor, who\ndisplays for a season the vindictiveness of woman against woman, Jane\ndisallows his attestation of her innocence:\n\n \u201cAh, sir, too gently have you judged me!\n Usurper of the consecrated crown.\n The sacred sceptre, how can I be pure?\n _Welcome Adversity, lifter up of veils!_\n Before me, _naked as a soul for judgment_,\n Stands up my sin. \u2019Tis well! the worst is o\u2019er.\n Suffer I must; but I will sin no longer.\u201d\n\nWhen, in the fifth Act, she approaches the scaffold, she alone is\nfirm, she alone makes no complaint against the justice of her\nsentence, but, on the contrary, defends it.\n\n \u201cBEDINGFIELD. Madam,\n We fain would linger on the way. Our eyes,\n Blind though they be with tears, strain round to catch\n Some signal of reprieve.\n\n JANE. O, seek it not!\n It cannot be. _My life may not consist\n With the realm\u2019s safety._ Innocent am I\n In purpose; but the object of great crimes.\n Good blood must still flow on till Jane\u2019s be shed.\u201d\n\nSo again, in her final address to the spectators:\n\n \u201cMy sentence hath been just: _not for aspiring\n Unto the crown, but that, with guilty weakness,\n When proffered I refused it not._ From me\n Let future times be warned that _good intent\n Excuseth not misdeeds: all instruments\n Of evil must partake its punishment_.\u201d\n\nIn the meantime Mary softens somewhat after Dudley\u2019s execution, and is\ninclined to spare Guilford, as well as Jane. Gardiner argues against\nthe husband\u2019s reprieve, on the ground of certain peril to throne,\nchurch, and commonweal; and here he carries his point easily. He is\nnot successful in securing Jane\u2019s doom, even though he tells the queen:\n\n \u201cShe is proclaimed\n From street to street. The very walls are ciphered\n With traitorous scrolls that hail her \u2018Jane the Queen.\u2019\n Shall such wrong go unchecked?\n\n MARY. That is their folly;\n Not hers. The culpable shall smart for this.\u201d\n\nBut here Bedingfield enters hastily to announce the escape of Suffolk\nand his having \u201cjoined with Wyatt.\u201d\n\n \u201cMARY. Suffolk fled? Jane\u2019s father?\n Henceforth let justice rule. Farewell, weak pity!\n We cannot, Jane, both live: why, then, die thou!\u201d\n\nYet, even after this, her good genius, Fakenham, obtains from Mary a\npromise that Jane shall live \u201cif she abjure her heresy.\u201d It does not\nappear, however, that Fakenham had any further interview with Jane. It\nwould have been useless, if he had; for when, just before her\nexecution, Bedingfield says:\n\n \u201cAt least, we may delay till the dean comes\n To whisper spiritual comfort,\u201d\n\nJane replies:\n\n \u201cInfinite\n Is the Almighty\u2019s goodness. In that only\n I put my trust. My time, sir is too short\n For controversy: and that good man\u2019s duty\n Compels him to dispute my creed. I thank him:\n Pray you, sir, say I thank him, from my heart,\n For all his charities. In privacy\n My prayers\u2015\u2015not unacceptable, I trust,\n To God my Saviour\u2015\u2015have been offered up.\n So must they to the end.\u201d\n\nBut in the scene before the execution\u2015\u2015one of singular power\u2015\u2015the\nunhappy queen evinces a yearning for sympathy which triumphs over\nrigor, and, in spite of Gardiner\u2019s presence, makes her relent, though\ntoo late.\n\nFirst we see her alone. She is vindicating herself to her conscience:\n\n \u201cI have no thirst for blood; nor yet would shrink\n From shortening earthly life: for what is life\n That we should court its stay? A pearl of price\n In festal days, but mockery to mourners.\n What\u2019s life to thee, thy loved one dead, poor Jane?\n What\u2019s life to me, by him I loved betrayed?\n I take from thee what is no loss to thee\n And much infects the realm. Gladly would I\n My life on such conditions sacrifice.\n _The time for thy short widowhood is come:\n But ye shall reunite above. For me\n The heart\u2019s blank widowhood must be for ever.\n Jane! on thy block the throned queen envies thee!_\u201d\n\nShe is full of her own betrayal by Courtenaye\u2015\u2015a wrong which has left\na more cruel wound than all the plots of treason have effected.\n\nHere Gardiner and Fakenham enter to announce that Brett and Wyatt are\ntaken. Presently, after a burst of fevered excitement, she says:\n\n \u201cI want\n To see Jane Grey-after her widowhood.\n\n FAKENHAM [_aside_]. After?\u2015\u2015She then shall live.\n\n GARDINER [_aside_]. Observe, she raves.\n\n MARY. We\u2019ll sit together in some forest nook,\n _Or sunless cavern by the moaning sea_,\n And talk of sorrow and vicissitudes\n Of hapless love, and luckless constancy;\n And hearts that death or treachery divides.\u201d\n\nShe then goes off into a fit of raving, and declares that \u201cthe spirit\nof the fatal Sisterhood riots in her veins,\u201d and \u201cthe snakes of the\nEumenides brandish their horrent tresses round her head.\u201d Fakenham\nsuggests music as the remedy for her \u201csick mind\u201d; and Gardiner bids\nhim throw aside the gallery doors that open on the chapel. It being\nthe hour for service, the choir is heard.\n\n \u201c[_As the music proceeds, the queen\u2019s stupor relaxes, and her\n sensibility gradually revives. The music ceases._]\n\n MARY. Airs fresh from heaven breathe round me!\n Sing on, bright angels! tears relieve my heart\u2015\u2015\n My brain is calmed. Sing on and let me weep.\n [_A pause._\n Would they were saved! Alas, poor widowed one!\n Can it not still be done? No, no\u2015\u2015too late!\u201d\n\nThen she describes the \u201cdark procession\u201d of Guilford to the scaffold,\nas seen in a vision. The signal gun is heard. The head has fallen.\n\n \u201cMARY. He is no more! Great God,\n Have mercy upon both!\n\n GARDINER. Her thoughts are changed:\n Her brain relieved.\n\n FAKENHAM. Now plead for Jane!\n\n GARDINER. Too late!\n Hear yonder bell.\n\n MARY. What\u2019s that? Again the death-bell?\n Hark you! I would have speech with Jane. Fly, Fakenham!\n My foot is weak and slow. Gardiner, attend me.\n Fly, Fakenham, fly!\n\n FAKENHAM. Too late! too late! too late!\u201d\n\nThe scene of Jane\u2019s execution intervenes; and then comes the last\nscene, brief and terrible.\n\n \u201c_Jane Grey\u2019s prison in the Tower. An open window\n in the rear._\n\n _Enter hurriedly_ MARY _followed by_ GARDINER.\n\n MARY. She\u2019s gone\u2015\u2015I come too late\u2015\u2015forgive me, God!\n Myself I never, never shall forgive.\n Ha! from yon casement they may mark a signal!\n [_She leans from the window._\n Hold! Hold! [_She draws back with a shriek._\n Great God! it is\u2015\u2015it is\u2015\u2015her head\n That demon lifts and brandishes before me!\n\n [_She rushes from the window, rubbing her eyes wildly._\n\n Pah! I am choked-my mouth is choked with blood!\n My eyes, my nostrils, swim in blood\u2015\u2015my hair\n Stiffens with blood\u2015\u2015the floor is slippery\n With blood\u2015\u2015all\u2015\u2015blood! Mother and unborn babe\n Both slain! Mother and child! The cry of blood\n Rises to heaven\u2015\u2015the curse of Cain is launched\n Upon me! Innocent victims! At God\u2019s throne\n Already ye bear witness. Mercy, mercy!\n _Spare one who knew not how to spare._\n\n [_She kneels._\n\n _Enter_ FAKENHAM.\n\n Ay, kneel\n To heaven\u2015\u2015and pray! Lift up your hands to God!\n Lift up your voice-your heart! Pray, sinner, pray!\n\n [_The curtain falls._\u201d\n\nSo ends the first part of this masterly drama, and, we think, the far\nfiner of the two plays\u2015\u2015certainly the less painful to a Catholic\nreader. We have given it unqualified praise, because we have dealt\nwith it purely as a drama. We are afraid that the real Jane Grey was a\nmuch less lovely character than the poet\u2019s, and are thankful to know\nthat the real Mary Tudor was a very different compound indeed. But we\ngive the poet credit for perfect sincerity in his delineation of\neither character. We believe that if he was consciously partial at\nall, it was rather to the Catholic side\u2015\u2015from a wish to do Catholics\nall the justice in his power. And this but makes us regret the more\nthat, together with the genius he manifests, he had not the faith of\nthe gifted son to whom he has left his mantle.\n\n\n [189] _Mary Tudor: An Historical Drama._ By Sir Aubrey De\n Vere, Bart. London: William Pickering. 1875.\n\n\n\n\nA BIRD\u2019S-EYE VIEW OF TOLEDO.\n\n\n\u201cBehold,\u201d said the owl to Prince Ahmed, \u201cthe ancient and renowned city\nof Toledo\u2015\u2015a city famous for its antiquities. Behold those venerable\ndomes and towers, hoary with time, and clothed with legendary\ngrandeur, in which so many of my ancestors have meditated.\u201d\n\nWe had arrived at the foot of the rocky promontory on which stands\nimperial Toledo. The first sight of it is exceedingly impressive. Its\naspect is grave and majestic, and the thousand grand memories that\nhover over it add to the fascination. It is the royal city, the\ncapital of the Gothic kings. For four hundred years it was in\npossession of the Moors, and in the middle ages it was so renowned for\nits learning as to attract numerous students from foreign parts. It\nis, too, _par excellence_, the ecclesiastical city of Spain, and\nstands proudly on its seven hills like Rome. The long line of its\nbishops comprises many saints, as well as mighty prelates who not only\nheld spiritual primacy over the land, but took a prominent part in the\npolitical affairs of the nation. It looks just as a city of the middle\nages, with a due sense of the fitness of things, ought to\nlook\u2015\u2015antique, picturesque, and romantic\u2015\u2015surrounded by its ancient\nwalls, from which rise, as if hewn out of the rock, the massive gray\ntowers that still bear the impress of the Goth and the Moor. Around\nits base winds the golden Tagus over its rocky bed, foaming and wildly\nraving, in a grand, solemn kind of a way, as if sensible of its high\nfunctions and knowing the secrets of the magic caves that extend\nbeneath its very bed\u2015\u2015caves wrought out of the live rock by the\ncunning hand of Tubal, the grandson of Noe, and where Hercules the\nMighty taught the dark mysteries of Egyptian art, handed down to\nposterity, and long after known as the _Arte Toledana_. For this\nancient city claims as its founder Tubal, the son of Japhet, who, as\nthe Spanish chroniclers say, with the memory of the Deluge still fresh\nin his mind, naturally built it on an eminence, and hewed out caverns\nas places of refuge from the watery element. So remote an origin might\nreasonably be supposed enough to satisfy the most owlish of\nantiquarians; but some hoary old birds have gone so far as to whisper\nthat Adam himself was the first king of Toledo; that the sun, at its\ncreation, first shone over this the true centre of the world; and that\nits very name is derived from two Oriental words signifying the Mother\nof Cities. However this may be, it was Hercules, the Libyan, who,\nversed in the supernatural arts, achieved labors no mere human arm\ncould have accomplished, who gave the finishing touches to the city,\nand set up the necromantic tower of legendary fame, in after-years so\nrashly entered by Roderick, the last of the Goths, letting out a flood\nof evils that spread over all the land. This was \u201cone of those\nEgyptian or Chaldaic piles, storied with hidden wisdom and mystic\nprophecy, which were devised in past ages when man yet enjoyed\nintercourse with high and spiritual natures, and when human foresight\npartook of divination,\u201d and its mysterious fate was worthy of its\norigin.\n\nBut Toledo did not fully awake to its importance till the fifth\ncentury after Christ, when it fell into the hands of the Goths, who\nmade it their capital and enlarged and embellished it, especially in\nthe good old times of King Wamba, whose name is still popular in\nCastile, and corresponds to that of King Dagobert in France. It now\nbecame renowned for its splendor and wealth, and, when taken by the\nMoors at the end of the seventh century, they found here an immense\nbooty, including the spoils of Alaric from Rome and Jerusalem, among\nwhich was the famous table of talismanic powers, wrought for King\nSolomon out of a single emerald by the genii of the East, which had\nthe power of revealing, as in a mirror, all future events, and from\nwhich that monarch acquired so much of his wisdom.\n\nAll these and many other things were flitting through our minds as we\ncrossed the bridge of Alcantara, with its tower of defence and\ntutelary saint, and wound up the steep hillside into the city. We\nalighted in the court of the Fonda de Lino, where we learned once more\nthat an old bird sometimes gets caught with mere chaff. It soon became\nalarmingly evident that, between the Goth and the Moor, but little had\nbeen left behind\u2015\u2015at least, at the Fonda. But \u201cAffliction is a divine\ndiet,\u201d says Izaak Walton, and we took to it as kindly as possible. In\nthis state of affairs, we gave ourselves unresistingly up to a\n_valet-de-place_, who lay in wait for his prey, and, for once in the\nworld, did not regret it; for he proved quite indispensable in the\nmaze of narrow, tortuous streets, and was tolerably versed in the\narch\u00e6ology of the place. Few cities are more rich in historic,\nreligious, and poetic memories, or have as many interesting monuments\nof the past. At every step we were surprised by something novel and\ncurious. The streets themselves run zigzag, so that we were always\ndodging around a corner, like our old friend Mr. Chevy Slyme, and soon\nbegan to feel very mean and pitiful indeed. This must have been\nconvenient in days when arrows were weapons, but to honest,\nstraightforward folk in these pacific times they are peculiarly\ntrying. One side of you always seems getting in advance of the other,\nand you soon begin to feel as if blind of one eye. It is to be hoped\nobliquity of the moral sense does not follow from this necessity of\ngoing zigzag. The streets are extremely clean, but so narrow as to\nafford passage only to men and donkeys, or men _on_ donkeys, sometimes\nlooking, in their queer accoutrements, \u201clike two beasts under one\nskin,\u201d as Dante says. These sombre, winding streets are lined with\nlofty houses that are gloomy and solid as citadels, with few windows,\nand these defended by strong iron grates. The portals are flanked with\ngranite columns and surmounted by worn escutcheons carven in stone.\nThey are frequently edged with the cannon-ball ornaments peculiar to\nCastile, like rows of great stone beads. The doors themselves are so\nthick and massive that they have withstood all ancient means of\nassault, and the resinous wood of which they are made seems to defy\nthe very tooth of time itself. They are studded with enormous nails of\nforged iron, with diamond-shaped or convex heads, sometimes as large\nas half a cocoanut, and curiously wrought. Frequently they are not\ncontent with their primitive forms, but go straying off into long,\nartistic ramifications that cover the door like some ancient\nembroidery. The gabled ends of the houses often project over the\nstreets with huge beams, carved and stained, that add to the gloom.\nThese streets do not seem to have changed for ages. Every instant we\nsaw some trace of the Goths or an Arabic inscription, or Moorish\ngalleries and balconies. Once we entered an old archway, and found\nourselves in a court with sculptured granite pillars that supported\nOriental-like galleries, to which we ascended by stairs faced with\ncolored _azulejos_, old and glittering, as the Moors alone knew how to\nmake them. Once the city contained two hundred thousand inhabitants;\nnow there are not more than twenty thousand. The streets are deserted\nand silent, the houses empty. Everywhere are ruins and traces of past\ngrandeur over which nothings of modern life is diffused. You seem to\nbe wandering in a museum of antiquities. Above all, you feel it was\nonce, and perhaps still is, a city of deep religious convictions, from\nthe numerous monasteries and magnificent churches. Pious emblems are\non the houses. Among others, we remember the cord of St. Francis,\ncarven in stone, with its symbolic knots of the Passion. At the\nAyuntamiento, built after the designs of El Greco, who, like several\nother eminent artists, was at once painter, architect, and sculptor,\nis an inscription on the side of the staircase by the poet Jorje\nManrique worthy of a place over the entrance of every city-hall: \u201cYe\nnoble, judicious lords who govern Toledo, on these steps leave all\nyour passions\u2015\u2015avarice, weakness, fear. For the public good forget\nyour own private interests; and since God has made you the pillars of\nthis august house, continue always to be firm and upright.\u201d\n\nWe were now near the cathedral\u2015\u2015one of the grandest, and certainly the\nrichest, in Spain. Its first foundation is lost in the obscurity of\nlegendary times. The people, however, are not so indefinite in their\nopinion. With a true Oriental love of the marvellous, they not only\nattribute the foundation of Toledo to patriarchal times, but declare\nthis church was built by the apostles, and that even the Blessed\nVirgin herself took a personal interest in its erection. It is at\nleast certain that a church was consecrated here in the time of King\nRicared the Goth, after the condemnation of the Arians by the Council\nof Toledo, and it was probably built on the site of a previous one. It\nwas placed under the invocation of the Virgin, and her ancient statue,\nwhich has been preserved to this day, was regarded then, as now, with\nspecial veneration. The old Gothic kings were noted for their devotion\nto Mary, and hung up at her altar the beautiful crowns of pure beaten\ngold and precious stones discovered a few years ago near Toledo, and\nnow at the H\u00f4tel Cluny at Paris.[190]\n\nThe Moors, when they took Toledo, seized this church, so sacred to the\nChristians, razed it to the ground, and erected a mosque in its place;\nand when Alfonso VI. triumphantly entered the old capital of the\nVisigoths, May 25, 1085\u2015\u2015the very day the great Hildebrand died at\nSalerno, exclaiming: \u201cI have loved justice and hated iniquity, and\ntherefore I die an exile\u201d\u2015\u2015having left the Moors in possession of the\nbuilding, he was forced to hear Mass in a little mosque of the tenth\ncentury, afterwards given to the Knights Templars and called the\nChristo de la Luz, where may still be seen the wooden shield hung up\nby King Alfonso, with its silver cross on a red ground.\n\nThe people, of course, were dissatisfied to see the infidel left to\ndefile a spot where the Gospel had first been announced to their\nforefathers and the Christian mysteries first celebrated, and, as soon\nas the king left the city, determined to regain possession of it.\nQueen Constanza herself, though a native of France, favored the\nmovement, and had the doors of the mosque forced open in the night.\nThe archbishop purified it with incense, aspersions, and prayer; an\naltar was hastily set up, and a bell hung in the tower, which, after a\nsilence of four centuries, rang out as soon as daylight appeared, to\ncall the people to a solemn service of thanksgiving.\n\nBernard de S\u00e9dirac was now Archbishop of Toledo. He belonged to a\nnoble family of Aquitaine, and became early in life a Benedictine monk\nat St. Oren\u2019s Priory, Auch, of which he was soon made prior. This\nhouse was affiliated to the Abbey of Cluny, to which he was\ntransferred by St. Hugo on account of his talents and eminent virtues,\nand when Alfonso VI. sent there for a monk capable of re-establishing\nmonastic discipline in the convents of Castile, Dom Bernard had the\nhonor of being appointed to the mission. He found not in the Spanish\nmonasteries the austerity and silence of Cluny. The neighing of\nsteeds, the baying of hounds, and the whistle of the falcon prevailed\nover the choral chants, and soft raiment had taken the place of\nhaircloth and the scourge. The monks, however, were by no means\ndepraved, and Bernard soon acquired such an ascendency over them as to\neffect a radical change in their habits, especially at the great Abbey\nof San Facundo, of which he had been made abbot.\n\nWhen Alfonso VI. took Toledo, desirous of restoring the see to its\nancient grandeur and importance, he endowed it magnificently, and\nappointed Dom Bernard archbishop. The part this prelate took in the\nseizure of the mosque has been alluded to. Mariana, the Jesuit\nhistorian, considers his zeal on this occasion as too lively and\nimpetuous. The Moors were naturally enraged at losing their chief\nplace of worship, and for a time it was feared they would break out\ninto open revolt. But they finally concluded to send a deputation to\nthe king to make known the violation of the treaty and demand redress.\n\nAlfonso was then in the kingdom of Leon, and, when he learned what had\noccurred, he was not only alarmed for the safety of his capital, but\nangry with those who had endangered it. He at once set out for Toledo,\nresolved to punish the queen and archbishop. When the Christians of\nToledo learned that he was approaching the city in such a disposition\nthe principal citizens clothed themselves in black, and the clergy put\non their sacred robes, and went forth to meet him. In the midst was\nthe fair Princess Urraca, pale and trembling, clothed in sackcloth,\nwith ashes on her head, sent by the queen to appease the king\u2019s anger,\nknowing, if anything could turn him from his purpose, it would be the\nsight of his favorite daughter. But Alfonso hardened his heart when he\nsaw them approach, and silently registered a vow not to be moved by\nthe princess\u2019 entreaties. Urraca had the true tact of a woman, and,\ndivining her father\u2019s thoughts, fell at his feet, conjuring him to\ngrant her but one favor\u2015\u2015to show no mercy on those who had set at\nnaught his authority out of obedience to a higher will!\n\nThe king was taken aback by this pious stratagem, and, before he\nrecovered from his embarrassment, a second embassy from the Moors\nappeared. The king, in anticipation of their renewed complaints,\nexclaimed: \u201cIt is not to you the injury has been done, but to me; and\nmy own interest and glory forbid me to allow my promises to be\nviolated with impunity.\u201d\n\nThe messengers fell on their knees and replied: \u201cThe archbishop is the\ndoctor of your law, and if we, however innocent, be the cause of his\ndeath, his followers will some day take vengeance on us. And should\nthe queen perish, we shall become an object of hatred to her\nposterity, of which we shall feel the effects when you have ceased to\nreign. Therefore, O king! we release you from your promise, and beg\nyou to pardon them. If you refuse our petition, allow us to seek in\nanother country an asylum from the dangers that threaten us here.\u201d\n\nThe king, who had been weighed down with sadness, broke into\ntransports of joy: \u201cYou have not only saved the archbishop, but the\nqueen and princess. Never shall I forget so happy a day. Henceforth\nyou may be assured of my special protection.\u201d\n\nWhen the king entered the city a few hours after, he proceeded\ndirectly towards the mosque taken from the Moors. On the threshold\nstood Queen Constanza in garments of mourning, and Dom Bernard in\npontifical vestments. The king kissed the archbishop\u2019s hand, embraced\nthe queen, and entered the church to give thanks unto God for the\nhappy ending of so threatening a drama. And so, adds Mariana, this day\nof tears and lamentations was changed into a day of joy. This was in\nthe year of our Lord 1087.\n\nThe _Alfaqui_, or Moorish doctor, whose sagacious advice the Moors had\nfollowed on this occasion, was regarded with so much gratitude by the\nChristians that they set up his statue in the Holy of Holies, where it\nis to be seen to this day among the kings of Spain and the dignitaries\nof the church.\n\nThe present cathedral was begun by St. Ferdinand in 1227. Eight\nportals give entrance to the edifice. The principal one is called the\ngreat Door of Pardon. Seven steps lead up to it, which the people\noften ascend on their knees. And to kneel is the attitude one\ninstinctively takes on entering this magnificent church, which is like\na great jewelled cross of marvellous workmanship. It is, in fact, a\nmuseum of sculpture and painting. The eye is absolutely dazzled by its\nrichness, as it looks up the long aisles with their clustered columns,\nlit up by the finest stained-glass windows in Spain. The choir alone\nit would take hours to examine, so profuse are the beautiful carvings.\nOn the lower stalls\u2015\u2015those of the choristers\u2015\u2015are carved jousts,\ntourneys, battles, and sieges, as if to figure the constant warfare of\nman here below. Even the very animals in the accessory carvings are\nrepresented contending. Forty-five of these stalls represent the siege\nof some city or fortress in the war with the Moors, and are curious\nfor the costumes and arms of the time. The most interesting relate to\nthe conquest of Granada, just after which they were executed. Nor is\nit surprising to find such things commemorated in so holy a place. The\nwar with the Saracens was not merely a national enterprise, but a holy\ncrusade on which depended, not only the safety of Spain, but of all\nChristendom, and Europe has never been sufficiently grateful to the\nSpaniards for saving it from the yoke of Islam. These carvings seem\nlike a psalm of triumph for ever echoed in this choir: \u201cThe Lord hath\ntriumphed gloriously: the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the\nsea.\u201d Each panel, labelled with its victory, seems chanting, one after\nthe other:\n\n \u201cTo him which smote great kings:\n For his mercy endureth for ever!\u2015\u2015\n Sihon, the King of the Amorites:\n For his mercy endureth for ever!\n And Og, the King of Bashan:\n For his mercy endureth for ever!\n \u2015\u2015And hath redeemed us from our enemies:\n For his mercy endureth for ever!\u201d\n\nOn the upper stalls, where sit the canons of the church between red\nmarble columns, are the holy mysteries of the faith, carved by\nBerruguete and Felipe de Borgo\u00f1a, and above in alabaster is the\ngenealogy of Christ. At the head of the choir is the archbishop\u2019s\nthrone, like the stalls of carved walnut, but supported by bronze\npillars. Among other carvings on it is the legend of St. Ildefonso and\nthe sacred _Casulla_, so popular at Toledo, and which has inspired the\npencil of Murillo, Rubens, and other eminent artists. St. Ildefonso\nwas Archbishop of Toledo in the seventh century, and the author of a\nfamous work entitled _De Virginitate Mari\u00e6_. It is said that one night,\nentering the church at the head of his clergy to sing the midnight\noffice, he found the altar illuminated, and the Blessed Virgin seated\non his ivory throne surrounded by a throng of angels, holding in her\nhand the book he had written in defence of her virginity. She beckoned\nhim towards her, and said, as she bestowed on him a beautiful white\nchasuble of celestial woof: \u201cInasmuch as with a firm faith and a clean\nheart, having thy loins girt about with purity, thou hast, by means of\nthe divine grace shed on thy lips, diffused the glory of my virginity\nin the hearts of the faithful, I give thee this vestment, taken from\nthe treasury of my Son, that even in this life thou mayest be clothed\nwith the garment of light.\u201d And the attendant angels came forward to\nfasten the sacred _Casulla_ around him.\n\nAfter the time of St. Ildefonso no one ever ventured to use this\nchasuble till the presumptuous Sisberto was made archbishop; but he\nexperienced the fatal effects of his rashness and died a miserable\ndeath in exile. This precious garment was carefully preserved\nfifty-seven years at Toledo, and then carried to the Asturias to save\nit from the Moors\u2015\u2015perhaps by Pelayus when he floated down the Tagus\ntwo hundred and fifty miles in a wooden chest, a second Moses destined\nto save his nation:\n\n \u201cThe relics and the written works of saints,\n Toledo\u2019s treasure, prized beyond all wealth,\n Their living and their dead remains,\n These to the mountain fastnesses he bore.\u201d\n\nWhen the church of San Salvador at Oviedo was completed, Alfonso el\nCasto had the Santa Casulla solemnly conveyed thither, and there it\nremains to this day.\n\nSt. Ildefonso and the holy Casulla are to be seen at every hand\u2019s turn\nat Toledo. Countless houses have a majolica medallion depicting them\ninserted in their front walls. They are sculptured over one of the\ndoors of the cathedral, and several times within. And among the\nnumerous paintings that adorn the edifice are two in which the Blessed\nVirgin is clothing St. Ildefonso with something of the grace and\nmajesty of heaven.\n\nBut the vision of St. Ildefonso is specially commemorated on the spot\nwhere it occurred by a beautiful little temple of open Gothic work on\none side of the nave. Here the whole legend is admirably told by\nVigarny in a series of bas-reliefs in marble. In the outer wall is\ninserted the slab on which the Virgin\u2019s feet rested, protected by an\niron grating. Both the grate and slab are worn by the fingers of the\ndevout. No one passes without thrusting his hands through the grating\nto touch the stone, after which he kisses the tips of his fingers and\nmakes the sign of the cross.\n\nThe _Capilla mayor_ is of excessive richness. Jasper steps lead up to\nthe high altar. The retable, covered with countless sculptures, rises\nalmost to the arches, alive with scenes from the life of our Saviour\namid innumerable pinnacles, and niches, and statues of most elaborate\nworkmanship. Around are the tombs of the ancient kings of Spain, and\namong them that of the celebrated Cardinal Mendoza, the _tertius rex_,\nwho took so prominent a part in the government in the time of\nFerdinand and Isabella\u2015\u2015a tomb in the Plateresco style, and worthy,\nnot only of that great prelate, but of the marvellous chapel in which\nit stands. Near by is the effigy of the _Alfaqui_, who interposed in\nfavor of Queen Constanza and Archbishop Bernard, and opposite is a\nstatue of San Isidro, who led Alfonso VIII. to victory at Navas de\nTolosa, as well as one of that king himself in a niche. There is\ncertainly nothing grander in all Christendom than this chapel\u2015\u2015nothing\nmore in harmony with the imposing rites of the church, which are here\ncelebrated with a majesty that is infinitely impressive.\n\nThe chapel of the Sagrario contains the celebrated statue of the\nVirgin so honored by the Goths, said to have been saved from the Moors\nby an Englishman. It is of wood, black with age, but entirely plated\nwith silver, excepting the face and hands. This Madonna stands in a\nblaze of light from the numerous lamps, and is absolutely sparkling\nwith jewels. One of her mantles is of silver tissue embroidered with\ngold thread (that required three hundred ounces of gold to make) and\nthousands of pearls weighing nearly as much. There is scarcely room\nfor the rubies, emeralds, and diamonds suspended on this mantle. That\nof the Child is similar in style, and took nine persons over a year to\nembroider.\n\nNear by, in the chapel of Santa Marina, is a tombstone over the\nre-mains of Cardinal de Carrero, the king-maker of Philip the Fifth\u2019s\ntime, with its _Hic jacet pulvis, cinis, et nihil!_\u2015\u2015sublime cry of\nChristian humility.\n\nEvery chapel in this cathedral is worthy of interest. One bears the\ncurious name of the _Christo de las Cucharas_, or of Spoons, from the\n_armes parlantes_ of Diego Lopez de Padilla emblazoned here\u2015\u2015three\n_padillas_, or little paddles in the form of a spoon. It was a lady of\nthis family who, in some civil contest, stripped the statues in the\ncathedral of their valuable ornaments as a means of defraying the\nexpenses of the war, but first kneeling before them to beg the saints\u2019\npardon for the liberty she was about to take.\n\nThen there is the beautiful chapel of _Los Reyes Nuevos_, lined with\nrich tombs in sculptured recesses, each with its recumbent effigy,\namong which is that of a daughter of John of Gaunt, \u201ctime-honored\nLancaster,\u201d who married a Spanish prince.\n\nThe chapel of Santiago, in the flamboyant style, was built before the\ndiscovery of America, by Alvaro de Luna, grand-master of the Knights\nof Santiago. On every side are scallop-shells, emblem of the tutelar,\nand the crescent, cognizance of the Luna family. The tomb of the\nfounder is in the centre, with knights, cut in alabaster, keeping\neternal watch and ward around their chief, who is lying on his tomb;\nwhile monks and nuns that have turned to stone seem to pray for ever\naround that of his wife.\n\nThe Mozarabic chapel, with its memories of Cardinal Ximenes, is very\ninteresting. One side of it is entirely covered with a fresco of the\nbattle of Oran, in which the cardinal took a leading part, full of\nanimation and vigor. Here the Mozarabic rite which he re-established\nis still kept up.\n\nWhat the primitive form of the Spanish liturgy was we have no certain\nknowledge, for it was superseded, or greatly modified, by the Goths.\nAfter the fourth Council of Toledo, presided over by St. Isidore of\nSeville, a uniform liturgy was established throughout the kingdom, to\nwhich was given the name of Mozarabic from that of the Christians who\nlived under the Moorish rule, and only had permission to maintain\ntheir own rites by the payment of an annual tribute. The Gregorian\nliturgy was introduced in the time of Alfonso VI. by the wish of the\npope. The clergy and people were at first in consternation at the\nproposed change, but the archbishop, Bernard de S\u00e9dirac, was in favor\nof it, and he was sustained by the government. Six churches at Toledo\nwere assigned to the Mozarabic rite, but by degrees the Gregorian\nacquired ascendency. Mozarabic books became more and more rare, and\nthe rite was nearly abandoned when Cardinal Ximenes, in order to\npreserve a vestige of it, founded this chapel in the year 1500, and\nhad the ancient service printed at Alcala de Henares. One peculiarity\nof this rite is, the Host is divided into nine parts, which are placed\non the paten in the form of a cross, in memory of the Incarnation,\nNativity, Circumcision, Adoration of the Magi, Passion, Death,\nResurrection, Ascension, and Eternal Reign.\n\nThe chapter-room of the cathedral is the richest in Spain. It is\nMoorish in style, and has a magnificent _artesonado_ ceiling of gold\nand azure, rare carvings in oak, and a profusion of paintings, mostly\nportraits of the archbishops of Toledo, ninety-four in number, among\nwhich is that of Carranza, the confessor of Mary Tudor, and such a\nfavorite of Charles V. that he summoned him to his death-bed at Yuste.\n\nBut the best paintings are in the sacristy. Here is the Santa Casulla\non the ceiling, by Luca Giordano, the most productive painter that\never existed, and on the wall is El Greco\u2019s _chef d\u2019\u0153uvre_\u2015\u2015the\ncasting of lots for Christ\u2019s garment\u2015\u2015in which the artist introduced\nhis own portrait as one of the soldiers. There is also a beautiful\nSanta Leocadia rising from her tomb, by Orrente. St. Ildefonso is\ncutting off a portion of her veil, according to the legend, which says\nthat while he was celebrating Mass at the tomb of this saint on her\nfestival, Dec. 9, in presence of the king and a great crowd, the stone\nthat covered the tomb, which it took thirty strong men to remove, was\nsuddenly raised, to the amazement of the assembly, and St. Leocadia\ncame forth shrouded in her veil. Going to St. Ildefonso, she took him\nby the hand and said: \u201cIldefonso, it is by thee the Queen we serve in\nheaven hath obtained victory over her enemies; by thee her memory is\nkept alive in the hearts of the faithful.\u201d She then returned to her\ntomb, but before it closed on her for ever the archbishop had presence\nof mind enough to commend the king and nation to her prayers, and,\ntaking a knife from the king, cut off a corner of her veil, which is\nstill preserved in the Ochavo and solemnly exhibited on her festival.\n\nThe Ochavo is a fine octagonal room entirely lined with precious\nmarbles. Here are the silver shrines of St. Eugenius and St. Leocadia,\nwith silver statues and reliquaries, and countless articles of great\nvalue. The riches of this church are still extraordinary, though the\nFrench carried off more than a ton of silver objects in their day. A\ndignitary who officiated in a procession while we were there wore a\nmagnificent collar, which we afterwards examined. It was absolutely\ncovered with pearls, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, etc. A man followed\nhim with a mace, as if to guard it. The silver custodia for the Host,\nthe largest in the world, weighs four hundred pounds, and is composed\nof eighty thousand pieces. It is of the florid Gothic style, and\ncontains two hundred and sixty-six statuettes. Cardinal Ximenes\nordered it to be made in 1515, but it took nine years to complete it.\nThere is another of pure gold, weighing thirty-two pounds, which\nIsabella the Catholic had made of the first ingots from the New World,\nas a tribute to the divine Host. After her death Cardinal Ximenes\nbought it and presented it to his cathedral.\n\nThe vestments in the sacristy are perhaps unrivalled. Many of them are\nhundreds of years old, of rare embroidery that looks like painting,\ndone on cloth of gold. We remember one cope in particular, on which is\nthe coronation of Mary, done by hands of fairy-like skill. All the\ncrowns of the divine personages, as well as their garments, are edged\nwith real pearls, and the whole scene, though wrought with silk,\nseemed to have caught something of the celestial beauty and calm\nrapture of Fra Angelico.\n\nWe have given only a faint idea of this magnificent cathedral, which\nmust be seen to be fully appreciated. No wonder the proverb says:\n_Dives Toledana_. Leaving the church by the first door at hand, we\nsaluted the huge San Christobal\u00f3n, forty feet high, on the wall\u2015\u2015saint\nof propitious omen, whom we always like to meet.\n\nThe cathedral cloister is charming with its laurels, orange-trees, and\nmyrtles. The frescoed arcades are brilliant with the poetic legends of\nthe church of Toledo, among which are St. Leocadia refusing to\nsacrifice to Jupiter, and Santa Casilda, a Moorish princess converted\nto the faith, visiting the Christians in her father\u2019s dungeons. Around\nthe gate of the Ni\u00f1o Perdido is painted the legend from which it\nderives its name, similar to that of St. Hugh of Lincoln. This \u201clost\nchild\u201d was of Christian parentage, and kidnapped in 1490 by the Jews,\nwho carried him to La Guardia. On Good Friday they took him to a\nneighboring cave and made him undergo all the tortures of the Passion,\nfinally crucifying him at the ninth hour, at which time his blind\nmother, who was at a distance, is said to have suddenly recovered her\nsight. His heart was torn out and wrapped up with a consecrated Host,\nas if from some dim sense of the connection between the Sacred Heart\nand the Holy Eucharist, and sent by a renegade to the Jews of Zamora.\nIn passing through Avila he entered the cathedral, and, while\npretending to pray, the people were surprised to see rays of light\nissue from his person. They thought he was a saintly pilgrim, and\nreported the occurrence to the holy office. He was questioned, and,\nhis replies being unsatisfactory, was arrested and convicted of being\naccessory to the crime.\n\nOn the Plaza Zocodover once took place the bull-fights and other\npublic spectacles of Toledo. It has always been a market-place, and,\nabove the arcades, is the chapel of the Christo de la Sangre, where\nMass used to be said for the benefit of the market-men, who could thus\nattend to their devotions without leaving their stalls.\n\nIt is on the Plaza Zocodover you may make the pleasant acquaintance of\n\u201ca most sweet Spaniard, the comfit-maker of Toledo, who can teach\nsugar to slip down your throat a million of ways,\u201d and by none easier\nthan what is called the _eel_ of Toledo, which could not have been\nsurpassed in Shakspere\u2019s time\u2015\u2015a most delicious compound of\nsweet-meats, fashioned like a huge eel, which is sold coiled up in a\nbox. If the famous eels of Bolsena are to be compared with those of\nToledo, it is not surprising that, as Dante implies, they even tempted\nPope Martin the Fourth, particularly if he had been recently\nsubjected, like us, to the \u201cdivine diet\u201d of the Fonda de Lino!\n\nThere are numerous charitable institutions at Toledo, due to the\nmunificence of its great prelates, who, if they had immense revenues,\nknew how to spend them like princes of the church. Cardinal Mendoza\nspent enormous sums on the magnificent hospital of Santa Cruz, which\nis now converted into a military academy. Here the cross, which the\ncardinal triumphantly placed on the captured Alhambra in 1492, and\nwhich forms the device on his arms, is everywhere glorified. This\nhospital is noted for its unrivalled sculptures of the Renaissance,\nparticularly those of the grand portal, which is really a jewel of\nart. The discovery of the True Cross by St. Helena is appropriately\nthe chief subject. The beautiful _patio_ is surrounded by Moorish\ngalleries which, as well as the staircases, are sculptured. On all\nsides are the Mendoza arms, with its motto composed by an angel: _Ave\nMaria, gratia plena_. The rooms have fine Moorish ceilings. The church\nis peculiar in shape, being in the form of a Mendoza cross, with four\nlong arms of equal length. The right transept is now used for\ngymnastic exercises, and the left one as a school-room. On the wall\nstill hangs the portrait of its great founder, expressive of lofty\npurpose. He was familiar with the din of camps, as well as with the\npeaceful duties of charity, and does not look out of his element in\nthis military school. The building is a grand monument to his memory,\nand one of the wonders of Toledo.\n\nThe hospital of St. John the Baptist was built by Cardinal de Tavera\nin the sixteenth century, and in so magnificent a style as to make\npeople reverse the murmuring of Judas and say: \u201cTo what purpose is\nthis waste? And why hath all this money been given to the poor?\u201d The\ntomb of the beneficent prelate, sculptured by Berruguete, is in the\ncentre of the nave. It is in the _cinque-cento_ style. At the corners\nstand some of the virtues that adorned his life: Prudence, with a\nmirror and mask; Justice, with scales; Fortitude, with her tower; and\nTemperance, pouring water from a vase. Over the tomb still hangs the\ncardinal\u2019s hat, after three hundred years.\n\nIn front of this hospital is a small promenade, ornamented with rude\nstatues of the old Gothic kings. Keeping on, outside the city walls,\nwe passed tower after tower of defence at the left, while at the right\nlay the Vega, where are still some remains of an old Roman\namphitheatre. At length we came to the ruined palace of Roderick, the\nlast of the Goths, built by good King Wamba of more pleasant memory.\nIn a niche is a rough statue, purporting to be Don Roderick himself,\nlooking where he has no business to look\u2015\u2015down on the baths of\nFlorinda. An immense convent beyond towers up over the walls, like a\nprison with its grated windows, that are dismal from without, but\nwhich command an admirable view over the valley of the Tagus, along\nwhose banks rise steep cliffs like palisades, with here and there an\nold Moorish mill. Just below, the river is spanned by St. Martin\u2019s\nbridge with its ancient fortifications. On the rough hills beyond are\nnumerous _cigarrales_, or country-seats. There is something wild and\nmelancholy about the whole scene. The river itself rushes on in a\nfierce, ungovernable manner, as if it had never come under the\ninfluences of civilization. It comes from the pal\u00e6ontologic mountains\nof Albarracin, and flows on hundreds of miles, disdaining all\ncommercial appliances, in lonely, lordly grandeur, till lost in the\nAtlantic. Its current is clear, green, and rapid, though poets sing it\nas the river of the golden waves. Don Quixote tells of four nymphs who\ncome forth from its waters and seat themselves in the green meadow to\nbroider their rich silken tissues with gold and pearls, referring to\nGarcilasso de la Vega, the poet-warrior of Toledo, who says:\n\n \u201cDe cuatro ninfas, que del Tajo amado\n Salieron juntas, acantar me ofresco.\u2026\u201d\n\nFarther up the river are a few Arab arches of the palace of Galiana, a\nheroine of ancient romance. She was the daughter of King Alfahri, who\ngave her this rural retreat, and embellished it in every possible way.\nThe young princess was of marvellous beauty, and generally lived here\nto escape from her numerous suitors, among whom was Bradamante, a\ngigantic Moorish prince from Guadalajara. This redoubtable wooer\nendeavored, but in vain, to soften her heart. He only served to keep\nhis rivals in check. At length a foreign prince, none other than the\nmighty Charlemagne himself, came to aid her father in the war against\nthe King of Cordova. He was at once captivated by the beauty of\nGaliana, and, as she showed herself by no means insensible to his\nadvances, he soon ventured to ask her hand in marriage. To dispose of\nPrince Bradamante, he challenged him to a private combat, and struck\noff his head, which he offered to the bride-elect. This obstacle\nremoved, the wedding soon took place, and Galiana was triumphantly\ncarried to France. Some pretend Charlemagne never crossed the Ebro,\nbut we have unlimited faith in the legend, on which numberless songs\nand romances are based, and sold to this day by blind men on the\npublic squares of Toledo.\n\nOne of the attractions of Toledo is Santa Maria la Blanca, an ancient\nJewish synagogue in the style of the mosque of Cordova, which, after\nmany vicissitudes, has become a Catholic church. The name is derived\nfrom the ancient legend of Our Lady _ad nives_\u2015\u2015of the snow\u2015\u2015which led\nto the foundation of Santa Maria Maggiore at Rome, and is evidently\npopular in Spain from the number of churches bearing the name. That at\nToledo is very striking from the horse-shoe arches, one above the\nother, supported by octagon pillars with curiously-wrought capitals.\nThere are lace-like wheels along the frieze of the nave, and the roof\nis of cedar\u2015\u2015a tree sacred to the Jews, and which they say only came\nto perfection in the Garden of Eden. In their epitaphs we often read:\n\u201cHe is gone down to the Garden of Eden, to those who are amongst the\ncedars.\u201d\n\nThe Transito is another old synagogue, which was erected in the days\nof Don Pedro the Cruel by Samuel Levi, his wealthy treasurer. The\narchitects were probably Moors, for it is decorated in the style of\nthe Alhambra. It consists only of one nave, but this is richly\nornamented. Along the walls are Hebrew inscriptions, said to be in\npart from the Psalms, and partly in praise of Samuel Levi. His praises\nwere not on the lips of the people, however. On the contrary, he was\nvery obnoxious to them on account of his exorbitant taxes, and when\nput to the torture by Don Pedro, he was by no means regretted. The\nJews were specially detested at Toledo. It is said they opened the\ncity to the Moors, and subsequently to the Christians, and were\nfaithful to neither party. When expelled in 1492, this building was\ngiven to the Knights of Calatrava.\n\nThe church of San Juan de los Reyes was built in 1476 by Ferdinand and\nIsabella in gratitude for a victory over the Portuguese. It is now a\nparish church, but was first given to the Franciscans, whose long\nknotted cord is carved along the frieze. It is magnificently situated\non a height overlooking the Tagus. An immense number of chains are\nsuspended on the outer walls, taken from Christian captives in the\ndungeons of the Alhambra. These glorious trophies were brought from\nGranada in 1492, and cannot be regarded without emotion. It is\nsaid\u2015\u2015but who can believe it?\u2015\u2015that some of them were recently used by\nthe authorities to enclose a public promenade, to save the expense of\nbuying new ones\u2015\u2015a most odious piece of economy, of which Samuel Levi\nhimself would not have been guilty. The portal of this church is a\nbeautiful example of the Plateresco style, exquisite as goldsmith\u2019s\nwork, with its fretted niches and sculptured shields. The building,\nthough only intended for a conventual church, is of grand proportions\nand richly ornamented. The emblems of Ferdinand and Isabella, with\nother heraldic devices, are sculptured amid delicate foliage around\nthe royal gallery, and over the high altar Cardinal Mendoza is painted\nat the foot of the cross.\n\nThe cloisters adjoining, of the florid Gothic style, are exquisitely\nbeautiful. They are built around a pleasant court, which has a\nfountain in the centre, and a profusion of orange-trees and myrtles.\nThe niches of the arcades are peopled with saints, and the columns and\narches covered with an endless variety of acanthus leaves, lilies,\nbellflowers, ivy, holly, and even the humbler vegetables, carved with\na skill that reminded us of Scott\u2019s well-known lines:\n\n \u201cThou wouldst have thought some fairy\u2019s hand\n Had framed a spell, when the work was done,\n And changed the willow wreaths to stone.\u201d\n\nThe convent has been sequestered, and the Gothic refectory of the\nfriars is now the public museum. Near by was the palace of Cardinal\nXimenes, who was a member of the Franciscan Order.\n\nTo say nothing about the swords of Toledo would be almost like leaving\nthe hero out of the play. Spanish weapons have been renowned from\nancient times. Titus Livius and Martial mention them. Cicero alludes\nto the _pugiunculus Hispaniensis_. Gratius Faliscus, a friend of\nOvid\u2019s, speaks, in particular, of the _Cultrum Toledanum_ which\nhunters wore at their belts:\n\n \u201cIma Toledano pr\u00e6cingunt ilia cultro.\u201d\n\nSwords continued to be fabricated at Toledo in the time of the Gothic\nkings. Their broad, two-edged swords were probably the type of the\n_alfanjes_ of the Moors, which we see in the paintings in the\nAlhambra. The kings of Castile accorded special privileges to the\ncorporations of _espaderos_, such as exemption from taxes on the steel\nthey used. This was brought from the Basque provinces, about a mile\nfrom Mondragon.\n\n \u201cVencedora espada,\n De Mondragon tu acero,\n Y en Toledo templada.\u201d\n\n\u2015\u2015\u201cSword victorious, thy steel is from Mondragon, but tempered at\nToledo.\u201d\n\nThe most ancient Toledan sword-maker known is a Moor called _Del Rey_,\nbecause Ferdinand the Catholic stood as godfather at his conversion.\nHis mark was a _perrillo_, or little dog, which was so famous that Don\nQuixote speaks of it. But the swords of Spain were in general renowned\nall over Europe in the middle ages. Froissart speaks of the short\nSpanish dagger with a wide blade. We know by Shakspere how much this\nweapon was prized in England. It was a trusty Toledo blade Othello\nkept in his chamber.\n\nThe great blow to the sword manufactory of Toledo was the introduction\nof French costumes in the seventeenth century, in which swords were\ndispensed with. Carlos III. resolved to revive this industry, and\nerected the present fabric on the right shore of the Tagus, more than\na mile from the city. The swords are inferior in quality and lack\ntheir former elegance of form. They participate in the degeneracy of\nthose who wield them. Spain, once noble, chivalrous, and of deep\nconvictions, has lost its fine temper and keenness of thrust. The raw\nmaterial out of which such wonders were wrought in the old days\nremains still, however, in the people as in the country. It only needs\na return to old principles of faith and honor on the part of the\nruling classes to prepare the way for a new Spanish history, more\nglorious and more advantageous to the world at large than even Spain\nhas ever known.\n\n\n [190] It was M. H\u00e9rouard, a French refugee, employed at the\n military academy at Toledo as professor of French, who,\n hunting one day, in 1858, among the hills of Guarrazar,\n found a fragment of a gold chain that was glittering in the\n sun, and, digging, discovered the crowns that have been so\n much admired at Paris, and which are even more valuable for\n their historic interest than for the gold and precious\n stones. Later researches have brought others to light, but\n smaller in size, that are now in the Armeria at Madrid.\n\n\n\n\nENGLISH RULE IN IRELAND.\n\n\nNo one can pass from England into Ireland without being struck by the\ncontrast in the condition of the two countries\u2015\u2015a contrast so marked\nand absolute that it is revealed at the first glance, and in lines so\nbold and rigid that it seems to have been produced by nature itself.\nIn England there is wealth, thrift, prosperity; in Ireland, poverty,\nhelplessness, decay. Into the great heart of London, through arteries\nthat stretch round the globe, the riches of the whole earth are\npoured. Dublin is a city of the past, and, in spite of its imposing\nstructures, impresses us sadly. The English cities are busy marts of\ncommerce or homes of comfort, luxury, and learning. The Irish towns\nare empty, silent, decayed. Into England\u2019s ports come the ships of all\nthe nations; but in Ireland\u2019s hardly a sail is unfurled. There the\nchimneys of innumerable factories shut out with their black smoke the\nlight of heaven; here the Round Tower or the crumbling ruin stands as\na monument of death. England is over-crowded; in Ireland we travel for\nmiles without meeting a human being; pass through whole counties from\nwhich the people have disappeared to make room for cattle. Freedom is\nin the very air of England: the people go about their business or\npleasure in a sturdy, downright way, and in a conscious security under\nthe protection of wise laws; in Ireland we cannot take a step without\nbeing offended by evidences of oppression and misrule. The people are\ndisarmed and unprotected, guarded by a foreign soldiery, the servants\nof an alien aristocracy.\n\nTo what causes must we ascribe this wide difference in the condition\nof two islands, separated by a narrow strip of sea, with but slight\ndissimilarity of climate, and governed ostensibly for now nearly seven\nhundred years by the same laws?\n\nThe explanation given universally by English writers, with the tone\nwith which one is accustomed to affirm axiomatic truths, is based upon\nthe dissimilarity of the two peoples in natural character and in\nreligious faith. The Irish, they say, are by nature discontented,\nidle, and thriftless, and their religion is in fatal opposition to\nliberty and progress. The subject is worthy of our attention. Ireland\nis an anomaly in European history. Just at the time when the other\nChristian nations, after overcoming the divisions and feuds of a\nbarbarous age, were settling down into the unity which renders\nharmonious development possible, the seed of perpetual discord and\nnever-ending strife was planted ineradicably in her soil. Three\nhundred years of almost incessant warfare with the Dane had left her\nexhausted and divided, an easy prey to the Norman barons, who\nintroduced into her national life a foreign blood and an alien\ncivilization.\n\nFrom that day to the present time Ireland\u2019s fate has been the saddest\nof which history has preserved the record. There has been no peace, no\nliberty, no progress. Opposing races, contrary civilizations, and\nopposite religions have clashed in such fierce and bloody battles that\nwe could almost fancy the furies of the abyss had been let loose to\nsmite and scourge the doomed land. Mercy, justice, all human feelings\nhave been banished from this struggle, which has been one of brute\nforce and fiendish cunning. Whatever the stronger has been able to do\nhas been done; and there is no good reason for believing that England,\nin her dealings with Ireland, has ever passed one just law or\nredressed one wrong from a humane or honorable motive. From the\nconquest to the schism of Henry VIII., a period of nearly four\ncenturies, the English colonists, entrenched within the Pale and\nreceiving continually reinforcements from the mother country, formed a\nnation within a nation, always armed and watching every opportunity to\nmake inroads upon the possessions of the native princes, who were not\nslow to return blow for blow. There was no security for life or\nproperty; the people were left to the mercy of barons and kings, to be\nrobbed and pillaged or butchered in their broils. Nothing could be\nmore inhuman than English legislation in Ireland during these four\ncenturies, unless it be English legislation in Ireland during the\nthree centuries which followed. Henry II. confiscated the whole\nisland, dividing the land among ten of his chief followers; though\nthey were able to hold possession of but a small part of the country.\nIn the legal enactments and official documents of this period the term\nhabitually used to designate the native population is \u201cthe Irish\nenemy.\u201d They were never spoken of except as \u201cthe wild Irish,\u201d until,\nas an English writer affirms, the term \u201cwild Irish\u201d became as familiar\nin the English language as the term wild beast. They were denied the\ntitle of English subjects and the protection of English law. An act,\npassed in the reign of Edward II., gave to the English landlords the\nright to dispose of the property of their Irish dependents as they\nmight see fit. All social and commercial intercourse with the \u201cIrish\nenemy\u201d was interdicted. An Irishman if found talking with an\nEnglishman was to be apprehended as a spy and punished as an enemy of\nthe king; and the violation of an Irishwoman was not a crime before\nthe law. Even exile was not permitted as a mitigation of this misery;\nfor a law of Henry IV. forbade the \u201cIrish enemy\u201d to emigrate. There is\nno exaggeration in the address which the people of Ireland sent to\nPope John XXII.:\n\n\u201cMost Holy Father,\u201d they say, \u201cwe send you some precise and truthful\ninformation concerning the state of our nation, and the wrongs which\nwe are suffering, and which our ancestors have suffered from the kings\nof England, their agents, and the English barons born in Ireland.\nAfter having driven us by violence from our dwellings, from our fields\nand our ancestral possessions\u2015\u2015after having forced us to flee to the\nmountains, the bogs, the woods, and caves to save our lives\u2015\u2015they\ncease not to harass us here even, but strive to expel us altogether\nfrom the country, that they may gain possession of it in its entire\nextent. They have destroyed all the written laws by which we were\nformerly governed. The better to compass our ruin, they have left us\nwithout laws.\u2026 It is the opinion of all their laymen, and of many of\ntheir ecclesiastics, that there is no more sin in killing an Irishman\nthan in killing a dog. They all maintain that they have the right to\ntake from us our lands and our goods.\u201d\n\nIn the second period of English rule in Ireland, to the war of races\nwas added a war of religion, in which the \u201cIrish enemy\u201d became the\n\u201cPopish idolater.\u201d To kill an Irishman was no sin, and to exterminate\nidolatrous superstition was a mission imposed by Heaven upon the\nchosen people to whom the pure faith of Christ had been revealed.\n\nThen began the series of butcheries, devastations, famines,\nexterminations, and exiles which have not yet come to an end. The\nhorrors of these three centuries have not been written; they can never\nbe rightly told, or even imagined. Ireland was not only conquered, but\nconfiscated.\n\nElizabeth confiscated 600,000 acres of land in Munster after the\nrevolt of the Earl of Desmond; her successor, James I., confiscated a\nmillion acres in Ulster. Charles I. confiscated 240,000 acres in\nConnaught, and would have confiscated the whole province had he been\nable to obtain possession of it. Under the Commonwealth 7,708,237\nacres were confiscated. William of Orange confiscated 1,060,000 acres.\nAnd in these confiscations we have not included the lands of the\nchurch, which were all turned over to the Establishment. The atrocity\nof England\u2019s Irish wars is without a parallel in the history of\nChristian nations. Women and children were murdered in cold blood;\npriests were burned to death; churches were pillaged and set on fire;\ntowns were sacked and the inhabitants put to the sword; men and youths\nwere put on shipboard, carried into mid-ocean, and deliberately thrown\ninto the sea. Others were sold as slaves in the Barbadoes. Whatever\ncould serve as food for man was destroyed, that famine might make way\nwith all who escaped the sword. Spenser, the poet, who visited Ireland\nafter the revolt of the Earl of Desmond, in the reign of Elizabeth,\nhas left us a description of the condition of that province as he saw\nit: \u201cOut of every corner of the woods and glens they came, creeping\nforth upon their hands, for their legs could not bear them; they\nlooked like anatomies of death; they spake like ghosts crying out of\ntheir graves; they did eat the dead carrions, happy where they could\nfind them; yea, and one another soon after, inasmuch as the very\ncarcasses they spared not to scrape out of their graves; and if they\nfound a plot of water-cresses or shamrocks, there they flocked as to a\nfeast for the time, yet not able long to continue therewithal; that in\nshort space there were none almost left; and a most populous and\nplentiful country suddenly left void of man and beast.\u201d[191]\n\nLord Gray, one of Elizabeth\u2019s lieutenants, declared towards the end of\nher life that \u201clittle was left in Ireland for her Majesty to reign\nover but carcasses and ashes.\u201d\n\nCromwell\u2019s wars were even more cruel, and left Ireland in a condition,\nif possible, more wretched still. Half the people had perished; and\nthe survivors were dying of hunger in the bogs and glens in which they\nhad sought refuge from the fury of the troopers. Wolves prowled around\nthe gates of Dublin, and wolf-hunting and priest-hunting became\nimportant and lucrative occupations. But it is needless to dwell\nlonger upon this painful subject. Let us remark, however, that it\nwould be unjust to hold Elizabeth or Cromwell responsible for these\ncruelties. They but executed the will of the English people, who still\ncherish their memories and justify these outrages. No English ruler\never feared being called to account for harshness or tyranny in\ndealing with Ireland. The public opinion of the nation considered the\nextirpation of the Irish as a work to be done, and applauded whoever\nhelped forward its consummation. This much we may affirm on the\nauthority of Protestant witnesses. \u201cThe favorite object of the Irish\ngovernors,\u201d says Leland, \u201cand of the English Parliament was the utter\nextirpation of all the Catholic inhabitants of Ireland.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is evident,\u201d says Warner, \u201cfrom the Lords-Justices\u2019 last letter to\nthe Lieutenant, that they hoped for an extirpation, not of the mere\nIrish only, but of all the English families that were Roman\nCatholics.\u201d\n\nThe feeling against the Irish was even stronger than against the\nchurch, so that the English seemed to feel a kind of pleasure in the\nadherence of the Celtic population to the old faith, since it widened\nthe chasm between the two races. They really made no serious efforts\nto convert the Irish to Protestantism. They neglected to provide them\nwith instructors capable of making themselves understood. They put\nforth no Protestant translation of the Bible in the Irish language,\nbut contented themselves with setting up a hierarchy of archbishops,\nbishops, and rectors whose lives were often scandalous, and who, as\nMacaulay says, did nothing, and for doing nothing were paid out of the\nspoils of a church loved and revered by the people. Some justification\nfor the extermination of the Irish race would be found in the fact\nthat those who perished were only papists. War, famine, confiscation,\nand exile had, by the close of the seventeenth century, either\ndestroyed or impoverished the native and Catholic population of\nIreland. The land was almost exclusively in the hands of Protestants,\nwho had also taken possession of all the cathedrals, churches, and\nmonasteries which had escaped destruction. The Catholics, reduced to\nbeggary, were driven from the towns and, as far as possible, from the\nEnglish settlements into the bleak and barren hills of Connaught. In\nmany instances the confiscated lands had been given to Englishmen or\nScotchmen, with the express stipulation that no Irish Catholic should\nbe employed by them, even as a common laborer. In this extremity the\nIrish people were helpless. Every line along which it was possible to\nadvance to a better state of things was cut off. Their natural leaders\nhad been driven into exile or reduced to abject poverty; their\nspiritual guides had been murdered or banished; or if any had escaped\ntheir pitiless persecutors, a price was set upon their heads, and they\nled the lives of outlaws, unable to administer the sacraments even to\nthe dying, except by stealth.\n\nAll their institutions of learning had been destroyed; and England\npermitted no instruction except in the English tongue\u2015\u2015which the Irish\nneither spoke nor were willing to speak\u2015\u2015and in Protestant schools,\nfrom which she knew the Catholics were necessarily shut out. They not\nonly had nothing, but were in a condition in which it was impossible\nthat they should acquire anything. Indeed, the little security which\nwas still left them to drag out a miserable existence was found\nprecisely in their utter helplessness and wretchedness. They could no\nlonger be plundered, for they had nothing; they could not be butchered\nin battle, for they were powerless and without weapons; and so their\npersecutors paused, not, as the poet says, to listen to their sad\nlament, but from sheer contempt and indifference, thinking it no\nlonger worth while to take notice of their hapless victims.\n\nThree-fourths of the population of the island were nevertheless still\nIrish Catholics; and in spite of the persistent efforts to drive them\nall beyond the Shannon, the moment the violence of persecution abated\nlarge numbers showed themselves in other parts of the country,\nespecially in the province of Munster. It was at this time, and to\nmeet any danger that might arise from the mingling of the Irish\nCatholics with the Protestant colonists, that the Penal Code was\nenacted, by which the entire population that still held to the ancient\nfaith was deprived of all rights and reduced to the condition of\nhelots and pariahs. This Code, the most inhuman ever contrived by the\nperverted ingenuity of man, was the work of the Irish Parliament,\nwhich, it is almost needless to say, represented only the Protestants\nof Ireland. Violence had done its work; the Catholic Irish had been\nreduced to a condition as wretched as it is possible for man to suffer\nand live; and now the form of justice and the semblance of law are\ninvoked to make this condition perpetual. Suddenly, and for the first\ntime, the Protestants of Ireland seem animated with religious zeal for\nthe conversion of the Catholics. The extermination of the Irish race\nwas abandoned as hopeless; and, indeed, there seemed to be no good\nground for believing that a people who had survived the wars, famines,\nand exiles by which Ireland had been drained of its population during\nthe sixteenth and seventeenth centuries could be extirpated. Nothing\nremained, therefore, but to convert them. This was the pretext with\nwhich men sought to hide the monstrous iniquity of the penal laws. All\nbishops and monks were ordered to quit Ireland before the 1st of May,\n1698, under pain of imprisonment and transportation; and, in case they\nshould return, they were to suffer death. Heavy fines were imposed\nupon all who harbored or concealed the proscribed ecclesiastics; and\nrewards were offered for their discovery or apprehension. Care was\ntaken at the same time to exclude all foreign priests. By thus cutting\noff from Ireland the fountain-source of orders and ecclesiastical\njurisdiction, it was confidently expected that in a few years the\nCatholic priesthood would cease to exist there, and that the people,\nleft without priests or sacraments, would have no alternative but to\nbecome Protestants. Every exterior sign of Catholic worship was\nsuppressed, and it was tolerated only as a hidden cult, whose\nceremonies were performed with bated breath, clandestinely in cabins\nand unfrequented places. Whatever appealed to the heart or the\nimagination was condemned. The steeple that pointed to heaven; the\nbell whose religious tones thrilled with accents of a world of peace;\nthe cross that told of the divinity that is in suffering and sorrow;\nthe pilgrimages in which the people gathered to cherish sacred\nmemories and to do homage to worthy deeds and noble lives, were all\nproscribed. And even the poor huts in which it was possible to offer\nthe Holy Sacrifice were carefully watched by the officers of the law,\nas to-day, in the great cities, places of infamy are put under the\nsurveillance of the police.\n\nHaving suppressed the hierarchy and shorn the Catholic religion of its\nsplendor, the rulers of Ireland next proceeded to adopt measures by\nwhich every imaginable inducement to apostasy was held out both to the\nclergy and the laity. An annual pension, first of twenty, then of\nthirty, and finally of forty pounds sterling was offered to all\npriests who should abandon their religion. Whether or not they\naccepted this bribe was held to be of small importance, as their ranks\nwere rapidly thinned by death, and precautions had been taken that the\nvacancies should not be refilled.\n\nThe Catholic people were placed in a position like that of the Forty\nMartyrs, who were exposed naked on the frozen lake, surrounded by warm\nbaths and comfortable houses, which they could enter by renouncing\ntheir faith. The deepest and holiest instincts of human nature were\nappealed to against the most sacred convictions which man is capable\nof holding. If the father wished to educate his child, schools\nabounded, but he could enter them only by abandoning his religion. He\nwas not, indeed, forced to send his children to these Protestant\nschools, but it was made impossible for him to send them to any other.\nHis tyrants went farther. They spared no pains to make it impossible\nthat an Irish Catholic should learn anything even by stealth. All\nCatholic schoolmasters were banished from Ireland, and, in case of\nreturn, were to suffer death.\n\nThe law made express provision for the money necessary to defray the\nexpenses of transporting these obnoxious persons. Nay, it went yet\nfarther. There were schools on the continent of Europe to which a few\nIrish children might possibly find their way. This danger was foreseen\nand met. An act was passed prohibiting Catholics from sending their\nchildren across the Channel without special permission, and the\nmagistrates were authorized to demand at any time that parents should\nproduce their children before them. Beyond this it was not possible to\ngo. All that human enactments can do to degrade the mind of a whole\npeople to a state of brutish ignorance was done. And let us remark\nthat this applied not to the Irish only, but to all Catholics who\nspoke the English language. The English government took from them\nevery opportunity of knowledge, made it criminal for them to know\nanything; and then they were denounced by English writers almost\nuniversally as the foes of learning and as lovers of ignorance. We\nknow of no harder or more cruel fate in all history, nor of a more\nstriking example of the injustice of the world towards the church.\nEven here in the United States we Catholics are still suffering the\nconsequences of this unparalleled infamy. But we have hardly entered\non the subject of the Penal Laws: we are as yet on the threshold.\n\nThe enforced ignorance of the Irish Catholics was but a preparation\nfor innumerable other legal outrages. From all the honorable careers\nof life they were mercilessly shut out\u2015\u2015from the army; the navy, the\nmagistracy, and the civil service. That a Catholic was not permitted\nto become an educator we have already seen. As little was he allowed\nto perform the functions of barrister, attorney, or solicitor. He\ncould neither vote nor be elected to office. Shut out from all public\nlife, from every liberal profession, disfranchised, ignorant,\ndespised, was anything else needed to make the Irish Catholic the most\nwretched of men? His land had been confiscated, he had been robbed; he\nwas a beggar; but might he not hope gradually to lift himself out of\nthe degradation of his poverty? To regain ownership of the soil was\nout of the question. He was disqualified by law, which, however,\npermitted him to become a tenant\u2015\u2015not to do him a favor, but solely\nfor the benefit of the landlord, to whose arbitrary will he was made a\nslave. This is but half the truth. The iniquity of the law mistrusted\nthe rectitude of human nature even in an Irish landlord. He was\ntherefore compelled to be unjust to his tenant; to give him but short\nleases; to force him to pay at least two-thirds of the value of the\nproduce of his farm; to punish him for improving his land by\naugmenting the rent; and, lest there should be any doubt as to the\nseriousness of these barbarous enactments, a premium was offered for\nthe discovery of instances of their violation in favor of Catholic\ntenants. The landlord was not allowed to be just, but he was free to\nbe as heartless and inhuman as he pleased. His tenants had no rights,\nthey belonged to a despised race, they professed an idolatrous\nreligion, and their extermination had been the cherished policy of the\nEnglish government for six hundred years. If there was no hope here\nfor the Irish Catholic, might he not, with better prospects, turn to\ncommercial or industrial pursuits?\n\nWithout, for the present, taking a larger view of this question, it\nwill be sufficient to consider the restrictions placed upon Catholics\nin this matter. Commerce and manufacture were controlled by municipal\nand trading corporations of which no Irish Catholic could be a member.\nThis of itself, at a time when monopoly and privilege were everywhere\nrecognized, gave to Protestants the entire business of the country.\n\nProhibitory laws were therefore not needed. But no security could lull\nto rest the fierce spirit of the persecuting Protestant oligarchy. A\nCatholic could not acquire real estate; he could not even rent land,\nexcept on ruinous terms; he could not exercise a liberal profession or\nfill a public office; he was unable to engage in commerce or\nmanufacture; he had no political rights, no protection from the law;\nand, to make all this doubly bitter, his masters were at once the\nenemies of his race and his religion. This, one would think, ought to\nhave been enough to satisfy the worst of tyrants. But it is of the\nnature of tyranny that the more it oppresses, the more it feels the\nnecessity of inflicting new wrongs upon its victims. Every motive that\nincites men to activity and labor had been taken from the Catholics,\nand yet their oppressors, with the cowardice which naturally belongs\nto evil-doers, were still fearful lest some of them might, by chance\nor good fortune, acquire wealth enough to lift them above the\nimmediate necessities of life. A universal threat was therefore held\nover all who possessed anything. A Catholic was not allowed to own a\nhorse worth more than five pounds; any Protestant in the kingdom might\ntake the best he had by paying him that sum. Whenever it was deemed\nnecessary to call out the militia, the law declared all horses\nbelonging to Catholics subject to seizure; and twenty shillings a day\nfor the maintenance of each troop was levied on the papists of the\ncountry. Whenever property was destroyed, the law assumed that the\nCatholics were the offenders, and they were forced to indemnify the\nowners for their loss. They were taxed for the support of the\ngovernment, in which they were not allowed to take part and from which\nthey received no protection; for the maintenance of the Established\nChurch, in which they did not believe and which was already rich with\nthe spoils of the Catholic Church.\n\nNo Catholic was permitted to marry a Protestant; and the priest\nassisting at such marriage was punished with death. No Catholic could\nbe a guardian; and to the agonies of death this new pain was added:\nthat the dying father foresaw that his children would be committed to\nProtestants, to be brought up in a religious faith which had been the\nunclean source of all the ills that had befallen him and his country.\nThe law held out a bribe to Catholic children to induce them to betray\ntheir parents, and put a premium on apostasy.\n\nThis inhuman Code was not framed at one time, nor was there found in\nits enactments any system or unity of purpose, other than that which\nis derived from the hate of the persecutor for his victim. To this\nblind fury whatever helped to crush and degrade the Catholic people of\nIreland seemed just.\n\nThough it seems almost incredible, it is nevertheless certain, that\nthe execution of these laws was worse than the laws themselves. The\nwhole intent of the legislators being directed to the extermination or\nperversion of the Irish Catholics, the fullest license was granted to\nthe caprice and cruelty of individuals. The Catholic had no\nprotection. If he sought to defend himself, he was forced to employ a\nProtestant lawyer, who could bring his case only before a Protestant\njudge, who was obliged to submit it to a Protestant jury. In these\ncircumstances recourse to the law was worse than useless. The great\nlanded proprietors were accustomed to deal out justice with a high\nhand. They had prisons in their castles, into which, for or without\ncause, they threw their helpless dependents; and whenever these\noutrageous proceedings were complained of, the grand juries threw out\nthe indictments. To horsewhip or beat the poor Catholics was a\nfrequent mode of correction, and they were even deliberately murdered\nwithout any fear of punishment. This we have upon the authority of\nArthur Young, whose testimony is certainly above suspicion; and he\nadds that the violation of their wives and daughters was not\nconsidered an offence. If the great lord met them on the road, his\nservants were ordered to turn their wagons and carts into the ditch to\nmake room for his carriage; and if the unfortunate wretches dared\ncomplain, they were answered with the lash. For a Catholic to bring\nsuit against his Protestant persecutor would have been at once most\nabsurd and most dangerous.\n\nThe religious fanaticism which had inspired the Penal Code lost its\nhonesty and earnestness amid these frightful excesses. The tyrant is\ndegraded with his victim, and crimes committed in the name of\nreligion, if they begin in sincerity, end in hypocrisy. Even the poor\nhonesty of blind zeal vanishes, and selfishness and hate alone remain.\nThis is the sad spectacle which Ireland presents to our view after the\nfirst fury of persecution had spent itself. The dominant class grew\nindifferent to all religion, and, having ignominiously failed to make\nany impression on the faith of the Catholics, connived at their\nworship.\n\nBut as zeal grew cold, self-interest became more intense. So long as\nthe Catholics remained in poverty and helplessness no notice was taken\nof them; but the moment they acquired anything which could excite the\ncupidity of a Protestant, the law was appealed to against them. The\npriest, who, according to the Code, incurred the penalty of\ntransportation or hanging for saying Mass, could violate this article\nwith impunity, provided he possessed nothing which might serve as a\nmotive for denouncing him. The laws against Catholic worship were kept\nupon the statute-book, chiefly because they served as an ever-ready\nand convenient pretext for robbing Catholics. Another end, too,\nscarcely less important, was thereby gained. The Catholics, even when\nleft in peace, lived in continual fear, knowing that any chance spark\nwould be sufficient to light the flames of persecution. In this way it\nwas hoped that the martyr-spirit in them would give place to the\nspirit of the slave; and this hope was not altogether delusive. Since\nthere was a kind of security in remaining in abject poverty, in\nlurking in secret places, in speaking only with bated breath, and in\nshowing the most cringing servility in the presence of their masters,\nthe Catholics came by degrees to look upon this servile condition as\ntheir normal state, and hardly dared even hope for a better. We may\nremark that this is another instance in which the Catholic Church is\nheld responsible for the work of Protestants. Protestant England has\nenslaved Catholic Ireland; has for centuries put forth the most\nheartless and cunningly-devised efforts to extinguish in the Irish\nCatholics every noble and free aspiration of the human heart; and then\nshe has turned round and appealed to the world, with the cant which is\ntwin-born with hypocrisy, to bear witness that Ireland is in fetters\nbecause the Catholic Church is opposed to liberty; and the world, in\nwhose eyes success is ever the highest and the best, has smiled\napproval.\n\nIs it, then, possible that six hundred years of hereditary bondage, of\noutlawry, of want and oppression, should produce no evil effect upon\nthe character of a people, however nobly endowed by God? Are we to\nexpect industry when every motive that incites men to labor is absent?\nHow can he who is forbidden to possess anything be provident? Or is it\nnot natural that the hopelessly wretched should grow desperate,\nreckless of their deeds or their consequences?\n\nGreat misfortunes, like great successes, try men as nothing else can.\nIn the lowest depths of misery we are apt to forget that there is a\nlower deep. For ourselves, the more we study the history of the Irish\npeople, and compare their character with the wrongs which they have\nsuffered, the more wonderful does it seem to us that they should have\nremained superior to fate. If they have not wholly escaped the evil\ninfluences of the worst of all tyrannies, nothing, at least, has been\nable to destroy their purity, their hopefulness, their trust in God,\nand belief in the final triumph of right. They are, in our eyes, the\nhighest example of the supremacy of the soul, of the invincible power\nof faith; the most striking proof of a divine Providence that watches\nover the destiny of nations. It will not be thought out of place to\nquote here the words of a Protestant historian who, in his old age,\nseems to regret the impartiality and generous love of unpopular truth\nwhich characterized his earlier manhood.\n\n\u201cSuch,\u201d says Mr. Bancroft, \u201cwas the Ireland of the Irish\u2015\u2015a conquered\npeople, whom the victors delighted to trample upon and did not fear to\nprovoke. Their industry within the kingdom was prohibited or repressed\nby law, and then they were calumniated as naturally idle. Their\nsavings could not be invested on equal terms in trade, manufactures,\nor real property, and they were called improvident. The gates of\nlearning were shut on them, and they were derided as ignorant. In the\nmidst of privations they were cheerful. Suffering for generations\nunder acts which offered bribes to treachery, their integrity was not\ndebauched. No son rose against his father, no friend betrayed his\nfriend. Fidelity to their religion\u2015\u2015to which afflictions made them\ncling more closely\u2015\u2015chastity, and respect for the ties of family\nremained characteristics of the down-trodden race.\u201d[192]\n\nSo long as there was question of oppressing and impoverishing the\nIrish Catholics the Protestant Ascendency received the hearty approval\nand efficient co-operation of the English government. But there was\ndanger lest these Irish Protestants, possessing a country of the\nrichest natural resources, should come to compete with England in the\nmarkets of the world.\n\nThere are few countries in the world so fertile as Ireland. About\none-half of the island consists of a fat soil, with a chalky sub-soil,\nwhich is the very best of soils. The richness and beauty of her\nmeadows were celebrated by Orosius as early as the fifth century. The\nclimate is milder than that of England; the scenery more varied and\nlovely. The frequent rains clothe the fields with perpetual verdure.\nFrom her wild mountains gush numerous rivers, which, as they flow into\nthe sea, form the safest and most capacious harbors, while in their\nrapid course they develop a water-power, available for purposes of\nmanufacture, unsurpassed in the world. This water-power of Ireland has\nbeen estimated by Sir Robert Kane at three and a half millions of\nhorse power. The country abounds in iron ore, and three centuries ago\nIrish iron was exported to England. Geologists have counted in the\nisland no less than seven immense beds of both anthracite and\nbituminous coal; and of turf, the heating power of which is half that\nof coal, the supply is inexhaustible. The soil is most favorable to\nthe growth of the beet-root, from which such large quantities of sugar\nare made in France and Belgium. The flax and hemp, as is well known,\nare of the best quality, and the fineness of Irish wool has long been\ncelebrated. The rivers and lakes abound in trout and salmon and pike;\nand the fisheries alone, if properly managed, might become the source\nof enormous wealth. Were it not that, in the designs of Providence,\nthe most cunningly-devised plans, when conceived in iniquity, defeat\nthemselves, the English statesmen would have perceived that the most\nefficacious means for bringing about the result at which the policy of\nEngland, in its relations with Ireland, had always aimed, would have\nbeen the encouragement of Irish commerce and manufactures. No benefit\ncould have accrued, from such a course, to the Catholic population,\nwhich was not only disfranchised, but rendered incapable by law of\nacquiring or possessing wealth.\n\nHad the descendants of the Scotch and English settlers planted by\nElizabeth, James, and Cromwell been permitted or encouraged to develop\nthe natural resources of the country, they would not only have grown\nstrong, but opportunities of remunerative labor and hope of gain would\nhave attracted new settlers, and in this way Ireland would have been\nfilled with Protestants, whose loyalty would have been firmly secured\nby this wise and conciliating policy. The agitations which rendered\nsome amelioration of the condition of the Catholics unavoidable as\npart of a general system would not have taken place; the strength of\nthe Protestant Ascendency would have grown with increasing numbers and\nwealth; exile would have remained the only refuge of the Catholic\nremnant from misery and death; and Ireland to-day might be as\nProtestant as was Ulster in the reign of Charles I.\n\nBut no motive of religion or humanity has ever influenced the policy\nof the English government when there was question of English\ninterests. The desire of acquiring wealth or the necessity of\ndefending one\u2019s possessions are, in the opinion of Englishmen, the\nonly sufficient reasons for going to war.\n\n \u201cEven in dreams to the chink of his pence\n This huckster put down war.\u201d\n\nIt was not to be expected that Ireland, with her harbors and rivers,\nher fertile fields and unnumbered flocks, would be permitted to tempt\ncapital to her shores or to stimulate enterprise. Nothing seemed more\nshocking to the English traders and manufacturers than the thought of\nhaving to compete in the home and foreign markets with the products of\nIrish industry. It was deemed intolerable that this nest of popery,\nthis den of ignorance and corruption, should be dealt with in the same\nmanner as England. The Parliament was therefore called upon to \u201cmake\nthe Irish remember that they were conquered.\u201d\n\nEngland had assisted the Protestants of Ireland to crush the\nCatholics; she had for this purpose placed at their service her\ntreasures, and her armies; and now the Irish Protestants were\nrequired, in evidence of their gratitude, to sacrifice the commercial\nand industrial interests of their country to English jealousy.\n\nAt the end of the seventeenth century the manufacture of woollen\nstuffs had attained to considerable importance in the southern\nprovinces of Ireland. The superiority of the Irish broadcloths,\nblankets, and friezes was recognized, and it was therefore resolved\nthat they should no longer be manufactured. The Lords and Commons, in\n1698, called upon William III. to protect the interests of English\nmerchants; and his majesty replied in the well-known words \u201cI shall do\nall that in me lies to discourage the woollen manufacture of Ireland.\u201d\nAccordingly, an export duty of four shillings in the pound was laid on\nall broadcloths carried out of Ireland, and half as much on kerseys,\nflannels, and friezes. This, in fact, was equivalent to a prohibition,\nand the ruin of the Irish woollen manufactures which followed was not\nan unforeseen, but the directly intended, consequence of this measure.\nThe linen manufacture, since there were at the time no rival English\ninterests, was opposed only in an indirect way by offering large\nbounties for the making of linen in the Highlands of Scotland,\nbounties on the exportation of English linen, and by imposing a tax of\n30 per cent. on all foreign linens, with which most of the Irish\nlinens were classed.\n\nStill other measures were needed for the complete destruction of Irish\ncommerce and industry. The _Navigation Laws_ forbade all direct trade\nbetween Ireland and the British colonies; so that all produce intended\nfor Ireland had first to be unloaded in an English port. The Irish\nwere not allowed to build or keep at sea a single ship. \u201cOf all the\nexcellent timber,\u201d said Dean Swift in 1727, \u201ccut down within these\nfifty or sixty years, it can hardly be said that the nation hath\nreceived the benefit of one valuable house to dwell in, or one ship to\ntrade with.\u201d The forests of Ireland, which so greatly added to the\nbeauty of the country, were felled and carried to England to build\nships which were to bring the wealth of the world into English ports.\nEven the Irish fishery \u201cmust be with men and boats from England.\u201d\n\nBy these and similar measures, commercial and industrial Ireland was\nblotted out of existence, and even the possibility of her ever\nentering into competition with England for the trade of the world\ndisappeared. The unjust legislation by which Irish industry was\nrepressed was not inspired by religious passion nor directed against\nthe Catholic population. Their condition was already so wretched and\nhelpless that it would have been difficult to discover anything by\nwhich it could have been made worse. \u201cThe aboriginal inhabitants,\u201d\nsays Macaulay\u2015\u2015\u201cmore than five-sixths of the population\u2015\u2015had no more\ninterest in the matter than the swine or the poultry; or, if they had\nan interest, it was for their interest that the caste which domineered\nover them should not be emancipated from all external control. They\nwere no more represented in the Parliament which sat at Dublin than in\nthe Parliament which sat at Westminster. They had less to dread from\nlegislation at Westminster than from legislation at Dublin.\u2026 The most\nacrimonious English Whig did not feel towards them that intense\nantipathy, compounded of hatred, fear, and scorn, with which they were\nregarded by the Cromwellian who dwelt among them.\u201d[193]\n\nMolyneux, who at this time came forward as the champion of Ireland and\nof liberty, demanded nothing for the Irish Catholics but a more cruel\nslavery; and Dean Swift, who gained much popularity for his advocacy\nof Irish rights, declared he would as soon think of consulting the\nswine as the aboriginal inhabitants of the island.\n\nIndisputable as the fact is that the Irish Catholics had no direct\ninterest in the contest in which the commerce and industry of their\ncountry were destroyed, the consequences of the iniquitous policy of\nEngland proved nevertheless most disastrous to them. Manual labor was\nthe only work which they were permitted to do, and there now remained\nfor them nothing but the tillage of the soil, either as\ntenants-at-will or common laborers. Ireland was to supply England with\nbeef and butter, and the work of exterminating the Irish Catholics was\nnot to be pushed further than the exigencies of successful\ncattle-grazing might demand. Society was constituted in the simplest\nmanner. There were but two classes\u2015\u2015the possessors of the soil and the\ntillers of the soil: the lord and the peasant; the master and the\nslave; the Protestant and the Catholic; the rich man and the beggar.\nThere were but two kinds of human dwellings\u2015\u2015the castle, with its high\nwalls and splendid park, and the mud cabin, in which it was impossible\nthat there should be anything but filth and rags. The multitude lived\nfor a few men, by whom they were valued as their horses or their dogs,\nbut not treated so humanly. A contrast more absolute has never\nexisted, even in the despotisms of Asia. The picture is revolting; it\ncannot be contemplated even in imagination without loathing, or\nthought of with any composure. It is a blot on humanity, an infamy\nwhich no glory and no services can condone. Ireland was in the hands\nof the worst class of men whom history has ever made odious\u2015\u2015an\naristocracy which hated the land from which it derived its titles,\ndespised the people from whom it received its wealth, shirked the\nduties and responsibilities imposed by its privileges, and used its\npower only to oppress and impoverish the nation. The Irish people were\nthus under the weight of a double tyranny\u2015\u2015that of England and that of\ntheir lords; and the fiend best knows which was the worst.\n\nThe Southern planter felt a kind of interest in his slaves\u2015\u2015they were\nhis property; an Irish landlord felt no interest of any kind in the\npeople by whom he was surrounded. It was important that they should\nremain slaves, beggars, and outcasts; that the chasm which separated\nhim from them should in no way be diminished; but for the rest he gave\nno thought whether they starved or murdered one another or were\ndrowned in the deep. He spent most of his time in England, living in\nluxury, leaving his estates to the care of brutal agents, who pleased\nhim the better the more cruel and grinding their exactions were.\nEnglish in origin and sympathy, Protestant in religion, there was no\nbond of union between him and his people. He cared neither for the\ncountry nor its inhabitants. He was unwilling to risk capital even to\nimprove his own lands; for he had no faith in the permanence of a\nsocial and political state which was possible only because it outraged\nthe holiest and best instincts of mans nature. When it was proposed to\ntake steps to drain the bogs and bring the waste lands of Ireland\nunder cultivation, the Protestant party strenuously opposed the\nmeasure, on the ground that this would be an encouragement to popery.\nNothing, therefore, was done either by the government or the landlords\nto improve the soil or to introduce better methods of tillage. The\ngreat proprietors, living in London, spending their time and fortune\nin a life of pleasure and display, let out their estates to land\nspeculators, who were generally capitalists. These speculators sublet\nthem, in lots of several hundred or a thousand acres, to a class of\npersons called middlemen, who divided them up into portions of five,\nten, or twenty acres, and rented them to the poor Catholics. By\nneither the proprietors nor the speculators nor the middlemen was any\nrisk of capital made. The peasant was therefore compelled to rent his\nlittle plot of ground, bare of everything\u2015\u2015he found on it neither\ndwelling nor stabling, nor implements of any kind. He had nothing\nhimself, and those whose interest it would have been to advance him\nmoney were unwilling to risk a penny. All that he could do was to put\nup a mud-cabin, and to get a wretched spade with which to begin work.\nIf by honest labor he could have looked forward to an improvement in\nhis condition, his lot would not have been altogether comfortless. The\npioneers who in this new world have led the army of civilization from\nthe Atlantic to the Pacific began life almost as poor as an Irish\npeasant of the seventeenth or the eighteenth century; but for them no\nlaw of man reversing nature\u2019s first law made labor sterile. How was\nthe poor Irish Catholic, with but a few acres of ground, and without\nthe necessary means for proper cultivation, to pay the exorbitant rent\nwhich was to support the landlord, the speculator, and the\nmiddleman?\u2015\u2015for upon him alone rested the burden of maintaining all\nthree in a life of ease and luxury. The soil refuses to satisfy the\nunreasonable demands made upon it; the tenant finds that he is unable\nto pay his rent; and without the least ceremony he and his wife and\nchildren are turned upon the road. England having destroyed the\ncommerce and manufactures of Ireland, he can find nothing to do, and,\nif he is unwilling to see his wife and children starve, he must beg.\nAnd even beggary, with its frightful degradations, affords little\nrelief; for the rich spurn him and the poor have nothing to give. Few\nwords are needed to bring home to us the significance of this state of\naffairs. We have only to recall the tragedy Which was enacted under\nour eyes in 1849. In that one year _fifty thousand families_ were\nturned upon the road to die; _two hundred thousand human beings_,\nwithout shelter, without bread, sent up their piteous moan of hunger\nand despair to God from the midst of a Christian nation, the richest\nin the world. The terrible famine of 1847 and 1848, which was only an\nunusually startling outbreak of an evil that has long been chronic in\nIreland, was not caused by excess of population. The country, if its\nresources were properly developed, is capable of supporting a far\nlarger number of inhabitants than it has ever had. There were but\neight millions of people in Ireland in 1847, and it has been\nconclusively proven that under favorable circumstances fifteen\nmillions would not be an excessive population. In fact, in the\nso-called years of scarcity, when the people were dying, by thousands,\nof starvation, the country produced enough to feed its inhabitants;\nbut they had to sell their wheat, barley, and oats to pay the rent,\nand, the potato crop having failed, they had nothing to eat. In 1846\nand 1847 enormous quantities of grain and live-stock were exported\nfrom Ireland to England, and yet the people of Ireland were starving.\nDuring the four years of famine Ireland exported four quarters of\nwheat for every quarter imported. The food was in the country, but it\nhad to be sent to England to pay the rent of the landlords. The people\nwere starving, but that was no concern of these noble gentlemen, so\nlong as their rent was paid. The cry of hunger has rarely been hushed\nin Ireland. All through the eighteenth century the people died of\nstarvation. In 1727 Boulter, the Protestant Archbishop of Armagh,\ndeclared that thousands of families were driven from their homes by\nhunger; and Dean Swift has given us an account of the condition in his\ntime of even the better class of tenants. \u201cThe families,\u201d he says, \u201cof\nfarmers who pay great rents live in filth and nastiness, upon\nbuttermilk and potatoes, without a shoe or stocking to their feet, or\na house as convenient as an English hog-sty to receive them.\u201d In 1734\nthe famous Bishop Berkeley asked this question: \u201cIs there on the face\nof the earth any Christian and civilized people so destitute of\neverything as the mass of the people of Ireland?\u201d In 1741 the\ncemeteries were too small for the burial of the multitudes who died of\nhunger.\n\nIn 1778, while we were struggling for freedom from English tyranny,\nLord Nugent declared, in the House of Commons, that the people of\nIreland were suffering all the destitution and misery which it is\npossible to human nature to endure. Nine-tenths of them earned no more\nthan fourpence a day, and had no nourishment but potatoes and water.\nIn 1817 the fever, brought on by hunger, attacked one million five\nhundred thousand persons\u2015\u2015nearly half of the entire population of the\ncountry. In 1825, 1826, 1830, 1832, 1838, 1846 to 1850, and finally in\n1860, 1861, and 1862, the melancholy cry of multitudes dying of hunger\nwas heard throughout the land. In 1843 Thackeray, travelling in\nIreland, declared that \u201cmen were suffering and starving by millions\u201d;\nand a little later we know from the most accurate statistics that more\nthan a million of the Irish people died of hunger within a period of\ntwo years. The history of Ireland is, we are persuaded, the sublimest\nand the saddest of all histories. It has never been written, and the\ngrandest of themes awaits the creative power that will give it\nimmortal life on the pictured page. It will be written in the English\nlanguage, and it will link the English name and tongue for all time\nwith the greatest social crime which one people ever committed against\nanother. In another article we hope, by the aid of the faint and\nglimmering light that shines so fitfully in this blackness, to be able\nto trace the doubtful and devious way along which this providential\nrace seems to be slowly rising into the promise of a better day. For\nthe present we shall conclude with a quotation from De Beaumont, whose\ncareful and conscientious studies on the _Social, Political, and\nReligious Condition of Ireland_ we recommend to all who are interested\nin this subject.\n\n\u201cI have seen,\u201d he wrote in 1835, \u201cthe Indian in his forests and the\nnegro in chains, and I thought, in beholding their pitiable state,\nthat I saw the extreme of human misery; but I did not then know the\nfate of poor Ireland. Like the Indian, the Irishman is poor and naked;\nbut he lives, unlike the savage, in the midst of a society which\nrevels in luxury, and adores wealth. Like the Indian, he is deprived\nof every material comfort which human industry and the commerce of\nnations procure; but, unlike him, he is surrounded by fellow-creatures\nwho are enjoying all that he is forbidden even to hope for. In the\nmidst of his greatest misery the Indian retains a kind of independence\nwhich is not without its charm and its dignity. Destitute as he is,\nand famishing, he is yet free in his wilderness; and the consciousness\nof this freedom softens the hardships of life. The Irishman suffers\nthe same destitution without having the same liberty. He is subject to\nlaws, has all kinds of fetters; he dies of hunger, and is under rule;\ndeplorable condition, which combines all the evils of civilization\nwith the horrors known elsewhere only to the savage! Doubtless the\nIrishman who has shaken off his chains, and still has hope, is less to\nbe pitied than the negro slave. Nevertheless he has to-day neither the\nliberty of the savage nor the bread of the slave.\u201d[194]\n\n\n [191] \u201cA View of the State of Ireland,\u201d by Edmund Spenser.\n\n [192] _History of the United States_, vol. v. chap. iv. p.\n 73.\n\n [193] _History of England_, vol. v. p. 45.\n\n [194] _L\u2019Irlande: Sociale, Politique et Religieuse._ Par\n Gustave de Beaumont, Membre de l\u2019Institut. Tom. i. p. 222.\n\n\n\n\n A MARCH PILGRIMAGE.\n\n\n On Provence\u2019 hills the touch of southern spring\u2015\u2015\n No laggard she with footstep faltering\u2015\u2015\n Awoke with sunny blessing drowsy earth,\n Filled soft green glades with carollings of mirth.\n\n In western lands, o\u2019er turbulent seas afar,\n Inclement March, with blustering notes of war,\n Through naked trees whirled fruitless flowers of snow\n All scentless drifting to the earth below.\n\n Alike on Provence\u2019 violet-studded fields,\n And that bright land where loath fond winter yields,\n Hung the gray shadow of a solemn Lent\u2015\u2015\n The church\u2019s sorrow with spring\u2019s promise blent.\n\n Yet, breaking through the penitential shade,\n With shining altars in glad white arrayed,\n In those far, frosty lands the church\u2019s voice\n Bid, with all joyousness, her sons rejoice.\n\n Through the deep, Lenten sadness of her song\n Notes strong and jubilant swift poured along:\n The long-hushed \u201cGloria\u201d wond\u2019ring echoes woke,\n The angels\u2019 chant the mournful silence broke.\n\n Without, the wild and gusty whirls of snow;\n Within, the throng of reverent knees bent low,\n And faithful hearts, that from their dear green isle\n Brought Patrick\u2019s faith to make their new home smile\u2015\u2015\n\n In rich possession of the \u201cUnknown God\u201d;\n Blessing the rivers and the prairies broad\n With cities populous and cross-crowned spires,\n And ever-kindling sanctuary fires.\n\n So rose, exultant, on the bleak March day\n The joyous notes across Lent\u2019s sombre way:\n Adoring souls, before the altar shrine,\n Thanking for Patrick\u2019s faith their Lord divine.\n\n Not Provence\u2019 blossoms such glad music woke\n Though happy birds in spring-time laughter broke;\n Veiled the sad altar in its purple pall,\n And church and people, sorrow-laden all.\n\n Yet joyful echoes from that western land\n Spoke \u2019mid the lapsing waves on Nice\u2019s strand;\n Stirred, with the broken sweetness of that praise,\n The heart of one who, through long busy days\n\n Of years unresting, had with patience toiled,\n With love and zeal, to keep his flock unsoiled\n Amid the strong new world\u2019s tumultuous life.\n With such persuasion his wise words were rife\n\n As if the grace of Savoy\u2019s bishop-saint\n Were his to loving guide the weak and faint;\n As if, like Padua\u2019s dear saint benign,\n He bore the burden of the Child divine.\n\n He saw afar his Irish children kneel,\n The clinging reverence of their hearts reveal;\n Longing with them his fervent prayer to pour,\n He sought St. Honorat\u2019s pine-girdled shore\u2015\u2015\n\n There treading where St. Patrick trod of old,\n When gathered his young heart the words of gold\n That should for heaven\u2019s King a new realm win\u2015\u2015\n A faithful fold no wolf should enter in.\n\n Here rose the chapel where the young saint prayed,\n Here thoughtful paced he Lerins\u2019 learn\u00e8d shade.\n Ruined the abbey \u2019mid its olives rests,\n Wide open all its doors to pilgrim guests\u2015\u2015\n\n Though still the chapel keeps its purpose old,\n And Lerins\u2019 vines and olives still enfold\n A cloister shade where constant prayer ascends,\n And Benedictine lore with labor blends.\n\n Here, with all holy memories possessed,\n With loving thoughts of that sea-severed West,\n The pilgrim knelt\u2015\u2015in that peace-shadowed place\n Mingling his prayers with Ireland\u2019s tearful race.\n\n Kneeling afar at shrine his hand had raised,\n While hearts, his lips had taught, St. Patrick praised,\n In love, \u2019neath western clouds and Provence\u2019 sun,\n The Latin priest and Celtic flock were one.\n\n O great St. Patrick! each day grows more wide\n The realm thou winnest that thy Lord may bide,\n A King revered on royal altar throne,\n In patient love abiding with his own.\n\n Pray thou that this beloved land of ours,\n Strong in her youth and undeveloped powers,\n One day with that true beauty may be crowned,\n That girds thy island\u2019s mournful brows around\u2015\u2015\n\n The beauty of true faith in Christ, her Lord,\n Who in her lavish hands such wealth has poured:\n Win thou for her great heart\u2019s best heritage\n The steadfast bearing of faith\u2019s strongest age.\n\n Oh! win her stars for beacon-light to guide\n The restless wanderers from the Cross\u2019s side,\n Gracious in pure, unfaltering light arrayed\u2015\u2015\n The earthly shadow of the Heavenly Maid.\n\n Pray that her hands be ever raised to bless\n Meek hearts whose prayer wins her such comeliness;\n Pray that her soul for evermore be free,\n Signed with the chrism of true liberty.\n\n\n\n\nSIX SUNNY MONTHS.\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF \u201cTHE HOUSE OF YORKE,\u201d \u201cGRAPES AND THORNS,\u201d ETC.\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nA BREEZE FROM THE WEST.\n\n\nThey were rather late with their coffee the next morning, and while\nthey were taking it the bells of Santa Pudentiana, close to them, were\nringing a _morto_\u2015\u2015one, two, three, and again one, two, three\u2015\u2015with a\nmournful persistence.\n\n\u201cIt is just what we need,\u201d the Signora said. \u201cOur danger, at this\nmoment, is that we may be too lightly happy. Those bells mean that a\nnun is dead, and that there is to be a High Mass for her in half an\nhour or so. Shall we go?\u201d\n\nMarion, who had joined them, and was sitting beside Bianca, said to\nher: \u201cWe are not afraid of seeing death, are we?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut we might be better for being reminded of it,\u201d she said.\n\nThe ladies followed the people\u2019s pretty fashion of putting black lace\nveils on their heads instead of bonnets, and had the good taste, too,\nto exchange their gay morning house-dresses for black ones before\ngoing to the church.\n\n\u201cIt is the one thing in which I would have my country-women imitate\nthe Roman ladies,\u201d Mr. Vane said\u2015\u2015 \u201cin their sober costume for the\nchurch.\u201d\n\nThe sun was scorching when they went out, and shone so brightly on the\ngold ground of the mosaic front of Santa Pudentiana that the figures\nthere flickered as if painted on flame. But the sunken court had a\nhint of coolness, and when they entered the church they were very glad\nto have the light wraps the Signora had told them to bring; for the\nair was chilly and damp, the floor being a full story below the level\nof the modern street, and not a ray of sunshine entering, except what\ngot in by the cupola. This was enough to light beautifully the mosaics\nof the tribune, where it is hard to believe one does not see a\nbalcony, with the Saviour and the saints looking over, so real are the\nforms.\n\nThe Mass which they had come to hear was, however, nearly ended,\nhaving begun with a promptitude unusual in Rome. In a few minutes the\npriest left the altar, the people went away, and the lights were put\nout. Seeing two or three persons enter the sanctuary, and go to look\nthrough an open panel in the side wall, our party followed them, and\nfound that the panel opened into a chapel, or chamber, beside the\ngrand altar. This chamber was so draped as to be perfectly dark,\nexcept for the candles that burned at the head and feet of the dead\nnun lying there. She lay close to the open panel, and in sight of the\naltar where the divine Sacrifice had just been offered for her, if her\neyes could have seen it. It was the emaciated but beautiful form of a\nwoman of middle age, dressed in her religious costume, with her hands\ncrossed on her breast, the face composed into an expression of\nunspeakable solemnity and peace. Awe-stricken and silent, they stood\nand gazed at her. They had come here from charity, indeed, but rather\nto temper their too earthly happiness with a merely serious thought,\nas one cools a heated wine with ice, making it more delicious so, than\nfrom any profound recognition of the dreadfulness of death and the\nperils of life. But these sealed lips spoke volumes to them, and the\ndark and silent church, now quite deserted, chilled them like the\nvalley of the shadow of death through which this soul had\npassed\u2015\u2015whither? It was a life dedicated to God, and given up assisted\nby all the sacred rites of religion; yet that face told them that\ndeath had not been met with any presuming confidence, and that before\nthe soul of the dying religious the stern simplicity and clearness of\nthe primitive Christian law had stood untempered by any glozings.\n\nMarion was the first to move. Seeing Bianca look very pale, he drew\nher away, and the others followed.\n\nHow strange the gay sunny world looked to them when they went out! The\nunexpected solemnity of the scene had so drawn their minds from\neverything else that they had been chilled and darkened in soul as\nwell as in body. Yet, though the warmth and light were grateful to\nthem, they had no wish to cast entirely off that sombre impression,\nand would have remained in the church to pray awhile, but for the\nimprudence, in a sanitary point of view. Seeing, however, the door of\nthe little church opposite, the Bambino Ges\u00f9, open, they went in there\na few minutes. This church of the Infant Jesus is attached to a\nconvent of nuns, and a company of young girls were just entering from\nthe sacristy to make their First Communion, ranging themselves inside\nthe sanctuary. They were dressed alike in white cashmere robes, and\nlong silk veils in such narrow stripes of blue and white as to look\nlike plain blue, fastened with wreaths of red and white roses.\nFloating slowly in with folded hands and fair, downcast faces, they\nknelt in a double ring about the sanctuary, leaned forward on the\nbenches set for them, and remained motionless as statues, awaiting the\ncoming of the Lord for the first time into their innocent hearts, as\nyet uncontaminated and untried by the world. At each end of the line a\nlittle boy, dressed as an angel, stood bearing a torch. For a week or\nten days these girls had all been in retreat in the convent,\ninstructed by the nuns; and when the Mass and their last breakfast\ntogether should be over, they would separate to their own homes, never\nto meet again, perhaps. Their parents and friends awaited them now in\nthe church.\n\nWhen the household of _Casa Ottant\u2019-otto_ went home, they found a pile\nof letters and papers from America awaiting them, which they read and\ntalked over in pauses of the dinner. There were business\nletters\u2015\u2015short, if not sweet; long family letters, such as make one\nfeel at home again, with all their familiar details and touching\nreminiscences; there were items of public news, descriptions of\npageants in which the New World had rivalled, or surpassed, the Old;\nof fierce storms that had found the western continent a fitting stage\nto sweep their tragic skirts across; and of inundations from great\ncrystalline rivers to which the classic Tiber is a mere muddy sewer.\nThere was nonchalant mention of immense frauds, of fires that had\ndevoured whole streets and squares, and reduced scores of persons to\npenury in a few hours, and of gigantic schemes for building up or\npulling down. There were accounts of some popular indignation, in\nwhich the people had spoken without riot and been listened to, and of\nauthority enforced, where law had conquered without bloodshed or\ntreachery; of public sympathy with great misfortunes where no\ncalculation of merit or reward cramped the soul of the givers, but the\nheart overflowed generously into the hand. In fine, there was a\nmonth\u2019s summary of such events as those with which America, the fresco\npainter of the age, sketches her long, bold lines and splashes her\ncolors on the page of time.\n\n\u201cAmerica for ever!\u201d cried Isabel, swinging a newspaper about with such\nenthusiasm that she nearly upset the vinegar and oil bottles at her\nelbow. \u201cDo you know, my respected hearers, that at this instant my\ncountry is looking across the ocean at me with a pair of eyes like two\nsuns. There isn\u2019t another nation on earth that she couldn\u2019t take\nbetween her teeth and shake the life out of. Will you excuse me while\nI go into the other room and play and sing just one stanza of the\n\u2018Star-spangled Banner\u2019?\u201d\n\nThe Signora, who was breaking lettuce in the snowy folds of a towel,\nsmiled beamingly on the speaker, at the same time making haste to save\nthe imperilled cruets. \u201cSeason your admiration for a while till I have\nmade the salad,\u201d she said. \u201cI would rather not have my attention\ndistracted by patriotic music. Besides, nobody sings at noon. The\nbirds are taking their nap, and you might wake them. Besides, again, I\nwant you to save your voice for this evening. Some American people are\ncoming here, and it might please them to hear the songs of their\ncountry in a strange land.\u201d\n\nThe Americans who came that evening belonged to a party which was\nmaking a flying tour of Europe, and two of them were representatives\nof two distinct and extreme classes\u2015\u2015that which scoffs at everything\nforeign, and that which is enchanted with everything foreign. Both\nwere young, pretty, clever, and fairly educated, had gone through very\nnearly the same training, and the one had come out almost, or quite, a\ngirl of the period, the other a girl of the past. The Signora found\nherself obliged, as it were, to use the curb with one hand and the\nwhip with the other while talking with the two.\n\n\u201cJosephine and I are the best of friends,\u201d said Miss Warder in her\nfree, rapid way, \u201cand we prove it\u2015\u2015I by being patient with her, and\nshe by trying my patience. The number of times in a day that girl goes\ninto raptures over things scarcely worth looking at is almost\nincredible. I caught her yesterday filling a bottle with Tiber water\nto carry home. I believe she thinks that brook is larger than the\nMississippi.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo it is, in one sense,\u201d responded Miss Josephine in a soft and\ntranquil voice. \u201cIf you should see a little river all of tears,\nwouldn\u2019t you think it more wonderful than a big river all of water?\u201d\n\nThe Signora suggested that both might be excellent in their way.\n\n\u201cThen,\u201d pursued the other, \u201cshe looks upon old families as she does\non attar of roses and sandal-wood\u2015\u2015a condensation of all that is\nexquisite, the rest being the refuse. Tell her that a vulgar soul\noften gets itself into a privileged body, and she is shocked at you.\nIt is all I can do to keep my hands off her when I see her watching\nwith admiring awe the affected grandeur of these little great people.\nFor me, I laugh at them.\u201d And she tossed her head with the scornful\nlaugh of the democrat, at which coronets tremble.\n\n\u201cMy dear Miss Warder,\u201d said the Signora in her gentlest manner, \u201ca\ngreat many wise people have looked at these things seriously.\u201d\n\n\u201cOwls!\u201d she pronounced with an air of great satisfaction. \u201cIndeed,\u201d\nshe owned with a little compunction, \u201cI hope it isn\u2019t very bad of me,\nbut I can\u2019t be serious at anything I see here. To-day I nearly had a\nfit over a fire-engine that passed our place. It was a little sort of\nhandcart affair with four small wheels, and a box bottom that might\nhold half a barrel of water. A bar at each side supported seven\npainted tin pails, holding about two quarts each, and there was a\nsmall brass pump in the middle of the carriage. This machine was\nwheeled along by five men dressed in gray pantaloons with stripes down\nthe sides, dark blue jackets, and blue caps with a gilt band. I\npresume they all go home and put on that costume after the bell rings,\nor whatever alarm they have is given. The arrangement was just about\nsuited to put out a bundle of matches, only the engine would be too\nlate. The matches would be burned before it got there. I wish they\ncould hear our electric fire-alarm once, and see our beautiful engines\ncome flying out of their houses before the first number was well\nstruck.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am proud of our fire-engines and companies,\u201d the Signora said; \u201cbut\nthey do not prevent our having conflagrations such as are never known\nhere. The little thought given to fire-extinguishing here proves the\nlittle danger there is of fires. In judging of what people do it is\nalways well to take into consideration what is necessary to be done.\nOne would hardly find fault with the Greenlanders for not having large\nice-houses.\u201d\n\n\u201cTheir very _scirocco_ disappointed me,\u201d the young woman went on,\nunabashed. \u201cI had the impression that it was a tearing high wind, like\na blast out of a furnace. Instead of that, it is only a warm and\nunwholesome breath. How different from our sweet south winds at home!\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeaking of winds,\u201d said Miss Josephine, \u201creminds me of the\ntrumpet-bands. How wild and stirring they are! They make on me an\nimpression as of mingled wind and fire.\u201d\n\nThe Signora smiled on the gentle enthusiast.\n\n\u201cThen,\u201d pursued Miss Warder, \u201cthe pokey, slow ways of these people,\nand their ceremonies, and their compliments, and their relics\u2015\u2015\u201d She\nstopped abruptly here, recollecting that she was in a Catholic\nhousehold, and had the grace to blush slightly.\n\n\u201cA little more ceremony and politeness would do our people at home a\ngreat deal of good,\u201d the Signora replied coldly. \u201cAs to the relics, it\nneed not, I should think, surprise even an unbeliever that faith\nshould preserve her mementos as jealously as art has preserved hers,\nand that objects which belonged once to beings who now are the\ncompanions of angels, and see God face to face, should have been held\nas precious as those which have nothing but a physical beauty. Or even\nif the relic should be of doubtful authenticity still a thing\nworthless in itself, but which has been touched by the sincere\nveneration of centuries, has a sort of venerableness not to be mocked\nat. It is like the iron which has been touched by the lodestone, and\nso magnetized, or the dull gray mist kissed by sunbeams till it\nbecomes beautiful and luminous. I do not know,\u201d she added, smiling,\n\u201cbut you have all heard the story I am going to tell you apropos of\nfalse relics, but it was new to me when I heard it a few days ago from\na clergyman. Many, many years ago a man who was going to the East was\nbegged by a pious friend to bring him back a piece of the true cross.\nThe voyager promised, but forgot his promise till he was near home. He\ndid not wish to disappoint his friend; though, at the same time, he\nhad no faith whatever in relics, or, indeed, in anything supernatural.\nSo, after considering a while, he cut a tiny piece out of the mast of\nthe ship in which he was returning homeward, enclosed it in a\nreliquary, and in due time presented it to his friend, who received it\nwithout a doubt, and, of course, told everybody what a treasure he had\nbecome owner of. The news, after awhile, reached the ears of a man\npossessed by a devil, and he immediately begged that the sacred relic\nmight be brought to deliver him. The bit of the ship\u2019s mast was,\naccordingly, brought with all ceremony and reverence, the devil in\npossession\u2015\u2015who, of course, knew the trick that had been\nplayed\u2015\u2015laughing, undoubtedly, at the efforts about to be made to\ndrive him away. But when the necessary prayers had been said, no\nsooner did the supposed relic touch the possessed man than the devil\nfelt himself thrust violently out and forced to fly. But he cried out\nin parting: \u2018It is faith that drives me away, and not your chip of the\nold mast.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cThat all answers perfectly, as far as the believers are concerned,\u201d\nMr. Vane said. \u201cBut I would like to know what became of that Eastern\ntraveller.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe principal _d\u00e9no\u00fbment_ so overflowed and hid him out of sight that\nI did not ask, or have forgotten,\u201d the Signora said. \u201cGirls, what\nshould have been done to the man who made the relic? Isabel?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe should have been at sea again in that very ship, at the time of\nthe miraculous cure,\u201d Isabel said. \u201cHe should have been standing by\nthe very mast he had cut the bit out of, and a flash of lightning\nshould have struck him dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no, Bella,\u201d said her sister. \u201cHe should have been standing by the\npossessed man when he was cured, and should have been stricken with\ncompunction, and should have confessed, and been forgiven, and been,\nfor all the rest of his life, a model of faith and reverence.\u201d\n\n\u201cSuppose,\u201d Mr. Vane suggested, \u201cthat we should choose a medium between\nextreme justice and extreme charity, and say that the devil which left\nthe possessed man entered immediately into that Eastern traveller, and\ntormented him by taking him on constant voyages to Jerusalem, swinging\nhim to and fro like a pendulum, always in the same ship, till at last,\nafter many years, his victim was enabled to make an act of perfect\nfaith in the power and mercy of the God crucified, and so be freed\nfrom his tormentor.\u201d\n\nMeantime, Mr. Coleman approached Miss Warder, timid but admiring, much\nas one might approach a beautiful panther, and seated himself on the\nedge of a chair near her.\n\n\u201cYou like Rome?\u201d he inquired in a conciliating voice, not meaning\nanything whatever by the question, except to open a conversation. That\nwas always the first thing he said to a foreigner.\n\nThe bright, laughing eyes of the girl flashed over him in one scathing\nglance. \u201cIt\u2019s charming!\u201d she said with enthusiasm. \u201cOne can ask so\nmany questions here without being thought inquisitive. To be sure, one\ndoesn\u2019t always get answers to them. I asked to-day a very accomplished\nMonsignore the meaning of the broken arch that one sees over nearly\nall the altars, and he couldn\u2019t tell me. May be you can.\u201d\n\nMr. Coleman believed that it was an architectural corruption that came\nin with the decline of art, but could not be positive.\n\n\u201cI wouldn\u2019t mind so much,\u201d she went on, \u201cif only they did not set on\nthe sides of it a hu\u2015\u2015an inhuman being, who would naturally be sure to\nslide off if he weren\u2019t nailed on, as, indeed, he is. It makes one\nfeel uncomfortable!\u201d\n\nThe gentleman descended into the depth of his consciousness for some\nother subject, and came up with\u2015\u2015\n\n\u201cHave you ever been to Bologna, ma\u2019am?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d she replied; \u201cbut I have eaten Bologna sausage.\u201d\n\nThere was another silence. The young woman folded her hands, looked\nmodest, and awaited the next remark. It was rather slow in coming, and\nfeeble when it came. \u201cThere are a great many Americans in Rome this\nwinter, I believe.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d she said confidentially, \u201cnothing to what there are in the\nUnited States. The country is full of them. They bother the life out\nof the foreigners.\u201d\n\nMr. Coleman contemplated his companion\u2019s serious face for some time\nwith bewilderment, and at length bethought himself to smile.\n\n\u201cI beg your pardon!\u201d she said, looking at him inquiringly, and with a\nmild surprise.\n\nHe instantly became crimson.\n\n\u201cI\u2015\u2015that is, excuse me! I did not speak,\u201d he stammered.\n\n\u201cOh! you\u2019re very excusable,\u201d she replied, with an emphasis which gave\nan exceedingly doubtful meaning to the words.\n\nIn the midst of the dreadful pause that followed a polite voice was\nheard at the other side, where a second moth had approached this\nflame. It was a young Italian who was learning English with such\nenthusiasm that he would almost stop strangers in the street to ask\ndefinitions from them. \u201cWould you have the gentility to do me a favor,\nmiss?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cThat depends quite on what the favor may be,\u201d she replied, looking at\nhim with surprise; for the gravity and ceremoniousness of his demeanor\nwere such as to imply that a very serious matter was in question. \u201cI\u2019m\nsure I shall be very happy to oblige you, if I can.\u201d\n\n\u201cThanks!\u201d he said, bowing. \u201cI learn now your beautiful and noble\nlanguage, the which is also much difficult. To-day of it I have seen a\nphrase, the which entangles me. At first I it believed to be a beast.\nBut in the dictionary I found another signification, but without to be\nable to comprehend it. The phrase is \u2018Irish bull.\u2019 Will you do me the\nfavor to explicate me the expression?\u201d\n\n\u201cIrish bull,\u201d Miss Warder said, \u201cmeans no thoroughfare. The sense goes\ninto the sentence and sticks there; it never comes out.\u201d\n\nThe young man looked deeply interested, but not enlightened. He did\nnot dare to ask more, for his teacher looked at him with an air of\nhaving made a lucid explanation which any one with common sense should\nunderstand at once.\n\n\u201cIt is a very noble language, the English,\u201d he repeated faintly.\n\n\u201cI saw a perfect example of it this morning in a place the other side\nof the Corso,\u201d she resumed. \u201cA man with a donkey-cart got out of a\ngreat crowd into a place between two rows of houses, evidently\nexpecting to find an outlet at the other end. There was none, and the\npassage was so narrow that to turn was impossible. Now, imagine that\nman with his donkey-cart to be an idea, and the houses to be words,\nand you will understand perfectly.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! certainly. It is clear!\u201d her pupil replied. \u201cThanks!\u201d His eyes\ntwinkled, though his mouth was perfectly grave. \u201cIt is, then,\nsomething that diverts. You hear the words spoken, you listen at the\nother end for the signification to come out, you hear it moving about\nhere and there inside, but you never receive it. It is excellent. It\nwould be a good fortune for the world if the people who speak and\nwrite foolish or wicked thoughts should serve themselves always of\nthis mode of expression.\u201d\n\nIsabel interrupted this lesson by coming to make some friendly\ninquiries of her young country-woman, who, after a short conversation,\ngave a slight sketch of her life and adventures, speaking with the\nmost entire frankness.\n\nMeanwhile, Miss Josephine was talking to the Signora, who was charmed\nby her looks and manner, both the essence of soft and graceful beauty.\nShe was fair, rather small, and plump, with the whiteness of an\ninfant, and pure golden hair in thick waves fastened back from a low\nforehead and the most exquisite of ears with a long spray of myrtle.\nHer dress was of the softest gray color, close at the wrists and\nthroat, where delicate laces turned out like the white edges of a gray\ncloud. The only light to this tender picture was the hair, the blue\neyes, and an emerald cross, her only ornament.\n\n\u201cI have been to-day to see the relics of Santa Croce,\u201d she said. \u201cI\ncoaxed Miss Warder not to go, though the permission included her; for\nshe is such an unbeliever that she spoils all my pleasure in seeing\nsuch things. I am not formally a Catholic, you know, but I more than\nhalf believe. My heart is all convinced, but my head holds out yet a\nlittle. Perhaps that is because I am not well instructed. Well, I\nstarted early, so as to have a walk alone from St. John Lateran across\nto Santa Croce. I loitered along under the trees, perfectly happy,\nlooking about, telling myself over and over again where I was, and\ngathering daisies. I looked at those daisies before I came here this\nevening, and every one of them had curled its little petals in, and\ngone to sleep, like a company of babies. In the morning they will open\ntheir eyes again. Well, I reached Santa Croce, and stood on the steps\nthere. Everything was so quiet and beautiful, with nature so sweet,\nand art so magnificent. No one was near but two or three soldiers\nabout the convent door. I knew before that the government had taken\nnearly all the convent. After a while I heard a trumpet-call inside,\nand presently company after company of soldiers, half a regiment\ncertainly, came out and marched off to the avenue to drill. They were\ndressed in gray linen and white gaiters, and looked like a crowd of\ngreat moth-millers.\n\n\u201cA nice, bright-faced young officer was walking to and fro near me,\nand I spoke to him, and asked some questions. He seemed pleased to\ntalk\u2015\u2015I suppose he felt dull there; and when I told him about our\narmy, and what I had seen during the war, he asked me if I would like\nto go in and see their quarters. Of course I said yes. So he led me\nin, and over the two stories, and showed me the gardens and courts at\nthe back, and the splendid view from the south windows. What halls\nthey were!\u2015\u2015long, wide corridors, arched, and bordered with pilasters,\nwith a grand stairway climbing up from one side. Unless for hospital\nor barracks, with long rows of beds at the sides, I cannot imagine\nwhat they were made for, except simply to look at, to walk through,\nand to make a great pile on the outside. It seemed building for the\nmere sake of building. All the beds had the mattresses folded up, with\ngray blankets laid on them, and a little shelf of things over the\nhead. One room, occupied by two officers, was almost as simple. There\nwere none of the luxuries we have. Then the view! I fancied I could\nsee half of Italy spread out before me. \u2018But I pity the poor _frati_\nwho have been turned out,\u2019 I could not help saying to my guide. \u2019So do\nI,\u2019 he answered. The soldiers are not to blame, you know. They must\nobey. Then I went out, and the others came, and we went up to the\nrelic chamber. You go up a good many stairs, and through a chapel hung\nround with paintings, and then through low-vaulted stone passages, not\nhigh enough for a tall man to stand up in. I should think that the\nshape of the way we went would be like a great letter C. At the last\nturn we found ourselves in the little chamber, where the great relics\nhad been set out on the altar. Behind the altar were the strong doors\nof the closets in the wall where these relics are kept. On the wall at\nthe right of the door was the relic-case of Gregory the Great, about\ntwo feet square, with a glass cover, and filled with an innumerable\ncollection of tiny relics. But all eyes were turned to the altar.\n\n\u201cThe _frate_ who came with us put on a stole, after lighting the\ncandles; then we all knelt while he said a prayer. And then, one by\none, he brought forward the relics, and showed to each, and gave each\none to kiss and touch their beads or crucifixes to, if they wished. I\nlooked at them with wonder, and neither believed nor disbelieved. It\nis so hard for us Americans, you know, to believe in the antiquity of\nthings, unless we have material proofs. The bone of the finger of St.\nThomas, the thorn from the crown of thorns, the nail\u2015\u2015they were\nimpressive to me chiefly because saints had believed them authentic,\nand centuries of Catholics had venerated them. But when, at last, he\ntook down the crystal cross from the centre of the altar, my heart\nmelted. I felt that it was real. I wanted to snatch it, and run away\nby myself, and cry over and kiss it. I wished the others would kneel,\nbut they didn\u2019t. They looked at the relic, and kissed it, and that was\nall. Perhaps they were each wishing that some one else would kneel and\nset the example. At length, when the last one had kissed it, I dropped\non my knees, and the others did the same, and the _frate_ gave us\nbenediction with the famous old relic of the true cross that Santa\nHelena brought from Jerusalem. Then he put the lights out, and we came\naway, and some of them bought fac-similes of the nail and the\ninscription of the cross, and we came down all the passages again, and\nthe painted cardinals on the walls of the upper chapel looked at us as\nwe passed, to see if we were any better for the privilege we had\nreceived, and so down through the quiet church, and out into the\nsunshine again. But that crystal cross, with its three pieces of dark\nwood inside, has been before my eyes ever since. It must be real, for\nit speaks. When I think of it, I can hear all the centuries weep over\nit.\u201d\n\nShe stopped, smiling but choked a little.\n\n\u201cDear child!\u201d said the Signora, and pressed the girl\u2019s hand. \u201cYou\nshould enter the church at once.\u201d\n\nThere was no answer in words, but the eyes spoke in an earnest gaze,\nhalf pleading, half inquiring.\n\n\u201cMy dear,\u201d her friend pursued hastily, \u201cthis is no time for us to talk\nover such a subject; but if you would like to speak with me, and if I\ncan do anything for you, I shall be very happy, and you can come to me\nquite freely at any time.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall come, then, very soon,\u201d the girl replied, and kissed the\nSignora\u2019s hand.\n\nShe had another pleasant incident of the day to tell; for she had been\nwith a Catholic friend to see Monsignor Mermillod, who was visiting\nRome, and the celebrated Archbishop of Geneva had spoken some kind\nwords to her, and allowed her to look at his ring, in which was set a\nrelic and an exquisite tiny painted miniature of St. Francis of Sales.\n\n\u201cHe spoke to us of the mission of women,\u201d she said, \u201cand of what power\nwomen have for good and evil, and his illustration was from Dante, and\nBeatrice was woman leading man to Paradise. He spoke so that all my\nformer life seemed to me trivial, and worse than lost. O dear Signora!\nif all men whom we wish to respect would speak so! But it really seems\nthat to please them, and win an influence over them, to have even\ntheir respect, we must be mean. Such a man as Monsignor Mermillod\nrequires our noblest qualities, and encourages us to be true. One\ndoesn\u2019t need to be blatant in order to be kindly noticed by him, nor\nto boast in order to be appreciated. He is so noble and clear-sighted,\nand his very atmosphere is charity.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, he practises what he preaches,\u201d the Signora replied.\n\nWhen the visitors were gone, the family had a little quiet talk before\nseparating for the night. The influence of the Signora and of Bianca,\nfalling on minds already prepared to receive it, had been such that\nthey took happiness, and all the delights of their daily life, not as\na wine that intoxicates to forgetfulness of duty, but as an incentive\nto quicken their sense of duty, and a balm to alleviate the pains to\ncome in the future. Every new pleasure that the Heavenly Father\u2019s\nbounty lavished on them, day after day, was welcomed generously, but\nwith a tender fear. Amid all this constantly-recurring beauty and\nsacredness they walked as among angels, hushing themselves.\n\nA quiet word touched the key, and found all in tune; as, striking but\nthe rim of a true bell, we hear the chord float softly up from turn to\nturn. Tacitly the first hesitating motion to separate was abandoned,\nand they drew nearer together instead, and presently made a close\ncircle around the Signora\u2019s chair.\n\n\u201cIt gives the mind a stretch to hear different nations talking\ntogether, by even their feeblest representatives,\u201d Mr. Vane had\nobserved.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d Marion replied, lingering, hat in hand. \u201cIt always gives me the\nsame feeling of space and grandeur that I have at sea, when I watch\nthe waves meet, as if the East and the West were rushing together to\nkiss or to tear each other.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wonder,\u201d said Bianca, \u201cif all our national differences are to be\nobliterated in heaven, and if we shall have no more those little\npiquant characteristics and discussions which make us like each other\neven better here.\u201d\n\nThe Signora sank into her armchair, quoting the famous recipe for\ncooking a hare: \u201c\u2018First catch your hare.\u2019 My dear friends, we are not\nyet in Paradise, and we have a good battle to fight before we shall\nget there, and I move that we look to our armor. At all events, heaven\nhas been described for us by Him who makes it what it is.\u201d\n\nAnd then Mr. Vane came and stood at the high back of her chair, and a\nlittle beside her, and Isabel took a footstool at the other side.\nMarion and Bianca slipped into the sofa opposite.\n\n\u201cI have been thinking to-day,\u201d she continued, \u201cthat, when we go to\nhear Mass in the Crypt of St. Peter, as it is not probable we shall\never meet there, all of us, again in this life, we ought all to think\nit a duty to receive Holy Communion, if we can. It seems to me that\nthe special virtue we are to seek there is a stronger faith. I have\nbeen there before, but it was in the company of strangers. We are a\ncompany of sympathizing friends. I think we should look forward to\nthat visit as a call to make a profession of faith more resolute, if\npossible, than we have yet made.\u201d\n\nA silence followed her little speech, which had struck deeper,\nperhaps, than their expectations.\n\n\u201cHas no one anything to say?\u201d she asked smilingly. \u201cThis is not a\nlecture, but a _conversazione_. Are we always to skim the surface in\nour talk?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are quite right, Signora,\u201d Mr. Vane said, \u201cand the same thought\nhas passed through my own mind. I do not know if I shall be thought\nprepared to receive so soon, but will ask. It would be something for\nme to remember all my life that I had made my first communion there,\nand in company with all my family.\u201d\n\nThe daughters were silent, both looking down, touched and awed by\ntheir father\u2019s words. With all their affection and confidence, they\nnever had known anything of his deeper feelings or more serious\nintentions than what their intuitive sympathy had divined. Some things\nthey tacitly guessed, some he tacitly acknowledged; but for a spoken\nconfidence, either given or demanded, they had each and all been more\nfree, sometimes, with strangers. And so accustomed had the girls\nbecome to this real reserve under an appearance of perfect ease that\nthey listened at first almost with terror to the Signora\u2019s challenge.\n\n\u201cI think the children would be pleased,\u201d Mr. Vane added gently,\nunderstanding their silence.\n\nThen they both looked up with a quick smile and a simultaneous \u201cOh!\nyes, papa,\u201d but said no more.\n\nThere was still another thin ice that the Signora had to break. She\nunderstood quite well the disposition and habits of Bianca\u2019s lover,\nand wished particularly to bring him in with them on this occasion. A\nman of a noble and poetical nature, he was, perhaps, in danger of\nresting contented with a religious feeling born of an enthusiastic\nappreciation of the beauty of the church, and, while obeying its\nexpress commands in the performance of duty, of waiting for the\ncommand to be given. He watched with delight the steps of the Prince\u2019s\nDaughter, his loyal word or blow was always ready for those who\nattacked her; but he seemed to prefer to be an admiring spectator\nrather than an actor, and to do only so much as would keep him in the\nacknowledged number of her followers. The Signora suspected that he\ncontented himself with an Easter Communion, and that there was many a\nnight when he lay down to sleep without recommending himself to God,\nand many a morning when he rose without giving thanks for another day.\nIf he looked out at the early dawn with delight in its beauty, he felt\nthat he had praised God; and if, gazing up into the starry midnight,\nhe thought of the shadowy earth as a hammock swung by invisible cords\nfrom a thick tree full of golden blossoms, it seemed to him that he\nhad kissed the hand that rocked him to sleep. Intoxicated by the\nbeauty of the works of God, he exulted in the freedom from baseness\nwhich the magical draught gave him, and could scarcely believe that in\nsome unwary hour he might draw in a drop of poison with the honey. He\nhad been wont to say that the virtue of the long-suffering Job had\nbeen preserved, not so much by shutting his bodily eyes and praying,\nas by opening his eyes, and looking about where flood and stream, and\nsnow and hail and dew taught each its lesson, unmarred by earthly\nglosses; that that man was surer to fear God who looked at the\nleviathan making the deep boil like a pot, leaving a shining path\nbehind him over the waters, and saying this is the work of God, than\nthe man who, when he would raise his soul, left his senses behind, and\nstrove to climb to a knowledge of the power of God without them.\n\nThe Signora knew all this, and admired Marion, winged creature that he\nwas; but she wished him to practise a little more the plain and simple\nduties of religion. She observed that he made no motion to assent to\nher proposal, and made haste to take for granted that he would assent,\nand spare him a promise.\n\n\u201cThen,\u201d she said, \u201csince we are to have this heavenly audience\ntogether, let us make a small part of the preparation together. How\nlovely it would be if we could every night say our prayers together,\nor a part of them, at least! We will not have company late, and Marion\nlives near us, and can take his little starlit walk half an hour later\nwithout any inconvenience. Let us say certain prayers together\nexpressly in preparation for this communion. We are five. Each one\nshall choose a prayer.\u201d\n\nShe scarcely paused, feeling that there was still a shyness to\novercome, and that her proposal had been bold and unusual. The thought\nfired instead of checking her.\n\n\u201cHowever closely we may be bound, however sure in our own minds to\nspend many years together,\u201d she added hastily, \u201cwe may be scattered\nlike the dust before another day passes. Till we, as closest and\ndearest of friends, have prayed together, we have not well deserved\nthe power of speech nor the consolations of friendship.\u201d\n\n\u201cI choose the Acts of Faith, Hope, Love, Thanksgiving, and\nContrition,\u201d Mr. Vane said.\n\n\u201cI choose the Salve Regina,\u201d Marion added.\n\nBianca named the Memorare, and Isabel three Our Fathers, three Hail\nMarys, and three Glorias.\n\n\u201cAnd I choose the prayer to the Five Wounds,\u201d said the Signora. \u201cWe\neach will say our own prayer, and the others answer Amen. Mr. Vane\nshall begin.\u201d\n\nThey were astonished, not only into compliance, but into willingness\nand pleasure. The Signora\u2019s will and enthusiasm blew away all the\nfoolish scruples and false delicacy which would have for ever\nprevented the others making such a proposition, and the five Catholics\nknelt together in the room softly lighted by the night and the\nVirgin\u2019s lamp, and said their prayers together.\n\nIt was a strange yet sweet experience for all, this first union in\nfamily prayers. Mr. Vane, uttering his prayers with an earnest\ngravity, gave the tone to the others; and when Marion called on the\nQueen of Heaven to hear their cry, as that of the poor exiled children\nof Eve coming up from a valley of tears, the Signora\u2019s proposition\nshowed no more an extraordinary one, but altogether proper and\nnecessary.\n\nThey rose when all was over, and stood silent a moment. It was a\nsilence full of peace and of a new sense of union.\n\nMarion was the first to speak. \u201cYou have strung us to-night like beads\non a corona, \u201che said, taking the Signora\u2019s hand. \u201cMay the chain\nendure for ever!\u201d\n\nThey parted very quietly, and for the first time Bianca and Marion\nsaid good-night to each other without appearing to remember that they\nwere lovers, or remembering it so seriously that no one else was\nreminded of it.\n\nThe Signora went to her room thankful and contented. In spite of her\ncourage, what she had done had been very difficult for her, and\nnothing but her position toward the others of hostess and _cicerone_\nhad made it seem proper to her. The ice was broken, however, and\nsuccessfully; they had gone together to their Heavenly Father, and\nthey could never again be strangers to each other nor to him. She was\nthankful and contented.\n\n\nTO BE CONTINUED.\n\n\n\n\nSOME QUAINT OLD CITIES.[195]\n\n\nThe Zuyder-Zee will soon be a thing of the past, and in the meanwhile\nit is but little known. M. Henri Havard, known as an art-critic, has\ngiven us a glimpse of it, with its decaying ports, its old-fashioned\npopulation, its wonderful atmospheric \u201ceffects\u201d; and his book is,\nstrange to say, newer to most readers than one treating of the South\nSea Islands or the Japanese Archipelago. Not only is the Zuyder-Zee\ncomparatively unknown to foreigners, but, according to Havard, \u201cit is\nmore than probable that not ten people in Holland have made this\nvoyage, and among writers and artists I do not know a single one.\u201d\n\nThe navigation of this sea is difficult and dangerous; narrow channels\nrun between enormous sandbanks hardly covered with water. Tales of\nshipwreck abound in every page of the history of the Zuyder-Zee, and\ngreat carcases of ships, breaking up or rotting away, call to mind its\ndangers. There is no regular communication between the various ports,\nand M. Havard and his companion, M. Van Heemskerck, had to hire a\nvessel, engage a crew, and purchase provisions for the voyage. The\nvessel was called a \u201ctjalk,\u201d and drew only three feet of water; her\nburden was sixty tons. The crew consisted of the \u201cschipper,\u201d one\nsailor or \u201cknecht,\u201d and the wife and child of the former. The\ntravellers put up partitions forming kitchen, dining-room, and\nbed-room, and did the cooking by turns. They started in June, 1873,\nleaving Amsterdam in the early morning; and, says the author, after a\nminute description of the Preraphaelite country surrounding the\nprincipal sea-port of Holland, \u201cthe sun which brightened this\nmagnificent spectacle rendered the atmosphere clear and of a silvery\ntransparence; reflected by the water, the effect was splendid.\u201d The\nfirst object of interest which they met with were the sluices at\nSchellingwoude. \u201cThese blocks of granite, imported from distant\ncountries, massed one upon the other, form an immovable mountain; the\ngreat gates, which allow five ships to enter abreast, have something\nmajestic about them which impresses the beholder. I know nothing finer\nthan these sluices, save, perhaps, those of Trolh\u00e4tten in Sweden.\u201d\n\nThe drowsy, pleasant, monotonous impression of the interminable green\nmeadows, or _polders_ (reclaimed from the sea), the huge windmills,\nthe few church-steeples of fantastic shapes and varied colors, the\nyellow sand-banks, is minutely described, and then the travellers come\nupon the island of Marken, like \u201ca green raft lost in a gray sea.\u201d\nSeven villages are built on as many little mounds, with a mound used\nas a church-yard. The wealth of Marken is in hay and fish. The meadows\nare flooded once a year. Trees never grow on the island, and most of\nthe houses are raised on piles, and look like \u201cgreat cages suspended\nin the air.\u201d There is a peculiarity about the bed-rooms which remind\nus of the cupboard-beds common among the poorer classes in Scotland:\n\u201cThe ground-floor is one large room divided into as many parts as may\nbe required by wooden partitions without ceilings; the roof\u2015\u2015which is,\nof course, leaning at an angle\u2015\u2015is hung with nets and fishing\nutensils.\u2026 The bed is the important article of furniture; this is let\ninto the wall in a kind of cupboard, into which are thrust the\nmattresses and other necessary articles. Two little curtains are drawn\nacross.\u2026 It looks as much as possible like a large drawer. Sometimes\nconsiderable luxury is displayed in the bed; the pillow-cases and the\nsheets are embroidered with open-work, which is a special fabrication\nof the women at Marken\u2015\u2015white and yellow threads crossed, something in\nthe fashion of guipure.\u201d The walls or partitions are mostly painted\nblue, the shelves are heaped with common crockery and Japanese\nporcelain, for which there is an extravagant demand all over Holland;\na Friesland cuckoo-clock stands in one corner, a carved oak chest in\nanother, and on this are tall glasses, bulging mugs of delf, and\nmiraculously-polished old candlesticks of yellow metal. One of the\nchief worthies of Marken, Madame Klok, has the richest collection in\nthe island: china of all sorts (Dutch and Japanese) and all colors,\npictures, foreign curiosities such as sailors always fill their houses\nwith, are there in profusion; but what she is most proud of is her\ncarved oak chests, all of Dutch make, their panels sculptured with\ngreat art, and seeming only just to have left the hands of the artist.\nThe women of Marken have clung to their distinctive dress, and, partly\non that account, are thought very uncivilized by the young Hollanders,\nto whom freedom and Paris fashion have become synonymous terms. This\ndress is very peculiar, and Havard says very picturesque. Here is part\nof his description:\n\n \u201cThe head-dress is composed of an immense cap in the form of\n a mitre, white, lined with brown, to show off the lace and\n embroidery; it is tied close under the chin, pressing\n closely over the ears.\u2026 Long ringlets of blonde hair fall\n down to the shoulders or back, and the hair of the front is\n brought forward and cut square along the forehead a little\n above the eyebrows. The gown has a body without sleeves, and\n the skirt or petticoat is independent of it, and always of a\n different stuff. The body is brown, and generally of cloth\n covered with embroidery in colors, in which red\n predominates.\u2026 This requires years of labor. A _corsage_\n well embroidered is handed down from mother to daughter as\n an heirloom; the sleeves are in two unequal parts: one, with\n vertical lines of black and white, reaches the elbow, and\n the other, almost to the wrist, is of dark blue, and is\n fastened above the elbow.\u2026 The skirt is also divided into\n two unequal parts: the upper, which is about eight inches\n wide only, is a kind of basque with black lines on a light\n ground; the rest of the skirt is dark blue, with a double\n band of reddish brown at the bottom.\u2026 Such is the female\n costume of Marken, \u2026 so singular that no other costume is\n like it, or even approaches its bizarre appearance.\u201d\n\nThese old Dutch settlements all possess many churches, but most of\nthem disfigured by paint and other monstrosities. The Premonstratensian\nmonks had a monastery at Marken, having come there from Leeuwarden;\nbut the old Marienhot, turned to other uses, was pulled down in 1845\non account of its ruinous condition. At Monnikendam, \u201cthe town of the\nmonks,\u201d one of the dead cities\u2015\u2015for Marken is only a cluster of\nvillages\u2015\u2015there is what is now called the Great Church, but was\noriginally the Abbey of St. Nicholas. It has eighty great pillars in\nthe nave alone, and was built in the fifteenth century, though\naccording to the style of an earlier day. It is now a \u201c_temple_\u201d\n(Calvinist meeting-house); the columns are whitewashed, there is a\nmodern, bulbous pulpit with green curtains, and the nave is full of\nugly, closed pews in the taste of the eighteenth century.\n\nHavard describes Monnikendam as having a Chinese appearance through\nits \u201cgreen trees, the red and green coloring of the houses and roofs,\nand the little gray wooden bridge.\u201d In 1573 it had the honor of taking\na prominent part in the great naval battle of the Zuyder-Zee, when\nCornelius Dirkszoon, a native of Monnikendam, destroyed the Spanish\nfleet and took the admiral, Count de Bossu, prisoner. The town kept\nthe count\u2019s collar of the Golden Fleece as a trophy. Though the monks\nhave disappeared, the town still preserves its arms\u2015\u2015a Franciscan\nmonk, habited sable (black), holding a mace in his right hand, the\nshield being _argent_, or white. The tower of the Great Church is of\nenormous height, and Havard, as he looked down on the rich plains\nbelow, wondered at the insensibility of the inhabitants to the\ntreasures of nature and art within their reach. This deserted\nplace\u2015\u2015where the arrival of two strangers was an event of universal\nimportance, to be talked of at least a month after they had gone, and\nwhere the old office of town-crier was discharged by a wizened\nindividual in a black dress-coat, knee-breeches, and three-cornered\nhat, whose duty of fixing notices to the doors of such houses as\ncontained patients attacked by a contagious disease reminds us of the\nseventeenth century\u2015\u2015was once \u201ca flourishing commercial city, one of\nthe twenty-nine great towns of Holland, when the Hague was but a\nvillage.\u201d\n\nBetween Edam and Hoorn (the latter being the pearl of the dead cities)\nthe tjalk encountered a terrible storm of wind, which was succeeded by\nas wonderful a calm. The author says:\n\n \u201cI turned my head (towards the eastern horizon) and saw one\n of the most curious spectacles I ever contemplated in my\n life. From the hull of the boat to the top of the mast, from\n the zenith to the nadir, all was of the same tint. No waves,\n no clouds, no heavens, no sea, no horizon were to be\n distinguished\u2015\u2015nothing but the same tone of color,\n beautifully soft; at a short distance a great black boat,\n which seemed to rest on nothing, and to be balanced in\n space. The sea and the sky appeared of a pearl-gray color,\n like a satin robe; the boat looked like a great blot of ink.\n Nothing can give an idea of this strange spectacle; words\n cannot describe such a picture. Turner, in his strangest\n moods, never produced anything so extraordinary.\u201d\n\n The harbor of Hoorn is now \u201cbordered by masses of verdure,\n great trees, and flowers. The place of these charming\n plantations and gardens was once occupied by ship-building\n yards, from whence sailed annually whole fleets of\n newly-constructed ships. Hoorn is really one of the\n prettiest towns which can be found, and at the same time the\n most curious. It is entirely ancient. All the houses are old\n and attractive, covered with sculptures and charming\n bas-reliefs\u2015\u2015every roof finishing in the form of stairs.\n Everywhere wide _auvents_ jutting out over doors and\n windows; everywhere carved wood and sculptured stone. The\n tone of color of the bricks is warm and agreeable to the\n eye, giving these ancient habitations an aspect of gayety\n and freshness which contrasts in a singular manner with\n their great age and ancient forms.\u2026 It seems almost\n ridiculous to walk about these streets in our modern\n costumes. It almost appears to me that there are certain\n towns where only the plumed hat, the great trunk-hose and\n boots, with a rapier at our side, are in keeping with the\n place; and Hoorn is one of these places.\u201d\n\nThe emptiness of the streets, the want of all animation, is the shadow\nof the picture, and the author brings to mind the former bustling\nprosperity of Hoorn, \u201cfilled by an active population, covering the\nseas with their fleets and the Indies with their counting-houses.\nEvery week a thousand wagons entered the markets, bringing in\nmountains of cheese from the rich countries around.\u2026 Each year there\nwas a bullock fair, first established in 1389, which drew visitors\nfrom all corners of Europe. Frenchmen, Danes, Frisons, Germans, and\nSwedes flocked into the town, and thus augmented its astonishing\nprosperity. Hoorn then counted twenty-five thousand inhabitants.\u201d It\nhad \u201cmassive towers and monumental gates,\u201d and bastions and ramparts,\nwhose place is now occupied by beautiful gardens, shaded by fine\ntrees, and boasting of the few remaining ruinous towers and gates as\nof picturesque adornments\u2015\u2015nothing else. The gate at the entrance of\nthe harbor is of \u201cmagnificent proportions and superb in its details.\u2026\nAmong the sculptures I remarked a cow which a peasant-girl is seen\nemployed in milking\u2015\u2015a homage to the industry of the country which\nonce enriched the town.\u201d On the top of the other old gate\u2015\u2015the\nCowgate\u2015\u2015is a group of two cows, and on the side facing the town four\ncows are represented standing, while the heraldic lions by their side\nsupport the escutcheon of the town, the arms being a hunting-horn. The\nremains of the old commerce of Hoorn may be seen on Thursdays, when a\nmarket is held in the town, and quantities of cheeses still arrive.\n\n \u201cThe numbers of people on foot who pour into the town, the\n carved and heterogeneously-painted wagons, carts, tilburies,\n and all kinds of old-fashioned conveyances passing through\n the east gate, almost incline one to believe that the good\n old times have once more returned to this city. Farmers and\n cattle-dealers and their wives arrive in the carriages, for\n the market-day is a holiday; \u2026 they sit stolidly in or upon\n these antediluvian vehicles. I say stolidly; for I do not\n know a better term to express the calm, silent, reflective\n look of both husbands and wives.\u2026 At ten o\u2019clock the\n market-place resembles a park of artillery whence the guns\n have been withdrawn. The red cheeses piled up by thousands\n represent to the life the cannon-balls rusted by exposure to\n the air and rain.\u201d\n\nIn the Guildhall is preserved Count Bossu\u2019s silver-gilt drinking-cup;\nhe was a prisoner in Hoorn for three years after his defeat and\ncapture by the insurgent Dutch. The churches are inferior to the\ndwellings, having been spoilt by whitewash and plaster and absurd\nGreek peristyles, perhaps supposed at the Reformation to chase away\nthe evil spirits of an age of superstition. The result is deplorable,\nand has unfortunately outlasted the fanaticism of the moment, which\nwas responsible for these disfigurements. Although the people of Hoorn\nclaim that their town was rich and famous at the end of the thirteenth\ncentury, the first authentic documents point to the middle of the\nfourteenth as the date of regular municipal incorporation, and the\nwalls were not built till 1426. Hoorn has produced many distinguished\nmen\u2015\u2015Abel Janzoon Tasman, who discovered Van Dieman\u2019s Land and New\nZealand; Jan Pietersz K\u0153n, who founded Batavia (Java) in 1619; Wouter\nCorneliszoon Schouten, who in 1616 doubled Cape Horn, which he named\nafter his native town; Jan Albertsz Roodtsens, a portrait-painter\nknown to art-critics as Rhotius, according to the foolish fancy of the\nRenaissance for Latinizing one\u2019s \u201cbarbaric\u201d name, and others less well\nknown\u2015\u2015doctors and lawyers with Latinized names, honorably mentioned\nas learned men in the archives, and brave seamen, patriotic and\nenterprising, the Sea-Beggars of the War of Independence against\nSpain, and successful explorers in tropical seas.\n\nHaving passed through Enkhuizen, the birthplace of the painter Paul\nPotter, Havard goes on to Medemblik, the former capital of West\nFriesland, and the seat of King Radbod\u2019s power. Here, like a true\nartist, he was struck by a beautiful scene painted by nature, who in\nthese regions, as everywhere else, has so many changing beauties to\noffer, to distract one\u2019s attention from even the most perfect human\nworks of art. \u201cThe town, with its towers and steeples and with its\nancient castle, rose up before us against a background of sky of a\nrosy tint, fading into lilac-gray and a variety of tints; the town\nitself appearing of a blackish green, while over our heads the sky was\nof celestial blue; at the very foot of the town the sea repeated all\nthese splendid colorings and completed the picture. A painter who\nshould reproduce this scene without alteration would not be believed;\nit would be said he had invented the coloring.\u201d Then follows the same\nstory of desertion, emptiness, and decay, that mark the \u201cdead cities,\u201d\nof which this is perhaps the oldest of all. For the well known\nincident of King Radbod (repeated seven centuries later by a cacique\nof Mexico), and his choice of eternal torments with his forefathers\nrather than heaven with strangers to his blood, we have no room. It\nillustrates the clannish qualities of the old Teutonic stock. Crossing\npart of the peninsula least tainted by \u201cimprovement,\u201d the author, on\nhis way to Texel, passed through many villages such as we have heard\nabout, but the accounts of which we have believed to be exaggerated.\nBut these are not to be found on the beaten track, and he who has seen\nthe typical Brock has only seen an artificially-preserved specimen,\nhandy and hackneyed, kept on exhibition with the avowed consciousness\nof its attraction to strangers. \u201cEvery one has heard of the marvellous\ncow-houses, paved with delf-tiles and sanded in different colors,\ncleaner even than the rooms, where one must neither cough, smoke, nor\nspit; where one must not even walk before putting on a great pair of\n_sabots_, or wooden shoes, whitened with chalk\u2015\u2015cow-sheds in which the\nbeautiful white-and-black cows are symmetrically arranged upon a\nlitter which is constantly changed, and whose tails are tied up to the\nceiling for fear of their becoming soiled. Well, it is in these\nhamlets that one meets with all this.\u2026 Sometimes at the end of the\nstable or cow-shed one sees a parlor with a number of fresh young\ngirls, with their high caps and golden helmets, working at some fancy\nwork or knitting all sorts of frivolity; the fact is that many of\nthese peasants are millionaires living among their cheeses with the\ngreatest simplicity.\u201d\n\nOf Texel and Oude-Schild the author says:\n\n \u201cWhen you land, it seems as if you entered a great round\n basin lined with a thick carpet of verdure; an endless\n prairie with a few trees \u2026 all the country surrounded by\n high dikes and dunes, which limit the view.\u2026 We felt as if\n we were in an Eden under the waters, with the heavens open\n above\u2015\u2015a bizarre sensation difficult to describe, but which\n is very strange and original. The dike that protects the\n south of the island is almost as grand and important as that\n of the Helder.\u2026 At the place from whence these works spring\n it was necessary to work under water at a depth of above one\n hundred feet.\u2026 On the North Sea side are moving sands,\n which, from their desolate aspect, contrast with the rich\n and verdant meadows they guard from the encroachments of the\n sea. These dunes are certainly not the least interesting\n part of the island; they can be entered only on foot or on\n horse-back. The feet of the horse or man who attempts to\n cross them sink either to the ankle of the man or the\n fetlock of the horse. The green meadow suddenly ceases at\n their edge, and an arid solitude, burnt by the sun, extends\n beyond our view\u2015\u2015we should say a strip of the African desert\n rather than of the soft and humid soil of Holland.\u201d\n\nThis passage into the North Sea has seen some of the largest flotillas\nin the world leave its shelter, and not only great commercial fleets\nand war fleets, but hardy expeditions of scientific discovery, such as\nthat of the first explorers who sought for a Northwest Passage through\nthe ice of the Pole. Although it failed in this, it discovered Nova\nZembla. Twice did the brave William Barends attempt this journey, and\nthe second voyage was his last, while his associate, Jacob Van\nHeemskerck, returned to Holland to be invested with the command of the\nnavy in 1607, and to attack, under the guns of Gibraltar, the large\nSpanish fleet commanded by Alvarez d\u2019Avila. Like Nelson, he died in\nthe moment of victory, and fifty years later almost the same fate\nbefell the indomitable Van Tromp. Space forbids to more than mention\nHarlingen, a resuscitated city, which has managed to regain much of\nits old prosperity, but is not architecturally very interesting. One\nof its claims to present attention is the picture-gallery of a\nself-made man and discriminating amateur\u2015\u2015M. Bos; and one of its\nhistorical claims dates from 1476, when Menno Simonsz, the founder of\nthe sect of Mennonites, of whom some thousands lately emigrated to\nthis country, was born within its territory, in the province of\nWitmarsum. From this place the travellers started by canal-boat, or\n_treckschuit_, a barge drawn by a trotting horse through a level,\nproductive country. The boat has a first-class and a second-class\ncompartment, long seats well cushioned for sleeping, a large table for\nmeals, and, as there is no vibration, it is the laziest, pleasantest\nway of travelling, if one is not in a hurry. The breeding of those\nsplendid black horses, whose long tails sweep the ground, well known\nthroughout Europe, is still one of the sources of wealth of this\nFrison land, and much of the marvellous wood-carving now stored up in\nEnglish collections comes from the Frison villages; but of the old\ncostume of the women nothing remains but the golden helmet.\nCircumstances, however, have preserved the old fashion of skating\nraces, which take place every winter, and are the occasion of regular\nfestivals. The youth of a whole neighborhood gathers together, and the\nprizes are handed down as heirlooms in the families of the winners. In\nold times military man\u0153uvres used to be gone through on skates, and\nthese \u201creviews\u201d were well worth seeing. The Frison skate is a straight\niron blade, with which, though you cannot go in any other than a\nstraight line, you can glide along with much greater speed than with\nthe ordinary curved one we use. The only skating ground of\nHolland\u2015\u2015the straight canals\u2015\u2015are a sufficient explanation of the\ndifference.\n\nOn Leeuwarden we will not dwell, as it is an inland city and by no\nmeans dead, but must notice a funny item in one of its collections of\ncuriosities\u2015\u2015that is a \u201clanddagemmer,\u201d or small pail that state\nmembers used to carry when going to council, and in which they put\ntheir bread and butter or whatever else they had by way of a luncheon.\n\nFrom Leeuwarden the traveller carries us with him to Franeker, \u201cwell\nbuilt, well lighted, and certainly one of the cleanest and best-kept\ntowns in Friesland,\u201d formerly a famous centre of learning. \u201cSuch men\nas Adrian Metius, the mathematician; Pierius Winsemius, the historian;\nSixtus Amama, the theologian; Ulric Huberus, the jurist; and George\nKazer, who knew every subtlety of the Greek language, with a mass of\nother learned scholars, indoctrinated the youth of that age in the\nsciences, theology, law, history, and dead languages. The spirit of\nlearning became contagious, and the whole city was seized with a\ndesire to acquire knowledge. The students imbued the citizens with a\nlove of the sciences, and the inhabitants, not content with imbibing\nlearning themselves, spread it about on the public walls; and one can\nstill see on the front of the houses, over the doors, and even on the\nwalls of the stables, numbers of wise inscriptions, moral precepts,\nand virtuous sentences\u201d in Latin, signifying, for instance, \u201cKnow\nthyself\u201d; \u201cWell, or not at all\u201d; \u201cNothing is good but what is honest,\u201d\netc. The Guildhall, built in the same style as the Leeuwarden\nChancellerie, but daubed over with paint, contains two or three rooms\nwith their walls literally hidden by gloomy old portraits, said to be\nthose of the professors of the old academy. Among them is that of a\nwoman, Anna Maria Schaarman, called by her contemporaries the modern\nSappho, and who, besides poetry, music, painting, engraving, and\nmodelling, was a proficient in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Ethiopian.\nHer works were published at Leyden in 1648.\n\nFraneker has a unique exhibition in the shape of a _Planetarium_, or a\nsmall blue-room, with a movable ceiling, representing the vault of\nheaven, where the planets, in the form of gilded balls, and by means\nof a mechanical process, rotate around the sun, which stands in the\nmiddle of the room in a kind of half obscurity. The room itself is\nonly lighted by one candle. The whole apparatus is shown by a woman,\nsaid to be the grand-daughter of the great mathematician, Eise\nEisinga, who devoted seven years of his life, from 1773 to 1780, to\nmaking this planetarium.\n\nThe tjalk, which the travellers had left at Harlingen, now carried\nthem over to Hindeloopen, a sea-port and ancient city, but not one of\nthose which have to complain of the whims of fortune; for it never\nrose to great importance at any time of its thousand years of\nexistence. Just outside the harbor \u201cthe wind suddenly lulled, and one\nof those dead calms peculiar to these curious shores overtook us. The\nclouds seemed to stand still in the heavens, the very water lapping\nagainst our bows grew still, and, but for a bird skimming the horizon,\na sea-dog touching the surface of the waves, or some _bruinvisch_\nleaping in pure joy under the calm waters, all nature appeared as if\nwrapped in a deep sleep.\u201d The town began by being a hamlet in the huge\nforest of Kreijl (most of whose area is now the bottom of the\nZuyder-Zee), and its name signifies \u201cthe hind\u2019s run,\u201d while a running\nhind forms the municipal arms. The harbor, which in 1225, three\nhundred years after the origin of the town, was endowed with certain\nprivileges, was never large enough for heavily-freighted ships; and\nthough the inhabitants praiseworthily tried to enrich themselves by\nforming fishing companies, the boats had to be built in other ports,\nand the interest of Hindeloopen in these expeditions had always more\nor less of an artificial character. Notwithstanding the real claims of\nthe town to notice, it has escaped the mention of historians;\nCornelius Kempius ignores it altogether; Guicciardini merely refers to\nit; Blaeu the geographer, in spite of his minute exactitude, only\ngives it a dozen dry lines; and a later writer, the author of _Les\nD\u00e9lices des Pays-Bas_ (1769), is not more complimentary, though he\nallows it some \u201ccommercial interest.\u201d It often needs an artist\u2019s eye\nto look with favor on these world-forgotten places, and draw out\ndetails which make us wonder how it was possible that they have been\nhitherto so persistently overlooked. It is often a greater pleasure,\nwe confess, to read of such places than of those greater ones, the\npilgrimages of the world, where each successive generation of scholars\nand explorers flocks to bring to light some fact or some stone, and\nwhere, when all that is likely to be important has been found, they\nstill pore devotedly over dust and fragments, eager to tell the world\nhow the ancients ate or dressed, and how their present descendants\nretain or have lost or modified the old manners and customs. Havard,\naccordingly, says of Hindeloopen:\n\n \u201cSmall as it was, it had its arts, its special costume, a\n style of architecture, and a language only spoken within its\n walls\u2015\u2015which is a fact so singular that it would appear\n incredible were it not for traces and incontestable proofs\n of their existence.[196] The most remarkable of its\n peculiarities was, and is still, the costume worn by the\n women.\u2026 Not content with having a dress different to other\n nations, the inhabitants of Hindeloopen regulated the style\n of their costume, and adjusted it according to the age and\n position of the woman in its smallest detail. From its very\n birth a child is put into the national costume: its little\n legs are wrapped in the usual linen, but the upper part of\n its body is subjected to the prevailing habit of the\n country. Its head is covered with a double cap\u2015\u2015one of\n linen, the other of silk garnished with the usual kerchief;\n above this again is placed another calico kerchief, and on\n that again a third of larger dimensions, scarlet in color\n and trimmed with lace. The tiny body is cased in a\n close-fitting jacket, over which is an embroidered bib, and\n the baby\u2019s hands are put into calico mittens.\u201d\n\nThen follows a description of the changes of, or rather additions to,\nthe costume from the age of eighteen months upwards. The marriageable\ngirls wore the most complicated, everything, even the \u201cfloss-silk\nstockings,\u201d being of a certain regulation make, color, and stuff.\nMarried women wore their hair entirely covered by the headdress of\nsquare pieces of red cloth embroidered in gold, above the cap itself.\nWidows wore the same articles, but all black and white; and, besides\nthis daily costume, there were others worn on festival days, chiefly\ndistinguished by a cape or overall, with other details yet, belonging\nsome to Whitsuntide, some to Corpus Christi, and others to betrothed\ngirls, and relating to circumstances, weddings, and funerals, to the\nlength of time a woman had been married, and if she was a mother,\netc., etc., in endless and minute array. The town women have already\ndiscarded their costume, but it is still universally worn in the\ncountry round about. The ancient industries of Hindeloopen\u2015\u2015alas! very\ndegenerate nowadays\u2015\u2015included a _sp\u00e9cialit\u00e9_ in furniture. It was of\ncarved wood painted, and many specimens in Dutch and foreign\ncollections still exist. Havard says of it:\n\n \u201cIts general forms have a very decided Oriental cast. Its\n decorations of carved and gilded palms and love-knots,\n relieved by the strangest paintings it is possible to\n imagine, have no equal except in Persian art. As a rule, the\n colors are loud and gaudy\u2015\u2015red or pink, green or blue\u2015\u2015but,\n strange to say, the whole appears harmonious. It is peculiar\n and striking but not disagreeable to the eye. Most of the\n single pieces of furniture, such as tables and stands, and\n sledges are ornamented with red and blue palms, around which\n are interlaced numbers of Cupids of dark rose-color, the\n whole on a red ground. Sometimes these constantly-recurring\n Cupids (always in dark rose-color) are placed among a bed of\n blue flowers against a background of red, lightened here and\n there by white dots and touches of gold. But this medley of\n discordant colors produces a harmonious and dazzling effect,\n which I can only liken to the cashmeres of India. This same\n style of ornamentation is adopted in private houses, though\n the colors are somewhat modified. Red yields to dark blue,\n and flowers, love-knots, and palms are toned down into soft\n blue, green, and white, on a background of the finest[197]\n shade of indigo. The effect thus produced is very curious. I\n cannot say it is fine or pleasant, but it is not\n disagreeable to the eye, and certainly possesses the\n advantage of not being vulgar or common.\u201d\n\nStavoren, the former capital of Friesland, is one of the towns whose\ntraditional annals, like those of Medemblik, reach back into\nunhistorical times, and whose founder, Friso, a supposed contemporary\nand ally of Alexander the Great, built here a temple to Jupiter, and\nadorned his town with walls, palaces, and theatres. The fifth century\nof our era is its real earliest date, and then it was only what the\nfirst settlement of a barbaric clan always is\u2015\u2015half-camp,\nhalf-village\u2015\u2015but it had gained a footing which it never abandoned\nsince. As the centuries passed, we find this town, at the mouth of the\nFlevum, \u201cthe capital and royal residence of Friesland,\u201d and with a\n\u201cconsiderable commercial and industrial reputation. Treaties of\nalliance and trade were entered into with the Romans, Danes, Germans,\nand Franks, who came to Stavoren to barter their goods.\u2026 The Flevum\nwas easy to navigate, thus rendering the port convenient for commerce;\nable to hold a large fleet whose intrepid sailors explored distances\nin the North inaccessible to the vessels belonging to other nations.\nAt this epoch the Zuyder-Zee was not in existence, and one could walk\non dry land from Stavoren to Medemblik.\u2026 A palace was built at\nStavoren (by Richard I.) which later on became the sumptuous residence\nof the kings, his successors,\u201d and Charles, Duke of Brabant, journeyed\nto Stavoren with a numerous suite to see and admire its wonderful\nsplendors. This was burnt in 808, but in 815 a still more splendid\nchurch was built by Bishop Odulphus. It was some Stavoren sailors who\nfirst passed through the Sound and opened the way into the Baltic, and\nthe King of Denmark rewarded the town by exempting its ships from dues\non entering Dantzic. Treaties with Sweden and Scotland conceded to the\ntown similar privileges, rendering the merchants of Stavoren able to\nenter the lists with those of the richest and most influential towns\nin the world. A sixteenth-century chronicler[198]\u2015\u2015though we incline\nto take the statement as typical of the prosperity of the town rather\nthan in its literal sense\u2015\u2015says \u201cthe vestibules of the houses were\ngilded, and the pillars of the palaces of massive gold.\u201d This,\nhowever, applies to the thirteenth century, the age of Marco Polo and\ngeneral redundancy of imagination, colored by the traditions of the\n_Arabian Nights_. But it is true that Stavoren was one of the first\ntowns forming part of the Hanseatic League, and even in the sixteenth\ncentury she still held the third rank. Her downfall was due as much to\nthe nature of things as to adverse circumstances. Prosperity spoiled\nthe haughty town: \u201cHer inhabitants had become so rich and opulent that\nthey were literally intoxicated with their success, and allowed\nthemselves to grow insolent, exacting, and supercilious beyond\nendurance. They were called the spoiled, luxurious children of\nStavoren\u2015\u2015\u2018_dartele ofte vervende Kinderen van Stavoren_.\u2019 Strangers\nceased to trade with them, preferring the pleasanter manners of the\ninhabitants of Hamburg, L\u00fcbeck, and Bruges. In proportion as trade\ndeclined the spirit of enterprise forsook the population, and the\ntown, once so rich and flourishing, now found herself reduced from the\nfirst to the tenth rank.\u201d This happened in the fourteenth century, and\nby the sixteenth \u201cthere were scarcely fifty houses in a state of\npreservation in this city, which formerly was the highest and noblest\nof all.\u201d Its appearance at the present time is still more sad: \u201cThere\nare about a hundred houses, half of which are in ruins, but not one\nremains to recall in the vaguest manner the ancient glory of its\npalaces. It would be difficult to call the place a village even; it is\nmore like one large cemetery, whose five hundred inhabitants have the\nappearance of having returned to earth to mourn over the past and lost\nglories of their country and the ancient splendor of their kings.\u201d\nOutside the harbor is a large sand-bank, called the \u201cLady\u2019s Bank,\u201d\nwhich for several centuries has blocked up the entrance so that no\ngreat ships can enter, and tradition has seized upon this to point a\nmoral eminently appropriate to the former proud merchants of this\nhopelessly dead city. It is said, and repeated by Guicciardini, that a\nrich widow, \u201cpetulant and saucy,\u201d freighted a ship for Dantzic, and\nbade the master bring back a cargo of the rarest merchandise he could\nfind in that town. Finding nothing more in requisition there than\ngrain, he loaded the ship with wheat and returned. The widow was\nindignant at his bringing her such common stuff, and ordered him, if\nhe had loaded the grain at _backboort_, to throw it into the sea at\n_stuerboort_, which was done, whereupon there immediately rose at that\nplace so great a sand-bank that the harbor was blocked; hence the bank\nis still called \u201c_Le Sable_,\u201d or \u201c_Le Banc de la Dame_.\u201d\n\nAt Urk, a truly patriarchal fishing village, where \u201cevery one, as at\nMarken, wears the national costume, from the brat who sucks his thumb\nto the old man palsied with age,\u201d and where the inhabitants \u201cconsider\nthemselves related, forming one and the same family,\u201d and are \u201cjust as\nhospitable and polite as at Marken,\u201d Havard spent a few very pleasant\nhours. This place is anterior to the Zuyder-Zee, and was already, in\nthe ninth century, a fishing settlement on one of the islands in Lake\nFlevo. Havard thinks that the women, with their healthy beauty and\ngraceful but evident strength, are good samples of the race that\ninhabited these lands a thousand years ago.\n\nOn entering the mouth of the Yssel the travellers left the tjalk and\nwent across country to Kampen, admiring on their road the beautiful\nfields with the cows almost hidden in the long grass, the farms on\nlittle hillocks looking like miniature fortified castles, and the\nother farms surrounded by tall trees, where all is of a blue color,\nfrom the small milk-pails to the wheelbarrow, and the ladder leading\nto the loft. Kampen dates only from the thirteenth century, but it\ngrew rapidly, and two hundred years later became an Imperial town,\ngoverned itself, and had the right of coining money. At the\nReformation there was no breaking of images or destruction of works of\nart, neither was there any outbreak against the religious orders.\nLarge, massive towers with pointed roofs overhang the quay and flank\nan enormous wall, through which an arched doorway leads into the town.\nThe Celle-broeders-Poort dates from the sixteenth century, and is\nbuilt of brick and stone, with octagonal towers, oriel windows, and\ncarved buttresses, besides a gallery projecting over the door. This\ngate was named after the convent of Brothers of the Common Life,\nformerly situated in the street leading to the Poort. The order has\nbeen made famous by the author of the _Imitation_. It was one of the\nmost popular in the Low Country, and was founded at Deventer by\nGerhard Groot, a young and luxurious ecclesiastic, whose life reminds\none of De Ranc\u00e9, and who, giving up his preferments, retired to his\nown house, where he lived with a few other men in apostolical\nsimplicity. The services of his followers were invaluable during the\nplague, or Black Pest, in the fourteenth century. His successor was\nFlorent Radewyns, a learned priest, also in high ecclesiastical favor,\nbut who gave up his canon\u2019s stall at Utrecht to embrace the life of a\nBrother of the Common Life. This institute is not unlike the original\none of St. Francis of Assisi, founded in Italy a hundred years\nearlier; only these brothers lived by the work of their hands, mostly\nas copyists, and as revisers of the manuscripts scattered over the\ntown, comparing them with the originals and rectifying the mistakes of\ninexperienced or careless copyists. Pope Gregory XI. sanctioned the\nregulations of the order in 1376, and in 1431, 1439, and 1462 Eugenius\nIV. and Pius II. confirmed the privileges of the rapidly-growing\ncommunity, which counted convents by the score all over Holland. About\nthis time they opened schools for the young, and \u201ctheir instruction\nwas everywhere courted, and their virtues, as well as their great\ntalents, made them welcome even in the most distant countries. Their\ncolleges were dedicated either to St. Jerome or St. Gregory, and\nmultiplied with astonishing rapidity.\u2026 In their convent (at Brussels)\nthey had a printing-office.\u201d Their devotion to the poor and\nuneducated, and their endeavors to counteract the progress of the\nReformation by expounding to the people the authorized version of the\nScriptures in the vulgar tongue, and also uniting their hearers in\nprayers and offices in Dutch, Flemish, and other vernacular, were\nmisrepresented by their enemies, and twisted into evidence of their\nheretical leanings.\n\nKampen was rich in religious orders; there were the Minorites\n(Franciscans), whose church was built in the fourteenth century, and\nis still the most ancient monument in the town, but is now used as a\nschool; the Recollects, the Carthusians, the Alexians, besides six\nconvents for women. The church of St. Nicholas, with its double aisles\nand its grand simplicity, its beautiful antique pulpit and Renaissance\npanelling in the choir, is well worth a visit, were it not for the\ndetestable impression likely to be made on the visitor by the excesses\nin plaster and paint that disfigure the building. Notre Dame, a church\nalmost as large and as old, has been restored, and its sombre, simple,\nand grand decoration, its panelling in imitation of the Gothic, and\nits careful imitation of the spirit of ancient ornamentation make it a\nmore satisfactory object of pilgrimage. But the pearl of Kampen is the\n_Stadhuis_, or Guildhall\u2015\u2015or rather what remains of it; for part of it\nwas destroyed by fire in 1543. The fa\u00e7ade is very much like the\nChancellerie at Leeuwarden, and the niches still contain their\noriginal statuettes of the sixteenth century. \u201cThis corner of the\ntownhall is a real delight to behold, and to come upon a relic of this\nsort, religiously preserved from ancient times, is a great source of\njoy to an artist.\u201d But the special attractions are in the interior,\nespecially in \u201ctwo rooms, unique in their way, \u2026 decorated with carved\nwainscoting, which have remained intact from the early part of the\nseventeenth century, when they were used as the council-chamber and\njudgment-hall.\u2026 The walls are furnished with flags, standards,\nhalberds, pikes, \u2026 and above the door I noticed some formidable-looking\nsyringes in polished leather, shining like gold, which were used in\nformer times to squirt boiling oil on those of the assailants who\napproached too close. A magnificent balustrade, crowned by an open\ngallery with columns supporting arched openings, separates this hall\nfrom the other, through which the persuasive eloquence of the\nadvocates penetrated the council-chamber.\u2026 Running round the chamber\nis a huge carved bench, divided into stalls by jutting pedestals which\nsupport a pillar of Ionic base and Composite capital. An entablature\nalso running the round of the room, projecting above the pillars, but\nreceding over the stalls, completes this kind of high barrier between\nthe councillors, and adds considerably to the majestic elegance which\ncharms and impresses one. At the end of the hall there is a fine\nchimney-piece, comprising four divisions. To mention its date, 1543,\nis quite enough to give an idea of the beauty of its workmanship and\nthe elegance of its curves.\u201d Among its curiosities are some fine\nsilver goblets given to the town, and some pieces of gold-plate\nbelonging to the old guilds, as well as the _box of beans_, which\nserved to determine the election of the municipality. It is a small\n_bonbonni\u00e8re_ holding twenty-four beans, six silver-gilt and eighteen\nof polished silver. \u201cWhen it was a question of deciding which of the\nmembers of the council should be chosen for the administration, the\nbeans were put in a hat, and each drew out one by chance, and those\nwho drew forth the silver-gilt beans immediately entered on their new\nfunctions. This custom was not confined especially to Kampen, as it\nwas formerly in vogue in the province of Groningen.\u201d\n\nZwolle (not a sea city) is a very old town, but has a modern life\ntacked on to it, and few of its public buildings, churches included,\nare worth commenting upon at length, though its history is interesting\nand stirring. It was the birth-place and home of Thomas \u00e0 Kempis,\nknown in his own day as Hamerken, but the convent where he lived has\nunfortunately disappeared.\n\nHarderwyk, on the Zuyder-Zee, or the \u201cShepherd\u2019s Refuge,\u201d was founded\nat the time of the disastrous flood which made the present sea. Some\nshepherds collected there from the flooded meadows, and were joined by\na few fishermen. A hundred years after its incorporation as a town, it\nwas already prosperous enough to be named in the Hanseatic Union by\nthe side of Amsterdam, Kampen, and Deventer; but it can boast of a\nbetter claim to notice than its material prosperity alone, for it had\na famous academy, founded in 1372, and specially devoted to theology\nand what was then known of physical sciences. Except during an\ninterval of half a century, after an inundation that devastated and\nunpeopled the little city, this school existed uninterruptedly till\nthe French occupation, a little less than a hundred years ago, and\namong its native scholars, many of whom are honorably known in the\nhistory of science, it reckons the botanist Boerhaave. Linn\u00e6us spent a\nshort time there in study and research, and the town is not a little\nproud of having been sought out by distant scholars as a centre of the\nnatural science of that day. Both these famous men have a memorial in\nHarderwyk, the former a bronze statue, and the latter a bust in the\npublic gardens. One of the few interesting remains of the old town is\nthe square tower of Notre Dame, where fires were burnt, by way of a\nbeacon, to guide fishermen and sailors out at night, and indicate the\nposition of Harderwyk. \u201cThe sea,\u201d says Havard, \u201cis very wayward in\nthese parts. Formerly it was at some little distance from the town,\nbut gradually it advanced, and ended by washing its walls; now,\nhowever, it has in some measure receded.\u2026 When the tide is low,\nfishermen often discover under the sand roads washed up by the waves,\npaved with stones and bricks, which prove that at some distant period\nstreets existed where now the sea rules.\u201d At present Harderwyk is the\ndepot of the troops intended for the Indian and colonial army of\nHolland, and is, in consequence, rather a gay little place.\n\nThe charming, antique, and formerly turbulent town of Amersfoort, the\nbirth-place of the heroic Jan van Olden Barneveldt, truly the \u201cfather\nof his country,\u201d was the last comparatively forgotten place where our\nauthor passed before he got back to the beaten track of travel,\nthrough Utrecht down the Dutch Rhine to Amsterdam. Of this hardy,\nlearned, and brave people of the Netherlands he says but too truly\nthat they are unknown outside their own frontiers. \u201cNobody outside\u201d\n(of course he speaks of popular, world-wide reputation; for they are\nknown in scientific and literary circles) \u201cknows that among the Dutch\nare to be found honesty, cordiality, and sincere friendship; they do\nnot know that the language of Holland is rich and poetic; that the\nNetherlanders have exceptionally fine institutions, sincere\npatriotism, and absolute devotion to their country.\u201d He complains,\nhowever, that the country or its representative, the government, does\nnot sufficiently encourage native artists, authors, and _savants_, and\nforces her statesmen to \u201csubmit to paltry coteries.\u201d He also says that\nthe decay of trade in the \u201cdead cities\u201d is partly attributable to the\nsupineness of the inhabitants themselves, though that certainly does\nnot tally with their enterprising spirit of old, and adds that\nAmsterdam, when threatened with the same danger\u2015\u2015the moving sands and\nthe encroaching waters, which have turned the harbors of the once\nwealthy Hanseatic cities into deserts\u2015\u2015did not \u201csleep,\u201d but \u201cwith all\ntheir ancient energy, not fearing to expend their wealth,\u201d the\ninhabitants \u201ccut through the whole length of the peninsula of Noord\nHolland, and created a canal 40 miles long and 120 feet wide, wide\nenough for two frigates to pass one another\u201d; and when that was found\ninsufficient for their commerce, \u201cthey again cut through the width of\nthe peninsula, as they had cut through its length, giving to ships of\nthe heaviest tonnage two roads to their magnificent port. This was how\nthe sons of old Batavia fought against the elements\u2015\u2015nothing stopped\nthem; and we see that the generations which succeed them are animated\nby the same spirit, the same firm will, the same calm energy, never to\nbe beaten by difficulties.\u201d And now the last news of importance from\nthe same spot is that of the projected draining of the Zuyder-Zee,\nwhich is a plan of gigantic magnitude, the cost being estimated at\n\u00a316,000,000 sterling\u2015\u2015_i.e._, not far from $100,000,000\u2015\u2015but the\nallotted time scarcely more than two years. The Dutch is a race\ntenacious of vitality and power, and its future in its colonial\nempire, which it is now thoroughly and scientifically surveying, bids\nfair to rival its past. Even these \u201cdead cities,\u201d when they cease to\nbe fishing hamlets and relic-museums, and, by the draining of the\ninland sea, have to turn for their support to new industries, have a\nchance of revival. The last marvellous Dutch work\u2015\u2015the completion of\nthe North Sea Canal\u2015\u2015is a proof that the old energy is yet there, and\nthat great things may yet be expected, nautically, scientifically,\ncommercially, and even agriculturally, of the sturdy old stock of the\n\u201cSea Beggars.\u201d\n\n\n [195] _The Dead Cities of the Zuyder-Zee_: A voyage to the\n picturesque side of Holland. By Henri Havard. Translated by\n Annie Wood. London: Bentley & Son.\n\n [196] The author has unfortunately omitted to give some of\n these proofs, and we have only his word for this assertion.\n\n [197] Probably _lightest_.\n\n [198] Cornelius Kempius.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GREAT STRIKE AT ERRICKDALE.\n\n\nErrickdale is famous for its coal-pits. It has dozens of them. All\nnight long their fires glow red through the darkness, and all day the\nsound of pick and hammer, and the creak of rusty iron chains dragging\nheavily-loaded cars up the slope of the mines into the light, and the\ncry of the miners, and the tramp of their hob-nailed shoes as they\ncome and go, fill the place with noisy life. It is a lonely place\notherwise, close to the sea-coast. A ponderous stone wharf juts far\nout into the water, and a tramway runs down to it for the use of the\ncars which take the coal to the vessels that are constantly loading.\n\nThe village of Errickdale, at the time of our story, consisted of the\nblack buildings connected with the mines, the rows of tumble-down\ntenements where the miners lived, and one spacious, rambling,\nold-fashioned dwelling, built a century previous by the first owner\nand opener of the mines, and preserved intact ever since, in its\nantique and solid elegance, by each new owner of the place. Eight\nmonths of the year it was closed, with the exception of a few rooms\noccupied by the agent, the old housekeeper, and two servants; one\nother apartment being always kept in readiness to receive the master\nwhenever, for any reason, he chose to make his appearance.\n\nBut for four months, from June to October, the whole house was thrown\nopen and filled with a brilliant company, who spent the summer days in\nmerry idleness, and made Errickdale a scene of delight. Beautiful it\nwas always, in spite of its loneliness\u2015\u2015a loneliness so extreme that\nnot another town or village, or house or hut, was to be met with for a\ndozen miles around it, except Teal, lying hidden from sight behind the\nhills, and five good miles away at that, and the lighthouse which rose\nup eerily on the summit of the dangerous, ugly rock-ledge in the\ncentre of Errick Bay. That bay gave ample opportunity for sailing,\nrowing, bathing, fishing; the beach was firm and good for those who\ncared to walk; the rocks were bold and tempting for those who cared to\nclimb. In the fields the wild pink roses bloomed, and strawberries,\nraspberries, baked-apple berries, and blueberries followed one upon\nthe other in superabundance. The heaps of coal-dust, the begrimed men,\nthe care-worn women and dirty children, the comfortless dwellings,\nmarred very much the beauty of the place; but what would be the place\nwithout them? The guests who came there soon forgot such trifles as\nthe days sped by in merry-making; and in the city of Malton a summer\nat Errickdale was spoken of as a season of unrivalled pleasure.\n\nIt was in Malton that John Rossetti, the present owner of Errick\nmines, had his palace-like city home. There he had collected such\ntreasures as few men could boast, even in that city, famed for its\neager pursuit of the beautiful and the costly; and all of them he\nlavished upon the only being who made life dear to him\u2015\u2015the daughter\nwhom his idolized young wife had left to him when, at the child\u2019s\nbirth, she died.\n\nIt is a marvel that Eleanora Rossetti grew up as amiable and gentle as\nshe was; for she scarcely knew what it meant to have a wish thwarted\nor the merest whim of her fancy ungratified. Delicate and fair like\nsome sheltered plant, she won love and tenderness wherever she went,\nand it seemed to her only as the air she breathed\u2015\u2015she knew nothing\nelse. That she should yield her will to another\u2019s never entered her\nmind; that she was to do anything for others was an idea quite unknown\nto her. Life was hers to enjoy; hearts were hers to command; let her\ndo what she would, no one wished to hinder her. She saw the beggars in\nthe streets of Malton, she saw the poorly-clad people in Errickdale,\nbut they never weighed upon her heart in the least. They must be very\nlazy or very shiftless, she thought\u2015\u2015if she ever thought of them at\nall.\n\nWith the approaching winter of her eighteenth birthday\u2015\u2015the winter of\nthat great strike at Errickdale which was to set the country\nringing\u2015\u2015there came many prophecies of want and famine, but Eleanora\ndid not heed them. She had a little dinner-party one evening. They\nwere sitting around the table loaded with costly silver and\ndelicately-painted china and rare viands. \u201cPapa,\u201d cried Eleanora from\nthe head of the board, where she presided in girlish state, her clear\nvoice ringing down to him like a flute and attracting every one\u2019s\nattention\u2015\u2015\u201cpapa, I mean to keep my eighteenth birthday by a\nmasque-ball at Errickdale.\u201d And then, glancing along each file of\ndelighted and expectant guests with her brightest smile, \u201cYou are all\ninvited at once,\u201d she said, \u201cwithout further ceremony. The night of\nthe 20th of January, remember. How I hope there will be snow underfoot\nand stars overhead and a biting frost! There will be bed and board for\nall, though some of the beds may have to be on the floor; and sleighs\nor carriages will be waiting at Teal station. Oh! how delightful it\nwill be!\u201d\n\nNobody waited to see if permission would be granted her. Eleanora\nRossetti always had her way. At once a Babel of voices arose.\n\n\u201cWe will make summer of winter,\u201d Eleanora said. \u201cThe whole\nconservatory shall be sent down. It shall be a ball of the old\n_r\u00e9gime_; and mind, all of you, no one shall be admitted who does not\ncome dressed as a courtier of some sort to grace my palace halls. I\nshall never be eighteen again, and I mean to celebrate it royally.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe looks like a princess this moment,\u201d said a youth on her right,\nloudly enough for her to hear, and to make her blush with pleasure;\nand like a princess she looked indeed, slender and tall and stately,\nin her heavy purple robe, with ermine and rare laces at the neck and\nwrists, and diamonds in her ears that sparkled no more brightly than\nher eyes.\n\nDown in Errickdale that night a northeast gale was blowing, the waves\nwere dashing their spray high up over the wharf and against the\ncliffs, and the rain drove in slant sheets across the bay, where the\nred eye of the lighthouse glared steadily.\n\nIn a cottage of three rooms, apart from the tenements, yet little\nbetter than they, another John is sitting. John O\u2019Rourke this, an\nIrishman, come eighteen years since from the old country; and with him\nsits his only daughter, who will be eighteen in February. Bridget\nO\u2019Rourke has no need to fear the verdict if she is compared with the\nheiress of Errickdale; she is full as tall and stately, and her dark,\nsevere beauty would be noticeable anywhere. But there is no sparkle in\nher eyes, that are heavy with unshed tears, and no smile is on her\nlips.\n\nThese people are not poor, as Errickdale counts poverty. It is much,\nvery much, to have a house to yourself, even though it be of three\nrooms only, and floor and walls are bare. It is much to wear whole\nclothes, though the dress is cotton print and the coat is fustian. It\nis much to have plenty of bread and cheese and a bit of cold meat on\nyour table, and to have a decent table to sit at. Errickdale counts\nthese things luxuries. John O\u2019Rourke is a sort of factotum for the\nagent, and, next to him, has higher wages than any other man on the\nplace; but, for all that, his brow is lowering to-night, and as he\nsits in moody silence his fingers work and his hands are clenched, as\nthough he were longing for a fight with some one.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re not eating, Bridget, my girl,\u201d he said at last, draining the\nlast drop of his cup of tea. \u201cYou\u2019re not as hungry as I.\u201d\n\nShe pushed her plate away. \u201cI can\u2019t eat, father,\u201d she said. \u201cDown in\nthe hollow Smith\u2019s wife and babes are crying with hunger, and over at\nRutherford\u2019s the girls haven\u2019t a shoe to their feet in this bitter\nweather.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd so you must go hungry too, girl?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t eat,\u201d she said again. \u201cIt chokes me. Why should I have good\nthings, and they go starving? I wish I was starving with them!\u201d\n\n\u201cTut, tut, girl! What help would that be? And what\u2019s Smith, anyhow,\nand Smith\u2019s boys, but Orangemen, that hoot at ye Sundays, and laugh at\nyour going ten miles, all, as they say, to worship images?\u201d\n\nBridget smiled faintly. This righteous John O\u2019Rourke was no very\nfervent Catholic in his deeds, whatever his words might go to prove.\nIt was seldom that he found himself able to foot those good ten miles\nwith her, though she did it regularly, in spite of ridicule and\ndifficulty.\n\n\u201cOrangemen or not,\u201d she answered, \u201cthey\u2019re flesh and blood like me.\nGod made \u2019em. If I try to eat, I think I see them with nothing, and I\nlong to give all I have to them.\u201d\n\n\u201cI tell ye,\u201d O\u2019Rourke exclaimed, \u201ctimes are bad enough now, but\nthey\u2019ll be worse soon, if master don\u2019t take heed. There\u2019ll be a strike\nin Errickdale before the winter\u2019s out.\u201d\n\n\u201cO father! no. I hope not. Nothing like that would ever move the\nmaster. He\u2019s that set in his own way, he would only hold out stronger\nagainst \u2019em\u2015\u2015he would.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think so myself, girl\u2015\u2015I think so myself. I\u2019ve known him well these\neighteen years; he\u2019s firm as rock. But the men don\u2019t credit it. They\nare murmuring low now, but it will be loud shouting before we know it.\nBridget, I\u2019ll to Malton and see the master myself, come morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, father,\u201d said Bridget; \u201cand I\u2019ll go with you and speak with Miss\nEleanora.\u201d\n\nA few hours later, the city lady and the Irish girl stood face to face\nin Eleanora\u2019s boudoir. There was a startled look in Eleanora\u2019s eyes.\nWhat strange story is this which Bridget tells her? There must be some\nmistake about it.\n\n\u201cThey are very poor in Errickdale,\u201d Bridget said slowly, keeping down\nthe quiver from her voice and the tears from her eye. \u201cHouse after\nhouse they have nothing but potatoes or mush to eat, and nothing but\nrags to wear. I don\u2019t think it\u2019s the master\u2019s fault maybe. Sometimes I\nfear the agent is not all he should be, miss.\u201d\n\nAs if John Rossetti did not know the character of the man whom he had\nleft in power among his miners! Alas for Bridget! and alas for\nErrickdale!\n\n\u201cBut do _you_ suffer, Bridget?\u201d and Eleanora looked at her\ncompassionately, and then with deep admiration. She had let her talk,\nhad let her stay, where carelessly she would have sent off any other,\nbecause it was such a delight to her to see that face in its grave and\nregular beauty, and to hear the rich voice with its sorrowful cadence\nlike the minor note of an organ chant. Even had she been of like\nstation and wealth with herself, Eleanora would have felt no pangs of\njealous fear; for her own beauty and that of Bridget were of too\nperfect and delicious a contrast for that, and her trained artistic\ntaste was considering it with pleasure all the while that their talk\nwent on.\n\n\u201cNot that way,\u201d Bridget answered her. \u201cI\u2019ve food and clothes a plenty\nmyself. But it\u2019s as if the hunger and want were tugging at my heart\ninstead of my body, by day and by night. The lean faces and the\nwailing come between me and all else. Miss Eleanora, I wish you could\nonce see them\u2015\u2015only once.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s this! Bridget O\u2019Rourke here too? A well-planned plot, truly.\u201d\nAnd John Rossetti strode into the room as though on the point of\nturning the girl out from it, only his daughter, coming to meet him,\nstepped unwittingly between.\n\n\u201cYes, papa,\u201d she said, \u201cit\u2019s Bridget, come to the city, I suppose, for\nthe first time in her life. And, papa, she tells such a sad story\nabout Errickdale. Will you please send them some money at once?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a penny,\u201d her father answered. \u201cNot one penny of mine or yours\nshall they have. These people think to force me to their will by a\nstrike! They shall learn what manner of master they have. Do they not\nknow that Errick mines might lie idle a year, and I hold my head above\nwater bravely? And do they dream there are no men willing and glad to\nbe hired for the price they cavil at? Let them strike when they\nplease. That is the only message John O\u2019Rourke has to carry home with\nhim for his pains, and all that you shall have either, Bridget. Take\nit and be gone.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no, Bridget, not yet,\u201d Eleanora cried. \u201cI am not ready. Papa,\nwhat can you be thinking of\u2015\u2015sending her away when I am not ready to\nhave her go? Let us consider for a minute, papa. She is so troubled\u201d;\nand, indeed, Bridget\u2019s face was livid in its distress, and when she\nstrove to speak her voice died away in a moan. \u201cHow much do the people\nwant, papa?\u201d\n\nHe laughed grimly. \u201cI shall grant them nothing,\u201d he said. \u201cHowever,\nsince you are curious, they do not want as much as your ball will cost\nme, my love. How would you like to give that up for them?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy ball! Of course not. What a ridiculous idea! All Malton knows of\nit by this time, and twenty people are invited already, and I have\nsent for my dressmaker. Of course I could not give that up for\nanything! But you were only jesting, papa dear. I know you could not\nmean it. Bridget, papa knows best, you may be sure. I never trouble my\nhead about business. But I will tell you what you shall do. I am going\nto have a masque-ball at Errickdale in January\u2015\u2015such grand doings as\nwere never known there before\u2015\u2015and you shall come to it! You shall be\nwhere you can see the splendid court-dresses and the flowers and the\nfeast, and hear the music\u2015\u2015the very best music that Malton can\nfurnish. So don\u2019t worry any more, Bridget, and you shall surely be\nthere.\u201d\n\nBridget looked slowly round the room, full of warmth and light, and\ncomfort and beauty. From the picture-frames haggard eyes seemed to\nstare at her; in the corners, and half hidden by the velvet hangings,\nfigures wasted by want seemed to stretch their bony fingers towards\nher; through the canary\u2019s song and the splash of the scented fountain\nvoices weak with fasting seemed to call on her for aid. But it had\nbecome impossible for her to utter another word in their behalf. A\nplan, a hope, flashed through her mind.\n\n\u201cYes, Miss Eleanora,\u201d she said, \u201cI will come to your ball.\u201d And\nwaiting for no more words, she went away.\n\n\u201cShe is worrying her life out,\u201d Eleanora said pityingly. \u201cI don\u2019t\nbelieve she eats properly.\u201d And taking more trouble for a poor person\nthan she had ever done before, she wrote to the housekeeper at\nErrickdale to send Bridget O\u2019Rourke every day substantial and tempting\nfood enough for an entire meal. Then she dismissed the whole matter;\nor rather the dressmaker was announced, and the important question as\nto whether her balldress should be of velvet or satin drove all minor\nsubjects, such as hunger and cold and nakedness, from her mind.\n\nMeanwhile, Bridget strove to calm her father\u2019s wrath, which he poured\nforth volubly as the train carried them home; and when he was still,\nshe thought out to its full scope the plan which had occurred to her.\nShe would go to the ball, and, when the guests were assembled, she\nwould step forth from her hiding-place, and stand before them all, and\nplead the people\u2019s cause. But the more she thought of it the more her\nheart misgave her. Why should she hope they would heed her then rather\nthan to-day? Would not the master only be the more incensed against\nhis miners, because of the shame to which he would be exposed? Yes,\nshe felt sure that this would be the result. And then the long, long\ndays and weeks which must elapse before the chance would come at all!\nHow could she endure it? She put that sudden hope and plan away.\nInstead of it, she prayed again and again with smothered sobs: \u201cO\nChrist! who for love of us died for us, save thy people now.\u201d\n\nBut she walked the long walk home from Teal station without fatigue,\nand came into Errickdale strong and well, to meet the woes she yearned\nto heal. The children had learned to understand her pity for them.\nThey welcomed her return with cries for food; she gave them what she\ncould, and lay down supperless herself that night to rest. After that,\neach day brought her a full meal from the great house, but she never\ntasted of it; there were those who needed it more, she said.\n\nOnce, on her way to a poor family with a basket of these provisions,\nthe smell of the well-cooked food produced such a violent craving that\nit seemed to her for a moment that she should go mad. With a great\neffort she controlled herself and stood still. \u201cChrist,\u201d she prayed,\n\u201chave mercy! Shall I eat dainties while the children starve?\u201d\n\nThe craving did not cease, but strength to resist it came. She entered\nthe wretched room to which she was bound, and fed the inmates who\ncrowded around her; then she hurried home. In the cupboard were a few\ncrusts and a bone already well picked. How sweetly they tasted! And\nwhile she feasted on them a woman crawled feebly in. \u201cI\u2019ve fasted\nlong,\u201d she said, and quietly Bridget gave her all she had.\n\nTwice afterward she felt that horrible craving, and then it ceased.\nHer father saw that she ate little, but never guessed how little it\nreally was; he saw that she grew pinched and pale, but fancied it was\ngrief alone that caused it. He did not know, and no one knew, that,\nwith what Errickdale counted \u201cplenty\u201d at her command, Bridget was\nliving like the poorest. The thirst for self-sacrifice, the thirst of\na supernatural love, consumed her. \u201cHE did it,\u201d she used to say to\nherself. \u201cHe was poor for us, and he died for us.\u201d From her room one\nby one her possessions departed; she carried them to those who, as she\nthought, needed them more, or she disposed of them for their use. Soon\nthe attic room, which no one but herself ever entered, held literally\nnothing but the crucifix on the wall. Laying her weary limbs on the\nhard floor at night, she thought of the hard cross whereon her Lord\nhad died. \u201cMine is an easier bed than his,\u201d she said, and smiled in\nthe darkness. \u201cMay he make me worthier to share his blessed pains!\u201d\n\nBut the nights were few that she spent on even so poor a couch as\nthis. There was sickness in Errickdale as well as want, and Bridget\nwas nurse, and doctor, and servant, and watcher beside the dead. And\nin her princess life at Malton Eleanora Rossetti counted the same long\nhours blithely, eager for her festival to come.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe 20th of January! Stars overhead, and snow underfoot, and a biting\nfrost to make Errickdale as merry as its heiress wished. Winter\nwithout, and want and woe perhaps; but who needed to think of that? In\nthe old mansion summer itself was reigning. Orange and lemon trees\nmingled their golden fruits and spicy bloom in the corridors and halls\nand up and down the winding stairs. Lamps burned some faintly-scented\noil, that filled the warm air with a subtle, delicious odor, and lamps\nand tall wax tapers flooded the room with golden but undazzling light.\nFountains played among beds of rare ferns and exotics; and magnificent\nblossoms lay in reckless profusion upon the floor, to be trodden upon,\nand yield their perfume, and die unheeded. And in doublet and hose and\ncap and plume, and all the gay festival gear of a king\u2019s court of\nmedi\u00e6val times, hosts of servants waited upon Eleanora\u2019s word.\n\nThe winter twilight fell soon over Errickdale. In its gathering\nshadows John Rossetti was galloping home from Teal on his swiftest\nhorse, when the creature shied suddenly, then stopped, trembling all\nover. A woman stood in the path, ghostly and strange to see through\nthe gloom. Fearless John Rossetti started at the unexpected sight.\n\u201cWhat do you want of me?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cFood,\u201d the woman answered, in a voice that thrilled him with\ninexplicable awe; from some far-off land it seemed to come\u2015\u2015a land\nthat knew nothing of ease and joy. \u201cYour people die of want, and cold,\nand pain,\u201d it said. \u201cIn the name of God Almighty, and while you have\ntime, hear me and help them.\u201d\n\nThen this fearless John Rossetti sneered. \u201cWhile I have time?\u201d he\nsaid. \u201cI have no time to-night, I warrant you. Choose better seasons\nthan this for your begging, Bridget O\u2019Rourke.\u201d\n\nHe struck the spurs into his horse, but, though it quivered all over\nagain, it would not move an inch. The woman lifted her hands to\nheaven. \u201cGod, my God! I have done all I can,\u201d she said. \u201cI leave it\nnow with thee.\u201d And so she vanished.\n\nIn Errick Hall Eleanora was speaking to a servant. \u201cMake haste,\u201d she\nsaid. \u201cI had almost forgotten it. Make haste and bring Bridget\nO\u2019Rourke to me. I promised she should see it all.\u201d\n\nThe servant hurried obediently to John O\u2019Rourke\u2019s cottage. Its owner\nwas crouching sullenly over the fire. \u201cWhere\u2019s my girl?\u201d he said.\n\u201cMiss Eleanora wants her to see the sights? See \u2019em she shall, then.\nIt\u2019s little she gets of brightness now, poor thing. Bridget! Bridget!\u201d\n\nBut though he called loudly, no one answered. He climbed the stairs to\nthe dark attic, and still no reply.\n\n\u201cGive me the light, boy,\u201d he cried, with a dull foreboding at his\nheart, and he and the servant entered the room together.\n\nShe was not there. What was more, nothing was there\u2015\u2015literally\nnothing\u2015\u2015except the cross of Him who gave his all, his very life, for\nmen.\n\n\u201cI fear, I fear,\u201d this John said, trembling; and he took the crucifix\ndown, and carried it with him for defence against invisible foes whom\nhe dreaded far more than anything he could see.\n\n\u201cWe will go look for her, O\u2019Rourke,\u201d the servant said. \u201cI must find\nher for Miss Eleanora, if not for her own sake.\u201d\n\nIn the kitchen supper was on the table, and the fire crackled on the\nhearth. Her loving father had been waiting long for her. Where was the\nchild?\n\nThey asked the question at every tenement and every room. The people\njoined them in the search for her whom they all held dear. On the\noutskirts of the place, and where the road stretched out without\nanother sign of habitation for five miles to Teal, was a lonely hovel.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s there,\u201d one woman said to another. \u201c\u2019Course she\u2019s there. Might\n\u2019a\u2019 known it. Jake Ireton\u2019s wife had twins yesterday, and it\u2019s little\nelse they have. She\u2019s there, caring for \u2019em.\u201d\n\nYet they paused at the door, as if loath to open it. The whole throng\nseemed to feel that vague foreboding which John O\u2019Rourke had felt;\nthose who were able to crowd into the narrow room entered it timidly.\nWhat was it that they dreaded?\n\nIn the grand saloon of Errick mansion, decked like a regal ballroom,\nJohn Rossetti\u2019s daughter, attired gorgeously like the French queen in\nthe famous painting which is Malton\u2019s pride, received her courtiers;\nand the band played the gay dance-music, and the light feet of the\ndancers glided over the floors.\n\nIn the poorest hut of Errickdale John O\u2019Rourke\u2019s daughter received her\ncourtiers, too, in regal state.\n\nIt was dark and silent there before the torches were brought in. By\ntheir flaring light the people saw the poor mother on a bed of rags\nand straw.\n\n\u201cBe still as ye can,\u201d she said softly. \u201cIs\u2019t thee, O\u2019Rourke? Thy good\ngirl\u2019s been wi\u2019 me this four hours. One o\u2019 my babbies died, thank God!\nShe laid it out there all decent.\u201d\n\nAnd then, in the dim light, they saw the outline of a tiny form beside\nthe bed; such being the roses and adornings of Bridget\u2019s court.\n\n\u201cShe heard a horse go trampling by, and went to see \u2019t,\u201d the woman\nsaid. \u201cWhen she came back, says she: \u2018\u2019Twas master. I\u2019ve pleaded my\nlast plea for my people. My heart\u2019s broke.\u2019 Then t\u2019other babby cried,\nand she took\u2019t to still it, and she lay down wi\u2019 it, and, ever since,\nthey\u2019ve both been still, and I hope she\u2019s sleepit and forgot her woes\nawhile, God bless her!\u201d\n\nSleeping on the hard floor, but she does not feel it. They bring the\ntorches near her; she does not heed the glare, though the baby on her\nbosom starts and wakes and weeps. She does not hear it weep. In truth,\nthis queen has forgotten her woes in a dreamless slumber, and truly\nGod has blessed her; but with bitter wailing her courtiers kneel\nbefore her in the court of Death, the king.\n\nThere is food on the table which her own hands had placed there; there\nis fire on the hearth which her own hands kindled. She who lies there\ndead has not died of cold or hunger; she has died of a broken heart.\n\nAnd the viol and flute and harp ring sweetly, and the trumpet and drum\nhave a stately sound in Errick Hall, and youths and maidens dance and\nmake merry. The great doors were flung open, and in long procession\nthe guests passed into the banqueting-hall, where was room for every\none to sit at the magnificent tables, and Eleanora was enthroned on a\ndais, queen of them all. Reproduced as in a living picture was a ball\nof _Le Grand Monarque_. \u201cJohn Rossetti has surpassed himself,\u201d his\nguests said with admiring wonder. In a pause of the music Eleanora\u2019s\nsilvery laugh was heard; she looked with pride at her father, and\nspoke aloud so that all might hear: \u201cYes, there never was such a\nfather as mine. His birthday gift is beyond my highest expectations.\u201d\n\n\u201c_Rossetti of Errickdale!_\u201d\n\nFrom above their heads the strange voice came. Far up in the embrasure\nof a window a man with a lighted torch was standing. John O\u2019Rourke\u2019s\neyes met John Rossetti\u2019s, and commanded them, and held them fast.\n\n\u201cWe mean no harm,\u201d he said. \u201cWe come peaceable, if you meet us\npeaceable; but if not, there\u2019s danger and death all round ye. I warn\nye fairly. Miss Eleanora bade my Bridget come to see her feast, and\nwe\u2019ve come to bring her. Ye\u2019d best sit quiet, all of ye, for we\u2019ve\nfire to back us.\u201d And he held his torch dangerously near to the\ncurtains. Errickdale hall and Errickdale master were in his power.\n\nComing through the hall they heard it\u2015\u2015the steady, onward tramp of an\norderly and determined crowd; the notes of a weird Irish dirge\nheralded their coming. Two and two the courtiers of Bridget O\u2019Rourke\nmarched in.\n\nMen in rags, their lips close-shut and grim, a rude and flaring torch\nborne in each man\u2019s hand; haggard women with wolfish eyes and scantly\nclad, leading or carrying children who are wailing loudly or moaning\nin a way that chills the blood to hear, while the women shrilly sing\nthat dirge for a departed soul\u2015\u2015would the terrible procession never\ncease? Blows and clamor would be easier to bear than this long-drawn\nhorror, as two and two the people filed around the loaded tables and\ngayly-attired guests.\n\nRising in amazement at the first entrance of these new-comers,\nthroughout their coming Eleanora stood upright, one hand pressed upon\nher heart, as if to quell its rapid beating. Beautiful, and queenly\ndespite her pallid cheeks, she stood there, yet two and two the people\npassed slowly up the hall, and slowly passed before her dais, and made\nno sign of homage. It was another queen who held them in her sway.\n\nWas it over at last?\u2015\u2015for the procession that seemed to have no end\nceased to file through the lofty doors. The men stood back against the\nwall, still with their lips close-shut and grim; they lowered their\ntorches as banners are lowered to greet a funeral train. The women\nflung up their lean, uncovered arms, and shrieked out one more wail of\nbitter lamentation, then stood silent too. The very babes were still.\nAnd all eyes were fixed upon the door\u2015\u2015all except John O\u2019Rourke\u2019s,\nthat never stirred from John Rossetti\u2019s face.\n\nBorne in state, though that state was but a board draped with a ragged\nsheet\u2015\u2015her face uncovered to those stars and to that biting frost, her\nfeet bare to those snows for which Eleanora wished; the face marked by\na suffering which was far deeper than any that mere cold or hunger\ncauses, yet sealed by it to an uplifted look which was beyond all\nearthly loveliness; the hands crossed on a heart that ached no longer,\nover the crucifix which was this queen\u2019s only treasure\u2015\u2015so Bridget\nO\u2019Rourke had come to Eleanora\u2019s feast.\n\nAnd so they bore her up the hall; and before the regal dais this more\nregal bier stood still.\n\nThen at last Eleanora moved, and started, and stretched out her hands.\n\u201cWhat do you want of me?\u201d she said. \u201cWhat is it that you want of me?\nSpeak to me, Bridget O\u2019Rourke. Speak to me.\u201d\n\nThey were face to face again in their youth and beauty, but the\ncontrast between them now brought no delight. They were face to face\nagain; but let this heiress command as she might or beg as she might,\nnever again would the rich voice speak to her with passionate\npleading, or the grave eyes meet her own with a stronger prayer than\nwords. This Queen of Death made no answer to her royal sister, except\nthe awful answer of that silence which no power of earth can break.\n\n\u201c_Rossetti of Errickdale!_\u201d\n\nOnce again from far above their heads they heard him calling\u2015\u2015the man\nwhose earthly all lay dead before them.\n\n\u201cWe threatened to strike for food, and we feared ye. We suffered sore\nlike slaves, for we feared ye. It\u2019s ye that may fear us now, I tell\nye, for to-night we strike for a life. Give us my good girl\u2019s life\nagain\u2015\u2015my good girl\u2019s life.\u201d\n\nHe was wild with grief, and the people were wild with want and grief.\nEchoing up to the arches, their shout rang loud and long. \u201cWe strike\nfor a life,\u201d they cried. \u201cGive us back that life, or we burn ye all\ntogether.\u201d\n\nOwner of princely wealth was he upon whom they called. Seven hours ago\nthat life was in his gift\u2015\u2015one act of pity might have saved it, one\ndoled-out pittance kept the heart from breaking. Let him lavish his\nmillions upon her now; he cannot make her lift a finger or draw a\nbreath.\n\n\u201cJohn O\u2019Rourke!\u201d\n\nIt was not the master\u2019s voice that answered. For the first time John\nO\u2019Rourke\u2019s eyes turned from the master and looked upon Eleanora. The\nqueen of a night held out her hands again to her who had gone to claim\nthe crown of endless ages.\n\n\u201cJohn O\u2019Rourke,\u201d she said, gently and slowly, so that each word\ncarried weight, \u201cwhat is it that Bridget wants of me? What would she\nask if she could speak to me to-night? I will give her whatever she\nwould ask. _Does she want her life back again?_\u201d\n\nThe unexpected question, the gentle words, struck home. Suddenly\nO\u2019Rourke\u2019s defiant eyes grew dim; and through his tears he saw his\ngood girl\u2019s face, with the deep lines of suffering plain upon it, and\nthe new and restful look of perfect peace. It pleaded with him as no\nwords could plead.\n\n\u201cMiss Eleanora,\u201d he cried, \u201cI wouldn\u2019t have her back. Not for all the\nworld I wouldn\u2019t call her back. She\u2019s been through sore anguish, and I\nthank God it\u2019s over. Give us food and fair wages, miss\u2015\u2015that\u2019s all she\nwould ask of ye.\u201d\n\nHe paused, and in the pause none dreamed how wild a fight the man was\nfighting with his wrath and hatred. But still that worn and silent\nform pleaded with him and would not be gainsaid. At length he spoke,\nhuskily:\n\n\u201cAnd she would ask of us, miss, not to harm one of ye, but to let\nmaster and all go free for the love of God. Shall we do what Bridget\nwould ask of us, my men?\u201d\n\nHis strained voice faltered, he burst into loud Irish weeping\u2015\u2015a\nlonely father\u2019s weeping, touching to hear in its patient resignation.\n\n\u201cYes! yes!\u201d the men and women answered him; and in the hall rich and\npoor wept and laughed together, for the great strike of Errickdale was\nover, and peace was made, and want supplied. But through the tumult of\nsorrow and rejoicing she alone lay utterly unmoved and silent who had\nwon life at the price of life.\n\nThe story is often told in Malton of a young girl, very beautiful and\nmuch beloved, who renounced the world on the night of her eighteenth\nbirthday, in the very midst of a feast of unequalled splendor, and at\nthe threshold of a future full of brilliant promise. They say she\ndwelt in lonely Errickdale, among the poor and ignorant, and lived\nlike them and for them. And now and then they add that, when once some\none ventured to ask her why she chose so strange a life, she answered\nthat she had seen death at her feast in the midst of pomp and\nsplendor, and had learned, once for all, their worth. But when she was\nfurther asked if she could not be willing, like many others present at\nthat feast, to care for the poor and to give to them, and yet have joy\nand comfort too, the fire of a divine love kindled in her eyes, and\nshe answered that she counted it comfort and joy to live for the\npeople for whom she had seen another content and glad to die.\n\n\n\n\nMODERN MELODISTS.\n\nSCHUMANN.[199]\n\n\nRobert Schumann was the true successor of Schubert. The impassioned\nadmirer of him whom he designated as \u201cthe Prince of Melody,\u201d Schumann,\nthough not equalling his inimitable predecessor, succeeded\nnevertheless in winning for himself a lofty place among the masters of\nlyric music.\n\nWe say that Schumann has not equalled Schubert; but it must not thence\nbe concluded that he is necessarily inferior to his rival each time\nthat he treats an analogous subject. Schumann has perhaps rendered all\nthe shades of human love with as much truth and depth as Schubert, but\nscarcely ever has he reached the dramatic power of \u201cThe Erl King\u201d and\n\u201cThe Young Nun\u201d; never has he found the brilliant coloring and light\nwhich shines out in \u201cThe Mariner,\u201d \u201cThe Departure,\u201d and \u201cThe Stars.\u201d\nThus Schumann\u2019s _Hidalgo_ is evidently the same cavalier as he of\nSchubert\u2019s \u201cDeparture.\u201d In Schubert he quits his German Fatherland and\nhurries forth to seek new pleasures. Schumann takes him into Spain:\n\u201cMine be fresh flow\u2019rets rare,\u201d he cries, \u201cthe hearts of ladies fair,\nand mine the combat fierce.\u201d Alas! _Quantum mutatus!_ The beauties of\nSpain bring small inspiration, and Schumann\u2019s bolero resembles the\njoyous song of Schubert just as much as a military band of Madrid\nresembles an orchestra of Vienna. In the same way, in dramatic\nsituations, Schumann is not always well inspired. Instead of being\nsimple, his thought is vulgar (as in \u201cThe Hostile Brothers\u201d and \u201cThe\nTwo Grenadiers\u201d), or else, in larger works, his search for the\ndramatic accent gives a strained expression to his style and a\nwearisome obscurity to his intention. This, however, is not always the\ncase. Who does not know the admirable \u201cFuneral March\u201d of his\nQuintette, assuredly the most beautiful of his symphonic works, and\nexcelling all the _musique de chambre_ of Schubert?\n\nThe overture to _Manfred_ has many sombre beauties; but instead of\nfollowing these lugubrious accents by a plaint more melodious, more\nhuman, and less infernal\u2015\u2015instead of letting in a little light to make\nhis \u201cdarkness\u201d yet more \u201cvisible\u201d\u2015\u2015Schumann only quits the shadows to\nprecipitate himself into utter blackness, and horror succeeds alarm.\n\nWe find, however, the true note of dramatic inspiration in the _Lied_\n\u201cJ\u2019ai pardonn\u00e9,\u201d with its cry of love betrayed and of terrible\nmalediction.\n\n \u201cJ\u2019ai vu ton \u00e2me en songe,\n J\u2019ai vu la nuit o\u00f9 sa douleur la plonge,\n Et le remords \u00e0 tes pas enchain\u00e9.\n Et ton printemps aux larmes destin\u00e9.\u201d[200]\n\nThe effect is all the more striking because absolutely new: an\nharmonic sequence of incredible boldness, resolving itself into fresh\ndiscords more audacious still, and, hovering above, a simple phrase of\nsong, which falls cold and solemn, like a malediction from on high!\n\nTowards the middle the discords resolve themselves regularly; and\nbefore resuming the original idea, before returning to the expressions\nof anguish uttered by the first harmonies, Schumann allows us, through\neight bars, a breathing-time, on a very simple phrase which he keeps\nin the proximate keys to the primitive. If, with regard to the\noverture to _Manfred_, Schumann is to be reproached with having\nallowed so little light to find entrance among its shadows, he has, at\nany rate in this case, had the good sense to submit to the necessary\nlaws of contrast, and thus gains much by allowing us to breathe a few\nmoments, that we may realize more fully the depth of despair to which\nhe is about to drag us down. He returns to the first phrase, and we\nhear again the chords which have already so deeply moved us; still the\nmelodic phrase enlarges and mounts upward, while the discords take a\nnew development. After this tempest of the soul we reach the haven,\nthe key returns to ut on the words _J\u2019ai pardonne_ (\u201cI have\npardoned\u201d), and Schumann leaves us filled with admiration, not unmixed\nwith horror.\n\nStrange eccentricity of the human genius! In this sublime _Lied_,\nperhaps the most powerful page which Schumann has written, we can\ndiscover the germ of those defects which too often mar his more\nextended works, and begin to understand why Schumann has fallen into\nthe obscurities we just now named. What is, in fact, the especial\ncharacteristic of this wonderful melody? Despair; but despair under\ntortuous and exaggerated forms.\n\nIf only Schumann would have been content to paint the sufferings of\nthe heart, all might have gone well; but no, he exhausts himself in\nattempting also to render the tortures of the mind, the anxious\ndoubting of Manfred, the absolute negation incarnate in Faust. Now, if\nthe torments of the heart furnish one of the most powerful elements of\nthe drama (_Orestes_, _\u0152dipus_, and _Ph\u00e6drus_ prove this truth), there\nis absolutely nothing artistic whatever in mental torments,\nphilosophic doubt, and scepticism. The true artist, by his very\nnature, must believe and love.\n\nIf against this assertion Goethe, Byron, and Alfred de Musset are\nquoted\u2015\u2015three great poets, with whom Schumann has some analogy\u2015\u2015we\nwould say: All three were poets, not because, but in spite, of doubt;\nand, what is truer still, they are poets when they cease to doubt, or\nwhen they struggle against it. Even Alfred de Musset was no sceptic\nwhen he exclaimed in his immortal \u201cAugust Night\u201d (_Nuit d\u2019Ao\u00fbt_):\n\n \u201cO ma muse, ne pleurez pas;\n A qui perd tout, Dieu reste encore.\n Dieu l\u00e0-haut, l\u2019espoir ici-bas!\u201d[201]\n\nAlas! Schumann also knew the evil of our time. Was it not doubt which\nmade him lose his way in the search after some impossible and\nanti-artistic ideal? Was it not doubt which, by day and night,\ntortured his sick soul and urged him on to commit suicide? Doubt, in\nhis impassioned mind, engendered madness; need we, after this, wonder\nthat his artistic ideas were confused, his tone unhealthy, and that\nhis music oftener makes us think of death than life, darkness than\nlight? But when Schumann succeeds in tearing himself from the fatal\nembrace of scepticism, his musical inspirations take sublime flights.\nWhen he sang of love he was truly great, because he believed in love.\n\nWhile Schubert was content to throw off, one by one, without apparent\nconnection, his admirable _Lieder_,[202] Schumann gathered all the\nshades of tenderness into a marvellous unity\u2015\u2015as, for instance, in the\n\u201cLoves of a Poet\u201d and \u201cWoman\u2019s Love,\u201d in which we are made to traverse\nall its phases.\n\nBefore saying any more about these two important works, we would name\nseveral detached _Lieder_ of singular gracefulness: \u201cD\u00e9sir,\u201d or\n\u201cChanson du Matin\u201d (A Morning Song), and \u201cO ma Fianc\u00e9e.\u201d Nor must we\nforget a reverie, \u201cAu Loin\u201d (Far Away), on which is the impress of an\ninfinite sadness. We seem in it to be listening, at the dead of night,\nto the lament of an exile weeping at the thought of his country and\nall whom he loves. It reminds us of a Daniel singing, on the banks of\nthe Euphrates, the divine plaint of captivity: _Super flumina\nBabylonis, illic sedimus et flevimus_.\n\nThe \u201cLoves of a Poet\u201d open with a series of little melodies full of\npoesy\u2015\u2015a little nosegay of fragrant flowers which the poet offers to\nhis beloved. It is when, alas! he has been betrayed by the faithless\none that he sings his sublime song \u201cJ\u2019ai pardonn\u00e9\u201d\u2015\u2015a pardon which is,\nnevertheless, worse than a malediction.\n\nIf only the \u201cLoves of a Poet\u201d ended with this admirable melody, the\nwork would be complete; and the effect marvellous. But no; Henri\nHeine, the author of the poem, prolonged in an inexplicable fashion\nthe situation, henceforth without interest, and the betrayed poet\ncomes back to tell us that he is\u2015\u2015unfortunate! Did we not know it\nalready? He repeats this stale bit of information _nine_ times over\nconsecutively, in _nine_ \u201cLieder,\u201d and under _nine_ different\nforms!\u2015\u2015a literary impossibility which inevitably reminds us of the\ndespair of the Cid, persistently offering his head to Chimenes.\n\nAt the fourth reapparition Heine seems at last to begin to suspect\nthat the plaintive tone is wearisome; but he finds nothing better, by\nway of a change, than to throw his hero into the humoristic style\u2015\u2015we\nhad almost said the grotesque. Our readers shall judge:\n\n \u201cA man loves a woman,\n Of whom one, more fortunate, has the love.\u201d\n\nAlready we have a trio of lovers. We continue:\n\n \u201cBut he who reigns in this heart\n Fancies another, in _his_ turn.\u201d\n\nHere, then, is an interesting quarternion of people who cannot\ncontrive to come to an understanding with one another; but we are not\nat the end. Enter another individual\u2015\u2015Number 5.\n\n \u201cThe fair one, in revenge,\n Makes choice of an unknown.\u201d\n\nAnd now, place for the last lover,\n\n Whose \u201chand and heart alike\n Will be for the first comer.\u201d\n\nA jurisconsult would simply have told us: _Primus_ amat _Secundam_,\nqu\u00e6 _Tertium_, qui _Quartam_, qu\u00e6 _Quintum_, qui Sextam \u2026 (c\u00e6tera\ndesiderantur)\u2015\u2015which, at any rate, would have had the merit of\nclearness; and, on remarking immediately that the _species_ contained\nthree feminine terminations and three masculine, he would have\ncelebrated three marriages.\n\nEven the genius of Goethe, which imagined the _Elective affinities_,\nwould never have sufficed to create these _Repulsive affinities_. But\nthe one most to be pitied is the unfortunate Schumann, who had\ncondemned himself to set this _theory of Elective Repulsions_ to\nmusic. In his place one would have preferred, like Rameau, to seek\none\u2019s inspirations fron the _Gazette de Hollande_.\n\nHenri Heine, after this _tour de force_, has nothing left but to kill\nhis poet; and he kills him accordingly. After a few more insipidities\nwhich fill the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth\n_Lieder_, the poet will order his coffin\u2015\u2015\n\n \u201cOf wood encircled with iron,\n Bigger than the tun of Heidelberg,\n Longer than the bridge of Treves\n Or that of Frankfort,\u201d etc.\n\nThe last feature might have been touching, if it had been better\nmanaged. \u201cKnow you,\u201d asks the poet, \u201cwhat makes my coffin so heavy?\n\n \u201cIt is that it contains my joy,\n My sorrow, and my love.\u201d\n\nThe music of Schumann is affected by the feebleness of the poem. The\nmelodies which follow \u201cJ\u2019ai pardonn\u00e9\u201d are inferior to the preceding\nones. It is only towards the end that the musician escapes from the\nmaterial hindrances of the subject; the air gains in freedom, the\nharmonies in richness; the poor poet recovers some of his first\naccents when he sings: \u201cIt is that it contains my joy, my sorrow, and\nmy love.\u201d\n\n\u201cA Woman\u2019s Love.\u201d Here is a little poem far superior to the preceding.\nThe author is Adalbert de Chamisso, well known for his _Wonderful\nHistory of Peter Schlemihl_. This time poet and musician identify\nthemselves with each other marvellously, and Schumann lives and\nbreathes in every verse of the poet.\n\nIn the first song the young girl owns her love:\n\n \u201cHave I, then, had a dream?\n But him I see!\n\n * * * * *\n\n What makes me tremble thus,\n And takes my sleep from me,\n And makes my heart beat fast?\n \u2015\u2015Yes; it is he!\u201d\n\nThroughout this melody one is conscious of a deep and inward\nhappiness, which is not without a pleasing touch of melancholy.\n\nIn that which next follows the young girl sings her beloved. The\nrhythm is lofty, the melody brilliant. There are, however, in this\n_Lied_ parts which are not equal to the preceding, and which are\nwanting in naturalness. But listen; she is loved:\n\n \u201cWhy tremble thus? why doubt, my heart?\n Thou beatest nigh to breaking. Ah!\n Me has he chosen among all;\n And thou, my heart, believ\u2019st it not!\u201d\n\nThe enthusiasm which fills this melody makes it comparable to the\ndeepest melodies of Schubert. What we feel peculiar in it to Schumann\nis a feverish tone, a shade of delirium, if we may say so, which we\nmight seek for in yain in Schubert. The ternary rhythm, especially\nwhen the measure is rapid, is singularly suitable to impassioned\nmovements. A chord, detached not too strongly falls upon the first\nbeat of each bar; the hurrying melody stops upon the word _Ah_, on a\nconcord of the seventh, very simple, but of a pleasing effect after\nthe regular ascent of the bass. Then it continues, rapid and fevered,\nand the first phrase closes in C, on the words: \u201cAnd thou, my heart,\nbeliev\u2019st not.\u201d\n\nThen, more slowly, the maiden caresses her precious memories:\n\n \u201cHis mouth has said to me:\n I love thee.\u201d\n\nThe melody softens, the phrase is more free and becomes freshly\nanimated on the words, \u201cA dream bewilders me,\u201d then bursts out\npowerfully when the young girl exclaims:\n\n \u201cO Heaven! if this is but a dream,\n Then may I wake no more.\u201d\n\nThis phrase, by its lofty accent and a certain lyric transport,\npleasantly recalls certain movements of Gluck\u2019s.\n\nWhen, in a low voice, the maiden resumes, \u201cWhy tremble thus,\u201d etc., we\nmight think the melody terminated. But the artist has kept us a few\nlast notes, breathed from the depths of his soul. After an eager\nrepetition of the words, \u201cMe has he chosen among all, and thou, my\nheart, believ\u2019st it not,\u201d she once more utters them, very slowly and\nvery softly, in a melodic phrase full of tenderness and supplication.\nShe is more calm; her heart belies her mouth, and she believes.\n\nThe fourth and fifth _Lieder_ are two songs of an affianced maiden.\nThe young girl at first sings to herself of her betrothed, and the\nsentiment of the music is inward, tranquil, and deep; but on quitting\nher father\u2019s roof to meet her husband the _fianc\u00e9e_ sings to her\nsisters, with a youthful pride and gladness, \u201cIf I am fair, I owe it\nonly to my happiness,\u201d and the melody breaks into a song of exceeding\nbeauty.\n\nA wife, she murmurs soon into her husband\u2019s ear, \u201cI hope,\u201d and in the\nfollowing _Lied_ we see her as a mother. She presses her little one to\nher heart, and a melody of exquisite sweetness expresses the words:\n\n \u201cFresh brightness and new love\n In a cradle are revealed.\u201d\n\nAlas! the eighth _Lied_ recalls us to sorrow, the great reality of\nlife. \u201cO bitter woe! my best-beloved beneath the wing of death is\nsleeping; forlorn, I shrink within myself, and solace my sad heart\nwith weeping.\u201d Then the veil falls.\n\n \u201cAgain I see thee, happiness gone by\n Of former days.\u201d\n\nSo ends the poem. But if the part of the poet is finished when he has\nmade this sorrowful appeal to the past, there is nothing to enchain\nthe inspiration of the musician. From the depth of his grief, at the\nfoot of this coffin, the poet has just evoked the memories of\nhappiness for ever fled. The musician will give a voice to that soul\nwhich is called music\u2015\u2015O marvellous power! Words would be misplaced;\nharmonies are more discreet, more silent. There is nothing outward\nhere; it is the soul, contemplating the past, to which music lends its\npoignant reality.\n\nWe cannot quit Schumann without a few words on the wife he so loved,\nand who has shown herself worthy of his love by a steadfast devotion\nto the memory of her husband, so long and so unjustly unappreciated.\nThe author of a number of remarkable _Lieder_, Mme. Clara Schumann\ndeserves a place among the most distinguished representatives of the\nmelodic style. Her place should be elsewhere, among living composers,\nbut we could not separate her even in thought from the husband to\nwhom, in death, she proves so faithful.\n\nWe have read with exceeding pleasure a little collection of _Lieder_,\nof which the idea is touching. The husband and wife contributed each\ntheir flowers (of melody) to the garland they have woven. We even\ndoubt whether the best page of this collection is not a melody by Mme.\nSchumann, entitled \u201cLove for Love.\u201d\n\nIf we were asked, What is the style of Mme. Schumann? we should\nanswer, That of Robert Schumann. Can we wonder at it? They loved each\nother so much that their souls must gradually have come to bear a\nmutual resemblance, and they would have but one inspiration, as they\nhad but one love.\n\nSchubert and Schumann are the two composers of the past who occupy the\nfirst rank in the melodic style; they have in common that the _Lied_\nhas been carried by them to its highest expression, and that in return\nthey owe to it their most lasting renown.\n\nIn a complete work we should have now to inquire what the different\ngreat composers have been at the time when they were drawn by their\ninspirations on melodic ground. Without entering into disquisitions\nwhich would here be out of place, we ought nevertheless, from the fear\nof being too incomplete, bring forward certain _Lieder_ which, however\nsmall a place they may claim among the works of the masters of whom we\nare about to speak, none the less reveal an illustrious origin. Haydn,\nMozart, and Beethoven have written a tolerably large number of\nmelodies, very little known until twenty years ago, when an\nintelligent editor had the happy idea of collecting in one volume\nforty of these melodies, chosen from the most beautiful.[203] It needs\nno long examination to show that Haydn and Beethoven, always inspired,\nbut above all symphonists, generally take some large phrase which one\nwould suppose borrowed from one of their symphonies. Thus Haydn\u2019s\n\u201cLove Song\u201d reminds us of those fine themes with which his andantes\nopen; and in the same manner Beethoven, who, by exception, has found\nin his charming \u201cAdelaide\u201d the true form of the melody, surprisingly\nrecalls, in the canzonetta, \u201cIn questa tomba,\u201d the admirable adagio of\nthe grand Sonata Appassionnata in F minor.\n\nMozart, who was more of a melodist[204] than these two masters, has\ncomposed real _Lieder_, in which, at times, we seem to have a\npresentiment of Schubert. Thus, \u201cThe Cradle Song\u201d might very suitably\nbear the signature of the author of \u201cThe Young Mother.\u201d Elsewhere, on\nthe contrary, in \u201cL\u2019Amour Malheureux\u201d and \u201cLoin de toi,\u201d we find the\nstyle and the dramatic accent of the author of _Don Juan_ and _The\nMagic Flute_.\n\nThe _Lieder_ of Weber and Mendelssohn, of Meyerbeer, of Berlioz and\nRichard Wagner, will not detain us longer. These illustrious masters\nhave cultivated the _Lied_ with too little zeal to have won from it\nany lasting fame. Even Meyerbeer would gain nothing by our dwelling on\nthis subject in regard to him. He has a certain \u201cMonk\u201d upon his\nconscience, of which the less we say the better. On the other hand,\nother artists, greatly inferior to those just named, have given in\ntheir melodic compositions the full measure of their talent. We may\nquote, as examples, Niedermeyer, an accomplished musician, whose\n\u201cLake\u201d has obtained a great and deserved success; Monpou, the author\nof \u201cCastibelza,\u201d whose merit must not be confounded with that of such\ncontemporaries as Abbadie, Arnaud, and Lo\u00efsa Puget.\n\nIn Italy Rossini and Donizetti have left melodies to which they have\ngiven the singular name of _Soir\u00e9es_. Our readers will recall\nRossini\u2019s \u201cMira la bianca luna,\u201d which has a real charm, but which\nreminds one rather of the author of the \u201cGazza ladra\u201d than of the\ninspired singer of \u201cWilliam Tell.\u201d\n\nIn the \u201cAbbandonata\u201d Donizetti reaches a truth of expression of which,\nunfortunately, he has not been too lavish. In listening to those\nprettinesses, written chiefly to obtain pleasing vocal effects, and\nwhich, in the hands of writers like Bordogni, Gordigiani, and their\ncompeers, have been lowered to the level of the most vulgar\nvocalization, we find ourselves regretting the old masters of the\nItalian school\u2015\u2015Scarlatti, Lotti, Marcello, Durante, whose melodies\nare incontestably more youthful and fresh than the romances of the\nmodern Italian composers.\n\n\n [199] See \u201cLes M\u00e9lodistes,\u201d by M. Arthur Coquard in _Le\n Contemporain_ for Nov. 1, 1872.\n\n [200] \u201cIn dreams I have seen thy soul; I have seen the night\n in which she hides her woe; I have seen remorse to thy\n footsteps chained, and thy springtime doomed to tears.\u201d\n\n [201] \u201cWeep not, my Muse; oh! weep no more. God stays with\n him who loses all beside\u2015\u2015God on high, and hope below!\u201d\n\n [202] We hope that in a former notice we have shown that\n there is an artistic connection between them. (See THE\n CATHOLIC WORLD for February, 1877.)\n\n [203] _Quarante M\u00e9lodies de Beethoven, Mozart, et Haydn,\n chez Flaxland._\n\n [204] We say _melodist_, and not _melodic_. One may be a\n musician of the first order without being a great melodist.\n Thus Meyerbeer, so great in other respects, is a poor\n melodist; but will any one say that he is not melodic?\n\n\n\n\nNEW PUBLICATIONS.\n\n\n THE BROWN HOUSE AT DUFFIELD; or, Life within and without the Fold.\n By Minnie Mary Lee. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1876.\n\nA good Catholic novel is still, we fear,\n\n Nigro simillima cygno.\n\nThe great majority of semi-controversial tales which have been written\nduring the last twenty years, by well-intentioned but injudicious\nwriters of our faith, have no claim to be recognized as works of art;\nfor their execution has been in general too hasty to admit of that\ncareful study and elaboration indispensable to the production of an\nenduring work. Neither can they be fairly considered as natural or\npractical illustrations of the influence of our holy religion in\nsocial and domestic life, still less as successful means of initiating\noutsiders into the beauties of the church\u2019s doctrines. It is not the\nlegitimate aim of a novel to be prosaically didactic. One page of\nBellarmine or Petavius contains more sound doctrinal position than the\nfresh cut leaves of any modern controversial tale. Of course in\nmaster-hands the difficult task of blending narrative and dogma has\nsucceeded, but it took no less a writer than Cardinal Wiseman to\nrender _Fabiola_ interesting, and it required the pen of Father Newman\nto write _Loss and Gain_. Narrative is better suited than controversy\nto most of our lay writers. In every case the silent example of a\nnoble character is more potent for good than the most ingenious\narguments or most earnest exhortations. The book before us is not free\nfrom the strictures we have passed on its numerous train of\ncompanions. There is much improbability in the plot, and a decided\nlack of naturalness in the characters. It is a mistake to elevate an\nordinary heroine to the highest plane of wisdom; she ceases to be\nflesh and blood, and then our interest in her ceases likewise.\n\nThe tale is replete with the holiest examples for imitation and the\nhighest lessons in self sacrifice, devotion, and duty.\n\n\n FRANK BLAKE. By Dillon O\u2019Brien. St. Paul: Pioneer Press Co. 1876.\n\nSo long as works of fiction constitute an important department of\nliterature of which the supply is rarely in excess of the demand, it\nis well for critics to insist that at least no morbid products of\nfancy tinged with a vile pruriency be admitted to take rank under this\nhead. We are glad that the author of _Frank Blake_ has appreciated\nthis truth; for though he has worked up some delicate situations, he\nhas been a most strict observer of propriety and has tempered\nsentiment with sense. _Frank Blake_ is an oft-told Irish story. The\nincidents are not such as we meet in _Orlando Furioso_, but still such\nas are calculated to enlist a sober interest. The plot is natural and\nripens with ease. For once the Irish peasant is represented as though\nseven centuries of English misrule had at least enabled him to acquire\na decent knowledge of the language of his subjugator. But he is not by\nany means Saxonized, as is made evident by his unmistakable Celtic wit\nand adequacy to meet and make the best of sudden emergencies.\n\n\n THE WISE NUN OF EASTONMERE, AND OTHER TALES. By Miss Taylor.\n Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1876.\n\nThis unpretentious volume derives its chief attraction from the fact\nthat every line bears testimony to the modest estimate the writer has\nformed of her powers. We will not vouch for the amount of instruction\nto be derived from Miss Taylor\u2019s little book, but there can be no\ndoubt that it is edifying, and in a wise, sober sense. Its simplicity\nin style and construction makes up for the absence of more conspicuous\nqualities.\n\n \u201cAnd few, of all, at once could make pretence\n To royal robes and rustic innocence.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Note:\n\nWords and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like\nthis_. Dialect, obsolete, alternative, and misspelled words were not\nchanged.\n\nObvious printing errors, such as duplicate words, backwards, upside\ndown, unprinted, or partially printed letters and punctuation, were\ncompleted. Letters were added that had been dropped in typesetting\nwhen a word was hyphenated and split between two lines. Final stops\nmissing at the end of sentences were added. Missing punctuation was\nadded or corrected at beginning and ends of sentences, lines of\npoetry, and abbreviations.\n\nThe copyright line at the bottom of the first page of each monthly\nvolume was moved to follow the volume number and date. Footnotes were\nnumbered sequentially and moved to the end of the article in which\nthe related anchors occur.\n\nThe following were adjusted:\n\n added anchor for Footnote [188]\n added hyphens:\n bare-headed, \u2026 waits bare-headed \u2026\n sister-in-law, \u2026 her sister-in-law, and other \u2026\n Fitz-James, \u2026 said Sir John Fitz-James in a low voice \u2026\n added close parenthesis, \u2026 (Ps. xc. 11, 12.[87]) \u2026\n changed accent marks:\n Ou to O\u00f9, \u2026 O\u00f9 allons nous \u2026\n Hyeres to Hy\u00e8res, \u2026 wishing for news from Hy\u00e8res \u2026\n cal\u00e9che to cal\u00e8che, \u2026 return in the cal\u00e8che \u2026\n Ch\u00e2teaubriand to Chateaubriand, \u2026 in his mouth by Chateaubriand.\n\nNoted, left unchanged: there is no decimal between dollars and\ncents in price of books in New Publications sections.","title":"Catholic World, Vol. 24, October, 1876, to March, 1877: A Monthly Magazine of General Literature and Science","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":494725}